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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It was an aging wound, over a month old but still as persistent as the day it was dealt. The reticulations that ran across his skin had faded, but the trembling in his arm remained. Sometimes the sensation in his fingers dulled to nothing but the prickling of pins and needles, sapping the the strength from his grip. It came and went, but never diminished. When it did come, his sword would slip from his fingers, as if they were suddenly no more corporeal than a spirit in the fade, and he would not even know it until he heard his weapon hit the earth. The pain he could manage, but the inability to fight should he need to was unacceptable.
He came in the evening, moving past cots of ailing souls, victims of the conclave or demons. Groaning softly, sleeping restlessly. The healers were few and busy this time of night. The fewer that knew he was here the better. The weakness in his dominant arm, if known, could be the death of him. Silas' gaze was the first available one he met. The man had a weariness about him that didn't entirely instill much confidence in Ulric, and he carried no stave. He was certain it would take magic to undo the damage that magic had done to him, especially now that the injury had seemed to have run its course.
"I am in no urgent need of care," he said as the man approached, "I can return later when you are more available."
Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 30, 2018 5:55:03 GMT -5
To say he was exhausted was an understatement—every inch of him ached—every muscle in his body begged to release its tension and rest, but there was a job, more pressing now than perhaps ever before. Bodies littered the tent, most failing, some hours-dead, but a few still remained that would benefit from his care.
Silas pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. His patient, a mage named Mika, lay glassy-eyed and unresponsive before him. Despite his best efforts, he'd been unable to stop the bleeding in time to save the man's life. In the twenty minutes that he'd cared for him, Silas had learned his name and nothing more. There would be no history here to tell, no grieving widow, friend, or lover to remember. So Silas reached out with his right hand—steady despite the stress and fatigue—and closed the mage's eyes.
"Another for the pyre, Sister," he called, weary, to the red-clothed woman at the tent's entrance. She came to him accompanied by two boys with a stretcher. "His name is Mika," he whispered. "I'll do my best to remember."
The sister put her hand briefly on his shoulder before he shied away and stood, ready to remove himself from the stench of sweat and blood for a few moments.
He had made it halfway to the promise of fresh air and silence before a newcomer entered the tent. Built strong and hale, the elf was unlike any of the men Silas had treated over the last days. He had tended to whelps and peasants, but warriors like this one always miraculously found themselves in the care of the mage-doctors.
"No," Silas said as the elf indicated he would return at another time. "You're injured-" He watched the way the man flexed the fingers of his hand, half-hidden behind his back as if afraid someone might notice, "-and I am free." He motioned to the cot that Mika had occupied only moments before. "Tell me how it happened."
The man didn't look disappointed when he met Ulric's eyes, but whatever momentary relief he seemed to have felt left his features promptly, swiftly exchanged with an air of professionalism and duty. As they spoke, a pair of sisters moved the departed mage onto a cot and carried him from the tent. Ulric sympathized with the doctor and felt half guilty for stealing a potential moment of rest, for he did not feel entitled to the Inquisition's services. He had done little to serve them yet, if he would at all. In all likelihood, he would be wise to move on sooner rather than later. He didn't deserve the man's time.
Ulric's guilt, however, took momentary pause as the man spoke, however briefly. The notes of his accent carrying a distasteful flavor, however subtle it was.
"Storm magic, it is an old wound, a month or so," Ulric answered summarily, moving to sit on the cot. He was careful not to study man outright as to avoid suspicion. However it would be a lie now to say Ulric was not hesitant as he unbuckled the armor from his arm and peeled it off.
The exit wound for the bolt was clear, a gnarl of twisted flesh between his pointer finger and thumb that had done well in healing over, now but a misshapen black scar that if the man was lucky, would fade with time. The roots that sprung from it twisted about the length of his arm before disappearing beneath his leather cuirass. Originating from some unseen place high on his back, perhaps a shoulder blade.
