event pt 2 | another dream

[moustre]

Event Log: June, A Midsummer Dream's Nightmare

THE STARS ABOVE You feel like you're floating. Around you, colors and sounds and smells swirl as if trapped in a whirlpool, vibrancy and hue ever shifting. The more you watch them, the less solid they are; they only become clear out of the corner of your eye. The area around you begins to feel more solid as well, until your feet are on the ground, the wind brushes playfully against your face - and you know one thing, and one thing alone: this is a dream, and an incredibly realistic one at that. It is so very cold, and it is so very vast. Millions of stars stretch out across the still wasteland, the water unforgivably frigid to even those covered in fur; for those without, there's still a chill that expands in your chest as you turn and find absolutely nothing in the massive, shimmering lake. As you begin to walk, shapes shake out of the water; the ground rumbles with their rising, the outlines and shambles of buildings covered in stains and thorny plants. As more rise, inscrutable in their original purpose or shape, you begin to realize this is - or was - a city. You realize something else: you're not alone. Not the way you weren't alone in dreams before, with those who came through the mirror or who might later come through - but around you are the natives of Aefenglom itself, dressed thin rags and looking exceptionally confused. Almost immediately, the sky fills with red stars, and the voice of Nerissa Bell rings throughout the empty space: "Will all members of Parliament, the Guilds, those who have mastered and are mastering divination, and my Mhairi dearest please come to where the red stars fall? Thank the lot of you very much!" There's a beat, and she continues. "Everyone else, keep your wits about you, won't you? Take care of each other." She sounds a tad bit more serious than usual - and it's no wonder, given the circumstances. There's not much else to do though, and with this dream shared among all residents of the city... You might as well take a look around and see if there's anything to be found out, just like any other time. But be careful: Magic seems to be on the fritz, more liable to backfire regardless of one's experience with it - and the same goes for more magical traits of Monsters as well, such as water manipulation, illusions and charms, finding magic, dragon breaths, and etc.

