August 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

AUGUST 2023 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A group of newcomers find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter.

PROMPT TWO — HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE: Once recovered from their journey, newcomers are free to explore the town of Milton for supplies and find any signs of the townsfolk.

PROMPT THREE — THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN: A mysterious woman haunts the frozen lake of the Milton Basin, trying to lure newcomers to their deaths.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Day One.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

’You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.’

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in several days, maybe longer. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are a little mouldy. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

But it won’t be long until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire.

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. As you head into the outskirts and further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up. Other than those heading in the same direction, towards the smoke, you won’t find any townsfolk coming to greet you, or even looking at you from behind curtains. … Where is everyone?

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the smoke rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“It seems like a great deal of you have come.” he muses finally. “I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. Please, warm yourselves. Eat. Get your bearings. Mother Nature has not been kind to you.”

The room is dim, lit mostly by the weak natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful…. and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold or any injuries. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long, foldable tables laden with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred moose, deer and rabbit meats, instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast. The old man has been busy. And Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is troubled, thoughtful.

If you ask him where you are, he will simply respond: “This is Milton, of the Northern Territories.”

If you ask how you came to be here, he will shake his head: “Something has changed. The sky, it was… full of light. The Flare. I felt you coming, a great arrival. But I cannot say for certain how, or why you are here.”

He is regretful, genuinely so. He wishes he had more answers for you, but he does not. Instead he will simply insist you rest, get warm and eat. There is plenty to go around. Eventually, when you feel well enough, Methuselah will gesture to the door: “When you are ready and able, explore the town. Many left, others could not make it out. I have found no one but the dead. They will have no use of the place now, perhaps you might in the meantime.”

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

WHEN: First couple of weeks since arrival.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: frozen dead bodies, unexplained deaths, suicide, murder.

Other than Methuselah in the Hall, the town of Milton is void of life. While not a particularly large town, there’s a few stores and even a gas station. Life here is rustic. Function over form. Homes are simple but sturdy and warm, it’s a rugged place and one can easily deduce that the folk living here led simple, self-sufficient lives.

Commercial buildings and stores of note include a bank and post office, a hunting/fishing supply store, a grocery store, and a clothing store. There is even a church just on the outskirts of town. The buildings are ripe for picking, with most of them still with the doors unlocked, including the residential buildings. Others are locked, but can be broken into easily enough. A few are even trickier, with some of them boarded up or with entrances blocked. In terms of contents, a third of the residential buildings seem to be almost empty, as if the owners moved out long ago. There might still be things left behind of use: old, warm clothes good for the wintery weather, tools and cooking utensils — but little in terms of food. Even if the former residents move some time ago, they didn’t completely empty their homes.


Most of the homes in Milton seem to be left as if the owner stepped out only a short while ago, and with very little disturbance. Some houses, however, seem to be abandoned in a hurry, with a mess of items strewn about in some last-minute dash to grab essentials: keys, identification, treasured personal items, supplies for a quick exit. Cupboards are typically filled with an abundance of canned goods, and some chilled goods might have survived in the cold weather within the fridge-freezers, but it might be a gamble if one wants to try and eat them. Any and all electronics within homes: televisions, computers, mobile-phones — although dated, will all appear cracked and damaged, and will not function or turn out at all. The same will go for any vehicles around the town: there is no hope of starting any of them.

Diaries and journals kept by the former residents may remark on a change in the weather, with the cold and harsh climate becoming more hostile as of late. Others remark strange lights in the skies, dating several weeks or so ago, strange noises in the air, issues with power and electrical items. Some make mentions of changes to the wildlife, with wolves coming close to the town even when they had never done so before. One or two mention problems on the Mainland, with increasing difficulty of reaching out to loved ones who don’t live in the Northern Territories, or deliveries being unable to arrive. The growing trend is that something odd and terrible has been happening, although no one can truly explain what, and the problems have been growing increasingly worse and worse up to the final entries. You might note that the actual years and dates might not line up with your own: the current year given in these entries is 2014.

