As Above, So Below is a play-by-post RPG based on the Dragon Age series of video games. Play takes place during the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition as our characters navigate cutthroat politics, tumultuous relationships, and the looming threat of a sky torn asunder. Set in a world of dark fantasy, we explore mature topics while crafting thoughtful and compelling plots focusing on OC stories with minimal canon involvement. We're an advanced RP for those who are comfortable with creative writing. 18+, 3/2/2, Faceclaims optional.
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Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 20, 2018 21:36:17 GMT -5
[OOC: Welcome to our inaugural event! Let's see where the thread takes us! Rapid-fire means that there's no turn order here: post whenever you want, just make sure you don't double up with the same character.]
They came by the dozens; day by day, Silas watched the narrow village road become an unrecognizable mess of hoofprints and wagon tracks as legions of templars, mages, and pilgrims disturbed the quiet peace of Haven. They filled the chantry and tavern first—bedrolls and blankets covering every available inch of floor—and then they spilled into the narrow spaces between buildings, tents and campfires littering the once-straight paths through town. The mages, wary of the templars, the looming threat of chantry presence, perhaps even of the wind and their own shadows, camped just outside the gates looking lost and wounded.
Silas watched all this but said nothing. Old missus Reynolds had come down with a spell of dizziness that had kept him busy through most of the commotion, and he found himself feeling grateful for the distraction. In a town as small as Haven he scarcely saw a patient more than once or twice a week, and normally only for minor ailments: sprains, aches, the occasional cut from a misplaced cheese knife. If the wound was grievous or the illness lingered, he'd send his charges along to master Taigen for treatment. Silas' skill with scalpel and saw was unrivaled, but even he recognized that his talents were no match against a well-trained mage.
But as the Conclave drew nearer Silas was forced to admit that he could no longer ignore the overwhelming sound of a village fit to bursting with outsiders. He lay in his bed two nights before the Divine's arrival, eyes wide and staring at a point on the ceiling as if trying to divine some deeper meaning from the whorls of a knot in the rough wood above him, when he sat up, sudden and stiff, and redressed in a daze.
If the crowd at the Singing Maiden was going to keep him awake with their merriment, he might as well join them, though he doubted he'd be able to add much mirth of his own.
A quiet snow began to fall around his shoulders as he trudged along the muddy road towards the tavern, its warm light spilling through shuttered windows and beckoning him on to the comfort of anonymity in the crowd of strangers gathered inside.
Edited Sept 6, 2018 7:55:36 GMT -5 By RollForBluff
Post by Athela Sparrow on Aug 22, 2018 21:22:02 GMT -5
It had been a hard year for Athela: She'd forsaken the Order and abandoned the Chantry to take refuge with a mage—mages, who were now persona non grata throughout most of Thedas—and then, once she was on the mend after the nasty ordeal that was withdrawal, aligned herself with a whole group of mages. Well... who better to fight templars than a templar, right? Or... a former templar. Whatever she was, she knew what she'd been: The militant arm of the faithful, and someone who had only ever sought to do good in the world—so when she heard rumors of the Divine Conclave, she knew she wanted to attend. Her partner accompanied her without question, for he, too, wanted to see peace done. If they could contribute in any way to the process, they would do so happily.
Haven was a hamlet, and utterly unprepared to welcome the approaching army of disenfranchised men and women. Fortunately for Athela, this unpreparedness manifested myriad ways in which she could make herself useful. She'd spent untold hours fortifying homes and campgrounds against the biting winds and the encroaching chill of winter; assembling and maintaining an armed patrol of the area, to ensure that no wild animals or malicious creatures took the new inhabitants of Haven unawares; and settling disputes among the mages and templars... of which there were many.
Tonight, however, was a brief reprieve. While the folks in the Maiden made merry, Athela enjoyed some much-needed "quiet" time outside, quietly sharpening and oiling her sword. Her beau dawdled nearby, entertaining a small cluster of children with parlor tricks—most of which included more sleight of hand than magic—and Athela couldn't help but look on fondly.
