tɦɛ iɳquiรitѳʀ (freemarched) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2016-04-19 14:18:00 |
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Hawke bloody hated spiders. It was a cruel, cruel joke that just about every dank crevice and cavern in Thedas had those buggers. And not just in their itsy-bitsy spider form, no, that’d be merciful, wouldn’t it? They were nasty, massive shits, beasts in their own right and traveled in packs. One meant an entire nest was around. Only saving grace were that they weren’t awfully difficult to take down, but the process was tedious and it involved him being too close to them for much too long. Yet here he was, unsealing the maw of the Deep Roads, taking himself and Trevelyan down and to the dwarven ruins below the earth. It was musty, damp, a residual of energies in the air - it tugged at his senses, ripped an involuntary shudder up his spine and made him really, really wish he was anywhere else but here. But this was a necessary sort of evil, and a prime location to let the magics run rampant against the hostile targets skulking in the shadows. His light armor was once his father’s, a bittersweet gift from the dream fairy. Threads of red fabric, robe-like with spiked shoulderguards. Leandra had once told him it was what Malcolm wore as a disguise during their last secret rendezvous at an Orlesian Ball before the two decided to do the romantic, reckless thing and elope (what a coincidence!). The staff, composed of aurum, also belonged to the Hawke patriarch. “There’s a couple of resources down here for the picking. Deep mushrooms, plenty of them. Some traces of raw lyrium here and there,” he said, sourly. Cullen had dropped the ‘I’m taking lyrium’ bomb, and Garrett was less than pleased. “Isabela and I came down here some months ago and looted this place dry of its treasures. If you find a stray coin, it’s still mine.” Lyrium. Great. The raw stuff was especially potent - neither Templars nor mages could go near it while it was unprocessed without some terrible things happening (only dwarves with their resistance could manage such a feat). Mages tended to use it externally for rituals and Templars fucking drank the stuff, or injected it, whatever they did. Trevelyan wasn’t even sure, but he hadn’t ever heard of a mage ever becoming addicted the way Templars seemed to - the difference was in the external and internal uses, of course, and breaking that addiction? Few humans survived the catastrophic withdrawal. It could be done, but what a mess. Trevelyan would thus avoid the raw deposits down here in the center of the Earth; he didn’t particularly feel like hemorrhaging to death today. “Like there would be even a single coin left after a pirate looted someplace,” he quipped, holding the staff his dreams had ‘gifted’ him with rather precariously - he didn’t have any official armor yet, just the weapon, and it was actually sort of beautiful. Well-crafted to be certain, made of silverite and sleek-looking with bits of leather and dragon webbing, a rare type of cloth. The end of the staff didn’t feature a blade as many did, but it split off into three twisting, spiraling snakes - that was the design, and Max rather liked it. “But noted, I’ll let you sweep up anything shiny.” Now or never, he guessed? He needed the practice, and this was as good of a place as any to really let loose with things. Maybe he’d been taught well in the Circle, a prodigy with elemental magic, but getting the necromancy first here was really throwing him off - if he could just learn to combine fire and necromancy, he’d be in business. “Uh...after you?” No, that was not a dirty look he’d given Trevelyan. Maybe. Only a bit, alright? Hawke didn’t actually want to be the first to lead them - that usually meant he’d be the one to come face first with something like, you know, a massive webweaving spider from the depths of the devil’s bowels but it made sense, unfortunately. He traversed these specific tunnels in the expedition and repeated the trip with his pirate queen not long ago; he knew where to go, and where the exit point was (which was very, very important). After him, then. His armored feet moved with such excitement, surely. “There might be a dragonling or two in here still, who bloody knows at this rate,” he informed, olive eyes squinting through the dimness. “Maybe more matured with the time passed come to think of it. At least there’s diversity in what we’re facing?” That was his way of saying he’d rather a potential adolescent dragon than spiders. So far the coast was suspiciously clear, but it was only the beginning. Sounds of something dripping in the distance were far away echoes - he supposed it was some kind of moisture, though it added such an eerie ambiance among the rubble and ancient architecture. “Anyway, if you’re ever in the mood for a romantic walk down here, make sure the entrance and exits are appropriately sealed. Never know when darkspawn feel like appearing.” Of course. Diversity. “And you said there weren’t any spiders, right?” Max wanted to know, which was his way of saying that if he saw one he couldn’t guarantee what he’d do - it might be an explosion of a fiery inferno, or a lightning storm from the tips of his fingers, magic he couldn’t exactly control, because he really hated those damn things too. “But I don’t think a romantic walk down here is in the cards...” The dripping, was that blood? Or saliva? Something from the jaws of a beast? Maker’s ball sack, he could hardly wait to find out. Though actually, he was caught between being apprehensive and being