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Aug. 19th, 2015
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My, my, what popular man have you become here, Commander.
I just made my way out of the charming siege bunker of yours and little Sera told me to don't disturb your sums. I left a note of everything I've collected (nothing fancy, nothing unnecessary in such colorful situation).
I'll be wandering and investigating on my own for now, but I take you know how to call me if you find yourself in need. The King Alistair in question belongs to my reality, for what is worth you knowing that.
See you later, Commander.
[Attached, there is a note with a list: longbow, quiver and arrows, Inquisition’s warrior armor, long sword, shield.]
I just made my way out of the charming siege bunker of yours and little Sera told me to don't disturb your sums. I left a note of everything I've collected (nothing fancy, nothing unnecessary in such colorful situation).
I'll be wandering and investigating on my own for now, but I take you know how to call me if you find yourself in need. The King Alistair in question belongs to my reality, for what is worth you knowing that.
See you later, Commander.
[Attached, there is a note with a list: longbow, quiver and arrows, Inquisition’s warrior armor, long sword, shield.]
Alistair had found a seat in the great hall, tucked off to the side and slightly hidden by the drapery, and had applied himself to reading the journal that had been gifted to him. Paperwork he might detest, but he had learned the importance of research - not just from reading the endless reports his advisers foisted upon him, but also from Cousland. The man had insisted on reading every book and slip of paper that they had come across in their adventures. Alistair had scoffed at him in the beginning but Cousland had proven how useful it was over time. How the man ever kept it all straight in his head was entirely separate matter of course...
He sighed, and paused for a moment - rubbed his tired eyes and stretched in his chair. The sky outside had not showed any change in lighting, still that ugly, roiling gray, and the buzz of magical energies grated on his teeth. He'd tried to sleep, briefly, but had given it up for lost. Now, though, he was beginning to feel the stress of it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and leaned back in his chair, his head bumping against the wall. Alistair went over the current situation in his head, trying to straighten it all out.
Two Cullens - one who suffered yet more demon-related trauma (poor man didn't deserve that), and another who's been exceptionally quiet. Three Dorians - whoever that is. Flirtatious man, by his writing. If Zevran were here, he'd would get along with any of them like a house on fire. A slew of people from some strange world without magic and flying ships. An elven woman named Sera, who Leliana seems to known, but isn't ours. Alistair's face took on a sad expression, tinged with frustration. Multiple Champions of Kirkwall and Heroes of Fereldan...but not my Hero of Fereldan. And no one else besides Leliana who would know me.
That was a slightly upsetting thought. There's at least one other me, though I haven't seen or heard from him at all. I can't blame him - I don't know that I would want to be confronted by whatever did or didn't happen to me, simply because Cousland wasn't...well, wasn't. He shook his head, but remained leaning back in his chair, eyes closed.
What a mess.
He sighed, and paused for a moment - rubbed his tired eyes and stretched in his chair. The sky outside had not showed any change in lighting, still that ugly, roiling gray, and the buzz of magical energies grated on his teeth. He'd tried to sleep, briefly, but had given it up for lost. Now, though, he was beginning to feel the stress of it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and leaned back in his chair, his head bumping against the wall. Alistair went over the current situation in his head, trying to straighten it all out.
Two Cullens - one who suffered yet more demon-related trauma (poor man didn't deserve that), and another who's been exceptionally quiet. Three Dorians - whoever that is. Flirtatious man, by his writing. If Zevran were here, he'd would get along with any of them like a house on fire. A slew of people from some strange world without magic and flying ships. An elven woman named Sera, who Leliana seems to known, but isn't ours. Alistair's face took on a sad expression, tinged with frustration. Multiple Champions of Kirkwall and Heroes of Fereldan...but not my Hero of Fereldan. And no one else besides Leliana who would know me.
That was a slightly upsetting thought. There's at least one other me, though I haven't seen or heard from him at all. I can't blame him - I don't know that I would want to be confronted by whatever did or didn't happen to me, simply because Cousland wasn't...well, wasn't. He shook his head, but remained leaning back in his chair, eyes closed.
What a mess.
The sting of the sulfur was never going to leave his nose. Daylen scrubbed at it with the back of his hand, frowning when his glove came away tacky with blood. The cut in his eyebrow was bleeding again, sluggish, sure, but that's what happened when you started to run out of the stuff.