"Parshaara. I will find my own way." Maraas dismissed the human bas who refused to direct him to the leader of the guards. It had been a simple question that any good soldier should know. It was astounding that these people had not already been conquered by the Qunari ages ago.
It was a momentous event that these bas prepared for, scurrying about as if their efforts mattered. He had traveled south through nation after nation. City state after city state, all at war. With themselves. Rivain had at least been half-way civilized. The Qun dominated there. Its Qunari citizens following the path of Koslun, acting within their roles.
The further south he went however, the more chaotic. Basvaarad and Saarebas at war, each group attempting to go its own way, and ignoring the Chantry's pleading. And the Chantry, the bas version of the Ariqun calls a conclave with both groups, hoping to bring them together, establish order. And yet they would fail miserably, because they lack the will and ability to command discipline and obedience from their own people.
Maraas shook his head. Haven was a cold, wintery village, at the foot of the great temple where the so-called Divine would hold court, and 'negotiate'. Not command, no. Pah, as if one can negotiate with animals. One may as well debate with one's horse. Nonetheless, he had come here to find work. To offer his services as a guard, and help to keep the saarebas in line. Someone had to. Their Chantry was plainly incapable of doing so.
Pushing his way into the large temple deep in the village, he approached a priestess. "Excuse me, I wish to speak to the one in charge."
The woman turned, then jumped back, startled. A common reaction amongst southern bas. She eyed him up and down, "I—are you a convert? You wish to speak to—"
"No." Maraas replied flatly. "I wish to speak to the one in charge of hiring guards. It is my understanding that your Chantry organizes this event."
"Oh!" she looked around, seeing no one in their immediate vicinity. "You may see Chancellor Roderick. His office is right there." She pointed to a door at the end of the hall.
"Meravas." he replied, and left the woman's presence. Pushing the door open, he was faced with a human man in chantry robes. The bas sat at a desk, and looked up expectantly. Unsurprisingly he too reacted to Maraas's size.
"Can I help you?" Roderick said.
"You need guards. I wish to offer my services."
After some negotiation, Maraas was hired, and told to report to the guard station at the temple in the morning. Roderick had to make it clear to him that he meant the grand temple up the hill, not the local Chantry building in the village.
Satisfied, he headed out of the Chantry and walked towards the local tavern. Some weak bas beer and food would have to suffice.
Post by Amos Thibault on Aug 26, 2018 14:25:41 GMT -5
It was cold, too damn cold.
How the dog lords could stand to handle the nip of the cold was well beyond Amos. Even wrapped in his armour as he was, the cold moved like a knife, exploiting whatever cracks there was in the leather. Needless to say the man would rather be anywhere other than the Frostbacks, but he had no say in the matter, for he was here on a job.
A noble-man, an Orlesian like himself, had decided to make an appearance at the Divine Conclave, and had requested the help of Amos and a few other mercenaries to see to it that he would arrive at Haven in one piece. The noble was skittish, unending in his suspicions that every shadow could be hiding a vicious blood mage; a test in Amos' patience.
Between the senseless paranoia and the gnawing cold he was truly at his wits end.
By the time the party had reached Haven, Amos was close to snapping. Still he managed to hold his tongue, he wasn't even sure that his frostbitten lips could muster the strength to curse his situation. Why anyone would be so fixated on the Conclave was beyond him. It wasn't as if it would amount to anything, the mages had made it clear that they had no intention of returning to the way things were, and with the Order bickering like it was, it wasn't as if they were in any position to force the issue. Perhaps the people believed that the Divine herself stepping in would make a difference, but Amos was unable to accept such blind optimism. At best this Conclave would only serve to expedite the violence between the two factions. But this pessimism, perhaps wisely, Amos kept to himself.
