(no subject)

[tempestofthepast]

THE BAD ENDING MEME

You've chosen your path and it's led you to one of the worst possible ends. A bad ending you've averted in the past could be coming true after all, a possibility you've always feared could be happening now. It's game over.

prompts

one｡ SURVIVORS -- you two are the only ones left, whether it be the result of the apocalypse, a fight with the final boss gone horribly wrong, or something equally tragic. now you're left to contemplate friends and loved ones lost, as well as which one of you may be next.

two｡ SICKNESS -- you are seriously ill. poisoning, virus, perhaps it's even mental; whatever the reason, you doubt time is on your side this time.

three｡ FORGOTTEN -- you're not sure how, but your memories are crumbling and the things you do recall are hazy and make you dizzy. can you even recognize the person in front of you anymore?

four｡ SEPARATED -- you can see them, hear them, but something's keeping you from being with them. perhaps you're placed in a room with impenetrable glass dividing you, or you're hiding in a phone booth downtown, calling them secretly.

five｡ MELLOWED -- you've been through things, you've loved and you've lost, and all of that's changed you. maybe you finally decided to give in to temptation, you could be addicted to a substance you know is destroying you, or you've simply lost the optimism you had as a youth.

six｡ ANTAGONIST -- you've flipped the coin. you had to do it; they might not be able to understand it, but you just can't forgive the things that have happened. the darkness has consumed you.

seven｡ FREE CHOICE -- combine any of the others, reroll, or make up your own bad ending. the choice is yours!

Comments

soldier (i don't know what bad end # this is but it's bad)

[battleshipping]

[Inter-universe travel turns out to be a two-way door, as Skye had once feared. Another incursion into a HYDRA base armed to the teeth ends up with another portal opening, but this time there's no Not!Steve stepping through it, it's her who falls. Falls, and lands smack-dab in the middle of one of his missions, shots being fired from everywhere.

Recognition has time to filter in their gazes all of two seconds, before Skye ends up losing control. She hasn't done this part in years, but there's something wrong with her gauntlets, and she feels her powers crackling under her skin. She can't afford broken bones from her clavicles down to her fingertips again, never again, so she ends up externalizing. The ground shakes, pieces of ceiling fall, and she barely rolls out from under their falling range in time.

If there was a way back to her world through the same portal, she's pretty surely just buried it. But there's something she needs to do, moreso than panic over being stuck; run. She needs to run. Because if the Soldier is here, then so is HYDRA, and she dreads to think of ending up in Whitehall's hands. In any world.

Much like she dreads being caught by the Soldier himself.]

[fallenson]

[ The Soldier is there, of course. Where else would he be but the center of the chaos?

Skye's disruption took everyone by surprise, but he recovers first, taking advantage of the fallen debris to pick off those who remain trapped beneath it. Only then do his eyes follow in the direction she'd fled, jaw set as he shoulders his AK and darts into the rubble after her.

He remembers. It's been months since his last wipe and it wasn't so long ago that he found himself in her world, and he knows to pursue her now before she changes anything here. She's not his mission here, but recovering her is a priority. She'd take them down if she could, brick by brick. He knows that now, and that can't be permitted.

No matter who she looks like, who he might be in her world, here? She is his enemy. Another target to be eliminated. ]

[battleshipping]

[Shit shit shit goes through her mind as she runs, in haiku verses. She's cool, she can handle missions now, she's good being back on the field, but travelling to another world knocks her completely off balance.

Back when he'd shown up in hers, there had been a few hours of cooperation, of Skye playing along (with another HYDRA tool), but that's been shot out of water. So she's here now, she's in his world and she will likely not make it out.

But she could make it to the heads, crash the roof on them, take them out in one fell swoop and then maybe wrecking that machine that keeps erasing his memories. Without running into...her evil self.

And here all she wanted out of the day was to finish the mission quick and get back to homebase and relax. Never an easy day for an Agent, though.

There's no time to run, so she settles on making a break for it on wheels. First car she'll see, she'll hijack. She just has to make it through these woods first. Dammit why are there always woods?]