The fire on the bridge was starting to die down, and Daylen tried to feed it as a pair of genlocks managed to scrabble their way through, but there was nothing left.
Ever since the Battle for Denerim, he'd been an open wound, bleeding his magic into the Fade, simply less. There were a dozen small wounds on his body, including his scalp, none of which he wanted to spare the mana to heal. The only one that was dangerous was where his Voice should be, and after so many years of slogging forward alone, he was ready to stop.
The Calling was just an excuse. He'd been ready to stop for years.
He lifted his staff, drawing as much of his magic as he could, close and deep and with a slow, grinding screech the stones beneath the encroaching darkspawn twisted and crumbled and fell away.
Daylen fell too, but it was more of a stumble, one step missed, and he staggered onto a polished floor lit by soft torchlight. He blinked around him, at the long tables, the arching vault, the drapes and murals and stained glass and the throne at the far end.
He shook his head, shook it harder, ran his fingers into his hair and pulled in an attempt to get his thoughts to focus as he'd done a thousand times since the Calling had started. But the sweet poison of that song was simply gone.
"Sorry, my love, guess I'll be just a little longer." He thumped his staff onto the flags and scowled as the torches flared higher. That shouldn't have happened. "Well, fuck me."
The fire on the bridge was starting to die down, and Daylen tried to feed it as a pair of genlocks managed to scrabble their way through, but there was nothing left.
Ever since the Battle for Denerim, he'd been an open wound, bleeding his magic into the Fade, simply less. There were a dozen small wounds on his body, including his scalp, none of which he wanted to spare the mana to heal. The only one that was dangerous was where his Voice should be, and after so many years of slogging forward alone, he was ready to stop.
The Calling was just an excuse. He'd been ready to stop for years.
He lifted his staff, drawing as much of his magic as he could, close and deep and with a slow, grinding screech the stones beneath the encroaching darkspawn twisted and crumbled and fell away.
Daylen fell too, but it was more of a stumble, one step missed, and he staggered onto a polished floor lit by soft torchlight. He blinked around him, at the long tables, the arching vault, the drapes and murals and stained glass and the throne at the far end.
He shook his head, shook it harder, ran his fingers into his hair and pulled in an attempt to get his thoughts to focus as he'd done a thousand times since the Calling had started. But the sweet poison of that song was simply gone.
"Sorry, my love, guess I'll be just a little longer." He thumped his staff onto the flags and scowled as the torches flared higher. That shouldn't have happened. "Well, fuck me."
Skyhold was almost as extensive as the palace in Denerim, if one counted all the palace gardens and twisting servants quarters. Every room seemed to lead into another, and eventually back again in a giant circle. This meant, of course, that Alistair was hopeless lost. Again.
He had intended to walk back to the room that he had been deposited into the first night (day? Time didn't seem to have much meaning here). He'd left the armor that he had borrowed from Cullen's stockpile there after deciding (foolishly perhaps) that the majority of people stuck in this mess with him were of the trustworthy sort. And it was heavy, uncomfortable stuff - lamellar was not meant to be made of low-quality iron plates, nor was it meant to drag on the shoulders like a poorly-weighted pack. He'd made up his mind to get it and return it to the stockpile for something more comfortable (in case of demons or hostile strangers or whatever else this strange not-Fade cooked up), only to find himself thoroughly lost yet again in the maze of rooms and hallways.
"Of all the infernal-" Alistair stumbled through a door and into the great hall yet again. At the opposite end from where he'd started. He sighed, run a hand through his hair (now tousled in frustration), and stopped in place to try and calm down.
He had intended to walk back to the room that he had been deposited into the first night (day? Time didn't seem to have much meaning here). He'd left the armor that he had borrowed from Cullen's stockpile there after deciding (foolishly perhaps) that the majority of people stuck in this mess with him were of the trustworthy sort. And it was heavy, uncomfortable stuff - lamellar was not meant to be made of low-quality iron plates, nor was it meant to drag on the shoulders like a poorly-weighted pack. He'd made up his mind to get it and return it to the stockpile for something more comfortable (in case of demons or hostile strangers or whatever else this strange not-Fade cooked up), only to find himself thoroughly lost yet again in the maze of rooms and hallways.
"Of all the infernal-" Alistair stumbled through a door and into the great hall yet again. At the opposite end from where he'd started. He sighed, run a hand through his hair (now tousled in frustration), and stopped in place to try and calm down.