With his charge soon out of his hair, Amos was left to his own devices. The town was cramped, though it was still warm. Fires were set, tents propped, and while he hated to admit it, the grotesque shacks that these people considered 'buildings' were becoming more and more appealing. It had been a long journey on the Pilgrim's road, and his body was near its breaking point, any form of shelter seemed as though it was nothing short of a palace.
Rubbing his gloved hands over one of the fires established just outside of the village's gates, Amos tried to ring the feeling back into his limbs. Paying little mind to the people around him, he was focused on his simple - primal task.
Post by Genevieve Marchand on Aug 26, 2018 15:59:56 GMT -5
With any luck, she could blend into the crowd and spend her time at Haven unnoticed. If everything went according to plan, she would be here to observe only, and if anything didn't...well it was her job to nudge things along in the right direction, she was just an additional agent along as a bit of added insurance.
She had only just arrived, and already she was grateful that she never got into The Grand Game. She didn't have a head for politics and intrigue, and with each passing hour she became more nervous and jittery. Her cover story was that she came to the Conclave to represent the interests of House Marchand, but what if someone knew her family? Then they would also know that the youngest daughter hadn't spoken to them in years. Worse yet, what if she ran into one of her relatives? There were enough of them, it was likely. Nope, better to keep to herself and look too busy for idle conversation.
Though she had no need for more supplies, Genevieve passed the time by browsing a vendor's stall, The goods for sale were basic travel gear, and when she reached out to touch a length of rope, she noticed that the veins on the back of her hand had a faint reddish tinge. Damn. Had it always been like that? Probably not. She should have left her gloves on, it was cold enough it would have looked perfectly normal...probably more normal that going without, but the heat from the red lyrium in her veins kept the chill away.
Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 27, 2018 5:43:06 GMT -5
Silas paused just outside the ring of light which spread from the tavern's windows and illuminated the gathering snowfall against the hard earth below. He teetered there, rocking on the balls of his feet as if willing his body to leap into action. The sounds of shouting and laughter from inside washed over him, reminding him of just how large a crowd he should be prepared to find, but behind it, just audible over the din, was a soft, metallic shiink. He cocked his head, eyes searching the dark walls of the building for its source.
After a moment, he spotted her: sitting on a stool in half-shadow was a woman sharpening the blade of a longsword. Even though she sat low to the ground he could tell she was tall, perhaps even taller than him. His body stiffened, feeling caught—had she watched his approach? Had she seen him standing here in the dark, too cowardly to go inside? A quick, internal battle raged inside him. Would it be better to turn tail and head back down the path to the safety of home, or should he go inside and pretend he hadn't noticed her?
Instead, his mouth reacted before his brain had the chance to catch up: "It's very cold out," he said, apropos of nothing. He might as well have been speaking to the night itself.
Edited Aug 27, 2018 17:29:05 GMT -5 By Silas Agosti
Post by Athela Sparrow on Aug 29, 2018 0:30:46 GMT -5
Whether or not she had seen Silas before, it was only when he spoke that Athela's eyes rose from the blade in her hand. She offered him a wry smile, lifting the blade up so that she could appraise its edge and point. She lay it across her lap and set her whetstone aside, retrieving a rag—damp with metal polish—and working it back and forth across the steel.
"It is," she agreed, her low intonation cutting through the merriment indoors like a knife. "But we're all accustomed to the elements now, aren't we? On the road to Haven or outside its walls—I expect everyone here has thickened their skin, one way or another."
One side polished, Athela turned the blade over and got back to work. If Silas had studious eyes, he would see the care with which she handled her weapon—and the satisfaction that she derived from its maintenance, the corners of her lips curled into a weak smile as she perfected the blade. Three pounds of steel, it hardly constituted the gentle touch reserved for a lover... but that's what she gave it nonetheless.
"I'm Athela," she offered, holding the blade up at an angle so that it shined brilliantly in the moonlight. "I used to be a... soldier—so I've come to Haven to render what help I can while the divine and her subjects convene. I don't know your name, but I know your craft: I've seen you in the healer's tent, and making house calls. You're a physician? Not a mage, but a proper sawbones? Admirable work."
Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 29, 2018 3:48:38 GMT -5
Silas wished he could say that he had been hardened in some way—by Haven, or by the war, or by the battles that had come long before he'd ever set foot in Ferelden. Instead, he mostly felt as if he had become more like paper every day: a palimpsest of mistakes tallied against the little good he had managed to mete out against a suffering world. He blinked benignly at her sword and remained silent.
When she spoke her name, he nodded, shoving frigid fingers deep into the pockets of his coat. He didn't think he'd seen her before, but then again, there had been an influx of new faces into the village over the past week and he'd made a point not to look too closely at any of them.
"Yes," he said at last. "I suppose I am a sawbones . . . a surgeon." He thought she did look very much like a soldier, though perhaps less vicious than the ones he had known in another life. He wondered if she had killed many people.
"Silas," he continued. "I am called Silas."
The sudden crunch of footfalls from behind him made him jump. Embarrassed, he turned his head and squinted, watching as the silhouette of a newcomer grew larger against the backdrop of the half-dozen fires that lined the path.
Edited Aug 29, 2018 3:56:00 GMT -5 By Silas Agosti
Maraas took in the group of humans outside the tavern as he approached. A mage, entertaining children, of all things. he shook his head. A woman sat nearby, caring for her weapon. He nodded in approval. He was reminded his own twin daggers needed care. he considered stopping to speak, to ask if the woman was responsible for watching the nearby mage.
Another bas man stood near the woman, speaking to her. Maraas, approaching from behind the man, walked closer to the group, only for the standing man to jump and turn around.
"Are you so easily startled?" Maraas scoffed, looking over the man. He nodded at the mage. "Do you two care for that one?"
Post by Athela Sparrow on Aug 29, 2018 13:27:57 GMT -5
Squinting in the dark, Athela just made out the hulking figure approaching Silas' flank. She didn't know the stranger personally, but it was easy enough to guess who he was: At least seven feet tall, earthen complexion. He was a qunari. A curiosity in most of Ferelden, but particularly in this backwater hamlet—but, then, the conclave had attracted all sorts. In the last week, she'd met some of the strangest folks she'd ever set eyes on... a low bar, perhaps, given her relatively secluded life. She'd only ever known Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold.
"We're betrothed," Athela informed Maraas, an undercurrent of pride in her voice that dared anybody to take umbrage. "The mage and I. Why do you ask?"
Satisfied with its condition, Athela picked up her scabbard—plain, hard leather appended by iron brackets—and buried the steel therein, rising to her feet and buckling the sword to her baldric. She moved closer to Silas and Maraas, peering up at the qunari with typical resoluteness, despite the foot-and-then-some he had on her.
Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 29, 2018 18:00:58 GMT -5
It was as if the world had stilled—the heavy snowflakes around him became suspended in midair—and his breath hitched in his throat. The figure before him spoke, but he did not hear the words. Instead, the rhythmic pounding of his heart drowned him in fear and a single word kept time with its frenetic beating: Qunari, Qunari, Qunari.
A Qunari, here, in Haven. He'd run across half the world to escape his memory, but now he was instantly transported back. All it took was this one man, monster, beast, to stand before him and flood him with a shame he hadn't felt so acutely in almost a decade.
His cold palms began to sweat as Athela responded to a question he hadn't heard. She was to marry the mage, the one he'd passed just up the road, who was far enough away to be unaware of the sudden shift in tension, who happily made flame and spark flicker from the tips of his fingers. Through the haze of shock and hurt, Silas found himself feeling . . . happy for her. A wedding would be a good thing, even for a stranger, even—especially—for a mage.