I. THE CITY As you make your way into the city, navigating the wreckage of what once was, it becomes all the more apparent how overtaken it is. To call them ruins would be gracious; you walk in a tomb, now, atmosphere filled with all the gravitas and dread that comes with the stillness of one. And truly, it is still. There doesn't seem to be any other life, besides these new visitors, at least not as you begin to investigate, your companions approaching this with more trepidation. Because while it may take some exploration for arrivals to realize where they are, many natives know right away what this place is with a grief that's palpable: a. IT'S HOME The dawning realization is stark for everyone, as they find familiar cobblestone streets cracked, in disarray, dead and dying grasses and caked "oil" filling the cracks. These streets lead to just as familiar places: a bakery you've grown attached to since you arrived, a store that once carried knickknacks that was passed by every day, the Coven, the Haven itself. Perhaps now it's easier to understand what those inscrutable structures were, at the edges of the recognizable shapes of what had been buildings, once upon a time - after all, even those that are freshly minted as arrivals this Iuneril have spent enough time within the Bright Wall to surely be able to know this gate was once here, and that portion of the wall wrapped around the city there. What remains of the Wall is charred, broken, stained in an oil-like substance that still glistens at just the right angle, and overgrown in those thorny vines to the point that some sections must have been destroyed because the growth came from within. The track of the magitech engine that runs the city is uprooted, gnarled in places as if it were bent by large hands or crushed underfoot, the bridge and the engine itself collapsed into the canal of the River Temese. Even from the higher banks it's easy to tell the metal is rusted and corroded, but also charred like there was an explosion or fire; the inky murk of the river consumes the rest, and it's not recommended to try and brave the waters, given the unsettling feeling they give off. It's not unlike the sensation of the cave... Homes and businesses are destroyed, or in ruin, and it becomes clear that they met this fate in different ways. Burnt down, collapsing in upon themselves from the weight of neglect, overtaken by the thorny vines, covered in the inky black of what is fast becoming obvious as signs of the Cwyld... even the Haven has suffered these conditions. The barracks, once flush against the Wall, are completely destroyed and exist only as rubble now. One might find traces of themselves in what had become their homes in Aefenglom, if they look close enough. The natives certainly are, in their upset and confusion. b. ONLY REFLECTIONS LEFT All roads in Aefenglom lead to the Coven and Parliament, in the end. No walls remain around where the Coven once stood, and there's barely any rubble to indicate that they did. The gate that always stands open, as you know it, is nowhere to be seen - at least, initially. A glance around the entrance will show that it was likely blown off its hinges; it's embedded in the earth a dozen yards away into the city proper, gnarled, a monument in and of itself. Stepping into the scorched courtyard shows that the blast came from within the grounds itself, though it's hard to tell what the source might have been. The building itself is more or less completely caved in; the infirmary is in particularly bad shape, with the stairs leading to the ICU - the basement below the infirmary, where those heavily infected with the Cwyld are taken care of - are full of debris. The floor of the infirmary itself is largely collapsed into the floor below, blocking all means of access. None of the runes that are typically visible in the halls, across the ceiling, or along the floors are activated, and there's a distinct lack of the warm and homey magic that would always welcome one into the Coven. In its place is an oppressive stillness, smears of the Cwyld visible across the ruins, spilling out across the yard from the building itself. A garden once sprawling with ingredients and food is dead, and the stables and livestock pens lie in wreckage. There are no signs of the animals that many became familiar with. But amongst all the wreckage, the Looking-Glass House stands. The cabin is a little charred on the outside, wrapped in layers upon layers of the thorny vines that have woven their way through the city itself, but still intact. Getting inside is a challenge in and of itself, but not impossible, if one manages to avoid the thorns of a clearly infected plant. But the interior? Dusty, certainly, but not an ounce of damage. Mirrors are propped up against surfaces as always, hanging on the walls, and the building feels endless as always. Some of the mirrors are shattered as if something struck them, but not a single piece of glass touches the floor. The stillness is just as unnatural as that of the city itself, but different. While still eerie, there isn't a sense of dread, of oppressiveness, of being watched. It simply... is. c. BURNED AWAY TO ASH Taking the other route leads to what remains of the Parliament building. Much like the Coven, its floors have collapsed into itself - but the building has always been a tall one, so the collapse is even more stark, like all of the top floors fell into the underground records. No signs of the Cwyld are apparent, save for the infected vines sprawling here and there, but they seem more recent than anything else. Wood and stone are charred, to the point that it becomes clear with enough investigation that fire was the sole cause of its demise. The smell of smoke still lingers, with both ground and air around the wreckage feeling hot compared to the chill of the world around you, a fire still burning within the Parliamentary Records themselves. And if one moves the rubble enough - though care should be taken, as it's precarious, and further collapse is inevitable rather than preventable - smoke rises from cracks and openings. Even the clocktower wasn't spared, the broken face now in further wreckage, burnt with its metalwork hands locked to 3:00. The bell is nowhere to be seen; if it fell, it fell through the building and into the records beneath, lost to a fire that's still burning unseen beneath your feet. But if one listens closely, maybe they can still hear its ringing... But it becomes clear you're not truly alone, no matter where you go in the city. Forms pass through out of the corner of one's eye, there and gone when you turn to look too closely at them. Humans and Monsters alike in shape, but faceless, sometimes wisps of color, sometimes shadows in the shape of people. Regardless, they can be seen disappearing around the corner of an alley, walking by the broken window of a storefront that's been ransacked, coming and going when you least expect them. A whisper of a ghost. Some of these faceless shadows seem to be caught in the motions, reliving their day-to-day, the ones that they took the most. Others fade in and out of strange actions; fighting unseen foes, throwing equally unseen things at buildings just as much as what must have been people, running and running through the streets - and then, eventually, through you. Passing through these specters, these shadows of people, leaves a clammy chill on your skin that permeates to the bone. And then they're gone, and it's silent again. Nessie and Mhairi will be around for talk once they're through with the other leaders of the city- but we're only allowing for OOC summaries this time, rather than any IC threads! Their thread is here.