The newcomers are free to take over these homes, if they wish. No one appears to be stopping them, and even Methuselah seems to shrug about moving in. And as he’d mentioned, he has found no one but the dead: and plenty of them can be found.

Bodies of the town’s former residence can be found scattered over the town. In homes, in stores, out in the snow. They appear still relatively fresh, although it may be hard to tell if it’s from the cold or if it’s from very little time passing. Most appear to have died from cold exposure, some appear to have simply dropped dead on the spot. Others may be found with a gun in hand. Some, worryingly, appear to have perished by another’s hand. You won’t find the entirety of the town’s population, but there’ll be at least several dozen. Men, women, children.

Methuselah seems to have begun laying the dead to rest, but there’s too many for one man to do. Maybe you can work out what to do with them, try to bury them in their backyards, or try to take them to the churchyard.

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

WHEN: Until the next Aurora.
WHERE: Milton Basin.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mental manipulation, malevolent mythical creatures, falling through ice, attempted drowning/possible successful drowning, potential character death.


Those who venture further south of the town will find themselves traversing the steep, winding paths down towards the Milton Basin. The way down is treacherous, but if enough care is taken you should be able to make it down in one piece. The water is just about completely frozen over down here, thick and sturdy enough to walk over for the most part. Within the Basin there’s more wildlife to be found: deer and rabbit are plenty. And there’s even plenty of foragables, too.

Out on the water are two small ice-fishing cabins, enough to fit one or two people inside comfortably, which hold a few forgotten supplies to try out some ice-fishing if you want to see if anything bites. Both even hold little log burners to keep warm. An old hunter’s shack can be found along the water’s edge, for those not quite brave enough to travel out onto the ice, to take shelter in for when the weather gets a little too difficult, with an old log burner still working within it.

But it’s calm down here, for the most part. Peaceful even. It’s an excellent place for fishing and hunting, and a little more sheltered from the freezing winds.

Until you hear the voice. Something soft and feminine, echoing across the ice. The Basin helps to amplify the sound, and for a long time you can’t quite be sure of where exactly it’s coming from. It’s singing, she is singing. Something old, in a language you can’t quite understand. Maybe it’s not even a language at all, but simply melodic vocalizations. It’s... beautiful, you’ve never heard anything like it before in your life.

And then you see her: a woman standing upon the frozen waters of the Basin. You realise she’s probably the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life, even if you can’t quite even begin to describe her. She appears different to everyone who beholds her, some one might see her hair is long and dark, others might see her with neat red curls. Some swear her skin is dark and rich, that looks almost plum when the light hits it just so, others claim it to be cool-toned that glistens like sunlight on snow. Whatever someone might find aesthetically pleasing is how she’ll appear, and even then to describe her to others will bring you at a loss for words. And she’s singing… to you, for you.

You’re compelled to go to her, although you can’t explain why. You’re drawn to approach her, to hear her better, see her better. Your feet carry you onto the ice, out into the midst of the Basin. You ignore the calls of everyone and anyone around you, fixated on the woman before you. She smiles when you’re close enough, beckons you a little closer.

… Then everything changes. Without warning, the woman leaps for you, her face contorting into something hideous, mouth opening to scream to reveal rows upon rows of tiny, needle-like teeth. She collides with you, and the force (paired with the slippery ice below you) is enough to send you off your feet. As you fall back, the ice cracks beneath you with an almighty sound, plunging you into the frigid depths below.

The woman fights to put you beneath the water’s surface, those needle-like teeth bared like some ferocious beast. She can be fought off easily enough, but she might just drown you before you’re able to. If you’re lucky, someone might be able to help pull you out. Tools or weapons made of iron or silver are especially harmful to her.

Once you’re pulled from the water, getting somewhere warm will be the utmost priority — otherwise the cold will kill you quicker than the woman would. The woman, you’ll find, will have vanished, and the ice where you’d fallen will have restored itself, as if it had never been broken at all.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

2. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

3. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being.

4. If asked how he knew that the Newcomers were arriving, he concedes that although it is a strange thing to know, it is much like how one knows a storm is coming.