intrigued. Dwarven ruins, you didn’t exactly come by those or the unique architecture found within everyday. “Dorian thinks it needs to be patrolled,” Trevelyan continued along, his staff slung over his back, but he reached for the weapon and kept a hand loosely on it anyway, in case he needed to twist it over his shoulder and blast something. “Maybe he’s right. We can’t just rely on Grey Warden sense to start tingling, if there’s bound to be Darkspawn?” And he sort of hoped there wouldn’t be - that would open a whole dozen cans of nasty worms. Patrolling wouldn’t be much of a terrible idea, but if darkspawn were to rise then they’d do it regardless - whether or not someone was skipping merrily throughout these midget-carved tunnels. “Hence why I keep it sealed, though I contemplated doing it next time with blood,” Hawke went on, all while conveniently ignoring the whole ‘there weren’t any spiders, right?’ “Worked for Corypheus, until some Warden decided he was best to be controlled rather than killed. I haven’t been down here since we took everything worth a penny. You’re just special.” And there was also the issue with that idol, one that hadn’t carried over but it’d made Bartrand absolutely mad and haunted that mansion. So many odd things went on with it, and part of him was worried that one day someone would stumble down here and lucky them, it’d be the day that thing would sing and lure someone into the depths of madness. Then, Garrett stepped onto some kind of oddly shaped shadow. Something massive, eight-legged, right above them - the sound of incisors rubbing together, and beady eyes (many of them) glimmering in the darkness. Well, fuck. Hawke looked up, and was met with a mosh of silky web being spat on him like a sticky trap. Worked for Corypheus were famous last words. Evil incarnate he was, it was just another thing Dorian had to face about his homeland - the Grey Wardens done fucked up by not getting rid of him when they had a chance, but that was awhile ago and they were wanting to defeat the Darkspawn. They were all paying the price for it now, years later and the rolling domino chain of crap that came with everything he was doing for his plots - the mark on Trevelyan’s palm was thanks to ‘the conductor’ too, sort of indirectly anyway. “If there’s no reason to come back, then maybe seal it with blood and check occasionally - shit balls!” he exclaimed, interrupting himself when they were both ensnared in those spider webs. The actual spiders dropped from the rocky ceiling a moment later, on cue, the glittering and hungry eyes and the fangs; the dripping from before had clearly been venom, Max was certain. Lines of what looked like lightning shot from the staff that he swung around, the streaks moving like party streamers, magic frantically channelled - some blasts were just bursts of energy, but others were longer like those snakes on the weapon itself, wheeling wildly. “Hey, that’s the first time I got it to work!” Now it smelled like fried spider down here. Sealing off the space was seeming like a better and better idea. If only Hawke hadn’t been a flailing ungraceful mess to witness the Inquisitor’s triumphant use of his staff (there was so much potential crudeness there, so much), but alas, he was flailing like an ungraceful mess up until he gathered his wits and burned the threaded webs off him - fire summoned from the fade, incinerating it all into ash. Then came the thrust of his arm forward, and the next bout of magic wasn’t anything flashy or all that visible except for ripples undulating in the air - the pressure of a telekinetic force that would blast those hellish arachnids into each other and against fragile, crumbling architecture. So much for preserving pieces of history that carried over but, you know, spiders. His main priority is eliminating them and then planning a searing hot bath to cleanse himself of this disastrous ick feeling. “There you go, mate! Now - there’s a couple more coming, so, here -” His staff was used to kind of whack Trevelyan into their general direction. “Practice makes perfect, you heroic bastard, you. I’ll interfere if I notice they’re about to decapitate you. You can trust me.” That was this trolling arsecockle’s (he loved you too, Wisdom) way of saying ‘fuck spiders, you handle them.’ Also it was good for Max to get as much in as he could, but mostly...fuck spiders. Now that was just rude, Hawke whacking him with his phallic weaponry - Trevelyan almost started a bout of The fire burst out through the corridor in a literal wave - rippling and scorching hot, orange and red, summoned from the Fade after he instinctively spun the staff and slammed his arms back down; could he do that again if he tried? Maybe. But there might have been something to that notion of knowing the Fade, what the troll said earlier - he could feel the connection as more of a solid link now, spaces in that other pocket dimension where he needed to reach into and pull the right magic from. Compartments. Like dangling puppet strings. His staff was a tangible way to channel that energy, but actually, he was the true conduit for the magic. No time to ponder, not really - because the wave of fire receded and then slammed back against the spiders again, leaving them burnt to a crisp. Where there more headed this way? Sweet Maker, he hoped not. “Something else is coming. Go...go, go, go, for the love of Andraste’s granny panties, go.” Back the other way, back! Back! He was doing Trevelyan a favor. Honest. Magic was something to be taught and controlled, yes, but it came to them in their blood - it was instinct in its rawest form, and their connection to the Fade was there whether they took advantage of it knowingly or not. Getting thrown into a situation driven by fear where more just do was required than just think was one way to tap into those innate abilities. The Inquisitor was a natural, and it wasn’t like Hawke had fled and left him. Maker, no, he was there, and attentive, and making sure that he didn’t come out missing something tragic like an entire arm. That’d be awful, wouldn’t it? “A beautiful show!” he commended with a shout, staff underneath his arm as he applauded. Those flames! Satan would be envious himself. Hawke bet he wished he had flames such as those. “See? It comes to you when you’ve practically shat yourself.” Now, what else was there? More spiders? Those dragonlings he referred to? He’d almost been tempted to stay and find out - might as well clean up all the vermin in one sweep - but he wouldn’t push Maxwell’s limits too far. Garrett whacked him again in the back with his aurum stick, nothing rough. Just a nudge towards where they’d come from. “Scurry along, then! Aren’t they even more terrifying in person??” “I haven’t practically shat myself,” Trevelyan protested, and alright, the way he was twitching and shuddering - it may have seemed that way. He felt like he’d just stuck his finger into a light socket and was buzzing with electricity; magic crackled over his skin, popping and surging through him like fireworks in his veins, but they weren’t even done yet. “We’re not friends anymore.” Okay, he was lying, and he’d be somewhat grateful when they got out of here - but as for what was stampeding down the tunnel and headed their way? A literal stampede, in fact. Deepstalkers, creatures that resembled raptors but had circular, sharp-toothed mouths that were the stuff of nightmares; he remembered fighting hordes on the Storm Coast. Their hides were useful crafting materials, however, for armor. Somehow he doubted he’d be saving the hides. Not touching them. “I don’t think we’re moving fast enough.” Well, they were about to be trampled, really. What in the name of - ?? Those were practically earth-dwelling raptors. Hideous things. Hawke had never laid eyes on them before, but he recalled Bartrand telling tall tales of what one might find deep below in these tunnels. They were so extensive and vastly connected, from the Free Marches throughout Ferelden, and they were fortunate to have not encountered these nasty-faced fuckers. But there was a lot of them, and running would barely do them any good - which was why Garrett decidedly dug his heels into the dirt to come to an abrupt stop, thrust his palm forward, a symbol between them and those things lighting up in a flash. Pull of the Abyss was the move’s name, and a yank of force began slowing them down and drawing them to the center. It bought them some time, ideally, but Hawke didn’t do it so they could run. “Let’s conjure up a storm, shall we?” he chuckled, the beginning crackles of electricity swirling around the gold-colored staff, all the way to the tip of Andraste’s statue. Tempest was brewing, the stormy gusts of wind circling them. Herding what was sufficiently dubbed ‘nightmare fuel’ was good - the telekinetic magic forced them like sheep on the dead center of what was now the target. “I’m not sure what’s worse, these or the spiders,” Max shivered - the electricity beginning to thrum and vibrate, in the air around them, gathering momentum was something that sang deeply to his blood. Conjuring a storm, then. “Might as well,” he grinned, and since some time had been given to them he would see exactly what he could work with here. That was the whole purpose of this adventure, right? The electricity field ballooned out, expanding; it was static cage and after he lifted the staff in an elegant twirl and then brought the snakes back down again the bottoms of the cage bars hit the ground, entrapping the Deepstalkers with faces not even mothers could love as they screeched and whined. One or two that tried to leave were paralyzed - he couldn’t hold the electricity field here forever, however, and in addition to that it wouldn’t last forever but the spell would also buy them enough time to strike the things trapped within and deliver death blows. “Any more tips??” Combining the same element into one super cell of a storm - it was impressive, the amount of power the two could summon and then weave together seamlessly. Hawke’s staff hit the ground as well, another roll of electric currents coming forth for some sizzle and zap, enough charge that would toast that leathery hide on those creatures. “You use the dead to aid you in a fight, don’t you?” An interesting contrast of specialization - because in turn, Hawke used the living. There was a scar on his hand now, a diagonal line that was always cut when he dove into the more forbidden arts of magic. The tip of the staff sliced through and crimson spilled, and the blood vessels in his eyes swelled and reddened. It was one he enslaved with the thrall of that inner life force, and it was only one he needed - the chosen deepstalker, one that narrowly missed the hurricane of magic, paused only for a second before it’s focused change. It would attack its’ own. It was a blood slave skill, the kind of move that made mages themselves fear their own; the mind control was universally abhorred across the board, and with good reason. “Summon your own.” Blood magic. Trevelyan paused, sort of caught in the macabre wonder of it all - he’d never really seen much of it, because such practices? They