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 Gaatlok Katari on Sept 3, 2018 8:36:09 GMT -5
Vashedan1... Gaatlok had not been expecting an actual Qunari here of all places. His mother had taught him the nuance of Qunari, Tal-Vashoth, Vashoth, and the like, enough for him to know which he belonged to, but he knew the way a Qunari stood, the way they talk to people, if ever. And oddly... it still terrified him. But that was not the reason that he had come to the tavern in the evening, and besides, the Qunari seemed off in some way. And he was actually talking to people, so there wasn't too much worth overthinking. Gaatlok was never one for overthinking, at least.
He approached the bar, ordering a small drink and watching with slight amusement at the smaller man who ducked out shortly after the Qunari had begun introductions. He felt it best to be a walking advertisement tonight, gleaming in newly polished Taaras2 with spears on his back, nevermind how volatile the social situations kept proving to be here. "Vashedan katoh-qalaba,"3 he muttered just beneath his breath, either uncaring for how much others heard him or convincing himself that he was brave. Perhaps after this drink, or maybe the next one, he would try talking to someone. He had, after all, made a promise to himself tonight. No barfights, not this time.
1 - Crap, feces 2 - Light Mail/doublet. In this circumstance, Heavy Mail. 3 - Foolish glory animals
Post by Athela Sparrow on Sept 3, 2018 17:47:58 GMT -5
Athela tugged her blade to the side in its scabbard, glancing down to eye its handle. She turned her eyes up towards the qunari once more, nodding her head.
"It's an old friend," she offered. "I'd be remiss to let it grow dull and rusted. And besides—it's the most likely thing to keep me alive in a battle. More than remiss, I'd be a fool not to keep it in good condition."
Scrutinizing the statue of a man, Athela crossed her arms.
"Fereldens are used to war—and we're proud warriors. But it isn't every farmer's son and street urchin that knows how to properly care for a weapon, even if they know how to stick it in a man's belly. How long have you been in Ferelden?"
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 4, 2018 8:26:19 GMT -5
It seemed his silent prayer to be left alone had been in vain. As soon as he began to feel invisible in the crowd and his muscles began to relax, movement from his periphery drew his attention away from the bar.
The elf who had watched him as he entered now approached with a grin and a goblet in hand. Silas hadn't encountered many free elves in his time away from Tevinter, but he knew enough to recognize that the man wasn't Dalish—he had none of the characteristic tattoos that separated the nomadic elves from the ones who lived among humans. Even still, he greeted Silas in the language of his people before asking to join him at the small table.
"Y-yes, of course," he managed, too timid to be impolite even now. He motioned to the empty chair across from him and pushed his own a little further away, just enough so that he felt there was a respectable level of distance between them. "I worry I might not be the best company tonight . . . or any night, if I'm honest." He tried his best to level a smile at the stranger, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking back down at his hands, fingers laced together in his lap.
"Is there- ah. Is there a reason . . ." he trailed off, unable to voice the question that seemed pathetic even inside his own head: Is there a reason you want to talk to me, of all the people here? He looked pointedly out at the crowd around them, hoping that this would be enough to illustrate his point.
Post by Mathras Halasan on Sept 4, 2018 21:57:37 GMT -5
Mathras considered the chair for a moment, before angling it slightly and sitting down. The man had offered him a chair that put his back to the room, which he preferred not to do. He didn't particularly expect an attack tonight -- though plenty of attacks were unexpected -- but he could hardly observe the goings-on of the town if one lonely man filled his entire field of view. He was content, for the moment, with the ability to see just one of the doors, the door that didn't have a small crowd of villagers gathered in front of it.
"Is there a reason...for what?" he asked, resting one elbow on the table. "There is a reason for most of what I do, though I admit I have not entirely washed myself of the flaw of impulsivity." He smiled and inclined his head. "My name is Mathras."
Maraas's eyes flickered to the mage. The weapons he had referred to were not only the blade in the woman's hand. No matter. "I can relate you your blade being an old friend. We in the Qun have a similar belief. Our weapons are Asala, our soul. Too many here do as you say. Fight with rusty weapons, as if the blade was an expendable tool, not part of them."
