TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

TEST DRIVE MEME

While in some alternate, tidier timeline, the War against the Elder One ended years ago, you're not in that timeline. It's 9:47, and the war continues. An enemy force partially occupies Orlais and has decimated several Marcher Cities, while the Chantry, aided by the Inquisition, has marshaled Orlais and the faithful of Southern Thedas into a new Exalted March against the army of demon-bound Wardens, Red Templars, Venatori loyalists, and darkspawn Corypheus has amassed. Rifts are still scattered across the continent, periodically spitting out strangers from strange worlds with green-glowing anchors embedded in their hands. There's no Herald of Andraste to save Thedas. Someone else is going to have to do it.

You're part of (or allied with, recently hired by, imprisoned by, etc.) a newer organization that's an offshoot of the Inquisition, dubbed Riftwatch, that consists mainly of these otherworldly new arrivals, rebels and Wardens, and other people who want to prevent the apocalypse without necessarily marching under the Chantry's banner to do it. Their headquarters is an island fortress called the Gallows—formerly a Circle of Magi, more formerly a prison for slaves, but its new occupants have done a good job removing the more grotesque reminders of that past and making the place livable. Their goal is to do what the Chantry can't or won't do, to go more directly after Corypheus and the dark magic he employs, and to keep the Veil from coming apart entirely.

Maybe you're here because you want to help. Maybe you need the money (though there isn't much of it). Maybe you acquired an anchor and sticking around is the only way to prevent your hand from killing you. Maybe you've been sent by the Chantry or some other entity to keep an eye on everyone—they're rumored to be a lot of weirdos and troublemakers. Or maybe you're a new rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.

I. THE SIEGE OF STARKHAVEN: North of Kirkwall, Corypheus' forces have occupied Hasmal, laid waste to Tantervale, and has now besieging the city of Starkhaven. An army of Marchers led by Sebastian Vael has returned from the Exalted March to press against the Tevinter force, but Riftwatch's aid is still needed. With the assistance of Riftwatch's griffons, you might be doing aerial surveillance of the enemy force or swooping into the city to provide supplies and news to the people holding the walls, then bringing news and valuables back out to deliver to the Marcher force outside. Or you could be engaging directly by harassing enemy camps from the air or dealing with mages the Marchers are less equipped to face.

II. THE WAKING SEA: When Riftwatch isn't traveling by air (or magic mirror), it frequently travels by sea, courtesy of allied pirate ships. So welcome aboard. The sea is choppy and frequently violent—violent storms, violent enemy ships, or both at once—and the crew may not have much patience for incompetence, so either make yourself useful above or try not to get sick below.

III. KIRKWALL: Even when enormous evil darkspawn are trying to take over the known world and you and your colleagues might be the only ones who can truly stop him, you can't work all the time. And when you aren't working, Kirkwall is there for you with its dingy Lowtown taverns, its flashy Hightown establishments, its market stalls and street musicians and cellars hosting gamblers. (Or maybe you can work all the time, and you're in the city to do some official shopping, try to spy on a suspicious character, or show a potential financial backer a good time.)

IV. SEND A MESSAGE: Each member of Riftwatch (or rifter, or ally) is assigned a blue crystal, small enough to wear around the neck, that can transmit voice messages, as well as an enchanted book tied to that crystal that can be used to exchange written messages. They're secure enough to discuss the war, if you'd like to get down to business, but loosely controlled enough to ask a question or play a game with only a few rolled eyes from people who hate fun.

V. WILDCARD: From the Gallows' library to the pirate islands off the coast, from Hightown's high-priced market stalls to the bloody frontlines of the war, Thedas is yours to explore.

Comments

vincent rovente | native templar | hello backdating a little bit is optional

[portcullis]

In the days between Tantervale’s fall and the siege at Starkhaven, all manner of refugees have come filtering down through the cracks: vints, apostates, civilians, children, horses.

Dogs.