"I appreciate your time, but there may be little in the way of treatment," He said. His hand lay face up upon his knee, fingers curling and trembling like a dying spider.
Post by Silas Agosti on Aug 31, 2018 2:56:41 GMT -5
Silas followed the elf back to the cot, pausing only to collect a damp cloth from the small table at the foot of the bed. He scrubbed his bloody hands until the rag was stained and then discarded it. Dark red still pooled in the crevices around his nailbeds as he finally took the elf's arm carefully in his hands, turning it this way and that to examine the lattice of angry lines which discolored the olive skin beneath his fingers.
He listened carefully as the man talked: an old wound, but the tremors lingered. It mattered not to him how this stranger had received such an injury, but he found himself curious all the same. The delicate lines tattooed across his features marked him as Dalish, but why would a lone elf seek out a healer here instead of returning to his people? His voice, too, had a familiar clip, one he hadn't heard in . . .
"We will see," he said in response to the Elf's concern, and with a gentle touch his fingers went to the major nerves—applying just enough pressure—feeling for inflammation and heat, watching for any signs of pain in the set of his patient's mouth and brow. All the while, the hand trembled against his knee.
He pressed his fingers against the slight rise of the man's wristbone and the hand slackened, lying still for the first time since they had met. The corner of his mouth twitched up and his eyes flashed to the elf's: "Perhaps not so little, after all." He released the man's arm and returned once again to the table, this time opening a drawer and searching for something inside. "It will take time, most likely, but the nerves will heal."
The man was an ideal patient, still and quiet as Silas inspected his arm. His face was downturned but the paleness of his eyes contrasted against his skin betrayed any movement. They darted between the man's face and his hands as they mapped the wound upon his arm. Their eyes met once as the doctor too looked up to measure the man's expression at pressure applied, and the elf held his eyes before both of their attentions once again returned to the wound. If Silas was a self conscious man, Ulric's demeanor may have felt scrutinizing. However, it soon turned to inquistive as the man's hand suddenly went still, and Ulric leaned forward inquisitively. He moved his fingers before the doctor released his arm. The trembling began again, unabated.
As Silas stood, moving to acquire some tool or remedy, Ulric's uninjured hand sought to replicate the effect, squeezing at his wrist to no avail. His lips pursed some at his ineffectiveness, "You're well practiced," he observed, "Where did you learn your craft?"
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 2, 2018 4:51:35 GMT -5
Silas could feel the elf's lingering gaze upon him as he bent over the drawer, rummaging inside for the implements he'd carried with him for over a decade—from home to home—all the way to Haven. Finally finding the cloth bundle under a handsaw, he took it up and turned back to the man, watching as he pressed his own uninjured fingers into the flesh of his wrist.
"Tevinter," he answered, voice curt, coming to sit once again by the man's side. "I was a Legionnaire, once." He was silent for a moment before he unrolled the cloth against his lap and revealed a neatly organized row of a dozen long, delicate needles, uniform in size and luster. "Though this particular treatment is Rivaini."
He took one needle carefully between his fingers and motioned for the elf to extend his arm. "This will be unpleasant, but not painful. I'm going to pierce where the nerves are damaged. It will allow for more blood flow and, over time, restore function."
The man was quiet in turn. If there was to be any reaction from Silas' admission, his patient's was untelling. Still, he extended his arm readily as Silas settled before him again. He cast a cursory glance to the needles laid out neatly beside his thigh on a crisp cheesecloth, made of metal stretched thinner than even a sewing needle. He exhaled as Silas thumb smoothed over the strained tendon in the fold of his elbow, following it to his wrist before pressing into the meat of his forearm. Ulric's lips pursed some as the tip of the needle was pressed to his skin. The doctor was quiet in his concentration. The entry was painless, more akin to pressure. The wound didn't even bleed.