He crossed his arms and scrutinized the woman. His first instinct was to give a terse response and excuse himself, but she had piqued his curiousity. "I have been in these lands for a few weeks. Many months since I've seen my home, however. I've been away long enough to be curious of the ways of the b—non Qunari." It was true. Qunari ways were not the ways of the bas. Yet. Southern woman doing tasks Qunari women were not assigned to did not phase him. She was plainly an accomplished warrior of her kind.
"I was about to head in to the tavern. If you and your.. mate wish to join me, you are welcome to. If not, may your blade remain strong." he did not think to ask her name, nor did he offer his.
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 6, 2018 8:34:32 GMT -5
"I am just . . . surprised, I suppose," Silas answered. "It is not often that strangers seek me out for conversation. Healing, yes, but that's to be expect-" His voice caught as his eyes darted to the bar again, this time settling on the massive form of a Qunari, a different Qunari. He silently cursed the whole Maker-forsaken conclave.
He cleared his throat awkwardly and turned quickly away from the crowd, trying his best to narrow the scope of his attention to the table and the man sitting across from him, but the sweat beading against his palms and forehead betrayed the return of his anxiety. "Venhedis," he whispered to himself before forcing his eyes up to meet the elf's—Mathras'.
"Nice to meet you," he choked out. "I'm Silas." Reaching desperately for something, anything, to distract his racing mind, he asked, "W-what brings you to Haven?"
Post by Gaatlok Katari on Sept 7, 2018 16:30:18 GMT -5
The alcohol here was vashedan, absolutely and without a doubt. What was worse was the fool next to him, who wouldn't stop whistling that silly little tune, and couldn't hold a beat or a tune to save their life. Gaatlok glared at the man, nowhere near as inebriated as he would have preferred, a slight stain forming on the gleam of his Taaras from the dripping of bad beer.
"Would you, kindly, shut up?" he asked the far more drunk man beside him. The fool did not stop whistling.
"Shut. It." Gaatlok rested his arm on the bar, his closed, armored fist leaving a small dent in the softer-than-expected wood. Again, the man paid Gaatlok no heed, whistling and drinking away whatever his sorrows may have been.
Gaatlok was not in the mood for idiocy, not this day. He'd been assigned a job that wouldn't see him fighting very often, working instead with steel that's brought to him by the needy and the impatient. And this man... was too much. He rose from the stool to his full height, lifted the man with a single hand by the front of his shirt, and snarled.
"Learn how music works," he growled before throwing the man across the room, uncaring for any tables or chairs hit by the flailing mass of limbs that he'd discarded. So much for staying out of a barfight, he thought to himself with resignation.
Post by Athela Sparrow on Sept 7, 2018 19:19:13 GMT -5
"We find you curious as well," Athela remarked, lifting one eyebrow. "But I expect you're accustomed to the stares, by now. A lone qunari in Ferelden isn't the most common of sights... and I expect you miss your home terribly, abroad in a strange land. I hope Ferelden has been hospitable to you, if nothing else."
When Maraas asked if she and her 'mate' wanted to accompany him into the tavern, she smiled faintly. She'd been hoping to avoid the bar entirely, truth be told—and, in particular, skirt a night of Darren's drunken shenanigans—so she shook her head.
"No, thank you. I believe we'll retire for the night—"
In what was perhaps the most instantaneous jinxing she'd ever incurred, Athela was cut short by the very loud crash of a drunken man being hurled into a table. With a scowl, she turned away from Maraas and stormed into the tavern, towards the source of the disturbance. He wasn't hard to find, of course: Another qunari, broad and tall as you like, standing near the counter from whence he had just bodied a man across the room. The tension was thick, nearly every patron of the bar looking their way.
"This isn't that sort of place, friend," she intoned. "Nobody needs the hassle. I think you ought to pay for the furniture and be on your way."
Post by Mathras Halasan on Sept 7, 2018 19:52:45 GMT -5
Mathras looked faintly surprised at the young man's response. "Pleased to meet you as well, Silas. You are a healer?" he asked. "But not a mage...the one I have heard rumor of?" He sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. "I would love to learn something of your craft, if you would be willing to teach me. I imagine I will be here for some time."
He took a drink of wine just to fill a few seconds. He'd long decided that telling partial truths would be best. "Which brings me to your question. I am here gathering information for my clan. I know I do not look Dalish, and I was not born as such, but...I was raised amongst them for a time. And trained by them." That was the lie he'd been telling, that he was raised by clan Halasan -- a very obscure and insular clan, he'd learned, who had not sent spies to the conclave -- after escaping from an alienage in the northern Free Marches.