Panik:

This ambush, like others before it, comes at night. Was it the Venatori attacking a refugee camp or refugee guerrillas attacking the Venatori? It doesn’t matter at the moment. Mages have taken the field.

Sledgehammer bolts of lightning crack the ground and snatch the life from fleeing Marchers, each new flash scalding the field in a wash of ultraviolet, everything in shades of purple and white. Ozone prickles the air and stands hair on end; answering tendrils of static discharge tickle up the trunks of trees and buzz between plates of armor. Strike after strike blackens the grass, flash dries corpses sprawled short of cover, sets brush crackling alight.

Abruptly, the surge collapses: each bolt winks out into a gossamer line of sparks.

There’s no thunder.

In the blind dark left behind between tatters of flame, a hooded figure’s cackle trails off into an uncertain chuckle.


Kalm:

Hours or days later, he needs assistance to work his way out from the crusty buckles of his gore-streaked plate armor. Metal shows bright through fingerprints in soot layered over steel; he’s streaked with the stuff from the stubble bristling at the back of his dome to the toes of his boots.

He’s past the sharp scent of copper and deep into the headier, sweeter stink of rot.

But there’s the rush of moving water nearby, and he’ll make his way there with a brush from his pack to deal with the worst of it under the watchful eye of their griffon escort. He’s not slight without all the gear, but he is compact, for a Templar. Dense, he’d say.

Back at the fire, while they wait for everything to dry and he cleans his nails, he’ll tell a story if asked, or if not asked, about the time an apprentice mage set his pants on fire, or the time a Red Templar tried to infiltrate the circle of loyalist holdouts at Hasmal. He tempers the material to his audience, listening for discomfort when he isn’t looking. One hand always on the wheel.


Wildkard

Retreated from Hasmal with holdout loyalist(?) mages from that circle, landed in Tantervale, retreated from Tantervale to Starkhaven when it was destroyed and has assisted with anti-vint mage operations in the area since he arrived there.

panik at the disko.

[luaithre]

A moment later: wings spread, a hissing avian screech, lion paws impacting the ground in a hard landing. Griffon and the man riding her slipping in between the pillars of lightning the moment they vanish. Their vanishment could signal anything: the mage responsible for them falling, a momentary slip in focus.

Something else.

Dismounting, boots in mud, blazing bright runic symbols decorating black iron that comes to a sword-like point on the end of a heavy staff. Marcus turns that blade to begin a summoning, and feels the way magic seems to draw through the air too slowly, more like treacle than water, catching the very edge of that silencing. There should be no time to think about it, noting Venatori-shaped figures nearby, but he thinks about it.

Still, he swings his staff, and ember and smoke runs off the edge of the blade now gone warmly orange in the darkness with searing heat, enough that when it cuts deep into the raised arm of a nearby Tevene mage, fire blossoms out between them.

Normally, the blade is there just to finish people off, but he'll make do in the moment.

[portcullis]

The eruption of flame into the mix glances off the horned helm and raised shield of a zealot charging in from the flank, mud and steel and spittle on a collision course.

Vincent catches him in the groin, the arc of his sword swept up to hatchet deep into wet bone through muscle and cartilage and arterial spurt on the retrieve. He has to wrench the blade out to whip a second blow down after the first, not quite enough momentum regained to separate the helmeted head from bare shoulders as the body falls.

He gets close.

Filthy as his armor is, there’s a distinct overlay to the bristle of his pauldrons, the sense of one dog sizing up another through the slot of his helmet for the read it takes him to reassess. The mage on the end of Marcus’ staff is rallying to cast, his own blood sizzling to the call of his raised hand through the screaming and the pain and the fire.

A reflexive lick of white light up the guard of Rovente’s blade snuffs dark; he turns to engage the slapping of several pairs of boots closing in on his position.

Rowntree seems to know what he’s doing.