HOPE NOBODY NEEDS THIS ANYMORE

1. Characters are welcome to take up residency in any of the homes of Milton. Methuselah will strongly advise characters to leave a huge, dilapidated house — known as Milton House — well alone, due to extensive fire damage.

2. More information about Milton can be found here.

THE SIREN OF MILTON BASIN

1. Characters with hearing impairments will not be susceptible to the Siren's song, or may only be somewhat susceptible depending, but may be entranced to a degree by looking at the Siren. However, this will be far easier to snap out of.

2. The Siren cannot be killed, only fought off. She will disappear for a length of time to recover before she attempts to lure her next victim.

Comments

Inquisitor Lavellan | Dragon Age: Inquisition

[varhellathen]

    ☙ be certain in need;   (arrival)    

He awakes with a gasp; ragged, raw, a cry of pain that dies in his throat. In quick succession, there are several things that the Inquisitor finds wholly wrong. Blindly he grasps right hand to left arm, and finds it does not pain him so much - it is agonizing, to be sure, but Lasulahn does not think it is like to kill him, now. He cannot see the garish gleam of the Anchor through his glove. Despite the obscene temperatures, almost as though unnoticing, the man - small in frame and stature, a delicate point to his ear - pulls his glove off. He marvels at his palm, the gash that splits it little more than a scar, now. It is red and irritated in the cold, or perhaps freshly closed, but a scar nonetheless. Second, he looks around for his staff, and finds it in the snow within reach. Third, he realizes finally the clime he is in, more akin to the Frostbacks or Emprise du Lion than Halamshiral or the Crossroads. Had he somehow fallen through an eluvian? He can imagine nothing else, the last he remembers, a colorful shimmer in the sky behind Solas as the man reached for his arm—

Finally, finally, Lasulahn's gaze lifts to the person who is likely to thank for him being awake now and not passively freezing to death in the snow.

"Oh," he says, belated. He is dusted with grime and snow, disheveled from combat, and now, beginning to shiver from the cold he is not well-dressed for. "I'm alright, thank you." He leans on his left arm without thinking to reach for his staff with his right, and nearly pitches into the snow when it refuses to oblige. His nerves explode as though with ground glass, and a vein in his temple throbs with the tightness of his jaw. He is not, in fact, 'alright.'

    ☙ and the path will emerge;   (methuselah's feast)    

The Inquisitor, leader of the largest army in Thedas, has sequestered himself into a small corner of the hall. Just enough firelight reaches that he can see. With no small amount of difficulty, given his left arm lays near useless at his side, he has managed to wrest off his outer layers: a robelike garment of burnished and delicately embossed hide, gauntlets, a cinch of woven leather straps, and a thin chainmail vest. The tunic beneath, he has rolled up the left sleeve and sits examining his arm. Angry red marks radiate upward from his palm to nearly past his elbow. They create an intricate web like veins, or perhaps a lightning strike. His palm, still, is equally red, the Mark that has lain across it for two years no longer glowing with the magic of the Fade.

That is, strangely, what bothers him more than even the stiffness in his joints, the pins and needles of near hypothermia slowly thawing his white fingertips: he cannot feel the Fade, here. The world seems greyer for it. Even the cheery crackle of the fire looks faded, strangely out of reach. It reminds him of a Templar's dampening abilities, though it doesn't quite steal the breath from his lungs in the same way. He wonders, was the world like this before he discovered his magic? And, did Solas manage to take the Anchor from him, but in return he has been flung far and his magic taken with it?

It is not until someone stands in his peripheral vision that he looks up, brows raising a little in surprise. "I beg your pardon." His voice is soft, warm, but holds an edge of authority he has had to whet for too long now to lay it easily aside. "Can you repeat what you said? I'm afraid I was distracted."