II. THE WASTE Turning from the city, you trek your way further into the waste. Walls continue to rise around you, but none block your path, and they get further and further apart as you continue. The dread within your chest builds the farther you go though, until it's a struggle to lift your feet - but at the same time, some strange momentum keeps your legs moving. The water slowly rises from ankle to knee height, to waist, to mid-chest... or for the small, it might be treading dangerously close to shoulders, to head. Eventually, something changes - whether due to your continued march ahead, or due to turning around to head back towards the city. a. THE STAIRWAY TO THE STARS As you continue on, the water level begins to lower again - or is that due to the stairs that appear without warning beneath your feet? Made of solid white quartz and seeming to float on their own, the air gets colder and harder to breathe as one makes their way upwards. Turning back once you begin isn't possible either: the stairs have disappeared behind you, dropping with a solid splash into the water below. Those able to fly feel an odd pressure that keeps them grounded, and attempts to do so will simply give them the same experience the stairs have: right into the murky sea, which is much deeper beneath the stairs. One good thing about this heavensbound stairway is this: it offers a good view of the waste, which seems to expand forever, as well as the blood red twilight peeking over the horizon - not to mention the distinct absence of the sister moons that share the sky. With a keen eye (or simply letting your vision adjust) shows shadows lifelessly milling about the waste and its air; they're harmless, but bring with them soft crying and pained whimpers, limping with obviously broken limbs. Those familiar with the Wilders and the Witches of the Coven will notice the one solid-seeming thing about them: the pins for their cloaks, the Coven's symbol barely being able to be made out. It'd seem the only way to get down is to fall, as the stairs simply continue up and up into the sky until one is completely unable to breathe or move, either due to gravity or due to ice coverage. b. THE LABYRINTH Attempting to turn around and head back to the city works, but not for long; where walls would stay from one's path, walking back yields the opposite. The walls slowly bunch together until finally, they surround you - with an ugly sound, a low ceiling slides on to complete the area, and without warning sconces light themselves. The water remains knee-deep, sloshing loudly in the utter silence as one moves through it. The labyrinth is long and winding, with some walls broken enough to enable stepping through them, and shadows cast long by the torches lighting the walls. Bones of unlucky explorers roll and rock underfoot, breaking easily with too much pressure. To put it lightly, it isn't a very happy place. The center of the labyrinth is completely dark, no sconces in the area lit - none with torches in them either, on closer inspection. No treasure is left to find here, though the source of the labyrinth's water is: a spring formed by a massive fissure in the ground, ever bubbling, so loud it's a wonder you hadn't heard it anywhere else in the stone maze. The culprit of it lay nearby, long dead: a Minotaur, or its massive skeleton, at the very least. Some of its bones are blackened, specifically its arms up to its elbows, legs up a little past its knees, and its right eye socket. The rest are a mix of normal yellowed and similarly infected grey, black-spotted bones. Touching the bones starts an infection on the character that did it, though it only covers the same spots found on the Minotaur's skeleton.

III. THE DEPTHS Going the way of what had once been the harbor shows an endless sea, nary a wave in sight in the absence of the Sisters. It reflects the red twilight of the sky, each and every of the millions of stars above you, almost glass-like in its stillness. But there's a call that the sea has, and once you've set sights on it, the urge to continue is powerful, hard to resist. Succumbing to that call has characters stepping off what remains of the harbor, walking along the beach, even jumping down, just to reach the water. But rather than sink immediately into it there's firm footing on what seems like ice, the chill seeping through raggedy clothes, skin, fur, feather, down to the very bone. It's sturdy enough to allow even the largest Monster to begin the journey forward into the depths, angled deeper and deeper, until it suddenly drops off and you're submerged without a foothold. It's there that clarity returns, and the fear of drowning might fill every sense. But you can breathe. You can speak. It is a dream, after all. a. THE SHIP GRAVEYARD All around you, at first, is the remains of the harbor. Everything is encased in coral and aquatic plantlife, but there's very little life otherwise. No fish, no dolphins. Nothing. The world is all the more silent beneath the waters, especially with their absence, and the skies above grow dimmer the deeper you go, but always there's the unmistakable red hue to everything below. Some of the plants provide paltry light, bioluminiscent and lighting the way to a grisly scene. Buildings that have fallen into the harbor's waters, the remains of docks, various dinghies and boats, all sunken and lost to the world above. A few ships are visible, their hulls blown out as if attacked, both from the inside and out. There's no treasure, if you're brave enough to explore them, but there is the black oil caked to the interiors just as much as the exteriors. The wood is charred, and it's easy to tell that these ships were sunk from within just as much as they were from outside attacks. But the further one goes into the depths, the truth is revealed: beyond, there lies a ship graveyard. With Litha in full swing, many of these ships may be familiar, having set off on their voyages for the season. Here they lie, in similar states of destruction as the ones in the harbor. Exploring them answers few questions, and raises greater mysteries; what had been supplies, weapons, magic tools and wares, all loaded into their cargo bays, as if they were setting off on a great journey. And it isn't just a graveyard for ships, either. Many of them have passengers, unidentifiable save for small trinkets here and there. The Coven's insignia, a badge of the Parliament, possessions that might speak of their professions. They're nothing but skeletons, now, man and beast alike loaded onto the ships and heading for a destination that's lost to them now. Ice forms along the hulls of some ships and the wreckage beneath, pathways woven throughout the underwater world. They're walkable, allowing characters a choice between swimming, dreamily floating, or walking as they traverse the depths. b. WHAT LIES IN DEPTHS Beyond the graveyard come soft cries, which could almost be mistaken for a whale song if they weren't so... so sad. Following the call, though one won't be compelled to through magical means, reveals the source: various dark shapes in the gloom beneath the water, shadows, listless and drifting. They swim without much purpose, and come in a variety of aquatic shapes. Some could be mistaken for the missing marine life, for Merrow, but their dimly glowing white eyes tells of something worse. There are very few of them, and they don't seem to register the presence of anyone around them. An explanation, perhaps, for their numbers comes as the red of the distant sky above is blocked out by a great shape. A veritable Leviathan drifts with an almost laziness through the open waters of the ocean that you've reached, greater in size than any ship in the graveyard. Its hide is marred from fights long since forgotten, but mottled in oily black, smudged grey, its algae, coral, white cracks in the black illuminating the waters around it. Its plated head moves to and fro, massive flippers disrupting the patterns of the creatures around it without notice.