weren’t exactly encouraged in the Circle. Sure, it happened, mages turned to the craft when they got desperate - the drawback was that it made them extra shiny prey for demons, looking for a host body to possess. But someone like Hawke? Champion of the People, an actual blood mage? “Summon my - “ Oh, right. Oh. It was just Hawke - he wasn’t going to become an Abomination, wasn’t going to lose himself; control with blood magic was possible, as they had talked about. Max needed to see it now, like this - this was good for him. He steeled himself, lifting the staff again - then, with a mental reach, a tug, a pull, he cast Horror. The staff hit the ground, and where it did, a bright purple circle lit up in a flash and crackle, the Nevarran skull floating above where he’d struck as the magic pulsated outward. Then, blow delivered, the sounds of those creatures filled the space. Sprits of fear, called forth from the Fade, flew around and around, circling like far-too-quick birds of prey - the sounds of panic increased in volume, then faded out, as the enemy began to perish. Hawke wouldn’t. Blood magic was best used to its potential when properly learned, not out of fear and desperation - emotions that caused anyone, not just mages, to do stupid, reckless things. He thought of Merrill and her insight, and upon her words he would always built up his skill, and practice would be the only way to make sure that skill remained honed. After that, it didn’t take long for blood and necromancy to have finalized the body count on the ground. The deepstalker he enslaved fell to his death after his use had expired, and what was a stampede ready to trample them was now a graveyard of creatures not of this world. “Well,” Garrett let out a breath. “Talk about practice, I suppose. Anything worth salvaging from...ah??” His staff, the length of it smeared in his blood, pointing at the bodies. “Skin, gallbladders, eyeballs?” Such a thing to discuss about their riveting combination of the darker side of magics! He took a breath, feeling sufficiently drained - Max had to use the staff to help him stay upright, but it was an interesting sensation. Like he’d stretched and worked muscles he hadn’t really used before, and it was actually one of those pleasant burns. More of a mental strain than anything else, but even his arms were shaking a little as he took a few moments to gather his wits about him. “No, I don’t....no, don’t need anything unless you want a trophy,” he shook his head. Besides charred hide, he couldn’t really think of anything worth taking. “The practice was...good. Thank you. For bringing me down here. I think we make a pretty good team?” Once the Inquisitor built up some of that confidence, anyway. He had to believe that he could lead, that he could prove himself to be more than a walking mark. That he was somebody, and that he could seize the magic gifted to him and make it his very own. And in a way, he understood the taboo surrounding blood magic - like he’d said before, Necromancy didn’t have the best reputation either. Hawke didn’t think his piratey fiancee would appreciate charcoaled skin from an ugly beast, so, no, best to let the remains rot where they were and nourish the earth or whatever. But he did take something from them. Just one of them - his injured palm outstretched and right on cue, a corpse twitched. It unleashed a very thin stream of blood, a tendril that rode through the air and into the laceration. Soon, the wound was closed, and all that was left was a darkened line of a blemish. “Definitely a way to test those skills, isn’t it?” His mouth widened, the dip of those ever charming dimples present even through the forest of beard. “Perhaps you and all will cross paths through this whole march of the Inquisition and work well together too. We’d make a formidable team of mages, you and I.” Trevelyan summoning the dead, Hawke controlling the rivers of life within a person. But both very level headed with good judgment despite the scarlet letters on their particular brand of magic - it was their job to set an example. Oh, right, blood mages had to be healed the same way - that must be a drawback too, but for a practitioner such as Hawke, blood was life. It was interesting, if nothing else. Trevelyan could chalk it up to a learning experience. “I think we might cross paths soon,” he said - and he just had a feeling, going by Varric’s involvement as of now. Where the dwarf was, his Ferelden friend wasn’t far behind. “I’ll let you know when it happens. There’s definitely lots to do, when it comes to Coryphenus.” You’ve got to love Sera - she was incredibly amusing during those dark times. He’d lost track of how many times he’d nearly died, but she had a way of just getting them all to laugh at the absurdity of some situations. “Okay, maybe it’s time for sunlight now,” he observed, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Not to mention it smelled awful in their vicinity. Hah. Coryphenus. That’d never get old for him. Hawke rumbled with laughter, swiping his hand across those already blood colored robes, and turned his back to the herd of dead raptor things. “Let’s go and freshen up, we’re sweating like a pair of testicles in an Orlesian desert.” Then they could go the Rear End for a complimentary pint to celebrate their survival through skill, because he’d like to think they were better than sheer dumb luck. At least these tunnels were useful for something. Up until they vomited darkspawn anyway, but Hawke hoped for a relaxing moment of bliss between things irrevocably fucking up around these parts. |