Athela stood and he started again, every nerve in his body screaming. His eyes darted between the two of them and he felt lost, dwarfed by their presence. He had to escape before he did something ill-advised. "I-," he began. "I must . . ." He'd have to push past the Qunari to make it back home, so he took a step back, towards the tavern. ". . . Thirsty," was all he managed before he stumbled over his own feet, pushed against the door with more force than was necessary, and disappeared inside.
Post by Mathras Halasan on Aug 30, 2018 23:18:14 GMT -5
Mathras made a face as the scent of the wine wafted up his nostrils. He was never going to get used to the way wine tasted in this veiled world. It was disorientingly flat. A little sweet and a little sour, and nothing else. Where he was from, one could tell where the grapes were grown, how wet or dry the growing season had been, what sort of barrel the wine had aged in, or even what other plants grew nearby. Wine properly made, and properly experienced, told a story. This wine had nothing to say.
He peered at it skeptically and took a sip. Bland, as all the others had been. How any of these people could claim to know which of these watered-down tinctures was which was a mystery he had yet to solve. This one was Orlesian, the serving woman had said. He supposed it might be a little more flowery than some of the others were, if he forgot for a moment how aromatic real flowers were supposed to be.
He downed the rest of the wine in a single gulp so he didn’t have to taste it for very long, and beckoned for another cup. There was little for him to do, for the moment, other than avoid the Chantry itself and wait for the trap to spring, so he decided he might as well use his time to observe the people of this village.
He sat with both exits in view and a wall to his back, so when a young man stumbled rather clumsily into the tavern, Mathras smiled a little and waited to make eye contact.
If he was going to sit here and drink dull wine, then he might as well be entertained while he did it.
Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 31, 2018 6:20:02 GMT -5
The din of the tavern was overwhelming, but it was nothing compared to what he'd just encountered outside. Silas took a moment to reorient himself: he stared helplessly around the packed space, faces sliding past his vision without really sinking in. The smells of mead and roast beef coupled with the frantic pace of his heart made a wave of nausea almost overwhelm him. He needed to sit, to clear his head, and to blend into the walls.
His eyes finally alighted on an empty chair in the very corner of the space and he compelled his shaky legs to take him to it. As he moved, he caught the eye of a blonde elf whose gaze seemed to linger on him for longer than necessary. Silas pointedly looked down to the floor and shuffled more quickly to his seat, ready to be forgotten by the world, at least for a few blessed moments.
Finally sitting, he let his head fall back and thunk against the cool wood of the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and forced his breath to slow until his heart calmed. This will pass. It means nothing. The past will only haunt you if you let it. These thoughts—a mantra he'd come to rely on for almost a decade—eased him until he felt more-or-less in control of himself once more. He slid his eyes open and focused on watching the Maiden's patrons sidle up to the bar and away again, hoping that the elf who had set eyes on him earlier had decided to move on to more interesting prospects.
His attention was briefly taken by the odd reaction of the human nmale, The fellow backed away, and ran into the tavern as if he had seen a spirit. Turning his attention back to the basvaarad, he said, "You are betrothed." Maraas studied the woman. Who was he to question how a basvaarad conducts their business. "Very well. " he looked at the weapon by her. "You take good care of your weapons. I have not seen as much discipline much in the southern lands."
Post by Mathras Halasan on Sept 2, 2018 15:22:13 GMT -5
With his gaze focused on the empty air in front of him, Mathras considered the nervous young man who'd rejected his silent invitation. He thought there were plenty of reasons a man might be nervous here in Haven. Mages were nervous. Templars were nervous. The townspeople were nervous at the sudden explosion of population in their little village.
Nervous men who were nervous for mundane reasons didn't concern Mathras overly much, at least not at the present time. But it behooved him to know whether there was something more going on here. Whether a potential threat to the Wolf's plans might be brewing. He needed to be ever vigilant for them.
Tamping down a momentary pang of sympathy for the man, Mathras took his goblet and approached the man's table, taking care to leave the fellow the illusion of physical space.
"Aneth Ara," he said to the man with a smile. "I find myself in want of some company this evening. May I join you?"
