The real trouble with Thedas isn't learning to keep his mouth shut when someone says 'But luckily we've all already agreed to think Rifters aren't demons', or having to trot around in an inoffensive guise all day. It's the part where he has, inexplicably and for the first time in his very long existence, something tied to him.
You'd think it'd be the same as being bound to something, or stuck inside it. And oh that happens all the time. Say something a little too smart or demolish the wrong ancestral tomb when they actually meant to raze the hillside next to it3 and suddenly you're playing the role of cheeky spirit confined to the table vase for the next year. Or you're bound to a carpet. Or you're trapped in an obelisk for so long that the literal sands of time bury and forget you. These things happen.
But in all those cases, the spirit is the same. Worse off? Sure. No one likes slowly wasting away with their knees around their ears. Meanwhile, in this one?
This is something altogether different. This is a girl clinging to his legs while the reality of the rift shard rooted in his essence feeds from the effort of the change, its constant appetite for him turned suddenly ravenous. This is a devouring millstone around his neck. It drags him down, down, down.
"I'm-- trying," says the griffon through its grit beak.
Which is how, after one fantastic backwing to slow their fall, they plummet together into the freezing black water of the Kirkwall harbor.
3. Not his fault. The plans were extremely unclear.
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The real trouble with Thedas isn't learning to keep his mouth shut when someone says 'But luckily we've all already agreed to think Rifters aren't demons', or having to trot around in an inoffensive guise all day. It's the part where he has, inexplicably and for the first time in his very long existence, something tied to him.
You'd think it'd be the same as being bound to something, or stuck inside it. And oh that happens all the time. Say something a little too smart or demolish the wrong ancestral tomb when they actually meant to raze the hillside next to it3 and suddenly you're playing the role of cheeky spirit confined to the table vase for the next year. Or you're bound to a carpet. Or you're trapped in an obelisk for so long that the literal sands of time bury and forget you. These things happen.
But in all those cases, the spirit is the same. Worse off? Sure. No one likes slowly wasting away with their knees around their ears. Meanwhile, in this one?
This is something altogether different. This is a girl clinging to his legs while the reality of the rift shard rooted in his essence feeds from the effort of the change, its constant appetite for him turned suddenly ravenous. This is a devouring millstone around his neck. It drags him down, down, down.
"I'm-- trying," says the griffon through its grit beak.
Which is how, after one fantastic backwing to slow their fall, they plummet together into the freezing black water of the Kirkwall harbor.