Option #7 for Cullen

[literaltrash]

The Commander’s capture was a total fluke; one part preparedness for the Inquisition’s counter-attack, two parts sheer ferocity to wear the opposition down, and no small amount of luck that they happened on a prize so valuable. It was a testament to Cullen’s skill that he hadn’t been mowed down – he’d come a long way from the frightened boy jumping at shadows. It wasn’t much of a surprise with all he’d survived by the time Samson met him. He knew back then if Cullen recovered he would one day be formidable.

But Samson and his forces were formidable, too. The red lyrium burning through them granted monstrous strength and durability with speed and stamina to match. That Cullen was still breathing by the battle’s end was an impressive feat. His value as a soldier was unquestioned, but more important to Samson and his Red Templars was the information locked inside Cullen’s head. He alone could give them insight on the Inquisition’s plans and possible movements. It wasn’t customary for them to take prisoners. That they did spoke of Cullen’s great value to Samson’s subordinates such that they weren’t inclined to speak out in question. They trusted their leader implicitly.

Their base of operations wasn’t without a proper dungeon and Cullen found himself a resident thereof with all the hospitality a cold stone floor with a bit of straw and manacles could afford. Within a few days’ time, the fatal flaw in Samson’s plan came to light; he relied too heavily on the desperation borne of lyrium withdrawal to earn Cullen’s compliance. There was no sign of withdrawal, no inkling that addiction existed in the prisoner.

Privately, in the confines of his own quarters, Samson raged. Not at Cullen’s resilience, but at Samon’s lack. He knew how low one could fall without that much-needed nepenthe, he’d plumbed those depths himself. That burning need once drove him to desperation. Now he only burned for vengeance against those who threw him and who would throw all his comrades away once the lyrium wrung all use from them. But he found it in himself to feel admiration, as well. Having once been without the lyrium, Samson knew how Cullen must have struggled, how closely he must have brushed with death. And all while still serving the Inquisition! That sort of unbreakable spirit was just the sort of thing his army needed.

So he did the only thing he could: he mixed the red lyrium with Cullen’s food. If he couldn’t count on the need burning in Cullen’s blood to make him pliant, he’d turn him the way the others had been. It wasn’t a sophisticated way to corrupt a man, but they weren’t Orlesian nobles playing at their age old game of politics. They were soldiers, heavy handed and inelegant.

Footsteps drew near Cullen’s cell, the gravel of Samson’s voice followed with gruff order for whomever was standing guard to leave. Samson’s the only one who ever spoke; all others came and went in silence when bringing the prisoner his metaphorical bowl of gruel. But they fed him well, offering meat and bread with plenty of water and each tray returned untouched. “Starvation’s a painful death,” he drawled blandly. The scrape of yet another tray of food punctuated the observation, forming a silent sort of plea for Cullen to eat.

[lyriumaddict]

Guilt wracked him for the death of his men, for not being prepared to withstand the red templar's assault. He should have known better, should have had a plan. Now those men had paid for that mistake with their lives. In comparison, being taken prisoner by Corypheus's general seemed a mercy. Or it had at first. He should have realized what their plans were when he woke up at all, dazed and chained in the darkness with only the hollow darkness and his own thoughts for company.

Days had passed in and out in this meager little cell, wrists and ankles already rubbed raw from their restraints, but Cullen gave them nothing. Each offering of food was refused -- likely tainted, he knew -- but each day without saw him growing weaker. The hunger gnawed, but he'd endured worse. He could endure it now.

It was difficult to keep track of the days, the hours that ticked by, sleep growing longer and colder until he could almost it taking hold, given enough time. And yet he could not help but wonder if the Inquisition searched for him. Even now rescue might come. Even if it did not, he'd sooner bite off his own tongue and bleed out than to turn on them, or deal with Samson and his ilk. He pressed his back against the wall and waited, stared at the door, murmuring the Chant of Light under his breath to maintain focus. It had been all he had in Kinloch Hold, it had to serve some purpose still.

There was enough bitterness left to glare balefully as their general approached, ignoring the tray of food entirely despite the mouth-watering smell wafting off of it.

Too good. A trap.

"More or...less painful than dying of red lyrium, would you say?" he rasped in turn, straightening his back against the cold, rough stone behind him.