Welcome to the second part of the event! As a reminder, this takes place on the 22nd - or rather, 3AM on the 23rd if we're being technical and not following the logic of "It's not tomorrow until I sleep". If you have any questions or need any clarifications, you can ask them here! And as always, while we do encourage you to use this log, you can feel free to thread things out on your own log or elsewhere. Regardless of what you choose, we hope you have a good time!

And as a final parting note: If a character dies in the dream, they'll simply reappear at the beginning rather than waking up like normal.

Comments

Solas | Dragon Age

[veilfires]

i. you’re not truly alone
[Alone he walks until he comes to a flattened ruin. It was once a home, and it is now silent and overgrown. There’s nothing remarkable about it. He walks through the still-standing skeleton of a doorway. Four collapsed walls mark out a room – and within is a lone spirit. It’s singing a song he’s never heard – soothing, simple, like a lullaby. As the spirit croons, it rocks back and forth.

Someone less comfortable with spirits would think it an eerie motion. Solas draws closer, unperturbed. It’s only by watching carefully that he can make out the meaning, which he does with time: the spirit is mimicking the motions of a rocking chair.

To the side of the spirit he can make out something light and fragile in the dust. He draws a little closer, murmuring an apology. He reaches out, and plucks out a frayed and tattered piece of kitting; it’s still attached to a bedraggled ball of wool. He stands, cradling it carefully in his hands. Some time passes before he speaks, low and respectful; it’s a soliloquy meant for the spirit.]

It was the final day of a great city; the walls had crumbled. But one woman did not heed the crimson sky. She sang songs by her heath. In her rockingchair she sat knitting socks for a child who was never to return.

[The spirit sighs. She leans back as if she is about to fall –]

Her last moments were joyous, wrapped in the warm embrace of her home.

[- then crumples into a wisp, fading into nothing. Solas watches, quiet.]

ii. 3 am
[The ruined clocktower smoulders like embers in the chill. Smoke rises from it in lazy trails. Solas drifts into the ruin, weaving between collapsed beams, without fear but not without caution. Inside it smells like a furnace.

Weaving between collapsed beams, he pauses in the heart of the structure. He detects change in the stone and wood rubble underfoot. Ash comes away beneath a sweep of his boot, revealing a smooth white facade. He deduces that he’s standing on the clock’s face, now cracked (as he looks about him) like fissures. And so these must be...

The dark iron hands are fixed pointing to XII and III. He crouches between them, and brushes his hand along the length of one. It’s hot as coal, and his palm comes away blackened by ash. Mildly, he observes:]

As the bell tolled three, the clocktower burned. Did the witching hour feed the fire?

[You may think the question meant for the twining smoke, until he punctuates it by turning to look at you.]

iii. stairway to the stars
[Sometimes, the long view is required. He takes the staircase up high. Very high. Until underneath there’s only a dead, scarlet sea, and all about him a dazzling ocean of crimson stars. The land stretches out like an ashen patchwork blanket. It's important, he thinks, to witness how totally the Cwyld's corruption has spread.

It’s freezing and still; each breath feels like breathing frost. Up in the clouds: a quiet spot to collect one’s thoughts. He sits, long legs dangling off the step, and looks out, seeing at once the most and least of Aefenglom yet.

If he hears you coming, he looks to you, and nods his head. It’s a respectful acknowledgement that you're another who would journey up into such dizzying heights, and it's also an invitation: Shall we talk?]

iv. wildcard
ahaha. this is a little late coming up, but that’s okay, right? right? i’m very excited about this event!!! there's nowhere solas wouldn't be excited to go in this dream. i would love to receive any wildballs you have to throw at him, or hash out ideas at
shroomish!!

III this death drop was made for me

[guillotine]

[ It isn't that Solas beating her to the stairs is a rude shock, or even that Nel expects to be the only one. It is very much neither of those. What takes her aback is his polite greeting, a carbon copy of what he gives her under even the best of circumstances. Hello, nod, I see you've brought more healthy and fattening precooked food options unasked. Please sit. Tea in the kettle.

