fade shenanigans

[accipio]

Hawke isn’t sure how long it’s been since the others left him to face the Nightmare demon. 

He had expected to die. Counted on it, actually. When the demon raised one of its chitinous appendages and swatted him into the abyss, he’d been almost disappointed to not land face-first in the Maker’s bosom. It was supposed to be a heroic sacrifice—a far better end than he’d ever imagined himself getting, all things considered. 

What he gets instead is a rather ungentle landing in yet another Maker-forsaken corner of the Fade. He allows himself a brief moment of despair, and then he carries on.

So he walks. And keeps walking. The world around him dissolves and reforms without rhyme or reason; fragments of impossible architecture give way to eddying greenish mist that solidifies into eerily familiar shapes before dispersing again. The mist, in turn, gives way to vast plains and valleys populated only by drifting wisps. Time as well as space seems to expand and contract around him. He knows from his past experience with the dreamer Feynriel that time passes differently in the Fade; minutes here could be days in the real world, and vice versa. He tries and fails to avoid thinking about what might be happening on the other side of the Veil.

After what could be weeks or mere hours, he comes to the shore of a river. Something about it unnerves him. It takes him a few moments to realize that the surface of the still black water casts no reflection—not his face, not the distant spires of the Black City, not the endless green sky. He spends an indeterminate amount of time walking along the water’s edge, but no bridge or isthmus presents itself. With a sinking feeling, he realizes that the only way to cross is to swim for it. He hurriedly strips off his armor, telling himself that physical protection matters little here. It doesn’t help; he still feels uncomfortably vulnerable without it.

He expects the water to be cold. It isn’t. It doesn’t really even feel like water at all, more like mist or steam. As he swims for the other side, doing his damnedest not to think about what might be lurking below, he feels something beneath the surface ghost across his bare legs. It’s light, almost playful. Only with immense effort does he resist the urge to thrash about in panic.

Against all odds and his own expectations, he makes it to the other side in one piece. The Fade here is… different. Welcoming, even. Wisps flit about in the perpetual twilight, their little lights twinkling merrily. If he squints, he can almost convince himself that he’s back in Lothering, watching the fireflies dance in the fields on a summer evening. 

Therein lies perdition. Hawke is no fool; he knows that the denizens of this realm have likely been watching him since he and the others first tumbled into the Fade. Weak demons attack outright, but the truly dangerous lull their prey into a false sense of security. He’d bet every copper to his name that he’s just wandered into the domain of the latter.

Well, it will have to work for its meal. He squares his shoulders, draws himself up to his full height. The effect is somewhat spoiled by the fact that he’s currently soaking wet and naked save for his smalls.

“Hello?” He can’t fight his way out of this, so he may as well try and talk his way out. “Just so you know, I taste awful.”

Comments

[corpsestuff]

"You did refer to your charm a couple of days ago," Emmrich says warmly, hoping it's encouraging rather than off-putting. The last stretch of a difficult journey is always the most difficult, and Hawke is showing so many signs of being worn down. It isn't the grief alone. Years of having to be on guard just to survive would of course take their toll.

He stands with Hawke and dusts his pants off with a nod. The ruins are promising as they get more complex, oddly enough. While they could be the hiding spot of any number of older beings, the amount of ruins in the Crossroads make him hope that they're getting somewhere adjacent to them.

Hawke's question gets a laugh out of him. "Not in particular, no, though it is rather invigorating. I'm an expert on the Fade and spirits, and Solas not only used to be a spirit, he wishes to tear down the Veil. I was called upon for my knowledge and to assist in dealing with increased activity and see what we can do to prepare if part of it is indeed torn."

He pauses, and his expression grows more amused. "I think I'm also along to help the three younger members of the team not give in to the various temptations along the way. Like the bizarre inclination to go fight a dragon after getting too drunk to stand up on one's own. Or the desire to poke a just-discovered ancient artifact and see what may happen."

Sometimes he finds himself helpful with curbing Spite's influence as well, but this doesn't feel like the time yet to explain what's going on with Lucanis. That requires a little more build-up.

"All seven of my teammates are competent, thankfully. Though of course no one comes without baggage."

[accipio]

Hawke much prefers walking to sitting around. His mood changes along with the scenery, growing less melancholy as the ruined stone walls and chunks of masonry turn into identifiable buildings—derelict and ancient, sure, but still a promising sign that they’re headed towards… something. If not a way out, then some kind of resolution. Closure is about the best he dares to hope for at this point.

“Of course Solas wants to tear down the bloody Veil.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Why wouldn’t he? None of these megalomaniacal tits ever want to do anything logical, like plunder a few treasuries, or install themselves upon the throne of their choice. No, that would make too much sense. Better remake the whole damn world instead.” With the elf in question out of his reach, he settles for venting his frustration upon an egg-shaped rock at his feet. His kick sends it skittering in the river. “Arsehole.”

At least Emmrich and company are doing their best to stop Solas’ plans from bearing fruit, even if some of the younger members of the team seem a bit… rambunctious. He smirks, reminded of the antics that he and his friends used to get up to back in Kirkwall. Emmrich would have had his hands full with them, that’s for damn sure. “I owe you my congratulations, then. It sounds to me like you’ve become a foster parent. Or a criminally underpaid babysitter, if you prefer.”

Emmrich seems to hesitate, and Hawke wonders what he might be holding back. Perhaps things in the waking world are more dire than he’d imagined. That diplomatic remark about baggage, though, makes him wonder whether the issue isn’t something more personal. “That just means that you’ve lived,” he agrees, his tone carefully neutral. “We all have our burdens to bear. Every one of us. But we don’t have to bear them alone.”