[literaltrash]

Yes, perhaps it was too good. A simple bowl of lukewarm, tasteless gruel would be more fitting a prisoner if Samson wanted him weakened for interrogation. He didn’t just want whatever information Cullen’s mind held – plans could change, after all. Without doubt they searched for him, finding no body they would rightly presume him captured. They would smartly anticipate him compromised. Plans would alter and whatever Cullen knew of them would be useless. It was his insight that Samson craved.

The question provoked a thoughtful look. The heft of his prisoner’s chin told that the words were meant as a barb, but… Well, Samson recalled with vivid clarity exactly what starving felt like. Even that pain was nothing compared to his desire for the lyrium the Chantry forced on him, then just as suddenly withdrew. He might have starved himself to death at one time if it meant saving one more copper toward his next dose.

“About the same,” he replied coolly. The agony of one was simply less long-lived than the other. And then there’s the indignity of starving. “A healthy man like you, could take a month or two before your body’s eaten away every bit o’ meat it can spare. You’ll stop feelin’ the hunger at that point. Between now and then, you’ll start to lose control of your limbs, the cold’ll make a nice, cozy home of your flesh, and you won’t even be able to shiver after the weakness comes. Your bones’ll go brittle and your skin’ll crack open. Don’t expect any of my men will clean up once you start shitting yourself. The husk of your body’ll be a prison for what’s left of your mind while I’ll stand here a fortress.”

No, there would be no sad, slow death for Samson. The lyrium eats him away slowly, steadily, but he has quite some time, possibly even years before it takes his mind. At that point, he won’t rightly give a toss about what happens to his body. If he survives this war, that is. The whole point’s to take his men out in a blaze of glory before their minds turn to mush. For him, for them the prolonged agony of the red lyrium is worth it. They’ll burn out bright like stars, not thrown out like so much garbage.

Marjara [6-ish]

[colecomfort]

[It started with the chill in the Herald's Rest. Patrons began complaining of a draft coming in from around the walls, downed their ale more quickly to chase away the cold. But autumn was coming on, and so few thought it was anything more than the mundane. Especially not the ones who never saw. Never remembered.

Solas was the first to be concerned, but would not say anything unless asked directly. The space between spirit and demon was ill-defined, he would say. The worst case scenario was far from inevitable. He would find ways to foster hope. Cole could be managed.

Easy to believe that was the case. Maybe it was. But this evening, there's a heavy mist settled over Skyhold, and somewhere, a child is crying.

They'll find her in the armory. Wailing loud enough for her cries to echo up toward the battlements, an old straw doll clutched to her chest. Cole is crouched in front of her, one hand cradling the back of her delicate neck. And the room is so, so cold.

"Papa," the little girl wails. "Pa-paaa." As her sobbing crests a new wave, she surges forward, trying to beat at Cole with her fists, her sorrow morphing into impotent anger.

Cole welcomes her, paying no mind to her strikes. He holds her close with one hand, and with the other, draws a dagger from its sheath.]

[hallaifyouherd]

[ She doesn't have much cause to be near the armory, not at this time of night, but wandering the keep when it's late and she can't sleep has become her go-to. She'd thought to stop by and check on Cole tonight, but his usual place in the rafters of the tavern was empty. Nothing there but a strange, creeping sense of dread she couldn't quite place.

When the cry comes, however, she's racing across the bailey's muddy ground, throwing open the door and her hand already itching for her staff in her hands.

No. This is wrong. This can't be what it looks like. And yet she vividly remembers Cole's descriptions of his deeds in the White Spire. Her blood runs cold as her eyes fall to his hand where it grasps the hilt of his dagger, magic tingling at her fingertips, ready to cast.

But she can't risk hitting the child, and as close as she is to him... ]

Cole. Stop.

[ Maybe it's not what it looks like. Maybe there's some sense that can be talked into him. ]

[colecomfort]

[The dagger is already moving, gleaming dully in the evening light as it shoots upward. The child's cries cut off suddenly.

Cole keeps holding her tightly as blood drips over his hand onto the floor. Her father, an Inquisition soldier, dead. Her mother long gone, never known. Too much loneliness for her small shoulders to bear. He soaks it in as the life drains out of her.

He murmurs in a low voice:]

No hands can hold the world together. No power strong enough to keep him here. Papa, papa, where's he gone? I looked at all their faces, and didn't see him.