    ☙ to a home tomorrow;   (hope nobody needs this anymore)    

Once thawed out and given a few days rest, Lasulahn has found that, remarkably, he retains use of his left arm. It aches, always, ranging from dull pain to near agony, but he is used to that, now. He has taken up residence, however temporarily, in a small cottage towards the outskirts of town. He has picked the smallest he could find intentionally, if subconsciously. The wood construction is comforting, but the interior holds a great deal of items entirely foreign to him. Large rectangles of glass and some inflexible material he cannot place that shines like well-oiled leather; machines in what appears to be meant as a kitchen, or maybe just food storage, though the hearth is elsewhere in the home. There is a bed though, and a diary that he leafs through with no small amount of guilt. The year means nothing to him, it is dated nothing like he is used to. That he can read at all is passing strange; he recognizes he should not know the letters that are neither Elvhen nor Common, but it is legible to him all the same.

He ventures out sometimes, like now, hoisting a laundry basket down the street. Any home which he can see smoke from a chimney or the glow of fire from a window, he knocks.

"Pardon the intrustion," he says with a smile when greeted. "There are warm clothes in the home I'm staying in that are too large for me, I thought someone else might make better use of them." And indeed, with his somewhat small height and smaller frame, the elf seems to nearly swim in the knit sweater he has on.

    ☙   ( wildcard )    
{ Choose your own adventure! Las will be up and around later in the evening at the hall helping those worse off than he. He's also going to be attempting to chop firewood which may or may not go well. Feel free to use prose or action/brackets, I'll happily match. If you would like to plot anything, pm this journal or hit me up at ricorori! }

and the path will emerge;

[questioningmermaids]

"I said what's up with your hand?"

It looks angry, and not in a fresh tattoo or terrible burn way, and whatever the stranger's doing seems pensive in a manner March can't put his finger on. He's normally one to live and let live, huge fan of ignoring other people so they'll leave him alone, but this is a different situation and this guy looks so different he has to ask. Sometimes his curiousity gets the better of him, too, but he's a private detective, can you blame him?

He's standing right next to the other, eyes fixed on those pointed ears simply because he hasn't seen anything like it before. March is a stark contrast: he's got a blanket wrapped around him like a cape but he's got an extremely 70s looking vibe going on, though the sunglasses have been put away. It's nothing like the metal and leather and armor, or the facial markings, or...

...Man. Those ears are crazy. March can't stop staring.

[varhellathen]

Lasulahn's lips part to answer, but he hesitates. This place is strange, perhaps across the sea (further, maybe? Many here are dressed strangely, including the man speaking to him. He is not sure how he understands the language; they are like no language he has heard before).

"It's a long story," is what he settles on, with a grim smile that is meant to be kinder, but his expression is drawn in cold and in pain. "But it has changed from how it was before, since arriving here." And how he arrived here he still does not know, though he has his guess - sort of - at least, it's the only thing that makes sense to him. But he attempts to placate any further probing by offering, "it seems I have little strength in this arm now." — Or none at all, to be more accurate, judging by the strange angle at which it limply holds — "I'm not sure if it's the cold or the- wound."

He catches the man's gaze fixated on something over his shoulder. Glancing and seeing nothing on the wall which he's leaned against, he reaches up with his good hand to see if there might be blood or something on his ear. The careful plaits and twists of his long hair have come somewhat loose between the Crossroads and his arrival here, but Lasulahn can tell nothing else amiss. His brows raise a little, smile lingering if a little smaller, expectant.

[questioningmermaids]

"I dig it," March says, in the same way that a small child who has asked a question has completely moved onto something else far shinier. It's not personal, not entirely, but March's brain has completely and utterly transfixed.

The whole place is new. It's cold, it's miserable, it's Canada, and there's so much visual stimulation that's very much nothing like he's used to. This poor guy is at the epicentre of things March's brain can't quite piece together. There's the soft robe guy running around that had helped him in here, sure, but this is different, the guy infront of him less robe-y, more armor-y, and also?

"Sorry, it's just you've got..." He brings the hand with his pinkie ring up to his ears, wiggling his fingers where the elongated tips on the strangers' are.

[varhellathen]

He's got...? Lasulahn checks once more, to be sure, fingertips tracing the shell of his ear. Finally, glance cast behind the other man, it dawns on him. He sees only shemlen here, none like himself. Are there no elves, across the sea? (Perhaps they have all been massacred, he thinks bitterly.)

