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[personal profile] perseverances
WHO: Cullen Rutherford
WHERE: Fountain, around town
WHEN: May 11-13
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Nothing yet.
STATUS: Ongoing




[Fountain]

There's something that tells him to open his eyes. Something deep within that tells him something is wrong. When isn't something wrong, his brain wants to argue, but the need to breathe takes over, and he opens his eyes. Underwater, unlike when he last remembers being back dry at Skyhold. Had he fallen asleep amid the festivities? Was this a dream? Something that he'll wake up from soon?

The need for breath is suddenly present, and Cullen pushes himself to the top with ease - something that makes him wonder, considering the armor he had been wearing and should be wearing - and breaks the waterline with a gasp for air. A quick swim to the edge, and he holds on for a minute, pushing hair from his face while he looks around. A fountain? He doesn't recognize this place. He pulls himself out, and once on dry land he leans forward to take a few more deep breaths before straightening. "What in the Maker's name...?"

He had to be dreaming.


[Around Town]

He's not sure what to make of it all.

It's not a dream, nor some haze of a nightmare from lyrium withdrawal. Quite real, he had been assured, and frankly, there was something deep within him that just felt wrong. That he didn't want to accept that somehow he had pulled here against his will and was, for lack of a better term, stuck.

Cullen's taken to observing as he walks around, trying to figure out this place. He's nothing like Leliana; he doesn't know how to lurk in the shadows like she can, he's too clunky and loud for that, despite him not having his armor. But he does know how to watch, how to figure things out tactically and strategically. Eyeing buildings and whatever defenses the town might or might not have.

And how strategic it might be to drink until he wakes up from this. Either might be good.
not_a_slave: (I do not brood)
[personal profile] not_a_slave
WHO: Fenris
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: May 8 - 10
OPEN TO: ALL
WARNINGS: ... nothing yet
STATUS: ONGOING



i. avanna, soporati | fountain park

It is cold in Ferelden. Cold, with the clamminess of skin-piercing damp, in a way Minrathous never was, a cold that seems to seep into the bones over the course of a night in camp. Not like this. This is cold and splash and the feeling of disorienting movement, as though he'd been thrown into the lake as he slept. Fenris' mouth opens involuntarily, and he swallows a mouthful of water as he forces himself upwards, the only thing he can focus on. He's not a strong swimmer, for what reason would a slave have to need the skill? He'd learned of necessity as he ran from the slavers, but he'd mostly learned to force his way through the water, rather than to swim, and he forces his way now, until one of his reaching arms breaks the surface into free air.

He coughs as he grabs onto the stone wall of what seems to be a fountain, grabs it and pulls, hauling his body out of the water. His feet are heavier than they should be, and when he glances down he sees boots instead of the stirrup heels of his armor leggings. That's not all that's wrong; his clothes are too light, fabric, not metal, and when he reaches around his back for the Blade of Mercy, he finds a backpack instead.

He should run.

That life was years ago, but it's never left him. Something is wrong. Something has broken into his camp, taken his blade and his armor, and an anger swells in him, stirs deep in his veins and under his skin.

"You will not take me!"

He reaches into the anger, reaches down under his skin for the power resting here, and finds ... nothing.

The sensation jolts, like a foot breaking through a rotten plank, and suddenly defiance seems dangerous in a way it hasn't in as long as he can remember.


ii. benefaris | Inn

It is some time later, after Hawke has explained to him, that Fenris reluctantly leaves the house to explore some of their surroundings. There is a mill, a river, a path that leads into a forest which would be easy to lose pursuers in.

He'd never lost the ability to read a location and see what he can use if he needs to flee. A coward's way of viewing the world, perhaps, but a practical one, for a fugitive slave. He follows the path away from the woods, past the mill and across the bridge, and finds himself in the midst of a small village, the houses built in a style completely unlike any he's seen in Tevinter or the Free Marches. The basic shape, yes, shares something with the buildings in Ferelden, but little enough that it all seems strange and unfamiliar.

It's perhaps incautious to follow the person ahead of him into the large, two-storey building, but it's the one place other than the mill which he can wager the purpose of. As he steps inside, it's with a certain sense of smugness that he looks around.

"Ah. This would be a tavern."

Very unlike the Hanged Man, but that is hardly a criticism.
andrastianherald: (Cannot Look)
[personal profile] andrastianherald
Fountain

Dreaming is always dangerous. Every night, mages enter the Fade in their dreams, bright and fascinating beacons to the demons that prowl the shifting realm. There is risk every time, being found, being tempted. Evelyn knows this, even in her slumber, and wages war against the easy way out every single night.

Tonight is different. Tonight there are no demons, no lurking spirits, no shifting of the landscape in a crazy array of her hopes and desires, of her mind wresting to make sense of her day. Not even a pleasing dream of time alone with Cullen. All she can see is water, with light overhead, and a desperate need to reach that light. Evelyn swims upwards, still wondering why the Fade should take the shape of deep waters, until she breaches the top and gasps for air. Inside a fountain.

This is a terribly peculiar dream.

She hoists herself out of the fountain and sits on the ground, blinking in the sunlight and holding up a hand to shade her eyes. Her left hand, in particular, where the Anchor still resides and yet is reacting to nothing at all. That is puzzling in itself. The hand is lowered back down into her lap where she runs a finger across the mark where it lays dormant. This must be the Fade, she's so certain of it, but why isn't the Anchor sizzling or popping or glowing as it is wont to do?

A test then. She reaches out her left hand to open a rift in the Fade to escape from, but nothing happens. Evelyn then attempts to pinch herself to force wakefulness. Again, nothing changes, nothing happens.

All alone and confused, Evelyn allows herself one brief moment of frustration in the form of a sigh. "What is happening now?"


Around Town

Given a couple of days to adjust and settle in, Evelyn has not adjusted. Not truly. She is very hard pressed to believe that this isn't the Fade and that she is merely unable to wake or exit. She's quite ready to and not just because the clothing she's in is foreign and hideous. Who wears such things anyway? Nor has she a hairpin or comb or ribbon to her name and it's made wresting with her long hair something of a nightmare. Her solution today has been to braid it, lightly knot the end and then wrap that into a knot at the nape of her neck. Serviceable enough but not pretty. Practical.

Nonetheless, she's more or less absorbed with thought as she roams the town, wandering as if lost. She is, though not in the way one might think. She mumbles the Chant under her breath, trying to steady herself and find comfort in that familiarity. Something Evelyn desperately needs for she's lost, lost as to what she should do. Lost as she was in those fateful days after being told the Circles voted to disband, to go home, she was "free." Free to do what? All her life had been spent in the shelter of the Circle. She knew neither how to sow seed nor bake bread, and her family certainly would not be taking their embarrassment of a mage daughter back under their roof for anything longer than the briefest of visits. She had no idea how to live outside then.

The Inquisition had given her direction, a purpose, something to justify her own existence. And now that too is gone. At least there she could put her education to use, she could investigate or collect elfroot. She knows nothing of these plants, nothing of the lands, and she has found no library with which to educate her ignorant self. That distressing reminder that she is quite useless in every way prompts her to wring her hands while resuming the Chant. All the while, her mind keeps churning over the same question again and again: What am I do to? She is no fool, she has no truly practical skills with which to keep herself alive or contribute in any meaningful way.