[A thin layer of frost collects under his feet, at the back of the girl's head where his hand touches her hair. The mist rolls in through the doorway.]

I don't know what option this fits but...

[unluckybarnes]

[He couldn't finish his mission. He couldn't kill the man with the shield. He couldn't even explain why. But he had to go back to his handlers and he couldn't just leave him, either. Something told him this guy would do something stupid and get himself killed if the Soldier wasn't watching him. So he carried the man back to the vault. The Triskelion may have fallen but the vault is small enough to escape notice so far. And then he waits for the technicians and agents to do what they have to do.]

#2, for Cullen

[itwasharrowing]

It was never meant to end like this. A Warden was meant to die on their feet. Die fighting, die with honor, die with their head held high and really, really Solona had never bought into that because death was death. It was an ending, sad and final and did honor matter to a corpse? Did honor make the grief of the living any easier?

But the rest of it, fighting, dying with her staff in her hand and fire at her fingertips, on her feet until her feet were numb and her heart went still and her lungs emptied of air--she had earned that. The quiet and peaceful end would never be hers, and she had accepted that, accepted that her end would likely be violent and bloody.

But not this. Anything but this.

And she'd prepared for it, hadn't she? Always a spare dagger tucked away, a vial of a deadly plant's poison she could reach even with her hands bound. But they had stripped it away. The darkspawn. They dragged her away from the fight, away from the army, dragged her beneath the earth. They took her weapons. Her contingency plans. Then they took away everything else. They forced her locked jaws open and they filled her mouth with blood and with flesh. Until her blood and her flesh were saturated with the Blight.

They brought her meat, thick slabs of muscle still oozing blood and her mouth watered even as her mind forced her body to cringe away from it. Days passed. She clawed at every offering for shards of bone she could use to open her wrists, but there was only flesh. Every day the smell of fresh meat was harder to resist, but she would rather starve, rather scream her throat raw in agony and waste away into a sack of skin over bones than become the thing they were trying to make of her. Surely they would become impatient with her. Surely they would put her to the sword. The sword never came. Her body was saturated with the Taint, after all. She would devoure the flesh, or be devoured by the Blight.

How much time had passed before she heard the fighting? She didn't know. She had no rhymes to count the passage of time, first day they come, second day, third day. She forced her weakened body to crawl to the bars, fingers black with old blood and dirt and spotted with Blight sores to wrap around the cold iron. There would be no rescue, but her mind was still hers, somehow still hers and there was time. There was time, if they found her.

"Help. Help me."

[lyriumaddict]

It was no fortunate accident that had brought their party here. Once it had been discovered that the Hero of Ferelden had been taken below in the course of the battle, it was all they could do to follow the blighted creatures back into their caverns, down into the network of tunnels that riddled the countryside.

True monsters, these Darkspawn, and this was the first that he'd seen of them in battle, but they died like any other creature when a sword was brought against them. Care had to be taken not to let the blood seep into their clothes or armor, to avoid taking it in. Poisoning and death would follow, and swiftly. That was why the Wardens were needed, it was explained. They carried the Blight within them, and the Darkspawn's poison could not slow a Warden in battle.

When Cullen pressed, when he asked why they would take a Warden captive instead, there were no answers. Only grim looks. He did not ask again, but sheathed his sword and demanded that they press onward.

The swarms grew thicker. The battles progressively bloodier.

Then, finally, within the dwarven tombs that had been overrun with the creatures, where the gore and bones and mishapen monuments stacked high in some glorified sanctum, they found the cells. Most were dead, little more than bone left behind, but he could swear there was movement just beyond.

Unfortunately, those Darkspawn who had been tending to their 'prisoners' did not take kindly to being interrupted. They attacked, full bore, and Cullen and the others returned the violence in kind.

[itwasharrowing]

The battle grew louder. Singing steel and the crash of battering shields, the muted thump of falling bodies, noises that swallowed her desperate croaks and pleas. She laid her head against the cold iron, gripped the bars as tightly as her starving muscles could hold them. A genlock ran in front of her cell, bow in hand; she reached for the last shard of energy within her and wove frost around its feet as it turned to shoot. The crossbow bolts that found its struggling form made a satisfying sound, a satisfying final act of defiance from a dying woman.