"You would be wise not to so readily say so," Ulric said quietly as the man retrieved another needle, his tone oddly gentle with it's warning, "Not many know of or would empathize with those who have known the fighting of Seheron, nor of the many deserters it breeds. You would just be marked as Tevene, regardless of your earnest desire to do good, or your talent."
Despite himself, Ulric had gone tense but had since relaxed, he shifted slightly as Silas once again began to seek whatever it was that made the flesh workable for his treatment, "What name do you go by?"
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 4, 2018 13:08:50 GMT -5
"I find," Silas said, voice measured as his steady hand slid another needle into the flesh of the elf's arm, "that the Fereldens and I share a certain distaste for my homeland that endears me to them." He watched carefully as the spasming began to slow once more, this time remaining still even as he moved away to retrieve the next needle.
"At least . . . I haven't been run off yet." The smallest hint of humor colored his voice and he eyed his patient curiously. He wondered if the casual familiarity with which he mentioned Seheron meant that he had seen his own share of Tevinter violence. And the accent, he was sure now, held a trace of the same clipped notes that were present in his own voice. It didn't explain the tattoos—the Dalish certainly weren't a common sight in the Imperium—or how he'd come to end up in Haven, conspicuously alone.
"Healer Agosti," he answered as he positioned a final needle just above the sharp jut of the elf's elbow; then, after a pause: "Silas." He released the man's arm and allowed himself to breathe deeply for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck in a vain attempt to rub away the headache he could feel building at the base of his skull. "And you? The Dalish share a clan name, don't they?"
"And you are currently invaluable," Ulric added summarily, "Although should they be in need of blaming someone for something while they are sitting more comfortably, they may set their sights on your first." Perhaps he had already become too at ease with the man sticking his arm, for he tensed suddenly as the final needle was planted, the wrist in Silas' grip nearly jerking away, only stilled by the Ulric's will. A brief moment of silence passed before the elf exhaled a quiet, long groan. His arm lay prone against his knee before Ulric tentatively moved his fingers - the sensation half returned, the prickling at his finger tips abated by his own pulse.
"There are many Dalish clans with many names, unfortunately there is no one else that carries mine," he spoke it with a succint nonchalance, despite the gravity of what it implied. It was a half truth. Whatever clan he had belonged to all those decades ago may very well no longer exist, "Just Ulric."
It wasn't a very Dalish sounding name - there was some tall tale about a Dragon slayer named Ulric that was popular among sailors or anyone in need of passing time, but it had belonged to a Fereldan man of legend and not an elf. It didn't sound particularly Tevene, either.
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 5, 2018 14:31:58 GMT -5
Silas thought he detected something like concern in the elf's warning. He bit his lip, considering the weight behind the words. "Perhaps you have a point. It's . . . not something I've spent a great deal of time thinking about." And it was the truth. He'd been so focused on running for so long that he hadn't taken the time to consider that he might yet have to run again. Rumors about who had caused the explosion were already spreading like a fire in the village. How long would it be before such dark implications were turned in his direction?
"Ulric." He tested the name against the face and nodded, unsure of what else to say and caught off-guard by the admission that the man was, indeed, alone. "I'm sorry," he said at last. "It's not my place to pry."
He allowed the elf a moment to flex his hand, watching carefully for any signs of pain. Satisfied, he stood, still pushing fingers into the protesting muscles of his neck, and returned to the drawer. "I have an ointment, made from Spindleweed, that might speed your recovery. We should leave the needles in for a while longer—then I'll show you how to apply it."
"It is not something an innocent man should be inclined to consider," he said with a sense of finality, "As far as I am concerned, your naivety is proof enough of your good intent, but there are others who would care less for that and more for how they may be able to take advantage." Silas' weariness was a familiar one. He watched as the man's hand squeezed the nape of his neck, head craning to relieve the tension of a hundred hours spent hunched over the dead and dying. Ulric knew as well as Silas that there likely wouldn't be an end to it anytime soon. The mage and templar violence was sweeping the countryside with little in the way of stopping it, with refugees already steadily flocking to Haven, and scarce resources already stretched thin. For now, the time that Silas could keep himself awake directly corresponded to how many may live, and so it would be until more healers joined the ranks.