She plops a fist behind each hip, not yet level with where he's sitting, and thinks that Solas looks cold. As if she isn't feeling the same knives which lance through her neck for every stolen breath. ]

You move very quickly for a man with thin legs.

it was!

[veilfires]

[The cold is a dream’s phantasm. It’s freezing, yes, but there is an unreal quality that makes it endurable. There is a complex pleasure in this type of pain without pain. Less masochistically, it is a rare and edifying experience.

Behind his visible breaths, there’s a smile for Nel. Hello. I see you've once again found your way to the furthest edges of this world.]

The organisation I work for is housed on top of a mountain. [Deadpan:] That builds calf muscle.

[He does not use the past-tense, he notes of himself, even knowing what Bull and Dorian have told him about the fate of the orb in their timeline. Being bodily transported across worlds does leave that contract in a state of flux, but… their timeline is not his, and that alternate self is not him. He does not have to skulk away in the night, leaving the mark to slowly consume the Inquisitor alive. The orb can yet be saved.

He gestures politely.]

Please – sit.

[guillotine]

[ A flickering ghost of a grin is Nel's first and honest reply.

Solas is pale and dark against the endless marble, at once alien and too earthly for the structure even as he rests on it. He's found the vantage point of a god. Accepting his invitation without a word, she allows two inches' breathing room between their elbows. It shuts down the possibility of trading the cold for comfort, but if he wishes to make this height more tolerable at the expense of a professional distance, he must speak. ]

I'd like to think I might know you a little better than before, so you stopped for a reason. What is it you're looking for?

Or... waiting for? Not me. [ An old wound behind her ribcage gets stiffer with every passing minute, but she rotates a shoulder in its socket and leaves it at that. Nel Zelpher does not squirm. ]

[veilfires]

[His nerves lock on to her arm, aware of it even as it rests two inches away. It’s closer than most draw. He pays it no heed, doesn’t encroach on the distance those inches mark out, but the body is a traitorous thing. There’s a general resettling as his body draws by the barest increment nearer, yearning for relief from the cold that is not forthcoming.

No matter. There’s interesting and practical work at hand, such as:]

To see the other side, if you will. [Though this time taking pains to avoid any dragons. He holds out his palm for her to inspect. On it, he’s drawn a divining glyph with charcoal.] For preternatural sight.

The corruption stretches to the horizon [a black sea meeting the crimson ocean] but beyond it there may remain strange, remarkable places worthy of note. Like Smugha Cave.

[guillotine]

[ She requires no more invitation to seize him by the wrist and pull it closer for proper examination, handling him like a subordinate. An apology doesn't so much as whisper in the back of her mind.

Bizarrely, Nel scowls at it. Divination remains the one school of Coven magic she's devoted no time, in the dizzying repetition of her days within and without the city, to mastering. Something of the concept instills resentment inside her that she is not yet willing to examine. ]

'May' remain. [ Despite her roughness, there is caution, care to keep from smudging the glyph. Her breath warms only the air above his palm. ]

Will you and I go forth again if you see a clean spot?

ii

[wylderrant]

[ The harsh, acrid air tears at her throat. It is not a sensation she is familiar with or one that she savors, but she pushes on all the same, because what else does one do? She has gone dancing amongst the ruins, picking her way over rubble and through the wrecked lives of this realm (this vision of a future, perhaps) to find clues and distracting baubles. To find stories she can re-write and put herself at the center of. To find her own amusement.

All stories can be tragic. She knows this. But she always overcomes it. Always emerges laughing and victorious and goes on to better, brighter things. No matter who she has to trample into the dust or leave behind to suffer the consequences. This time, there seems to be little of that. Tragedy has already come and she is merely picking her way through the aftermath.

She's pleased to see Solas. Always is; she enjoys him, thinks him wonderful, as close to one of her own kin as she'll find in this place, but not quite there (which is a shame or else she might think of him as his own person; but perhaps he'll surprise her yet). She leans on her sword, hands clasped at the pommel as she watches and listens. ]

Time usually doesn't feed a fire; if anything, hours smother it.

[ She's proud of her wordplay, but she also knows that Solas isn't always amused by frivolity. Which is his own problem, really, not hers. ]

Anything is possible, though - maybe their magic failed them at the last moment. Maybe they tried one last act of desperation and it shattered them instead of proving salvation. Or maybe it means nothing at all. I can't say, although I could try and tell you a story of last stands and desperate, heroic tragedy...

[ She lifts a hand, waves it in idle dismissal. ]

A falsehood, you might say! But reality is what we make it and if no one else is here to remember, why not fill in the blanks with our own dreams?