[luaithre]

The bladed end of the staff is wrenched free, a moment to rebalance followed by those last inches of momentum carried through for the blunt end to slam into the Venatori's face, cancelling the liquid-smooth flow of Old Tevene incantation. Muffled by his own teeth.

A Templar's silencing feels a little, to Marcus, like a drop in altitude, a brain-squeezing kind of sensation as though some undefinable sixth or seventh sense has been removed. Here and now, the relief of its return is a subtle thing, and so he steps backwards instead of forwards. Iron and wood turn in a circle and strikes the ground, and fiery lines sear through wet mud just underfoot where the Venatori cultist staggers his last steps, and disappears to die in a pillar of flame.

The battlefield, now less filled with lightning, is made simpler.

Rovente can anticipate and follow through on his first action. It's the second one that may need to be rethought when something whistles by him. A flying cluster of jagged stones (still shining green from the Fade they were summoned from) sized between a man's fist and a bear's skull slam into the second closest zealot, sending him backwards off his feet, dented and bruised.

[portcullis]

The column of fire at Vincent’s back throws shadows out around them like spokes of the very don’t look back variety. He’s tangled with his sword crossed in the slippery vice of his second target’s parry when the third vint catches a meteor swarm with his chest; the shriek of steel on steel marks him disengaging with a shove to lurch after the body on the ground so that he might dispatch it.

He does it with a stiff-armed thrust up under the ribs in aside, leaving the rest of him loose enough to pivot back into the pursuit of contestant #2.

There are others here: friendlies and enemies difficult to distinguish in the dark. The friendlies are smaller, outfitted in scrap armor and looted weapons, some of them wielding Tevene blades. One scrawny lad scurrying to help is particularly easy to study in the instant he’s flash frozen dead in a well of ice from Somewhere in the dark. Castoff frost smatters across the flank of Rovente’s armor, riming thick over the plate, forcing an aimed deathblow aside into a wrench at encroaching ice that sees his sword rippling alight.

The antigravity lift of nullification underwing fizzles any further spread, but not before he’s caught a berzerker axe to the breastplate with force enough to split leather and dent steel.

[luaithre]

This next pulse of silencing gains a grimace in the dark rippled briefly in holy light. Silencing, cauterising, deafening. It also severs each next instinct, a twitch terminating the impulse to cast before—clang.

The noise pulls Marcus' focus, unbidden, and there's a moment in which he considers the weight of his staff—for now, just wood and iron and that's all, runic inscriptions faded—and the knowledge of something robed Somewhere in the darkness opposite the path of frost that's coated a stripe through the battlefield, likely making the same calculations as Marcus, the seconds they have until—

Well, you can do a lot in seconds.

It takes less than that to bring around his staff, blade first, in a sideways thrust that shrieks iron edge against armor but manages to catch something soft in between Tevene plate. Not quite as deadly as it could be, blade scraped and sticking, Marcus lurching after the berserker's stagger, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on his weapon.

RIFTER 🌌 Jyn Erso (Star Wars: Rogue One)

[galaxiarum]

THE WAKING SEA
She may be more the space type in history, but sea travel works too. And she's not one to sit on her hands, so she's absolutely up top helping out — and by helping out, the definition of that for today is, she's using her collapsible truncheons to fight back some members of an enemy ship who've boarded this one. Somehow, the small framed woman is doing a decent enough job on her own, but she could use a hand or two.

“Do you mind? I can't toss these fools overboard by myself!” She calls out to someone nearby. No one can accuse her of not being blunt, to the point, et cetera.

---

KIRKWALL
Ah, a tavern. She hasn't tried enough of these here, so she slides into one. When she takes a seat and looks around some, she notices a few tables away a group of people look to be playing some sort of gambling game. She mentally notes that it might be a good idea to learn, because it could be a good tool to use to get information.

“Do you know what that game is?” She says to someone seated close to her after a few moments of her silent observation of the group. “And is it easy to learn?”