"Are you from Ha--" he began, when a sudden movement from the hulking Qunari distracted him. He raised a barrier preemptively around him and Silas, then glanced at the younger man. Mathras had no desire to get into a brawl himself, but he was interested in seeing what Silas's reaction was going to be.
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 8, 2018 9:34:48 GMT -5
Silas blinked in surprise for a moment. "You've . . . heard rumors about me?" There was a small, forgotten part of his heart that swelled briefly with pride at these words. His work was always second-best to a mage's, but he supposed that he did have more than enough expertise to train an interested novice. "We are in short supply of healers at the moment." He eyed Mathras suspiciously, trying to determine whether he was actually interested or just drunk. "I am not- I've never attempted to teach what I know, but I would be willing—if you're serious."
He fidgeted in his seat for a moment, trying his best to ignore the Qunari at the bar, but his attempts were made moot as the sudden crashing of wood and metal jarred him so severely that he almost fell out of his chair. The Qunari had thrown a man—a man he recognized as Devlin, Haven's tamest drunk—across the crowded space. In the same moment, the shimmering coolness of a barrier, a sensation he hadn't felt in years, slid across his skin. His eyes darted to elf across from him before the tavern door flew open. The soldier he'd spoken with outside burst in looking ready to put even The Maker in his place.
His heart hammered against his ribs as if it wanted to escape even more acutely than he did. He pushed his feet against the ground and slid his chair as far back against the wall as he could, eyes flicking between every face in the room, trying to judge just how soon before an all-out brawl took hold.
His gaze landed on Devlin, now unconscious on the floor and surrounded by discarded cutlery and a pool of spilled ale. "I should help," he breathed, voice shaking, but his body refused to move.
Post by Gaatlok Katari on Sept 8, 2018 10:04:40 GMT -5
Looking the new human up and down, Gaatlok was weary, barely listening to what she was trying to say. He knew how tonight was going to end, how nights like this would always end. Very carefully he turned around, downed the last of his mug, and counted out coins of two varieties: two sovereigns and a fistful of coppers.
The bartender gave him a wary, knowing glare, before resigning himself to throwing a towel over his shoulder and clearing the bottles, glasses, mugs, and sovereigns from the bar, sending a signal to the wenches to clear the tables as much as possible within the next few seconds, and only a few would be given.
Gaatlok took the fistful of coppers and flung them across the room, right towards the face of the woman who'd dared to give him an ultimatum, though he didn't care where they scattered or landed, just that they caused a reaction. After all, none of this was fun if nobody joined in.
"FIGHT!" he cried, deep and guttural as he lifted a stool and threw it at the nearest table. Just the table, not the poor fools playing cards on it, but just the table. If one of them was smart he would pick up the winnings in the confusion, but Gaatlok was above caring.
Maraas followed the woman into the tavern, at the sound of crashing furniture. His duty did not end once the human's shift ended. he would see to it that Order was restored. The Basvaarad appeared to have the same idea.
He walked up behind her, crossing his arms. Another Qunari, Vashoth perhaps, maybe even tal vashoth, stood at the bar, as Athela spoke to him, encouraging him to not start a fight. Maraas's lips curled into a sneer. If the man was tal vashoth, he would not be so easily coaxed down. Animals with no discipline, no morals.
Sure enough, the vashoth hurled coins in Athela's face, and flung a stool across the room, challenging everyone in the bar to a fight. Maraas walked up to him, and yelled, "Enough!" quieter, he added. "Stand down and control yourself. Do you want to turn the crowd against you?"
Sure enough, several patrons had stood and faced the two Qunari, weapons drawn. Maraas did not want to see bloodshed, from anybody.
Post by Athela Sparrow on Sept 9, 2018 17:48:14 GMT -5
Athela shielded her face from the unexpected barrage of copper coins, wrapping her other hand around the hilt of the sword sheathed at her side. For the most part, it appeared that the bar's patronage weren't interested in the reaction that the qunari had hoped to inspire: Both fearful and mistrustful of the gargantuan foreigner, it looked like the mixed company surrounding them was collectively attempting to make up their mind about whether they ought to try and kill him outright, or string him up in the square. Athela was interested in neither outcome—she knew this brute would take half of the people in the room with him, if it came to blows. That wasn't in anybody's best interest.