"I'm Dalish," he explains, and then further: "an elf." His voice is soft, slow, not quite like he's explaining to a child but close. Not unkindly, "I take it you've never met one before?"

[questioningmermaids]

"Bless you," March manages to mutter in between the word Dalish and Elf, completely unable to stop himself. He's earnestly listening though, still standing over him but more because he hasn't bothered to sit. He doesn't mind the tone the other's giving him--hell, he barely notices it. It's not the first time he's been treated a bit like a kid, probably won't be the last, and hey, it gets the information across.

"Not really a thing where I'm from--can I touch?"

It's a novelty to him, and it absolutely never crosses his mind that he might be being rude as hell.

[varhellathen]

Something goes icy in the elf's otherwise kind expression, a sharpness in his gaze that speaks to a lifetime of grief at the hands of men like this one— granted, the rest knew all too well what elves are, and knew what they thought their place was.

"I'd rather you not."

His tone is hard, though still quiet. He reasons this man has never seen an elf, though he did not inquire what elves are, but his tone softens a little nonetheless. "They're no different than yours, aside from the shape."

[questioningmermaids]

Oh. Huh. Sore spot. Alright, March can recognize that--he's an idiot, but he's not a stupid idiot, and he simply shrugs. Point taken, reaction noted. No touchy. He has a feeling he probably shouldn't ask about the face tattoos, either, as cool as they are.

"I can dig it," he says noncommittally, more to show he completely understands. He's going to invite himself to sit next to him, though. Another sharp look or change of tone and he has no problem moving, but for now? He's parking himself right here.

"Holland, by the way. March."

[varhellathen]

Lasulahn doesn't mind explaining the significance of his tattoos- far less than being asked if a shem can touch his ears, anyway. He finds the turn of phrase 'I can dig it,' strange, albeit a little charming.

The moment seems to pass with no held grudges. Lasulahn smiles, polite. "In-"

He pauses, lips parted. "Lasulahn Lavellan. Pleased to meet you." Inquisitor likely holds no meaning, if this man is from so far afield that he has never seen an elf. "I don't suppose you know where we are, Ser March?"

[questioningmermaids]

"Lasulahn Lavellan," he repeats, half to make sure he's pronouncing it right and half because it's an absolute joy to say like the word perspicacious. Or eunuch. He watches the other idly as he roots around his jacket pockets, finally pulling out a his crumpled smokes and a lighter, and it takes him until he's actively pulling a cigarette out of the war torn pack that the second part of the conversation catches up with him.

"Yeah, we're in fucking Canada of all places, and did you just call me Sir?"

be certain in need;

[dirth]

Solas' awakening was a little less violent than Lasulahn's; he had no arm to suffer the ache of, only powers that felt painfully absent, and a cold that reminds him painfully of a time before arriving in the Inquisitor's keep. Before he had guided him there, allowed him to find comfort and solace in somewhere that had once felt almost dear to him. That isn't something he is quite able to think of right now, so he forces the thoughts elsewhere, tucks them away for a time where survival is not quite as pressing.

Rising to his feet has him feeling the chill from his toes to his hips, and he frowns, a little sour about being so cold after many months of comfort in the midst of the Crossroads, working with his people. Irritation is a familiar friend to Solas most days, but this is something entirely different.

... And then there is the Inquisitor himself. Solas makes note of him as he awakens, careful to keep his face in check, to keep his expressions to himself, as he glances out at the world around them. He ignores anything that's said, for a brief moment, before he sighs and turns back to look at the other man. There's a sting in his heart he doesn't want to dwell on.

"Inquisitor." No, he thinks, that isn't right. That isn't fair. Another shake of his head, and then, "Lasulahn."

[varhellathen]

His breath catches, he is not entirely sure whether it is the pain in his arm or the sight of the man that stands above him.

"Solas," he exhales, when he finally chases the lost breath from his chest. I will save you, he had promised, so earnestly, what feels like moments ago. His heart aches, splintered, for the rift that divides them now. He had feared it, in his darkest moments alone in Skyhold, that the rift was there already, a seam he had not noticed unraveling.