Someone stepped over the twitching body and crouched in front of her cell, but she couldn't see their face, or their body, or anything but the torch in their hand. The flickering orange and yellow light seared her blown pupils and sent her scurrying back against the wall, the sounds torn from her throat part whimper, part gutteral shriek. It was too bright. It was too loud. They were beating hearts and warm hot flesh and and fresh and livng, and what was in her wanted to tear into them and feast. Put an arrow in me and be done with it, she prayed, be done with it, be done. Merciful Andraste, please let it be done.

She whimpered again and wrapped her arms around her head as they shouted, "Over here! Commander, it's her!"

option let's ruin his entire life, for cullen

[riftmarked]

Most things fade, with enough time. Old wounds, heartaches, fears--all things true, even with the Inquisitor. A failed assassination attempt had put her on edge for many, many months, and even with increased security she was on alert. But the mind and body can stay like that for only so long. And so a year later, after a fast wedding and a pregnancy known only to a choice few, Kore felt no apprehension leaving her new husband to his own devices one late autumn night.

"Don't stay up working too late," she said, slipping in front of him and leaning in for a kiss, as she did every night that he worked in his office. "Or else you'll force me to come back here and drag you to bed, and I'll be very, very cross."

To his credit, he had gotten better at not pushing himself too hard, but there was always room for improvement. As long as he came to bed eventually, Kore was happy. It was difficult not to be, these days.

[lyriumaddict]

"Mm." Cullen chuckled, leaning up into that kiss for a moment. When he drew back, one hand fondly stroked against her cheek. "Can't have that. Don't worry, I'll be along shortly."

There was little that couldn't wait until the morning, and he'd learned to let go, or at least not keep quite the deathgrip on his work that he once had. Once, it had been his lifeline, his way of proving himself, gaining respect, putting purpose to his life.

Now in the eyes of his wife he could count a thousand other reasons, and the nights didn't stretch quite so long or restless anymore. Oh he still worried. Fretted over maintaining the peace they'd won with hard cost, or keeping the Inquisitor safe to the best of his ability. That scare with the assassin not so long ago had put all of them on edge, and now with a child on the way...

Well. He could be forgiven for not relaxing entirely, happy as they both were.

[riftmarked]

"See you soon." She gave a little wave, but not before pressing one last kiss against the corner of his mouth. I love you would come later, once they were comfortable in their bed, ready to end the day.

Kore was only several feet out onto the ramparts, the door to the tower just closed behind her, when something heavy and hard hit her, throwing her against the stone walls. The funny thing was that it came from the side that held only a sheer drop the impassible chasms surrounding Skyhold. Somehow, in the dark, someone had managed to scale the side of the fortress, and Kore's vision swam as she jumped to her feet. Not again. Not her, not Cullen. She made a scramble backwards.

But it was a heartbeat too late. Something burned in her gut and then burned in her lungs, and as she gripped something--a wrist? a knife?--she was unaware of the gargled scream that escaped her throat. Wet. The inside of her throat was wet but she had to keep a hold on her assailant until help came, but her hands were slick and her boots struggled to find purchase on the now-slippery flagstones.

[lyriumaddict]

Lyrium eventually took everything from you. Your memory, your strength, your pride, and finally your mind. He'd watched other templars succumb to it before, and once foolishly though he might break those chains and be free of that fate.

Now, that almost seemed a dream, too distant to be real. He couldn't remember a time when that ache and thirst didn't ring hollow in his bones, drowning out thought of anything else. The Inquisitor had needed him to be at his strongest, his most focused. It was necessary, at the time, he told himself, for all the good it did. Now? There was no more Inquisition to serve, no point in returning to the templars. No reason to return home, when his family would likely no longer recognize the man that was their brother, bitter and angry and empty.

Their number had all scattered to the winds after the Inquisition disbanded, and he'd found himself in Val Chevin for a time, at first just looking for work. Then just looking for somewhere to sleep. Rather than free, he felt aimless, untethered and drifting, and his only solace could be found at the bottom of that tiny blue bottle. Days bled into weeks, and then months. The price of lyrium outside of the Chantry eeked higher and higher, and coin grew thinner. Rumors of wars spread from the north, but it was no longer his fight. Cullen’s battles now consisted of keeping enough coin for food and the growing need for lyrium, without which it would only be days before he started to shake.