[veilfires]

[The light from the crimson stars filters through the collapsed roof, illuminating her strangely. Her hilt glints. It’s deeply melancholy sight: a vivid, lively elf skipping through the charred and burning remains of this doomed world. She cuts a bright and laughing lean line where she stands.]

You put great faith in stories, Knight.

[He neither scoffs nor smiles along. He stands, then stands straighter, hands tucking behind his back – but his voice is quite calm and gentle.]

That may be true for elves across all the worlds. [Pointed ears, and wild myth-telling. Consider elves filling in the gaps in their history with wild tales that made heroes and gods out of desperate fools who destroyed their world…]

But flattering the dead with falsehood is not the same as honouring them.

[wylderrant]

I do put faith in stories, since what is history or our recollections of the past but stories we tell to others or to ourselves? What does truth matter if you can make your own truth, make the world fit what we want it to be? I am a hero and a knight and a wanderer and that - that is the truth, is it not? A story I tell and that others accept.

[ She shrugs her shoulders carelessly and crouches to pick up a piece of rubble and turn it over in her hand. ]

Honor is honor is honor. What better way then to give them place of pride? Or should we say they all died, alone and afraid? That is not a very good story, is it?

[ She shrugs and glances up at him. ]

Who will be inspired by that? Who will be moved to tears? Who will want to pick up their swords and fight all the harder if they hear a tale of misery and fear and inevitable death? No, no. We make the truth. We choose it. And the world will thank us for it when we are finished.

[veilfires]

[It’s a debate, then. Far from the first time he’s dreamt an argument about the particulars truth. He inclines his head first, paying due respect to her words.]

You are a hero, knight, and wanderer, yes. We all wear masks. But they are not the truth of who we are.

[He makes a neat little gesture with the hand that’s been blackened by soot. For example.]

What if I proclaimed that I am not only a scholar, wanderer and eccentric, but that I am also a god?

Imagine I would succeed in convincing my people and myself that I am a deity. History and the dreams would shuck off all reason, and bend to worship me. I would have granted us a sacred, divine purpose. With fervour, my worshippers would throw themselves at my feet, begging to die in my vain wars.

It would be a marvellous twist of story-telling. [He twists his mouth.]

But I would not have become a god. Even if it is the story I tell, and that others accept. The cause I have sent others to die for would be false, however comforting it would be to believe it true. No matter how long I would proclaim otherwise, I would have only blinded us all to my nature.

[He's calm, animated inasmuch as he is always animated by intellectual conversation. It is only one example he could have used. A famous baker who burns his bread to charcoal one day, and advertises it as a brilliant new recipe could have worked just as well, and he'd use it just as dispassionately.]

In our fascination with stories, we would have lost that which is most precious – the truth of the world, and of ourselves.

[wylderrant]

Ah, but there is where we disagree.

[ Iramaat finds a piece of rubble to settle onto, sword dangling against her shoulder as she peers up at him, gesturing to emphasize her words. ]

If you can convince people that you are a god, what is the difference between you and a "real" god? What makes any god real in the first place? What made them worthy of worship? Where did their power come from? How are any of us to know who or what they really are or were?

[ She smiles wide, apparently amused. Where he is intellectual and and almost dispassionate, she has enthusiasm and energy. ]

There is no universal truth; nothing behind the masks except what we say there is or believe there to be. At our hearts, we are all of us bound up in our own stories, whether told by ourselves or by others. Because if some other convinces people you are not a god and turns your followers away from you - well, then you were a fraud all along. And that is as true as if you were "really" a god or not.

[ She leans back slightly, one foot kicked out in front of her. ]

Think of all the ruined empires and cast-down kingdoms and orders and priesthoods. They believed their gods were real, their causes just and those that opposed them believe the opposite - who was right? Who had actual truth at hand?

[ She snaps her fingers. ]

All of them and none of them; the world is as mutable as we want it to be. Truth is an agreed upon fiction and who I am or who you are changes depend on who you ask and what we say.

ii

[anotheroldsoldier]

[Bucky is streaked with ash, the gleam of his metal arm darkened with it where he's been using that hand to move aside burning rubble. His expression is grim, and from a few yards off, he watches Solas brush ash off the broken clock face.]

How the hell should I know? I had to guess, though, I'd say it was oxygen and some type of accelerant that fed the fire, not the time of night. [He's still new to this world himself, and while a city in ruin is horrific, he's managed to push most of that aside in order to search for answers, ever the pragmatist. He hasn't been here long enough to care much for the magic that seems so steeped in this culture, and his assumptions remain more forensic in his line of thinking.] Question is, who the hell would bomb this place?