---

WILDCARD
(hit me up with something else & I'll roll with it)

[Rifter] Bobo Del Rey | Syfy's Wynonna Earp

[bobothefool]

• the siege of starkhaven

[ Of course he's harassing enemy camps. If he's stuck here, he's going to cause chaos from above, especially if it's to his benefit.

(What's the benefit? It's fun.)

He laughs as he throws rocks at the camp. Rough, pointy rocks. Heavy rocks. He has pretty damn good aim, and he'll be honest: flying is pretty fucking cool.

When he dismounts back in friendly territory, he's grinning, as much as Bobo Del Rey can grin. It's a vicious smirk softened only by the knowledge that he's free of Bulshar's curse and out of the Ghost River Triangle. Sure, he's imprisoned here in a similar way (leaving on pain of pain is basically a prison sentence), but there's much more to do here, and there's none of his past.

Well, sort of.

Anyway, here he is, back from a successful harassment flight. He guides the griffon by the reins and hands it off to the first person who offers to take them from him. ]

I'd say this calls for a drink.

[ He says it to pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity. He's in a good mood. ]


• kirkwall

[ He's at a tavern, a seedy one where the people remind him of the revenants at the trailer park, but weaker. A simple glare scares off most of them, and the rest aren't up for a rumble.

It suits him.

Bobo sits at a corner table with a pint of what most people are drinking.

He also has a dagger that he's idly fiddling with, alternating balancing it on his finger by the tip, rolling it up and down his fingers like he's a showman, and pretending to throw it, mostly just to practice the wrist motion.

If someone stops in front of his table, he'll look at them for a second, eyebrows raised, and gesture to a chair. If someone sits, he'll gesture anyway, but sarcastically. In either case, he'll say— ]

Please. Feel free. So glad to have someone join me.


• wildcard

[ have at this terrible former revenant now rifter who thinks this is ironic as hell and is here to have a good time and maybe break some skulls, who knows lol ]

Derrick M. Tod (Der Tod) | Elisabeth der Musical | Native AU

[derletztetanz]

The Siege of Starkhaven - cw: corpses

No matter what war you fight in, there will be casualties. And it follows, of course, that someone will have to attend to them. When the field of battle is active, this is a tricky endeavor...one that frequently makes for nothing for loved ones to bury.

The lithe figure hoisting bodies over strong shoulders to trudge over to a waiting cart will, however, do whatever they can to help with that. Ordinarily, they carry themselves with more grace and refinement than this...but for the moment, they have work to do, and there is no time for glamour.

To any mournful onlookers, struggling to reconcile the horrors of the situation, they offer a brief, tired smile. It's meant to be reassuring, but it's hard to appear so when you are carrying someone's arm separate of the rest of them.

Once they've filled the cart, they sit on the end of it, bodies covered now with a dark blanket. Blood streaks their clothes, their apron, their skin, their blonde hair - but it's only their hands that they bother to wipe clean on a rag, realizing at that moment they are being looked at.

"Don't worry," they offer encouragingly, tucking the rag in their apron pocket, "They will all be given due respect."


Kirkwall

Long days are best wound up with a cold beer and lively company - and it's with that in mind that Derrick has taken up a table in the middle of a Lowtown tavern, enjoying the bustle around them while they munch on their dinner. They look a little bit out of place, dressed rather nicely, wearing makeup, carriage suggesting mobility - but few seem to pay them much mind, as if they are a regular presence, peculiar as they may be.

Beside their meal, on the table, sits a small pouch. It sits heavy, sagging, the pouch itself singed burlap - their last errand of the day. When they see you looking for a place to sit, however, they sweep it aside, making you a space.

"Please - feel free, friend. It's busy in here tonight."

The process of moving the bag aside jostled one example of its contents out onto the tabletop. A dark, thick, long iron nail. They pluck it, putting it away. "Sorry about that. They get everywhere."