She flinched very slightly as Maraas shouted, his voice booming. Sparing him a brief glance, she nodded her head in agreement.
"He's right," she informed through gritted teeth. "If you keep this up, your best hope will be one of the cells under the chantry. These people are on edge, and most of them aren't strangers to a bloodbath. Maybe we can avoid that, if you surrender yourself."
Post by Mathras Halasan on Sept 9, 2018 17:48:35 GMT -5
Mathras sighed in annoyance when the stool crashed into the table meters away from them. While he had not hidden the fact that he was a mage, Mathras knew that calling too much attention to himself would be displeasing to the Wolf, so he preferred to stay out of the fight unless directly threatened. Leaving the bar now would be his best bet.
And yet...even more than that, he wanted to see what Silas was going to do. As a healer, the man couldn't be a stranger to violence, and yet there he was, frozen in his seat, barely able to mutter a declaration to help.
And the idea of healing without magic fascinated Mathras. In his lands, there was little need for such a concept, so he'd had no exposure to non-magical healing outside of texts. It was his job to ensure the Wolf could bring down the Veil, and yet, these creatures had managed to cope in this stifled world nonetheless. Mathras was running out of time to figure out how they did it, before their way of life went extinct.
Quickly, Mathras ducked to pull the semi-conscious victim over to Silas, under their table. After a beat, he pulled Silas down, too.
"We are safe here, for the moment," he told Silas, "with oak and magic between us and the chaos. Show me how you would help this man."
Post by Molmana'Gaval Radavur on Sept 9, 2018 18:36:53 GMT -5
It had been an invitation worn out from the moment she stumbled into the smithy and yet somehow The Otter still found herself within Gaatlok's company, sitting beside his forge; it wasn't as if he was charming or particularly convincing, did she just feel bad for him or had something been truly shared weeks before when they had been trapped in that cave? Molmana'Gaval frowned deeply to herself, banishing such thoughts as she stared at the crackling flames of the forge, shifting her flustered thoughts for a brief moment to where her venerable (and she used that sarcastically) host had gone.
'Gonna get a drink.' was all he said or mumbled really as she watched him amble out into the frigid, winter air - but that had been hours ago.
❝It wouldn't be farfetched to find him in some sort of trouble..❞ the elf murmured to herself as with a sigh, began to slowly pull on the garments that had been warming by the forge, scolding herself for even caring when she told herself that she wouldn't. This is why you aren't happy, this is why you can't find peace or solace. The anxious voice in the back of her mind chided much to her chagrin which slowly subsided as the warmth of her newly adorned clothing seeping into her goosebumped skin. Well, if she was going to hunt him down, it might as well be now.
After a moment of stretching taut, anxiety-ridden muscles, the elf half-heartedly stepped out of the smithy and was met with a gust of bitter, bone-chilling wind. The things I do for others.. her thoughts continued to snarl, embittered as Molmana began to trudge towards the only tavern and the source of some sort of commotion echoing an awful din. Is that.. yelling? Oh, don't tell me- And what were once trudged steps quickly turned into a patter of mud-soaked feet as they left behind their mark.
As such, it didn't take her long to reach the tavern, met with a ruckus that once she swung open the door revealed..
❝GAATLOK!❞
Her voice rang over the moans of pain and the hostility bristling from the two strangers that faced him, forcing everyone to stop for just a moment to stare at the small elf with her hackles raised - mint boring into garnet. ❝You tell me you're going for a drink.❞ the elf began as she trudged past the threshold, no fear gripped her tone but her voice did tremble with rage. ❝You make me wait in your ramshackle excuse of a shop..❞ A few steps further, leaving behind muddied footprints. ❝Only for me to find you starting pointless trouble?❞ If she were being honest with herself, the Qunari could squash her like a gnat buzzing annoyingly in his face but Otter had an advantage - she knew this would work. Not much else left the woman as she trembled with rage, finding a nearby barstool to reach the height of the enraged man, gripping his pointed ear firmly.
❝You will have to excuse him.❞ the mage then turned to the woman and the other Qunari. ❝I won't let him out of my sight again.❞ and with that said, the Otter didn't wait for a response as she began to, with surprising ease, drag the massive creature in her wake, growling and grumbling; the other patrons giving them a wide berth. 'Great, now what have I gotten myself into?'