[veilfires]

[How aggravating to have his insight dismissed out of hand, though it’s hardly surprising –]

You’ll not find the answer by disregarding the powerful magic at work here.

[- he says as he stands, not a little acerbically. But his eyes glint with interest when he sees in full at the man’s gleaming metal arm. A prosthetic, or armour? His world has known impressive crafts of both, but this design recalls to him something more alien – more like something Entrapta might devise. The man’s words as well speak to a more mechanical mindset.

He’s curious, and less disdainful of the purely physical explanation the man puts forth than he may have been a month earlier. (There’s a special sort of character development which only having a magitech researcher setting off explosion above him every night can provide.) He corrects himself with a more considerate bent, tilting his head.]

We should both stay open to new perspectives.

i.

[purpose]

[ The skeletal ruins of each home remind Rey of Jakku, scattered with the bones of its ships and shelters — abandoned, with only traces of evidence that life had once belonged there. Scraps of salvage, worn down by destruction and time — only worse for how they represent the families that had once occupied these spaces.

Jakku's artifacts had belonged to pilots before her time, ghosts too mythical to seem real, but there is nothing more hauntingly genuine and personal than the glowing ghost of a mother that had crumbled with her home.

Waiting for a child to return, the same way Rey had watched the sky for any sign of her parents. Something clenches in her chest, wretchedly wistful and nostalgic, as she watches on until the woman disappears into thin air. Too suddenly, she realizes her shame of having intruded on such a private moment, and wavers uneasily where she's stood, rooted and curious. ]

That was kind of you. [ There's a quiet softness to her as if speaking alone will disturb the eerie solace of this very home. For all that Rey knows, it just might undo this stranger's compassionate work. Her eyes flicker to him, the iris bright red in the dim light from the bleeding sky. ] To give her peace. Did they teach you that here?

[veilfires]

[He turns with muted surprise. He hadn’t realised they were being watched – but she’s not at all unwelcome. He smiles slowly in greeting. Then he tilts his head, shakes it, equivocal in his reply.]

If that was peace.

[More likely it was only the appearance of it, and whatever words he spoke would have produced the same reaction. These spirits are closer to wisps, he knows from having tried to communicate with them: they are not self-aware or sentient.

But her words were kind and gentle, and he hopes she’s right.]

I learned it over the course of my life: most of it has been spent in the company of spirits. [At home, it’s expertise. Here’s, it’s nothing more than guesswork.] I thought that the woman who lived here would want to be remembered.

does your inbox ever eat your tags and make you almost cry when you realize it weeks after

[purpose]

I wouldn't know.

[ Sheepish, she offers a shrug of her shoulders. Jakku's religions had given responsibility to divine powers for the tides of the wind changing and more, stories she had never given much thought beyond her skepticism; spirituality outside of the realm of the Force is an unknown entity, but the concept doesn't elude her. It's the same, she thinks, in some ways to the Teedo — wishing to believe, determinedly, in something beyond them to grant a kinder fate.

In this moment, Rey finds her wishing it for a woman others might have overlooked. Forgotten, just as Rey herself had been, in the wreckage of old ruins. ]

And the rest of her family?

[ There is so much more that could be said, asked, but Rey fixates there — wishful even there, perhaps. Nostalgic, wistful, to cling to another's semblance of family. ]

iv. a nice egg in this trying time

[civicbooty]

Solas!

[ Aymeric's voice is low; he gives it only enough force to carry across the crushed ruins of a house between them. Francel follows behind him, where Aymeric has specifically asked him to stay — out of reach of his sword. Nothing unexpected has leapt out at them, but considering the dreams before this one, the caution is warranted.

He steps around rubble and smashed brick and blackened timbers, his face set, grave, but outwardly calm. ]

I hoped we might find you.

[ He skips over the question he might have otherwise asked: the general what do you make of this. ]

We are bound for the mirrors.

[haillenarte]

[francel says nothing. he lingers several paces behind aymeric, his eyes lowered, seemingly cold and indifferent to their surroundings.

his reticence, however, may be explained by his appearance. one difference characterizes him from his real self: in this dream, francel’s transformation seems complete. he has not taken a quadripedal form, but his wings seem fully developed, his fine white-blue feathers glossy with health. his scales gleam in the moonlight like little glaciers upon his skin, catching and refracting light like exceptionally clear diamonds.

someone like bull or varric might quip: kid, you’re sparkling.]

[veilfires]

[Solas set himself in this ruin to observe the spirits here. Five of them, each pale and spectral with blurred and indistinct features. They drift, heedless of any spectators, with unseen purpose in silent pantomime. Basic communication did not get through. An attempt at a divining spell resulted in one of the beams collapse, nearly on top of him: he thereafter subsided.