Send a Message - Voice

Did you know that mourning jewelry doesn't only have to be for mourning?

[The voice over the crystal is a light, pleasant purr - one somewhat at odds with their chosen topic of sudden conversation.]

Perhaps you have a loved one or a lover - you could very easily have a bit of your hair set into a ring for them. They're meaningful, and they're fashionable. Pendants, watch chains, even wall hangings are all possible.

[A chuckle.]

Doing them is something of a hobby of mine, if anyone is interested.


Wildcard

((Wherever you want to run into a weird mortician! Feel free to HMU on Plurk at LadyVincira if you wanna ping ideas at me.))

The Siege of Starkhaven! Hope you don't mind Cole "reading" him for this!

[helpinghidinghaunting]

[At the exclamation, the strange, gangly boy blinks, glancing over at the strange Rifter with a wide-eyed, owlish expression. He had been scouting, creeping through battlefields unseen, only just back with his finding - and so being addressed is a surprise, certainly.

Brows furrowed under the overwide brim of his hat, he points to his own chest clad in bloodied, grimy leathers. He's a slip of a thing, but the twin knives sheathed at his back tell an opposing story to his feeble appearance.

This man...there's a lot of Noise around him, the Fade wrapping around his hurt and singing his song. Brimstone and blood. New.]

Were...were you talking to me?

The Waking Sea

[loversinverted]

This was supposed to be a simple trip for research purposes.

Diabhall isn't much of a combatant, but when the sounds of attack begin, shouting and the clatter of blades, he is scarcely content to hide below deck. It's only just as he comes up the stairs that he is being shouted to by an unfamiliar face, and his rosy gaze snaps to her briefly, expression one of only mild confusion before he is advanced upon.

Bringing his rapier up to block a strike, his long, white hair whips in the sea winds, willowy body settling into fencing stance nearby Jyn. He parries the oncoming blade, getting a sharp jab in return to the assailant's shoulder to push them backward.

"I'll do what I can - but I'm no tactician. I'll follow your lead."

joel miller ( the last of us )

[omittance]

KIRKWALL.

No matter where he goes there's one thing obvious about Joel; he isn't comfortable, not even a little bit, with what is happening around him.

The discomfort settles as tension in his shoulders, his hands gripped at his side as he makes his way around the city, trying to ignore the crystal he was given and the so-called "magic" book that will let him talk to other people, as if this world hasn't heard of a cell phone. The fact that he's even in another world is baffling enough, since the last thing he remembers is nothing short of agonising pain.

He still feels like he should be limping, that this is all somehow some strange, stupid dream brought on by blood loss and pain.

Finding a lost scrap of wood is enough for him, holding onto it as he steps around people and tries to ignore the strangeness of it, throwing distrustful looks even as he tries to make himself look big. First thing to do is try and find Ellie - if he's here then surely she's gonna be too - and then maybe Tommy. Something has to be done, and he'll be damned if he's just going to stand around like a fucking idiot.

Sometimes he's hanging around the tavern, peeking his head inside and very quickly turning in the other direction - other times he's just walking, ignoring most of the people around him to focus on his main mission... Which isn't talking to strange people with odd ears and steadfastly ignoring the new sounds, smells and words that he doesn't recognise.

No time to go crazy, not until he's found what he's looking for.

CRYSTAL MESSAGE.

Ellie.

[ That's it. That's the message. She'll recognise his voice and anyone who doesn't - well, they don't need to know he's around, do they? ]

WILDCARD.

( Feel free to find Joel elsewhere (market, in the middle of a fight/mission, heading to bed, drinking coffee/whiskey, etc) or PM me for something and I can set it up! )

wildcard, market (cw mention of previous murder/violence)

[armd]

Is there some kind of law stating she has to have terrible, violent encounters in the marketplace only; at least this time it's closer to dusk, and the crowds are dispersing. Abby walks when she's restless and she's walking fast, her stride long, thinking of nothing in particular. Moving just to move.