Eventually one outweighed the need for the other. Eventually, what little charity was keeping a roof over his head could no longer afford to board him for free.

What few belongings he hadn’t sold by this point were packed together in a dirtied canvas sack beside him as he huddled under his coat, trying to stave off the worst of that gnawing hunger. Maker, but the way his heart leapt when he heard the jangle of coins hitting the cobblestones at his feet, one hand snatching them up quick as blinking.

Survival. That’s all this was, now. Just getting through this day, and then the next, and then the next. Survival, and dreaming of a time when he’d had something more, until the lyrium took those memories from him, too.

[giftedistheterm]

After the Inquisition disbanded, most of the conscripted mages scattered and Simon wasn't so different. He had his own reason to distance himself from his fellows and the scrutinous eye of authority...but River's own unique gifts helped keep them safe, and she seemed certain that this relatively small town in Orlais was safe enough to settle in for a time, and Simon's own gifts made sure it was never too hard to earn a living. Healers were always needed, often badly enough for people to look the other way...though Simon tried not to advertise the fact that he was a mage anymore. No more robes in public and his staff was kept hidden at home, though he never bothered disguising his features otherwise...he'd knew from Blackwall how well a beard could hide a man, but it never felt necessary.

Though it did lead to giving the haggard looking man he'd thoughtlessly dropped a few coins for a second look...which led to his stomach doing a slow and uncomfortable sink.

Simon remembered Cullen quite fondly. As far as the mage was concerned he owed the man his sister's life, though it had taken some desperate convincing at one point. Yet after returning to Skyhold something changed in the Commander's demeanor. He started to grow more distant, though Simon wasn't sure if he could say they were ever close...he thought that they had trusted each other at the very least. Simon had thought at the time that the Commander's duties kept him busy with Corypheus' forces constantly on the move, and he knew his own sister's welfare took up a great deal of his time.

Looking down at the man now, watching him snatch for the bit of gold...Simon didn't want it to be true but he swore he remembered when that dirty, matted hair could compete with the gleaming metal. Yet it suddenly made terrible, awful sense. This was what happened to templars after too long a time. It was the unspoken ugliness of the Circles, something that enough mages knew of but too few would acknowledge let alone speak of, too busy with their own injustices...

Simon had stopped a few steps away, frozen when he'd looked back at first but then he turned, taking a few careful steps towards the huddled figure.

"Cullen?" he asked quietly. Please let it not be him, he thought. Though at this point Simon suspected it wouldn't matter either way...he needed help beyond a few coins, and the healer never could turn someone away.

[lyriumaddict]

He hesitated before lifting his eyes. No. He never meant to be found, to let anyone see him in this sorry state, but dulled as they are those amber eyes were unmistakable. The tell-tale scar was hidden under the growth that he'd had no thought to shave or maintain, and those once-steady hands quivered around the coins he'd clutched so fiercely. But it certainly was him.

Whether he recognized Simon or not was up for debate. The conditions of his surroundings have been growing vague, at best. There was a soft noise that could have been acknowledgement, confirmation, or just the price of moving so quickly, before he sank back against the cool stone wall again.

Just go, just go and leave him. He deserved this...

Dorian

[qunari]

[footsies]

[ In the end, it's not a surprise he dies. Given the work that he's been doing, the upset he's been causing, the people he's been pissing off, he fully expected that some point, that would be it.

Still, it isn't as if he's simply alright with it happening. Dorian dies in a Venatori camp, cut off from the Inquisitor and the rest of his allies and hopes, rather hopelessly, that they find out what happened to him. Mae needs all the help she can get and he won't be there to provide it. There'll be an empty seat in the Magisterium and he has no idea how that's going to turn out, either, but he has hopes that they'll keep on without him.

When he opens his eyes again, it's to the steady roll of a carriage underneath him, shaking and squeaking faintly. It's...odd, given that he remembers the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth, the feel of grass on his skin. It's some sort of carriage, but it's moving too fast to be carried by horses and it's not downhill so it's not in a mine. Dorian glances out the window, perplexed, and finds that it doesn't answer any more questions. He understands what's happened - he's died, there's no ifs ands or butts about it, but the question is, who else is here.