He’s fallen into watching them, quiet and more part of the ruin than of the living world. If they are spirits like his world, they are the least formed and more wisp-like variety.

His head perks up at Aymeric’s voice. He brings his staff tap-tapping with him as he takes a few steps to close out their distance. Steps is careful wording: these are close to a jaunt.]

Aymeric. [His eyes roam over Francel, taking in the extent of his transformation, openly impressed and almost as much concerned.] Francel.

[He’s in good spirits – there’s a bounce to him. He nods agreement: a good plan.]

The mirrors are portals across worlds and time: powerful transdimensional magic. It is possible they cross the thin barrier between the dreaming and the waking world, existing in both. [Could they have been activated by the raw ambient magic of the dreamworld?]

Or we may find this dream’s reflection of the mirrors. The imprint of what befell them. That would be useful, too.

[civicbooty]

[ It is heartening — despite how deeply troubling all of this is — to see Solas acting as though he's stumbled into something unexpectedly wonderful. Still, Aymeric doesn't slow, though he half-turns to address both of them equally as he walks. ]

What most concerns me is this: when we dream of this place, pieces of those dreams become true, do they not? I dreamt of Francel with scales; now Francel has scales. The difference in time was perhaps three weeks.

[ He leaves the rest unsaid: if they have three weeks until this... ]

[haillenarte]

[at this, francel murmurs quietly:]

Let us pray that the destruction of the city is not the piece of this dream that turns into reality.

[he rubs at his arm, thumb passing over his cold scales; his eyes remain lowered. in truth, he is both ashamed of himself and resigned to himself; he knew these changes were coming, but it still feels wrong to look this way, to be this way. his body feels unlike his own, strangely fluid, almost too controlled, and yet — the more that francel thinks about it, the less he can remember what he felt like back in ishgard, when he was an ordinary elezen man, a disappointment in a sea of competents.

perhaps the dream is to blame. the fact that it is a dream is comforting. solas's excitement is palpable, and he moves with the scholarly energy of an elderly man who has suddenly grown spry in the face of some new adventure. like aymeric, francel finds a solace in solas's sprightliness, though perhaps others would not.]

And if not, then I suppose we may have time to avert whatever calamity befell Aefenglom here.

i - walks in late with starbucks

[halfheartedmagician]

[He doesn't like this dreamscape in the slightest, the smoke and ash in the air, the signs of lives lost to flame... it brings back sick memories again and his hands keep clenching with remembered pain. It's good then to see a familiar face in the still silence around them and Asra moves slowly towards Solas, stopping as he realises that the elven man is speaking with someone.

A spirit, he realises. He waits, listening and finding the words oddly soothing. He doesn't like any of what this means, but that some might not die in fear and alone... it helps to soothe his own low panic.]

That was kind of you. [He says quietly as the spirit fades and Solas falls silent.] I'm sure she appreciated it.

[veilfires]

[With calm surprise, Solas turns in place to face him. It’s not the first time he and Asra have met in the dark shadow the Cwyld casts over this world. That seems in itself a little sorrowful. He bows his head in greeting, and touches a hand to his chest in silent grateful acknowledgment of his words.]

Thank you.

But it's unlikely the sentiment reached her. [Her refers to what could be her ghost, or could be a spirit that sympathises closely with her - Solas himself does not differentiate.] Words go unheard by the spirits here.

[I hope that you’re right, though, goes gently unspoken. He expresses it in a sad smile, instead.]

[halfheartedmagician]

I don't know. If it wasn't heard, it wouldn't have changed anything and that can't be said to be the case either.

[Solas might be right and it was simply coincidence that the ghost disappeared, but Asra like to imagine that there was more to it than that.]

And they often can hear more than they let on.

[He moves closer to the elven man, taking some comfort in his being here and not wanting to leave and return to being alone.]

What do you make of this place?

[veilfires]

[He bows his head, acquiescing to Asra’s words and his company both with the same little smile. Then he spreads his hands in a neat little gesture: he makes of this what it appears to be.]

Final calamity. The collapse of the Bright Wall.

[A manifestation that is true insofar as they are truly experiencing it in this dream. Not prophecy, not a vision of their inevitable fate: he does not think that, yet.]

Fears that haunted Aefenglom's dreamers long before this nightmare began.

[Superficially, it’s similar to what he’s often found in the Fade – ruins, grief, the grave of a great city. Never so many conscious dreamers, though, not since the Veil. Never such presence of the Blight in the Fade, for spirits are wise enough to avoid the Blight.]