Stalls are packing up. She pauses to take in the general bustle of things being tidied, and it's then that she notices him in increments, jacket first, immediately out of place in the way that Rifters only ever are, and then the back of his head. It takes a moment for her to place it, whole and untouched, when she last saw it split open on the flat of a golf-club.

The side of his face, when he turns to examine something, is horrible in its familiarity. It's like missing a step going down the stairs, that cold swoop, the sweat, the prickling in her palms, unreal.

For a wild moment, she can't tell if he's actually there or not. Could be somebody who only looks like him in the jaw and beard, enough to rend her breathless, but that's a lie she's telling herself to try keep her heartrate in her chest even as it crawls up the back of her throat. She knows. She stared at him the entire time. She wanted to see the exact moment that he died.

Somebody bumps into her on the way past, the movement deliberate in its frustration; she's standing in the middle of a path, blocking foot-traffic.

powerslides into your Kirkwall prompt

[illithidnapped]

"Yes, and— so long as you've got the brain capacity of a well-trained pup— yes." The elf besides her chimes in smoothly, posture slung heavily across the edge of the table they're both sharing by way of negligible space. It has the added effect of making him look utterly slanted from the tips of his finely-booted toes upwards, long and lean as a bent willow branch.

Hello.

"You know, I could teach you, if you like."

kirkwall;

[illithidnapped]

[Oh, sarcasm. Bitter and beautiful, as welcome in Astarion's albinistic heart as— well, no, not as much as coin, or unbridled passion, or the delightfully bloody mess found in a good scrap every now and then, but still. Nice. It's nice.

More importantly, it's proof enough there's something interesting to be found here, leaning forward across his own elbows to rest more comfortably amongst the scattered scent of spilled ale, spilled piss, and spilled blood left equally untouched by all attending staff.]

So kind of you to offer, darling.

[You, sir, were the one that gestured with that very intimidating scowl.]

Shame no one else thought to take you up on it.

Crystal;

[notathreat]

Joel.

[Her voice is soft, breathless, and despite her best efforts, it cracks. Just a little. It's not the first time this has happened, and it's always been in the back of her mind. The possibility. The hope. Wherever she is, he always manages to find her. Somehow.]

Where are you, old man?

crystal;

[omittance]

[ The relief he feels is immediate and some of the tension in his shoulders sags completely as soon as he hears her voice. He's not completely relaxed, not yet, but he's already lifting himself up to start moving again.

His number one mission has always been finding her and taking care of her. ]

I dunno. Outside some kinda restaurant place?

[ The only person in the world to call the Hanged Man a "restaurant". ]

[notathreat]

Does it have a sign or anything?

[Please be in Kirkwall. Please be close. She'll get to him, or he'll get to her- but she knows neither of them will relax until they have eyes on each other. There are soft rustling and clattering noises on this side of the crystal, and she's already moving.]

[omittance]

Uh, yeah, some man hanging upside down.

[ What the fuck, Ellie. ]

✨✨✨

[omittance]

Joel can almost feel the air around him get cold, senses on high alert - he hadn't survived as long as he had in their world by being blind to bad things, by ignoring what his gut is telling him, and despite being out of place in the middle of magical fairy land (or whatever this place is) he's not about to act as if he's safe. There's no way in hell, not when he hasn't got any weapons, any sense of place or any idea where his girl is.

Turning his head, his expression tightens as soon as he sees her, his fingers itching to grab the piece of wood he'd picked up. Joel hadn't imagined he would need it so quickly, that he would have to protect himself so securely, but he's not an idiot. He recognises her well enough and, eyes narrowing, he turns his body to look over at Abby with a long, breathed out sigh.

His entire body aches, phantom pains, but he can't focus on that right now.