In regards to Ulric's heritage, the man absently waved the thought away with his uninjured hand, as if to physically clear the air, "No need to apologize. It is a common story these days. You asked, and I told you," he dismissed, and promptly changed the subject, "You said it would take time to heal...how long, do you think?" "
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 6, 2018 20:37:07 GMT -5
"With nerve damage, especially from a magical source, it is hard to tell," Silas answered. He rifled through the drawer's contents once more, eventually producing a squat glass jar in which a thick green salve was contained. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed it, double-checking that it hadn't gone off; in all the commotion after the destruction of the Temple, there hadn't been much time—or any free hands—to mix a fresh batch. His nose wrinkled slightly, but he seemed otherwise approving. He closed the lid and placed it on the tabletop.
"Two weeks, perhaps, or a month." He bent over Ulric's form and examined the placement of the needles in his skin, checking to make sure they hadn't shifted. As he did, the glint of metal at the man's back caught his attention: a dagger handle, similar in style and shape to the one he himself still kept tucked under his pillow—but much larger—protruded from a scabbard resting against his shoulderblade. Silas' first instinct, foolish and bizarre, was to reach out and touch it—to test its weight in his hand and confirm his thoughts—but the impulse abated and he shook his head. The stranger before him was only becoming more enigmatic: a dalish elf without a clan, a man familiar with Tevinter but a thousand miles away—carrying an Imperium blade—and the victim of, from his best judgment, exceptionally powerful magic.
"If you do not plan to stay in the village," he said, hedging a bet that a man like Ulric would only be passing through, "the ointment will suffice, but it will take twice as long, at least."
Silas' wrinkled visage did little to inspire confidence, although spindleweed often carried the earthy, soggy aroma of the mud it grew from. Ulric's gaze wavered little from the man's face now that they had established a kind of rapport, studying it as the man in turn studied his wound. He saw the healer's dark eyes move to the blade's at his back, lingering for a second too long for a mere glance.
"No, I have taken too much of Haven's hospitality to leave without providing proper recompense. Although it seems you are implying that I will need to see more of you yet," he ventured to guess, "Which means I will be in the inquistion's, or at the very least your debt for some time. Unfortunately like many who make a living by moving often, I'm afraid I'm little good beyond using dim lighting and shadows to my advantage and having a keen eye...but if you should need anything, I would be happy to try and provide it, Healer Agosti." The man's inflection was so even that it treaded on monotonous, but something in it's depth allowed it to sound earnest all the same. For what little he seemed to have in way of family and home, the man at least seemed to try and compensate with virtue.
Post by Silas Agosti on Sept 8, 2018 9:00:18 GMT -5
Ulric's response was entirely unexpected, and yet Silas felt the sincerity behind his words. All he'd done was stick a few pins into the man's arm, but he felt the need to linger, to ingratiate himself to the Inquisition of which Silas himself was not even a part, technically. That he was a healer willing to lend aid during this time of upheaval and injury was enough as far as the fledgling organization was concerned, and that suited Silas just fine.
"Then . . . if you are to stay," he said, thinking for a moment, "We will continue treatment—twice a week—until you are healed." He put his hands against the tabletop and leaned heavily upon them, allowing his shoulders to slump forward. A small girl cried out from somewhere in the corner, whimpering as another healer tried to ease her pain. "I typically see patients in my home," he intoned, trying his best to talk over the noise. "I have a cabin just on the far side of the Tavern. I imagine you'd prefer that setting to . . . this." He grimaced as the sound of a bone crunching back into place brought the girl's cries to a crescendo.
"If you are looking to aid the Inquisition, a man with your skill set might seek out a dwarf called Harding. I've heard she handles scout recruitment. Beyond that, I cannot say."