He wanders two cars, not entirely certain when he's going to meet someone but when he passes into the third, his heart drops to his toes. He hasn't seen Bull in ages, hasn't seen him since he died and seeing the familiar profile makes his heart ache all over again. There's no stopping the sharp intake of breath, the way he waffles over coming closer or moving away, reaching for his magic on instinct. It takes every bit of him to pull off calm nonchalance. ]

You've been here a while?

[qunari]

[ Time crawls here as fog rolls past the windows, barreling on to a destination unknown. Has it been hours? Days? Longer still? There's no telling. All he has are his thoughts and the resonating silence, save the rattle of the wheels under the carriage.

At least that had been the case. His eye lifts at the sound of a familiar voice, and for a brief moment he wonders if he's finally cracked. Started to imagine things. It only makes sense that it would be him, the last thing he saw, the last thought on his mind before he died.

The alternative is -- ]

Seems like it. You?

[ The alternative is that he's dead, too. Had he fallen to the Qunari, or had it taken longer than that? So many wanted the Inquisition and their allies dead, it would have been only a matter of time.

Had things been different, he might have been there to stop them. But even now there's no place for regret or wishful thinking. There's certain none to be seen on his face, inscrutable as ever. ]

I was told there wouldn't be demons...

[noleechesneeded]

This was it, the moment Simon had worked so much for, had bled for. Surrounded by very powerful mages that he had convinced he was interested in joining, and a small slip of a girl, kneeling in the middle of the floor with a dot of blood trickling from her brow...this was his chance. The mage's heart pounded in his chest a he snuck the dagger out of his sleeve in one smooth motion, slicing open his arm as he drew it. The blood arced out unnaturally, seized by the force of Simon's will. It was supposed to continue outward, bursting forth with violent speed and striking down everyone unfortunate enough to be standing nearby. That didn't happen.

Maybe it was the magic already in play, the circles drawn into the floor and the thrum of blood magic in the air, but the reaction was much stronger than what Simon had been taught to expect. There was a burst of light, red and then green as the air cracked open before him.

There was a blow-back, at least. Strong enough to knock every mage off their feet including Simon. The smooth marble ground cracked against his head, leaving him dazed as the world went dark for a few frightening moments. When he was able to open his eyes again the room seemed changed, a thick presence in the air...or maybe that was his arm still bleeding and staining his robes making him dizzy.

It wasn't enough to stop him from noticing someone still standing, blue eyes squinting and then slowly going wide as he recognized the purple skin, horns, and flaming hair of a demon...

[yourdesire]

Oh, to taste the mortal world. This was what more powerful demons than he had dreamed about. Well. In so much as they could dream, being creatures of that world themselves. Hungered for. Yes, that seemed more accurate.

There was a great deal to draw upon here. Fear, yes, but power. A powerful desire had brought him here, drawn him through the crack in the Veil, and now the origin of that desire stood before him looking very taken aback at what he had wrought.

The demon smiled, stretched sinuously in place before casting its eyes about. All others in the room seemed to have been knocked out cold by the blast, leaving just the two of them.

Perfect.

"Well. This does seem quite a mess, doesn't it? Your doing, I suspect?" The demon's voice resonated, echoed with an unearthly cadence, as it took its first steps towards the wary mage.

[noleechesneeded]

Simon tore his eyes off the demon, finding River just beyond and crumpled on the floor where once she'd been conscious if unresponsive. He felt his chest tighten up to his throat as he strained to see if she still breathed, Simon forcing himself to sit up, propping on his elbows for a better look.

The demon, however, required more immediate attention.

"Stay away from me," he warned, grimacing as he pushed against the floor, inching away in response to the demon's approach. The slash in his arm had begun to sting, quietly demanding attention but Simon dared not look away from the demon now. Still, the wound made the answer to his question perfectly clear...no one else in the room was currently bleeding with such obvious intent. Even the dagger was nearby, its tip stained red and still dripping where it had scattered in the blast.

"I didn't...this wasn't what was supposed to happen..."