Instead, he moves to one side, out of the way of people, to better look at her. There's no point dancing around this, not when nothing had worked last time, and the dawning realisation that he might not be able to escape this situation again makes knots form in his stomach. At least Ellie isn't here - this time, he tells himself, thinking of her screaming and crying in front of him and being unable to comfort her. At least he can try and deal with this shit alone.

"You gonna start something here?" His voice is low, careful. "Right now?"

[notathreat]

The Hanged Man. You're real close, I'll be there soon. Don't-

[Deep breath.]

Don't go anywhere.

[It won't be long, at the speed she's going. Fast enough to alarm some folks, probably- fast enough to make them look for the abomination that must be hot on her heels. Ellie takes shortcuts, focusing on the movement rather than the dull roar of her thoughts.

When she spots him, it still punches the breath out of her. He looks the same.

She doesn't. She's older, thinner, with more scars and fewer fingers and so much more in her eyes- but he won't get a chance to see that.

The last time, she hesitated. All caught up in grief and anger and guilt, mired down by all the things between them. This time, there's no such thing. She's learned the price of doubt.

Ellie collides with him with staggering force, wraps her arms tightly around him, and holds on.]

[omittance]

Where the hell am I gonna go?

[ It's said more to himself than to her, but he's certain she'll hear it all the same, Joel's low, southern mumble making him feel all the more out of place in this bizarre world.

When Joel spots her rushing towards him he lifts his head, ready to say something, to try and bridge that awkward gap that had been between the two of them as he had tried to fix things. The promise of a future had been more than enough for him after being bereft of the girl he saw as his own, and seeing her now, suddenly bigger, thinner, worn down...

He recognises the signs of the world and it doesn't make sense to him.

Joel, at least, doesn't question it. When Ellie throws herself into his arms the only thing he can do is wrap his own around her, holding her tight against his body, keeping her wrapped up in his strength. As if he could protect her from whatever demon has caused the hurts he can see all over her. ]

Hey, hey. It's alright. [ He squeezes her, just a little bit, ignoring the prickling of his own eyes. ] I'm right here, I'm here. I ain't letting go.

haven't played enough DAI to know he can do that, but i love it, 100% here for it!

[bobothefool]

[ What a weird little scrap of a boy. How did he get recruited to the war effort? He must be some kind of innately powerful, or stronger than he looks.

Anyway, not Bobo's problem. Bobo's problem is he wants some booze. He turns his smug smile onto the boy with the big hat. ]

I called out, you answered. So, yes, I'm talking to you. I just rained small-scale devastation on the enemy. Let's celebrate.

[ aka lead the way, he's still new here. ]

[notathreat]

[Joel comforts her as if she's still a little girl, squeezing her like he knows just how much she needs it, and she doesn't notice the prickling in her eyes. Her face is just wet where it's tucked into his shoulder. She's not crying properly, with catching breaths and shivering pain, it's just leaking out of her like she's not properly sealed up anymore.

Ellie's been around long enough now to skirt tenderness, because it feels like it just underlines everything that's missing.

It terrifies her in ways it never did when she was younger, and she holds on all the tighter, in defiance.

His jacket smells like him. Even after the tears ease, she stays there, just breathing it in like she can make up for years of lost time.]

[omittance]

[ For the first time in a little while Joel isn't sure what he ought to do.

Normally when it comes to Ellie he acts on instinct, doing what he thinks is right, but given the situation between the two of them? He doesn't know if he ought to say more, if he should make more promises to her that he intends to keep but can't really swear to. He wants to take some of this hurt away but he doesn't have that power, not really.

He doesn't know where he is, or what's going on, nothing beyond the scraps he's picked up on and the whispers here and there, and it's not good enough.

One hand lifts to cradle the back of her neck, to hold her gently, and he sighs, a soft, sad little sound. It's like holding his little girl again, the child he'd sold the world to protect.

That's his girl. ]

I got you. [ If the last thing he remembers is the pain, then what's the last thing Ellie saw before coming here? He doesn't want to think about it. ] I got you, baby girl.