He reaches for his staff, fingers curling around the cold wood, and pushes himself upright. There is a pride the Inquisition has instilled in him, more a facade he must maintain for the sake of the order than for the man being crushed beneath it. He is in agony, exhausted and wounded from combat, but he stands on his own again.

"Did you do this?" he asks, extending his bare hand. Lines like lightning strikes creep from his wrist beneath the robe he wears. The Anchor is no longer there, replaced by the angry red of a recent scar, but his arm remains whole. Softer, gaze casting around at the sound of a wolf in the distance, "and... where are we?"

[dirth]

It's a better reception than he had expected, so Solas can be thankful for that if nothing else.

It would be easier for them both if he wasn't here, if he was elsewhere, able to disappear into the Crossroads like he had intended, but something has chosen to refuse to allow that. He can't remember how they got here, or why they're here in the first place, and that makes his skin crawl: he's never been particularly adept at simply accepting things happening to him. His place in the world is one of a rebel, someone to force change, not to simply... Accept it.

He doesn't have a staff, of course. He doesn't really need one now.

Looking at the Anchor, Solas leans down a little - not quite getting into Lasulahn's space, but enough that he can examine where the mark used to be, ignoring the poignant sound of animals in the background. It's almost painfully ironic.

"No, this is not my doing. When I was removing the anchor, I am afraid the entire arm would have been taken with it." He can't necessarily feel the strength he anticipated from regaining his power, but things are rather at odds here. "And I do not know where we are, or how we got here. I don't see any of the Eluvian."

[varhellathen]

It had been a promise in the heat of the moment, a reflection of Lasulahn's truest self— and the depth of care he held for the other elf. He would save his dearest companion from himself. It wasn't a promise he could keep, dying, and nowhere near as strong as Solas is now, but he meant it all the same.

Lasulahn looks at his hand once more. He cannot see the marks that streak from his wrist along his arm, with his robe in the way, but the Anchor itself feels without power. He realizes with a shudder that is not from the cold that he feels without power. He cannot feel the Fade, here, nor the magic that has been a constant soft hum throughout his life that the silence in its wake is maddening.

"Maybe the others are nearby," he muses, a frown creasing his brow. "In any case, we should move." Tending to their immediate survival is an easy cover for Lasulahn's true concern: if Solas is so powerful now (and Lasulahn has no doubts, not after what he has seen), what could displace him so swiftly and resolutely? The Qunari...? What sort of magic could do that?

[dirth]

It is not as if Solas truly expected anything from Lasulahn - there are promises to aid and save and there is reality, with the Inquisition on his back and the world against him. Solas is under no illusions about what his future might hold: he has been well-prepared for the certainty of his death since he first awoke in this strange new world. He would not lose that sense of sanity now.

Still, the loss of the Anchor is something to ponder on. It clearly wasn't due to his own power that it has been removed, or the entire arm would have been taken as well. The consequences of losing the Anchor were near enough dire, but he had assumed it was a price suitable enough to pay.

Frowning, he crosses his arms behind his back, looking around.

"And where should we move to?" It's not as if he sees any kind of familiar landmark. "And what do you intend to do if we find your companions?" The ones that, if he recalls correctly, would rather find Solas dead than alive.

be certain in need

[bigbaddy]

The man standing there couldn't possibly be a larger contrast next to Lasulahn. Whereas the other is small and almost delicate, the man standing there has a large build - broad shoulders, large arms emerging from the rolled-up sleeves of a white button-up shirt with a tie. (Not exactly the kind of attire one might expect someone to wear out here in the cold, but sometimes you have to make do with what you find.)

He's got some definite five o'clock shadow going on on his face, and his busy eyebrows are drawn together as he stares at Lasulahn - clearly not believing a word the other is saying here in regards to his physical state.

"Oh yeah?"

His voice easily betrays that sentiment too, even before he says anything else. There's a faint grumbling edge to his tone, and if Lasulahn looks at him at all, he might notice there's a faint shiver in Bigby's limbs that he, in turn, is trying hard to not betray too much right now.

"You look like you're about to pass out in the snow right here." Sorry for the direct call-out, Lasulahn-- but Bigby would sure like to cut the bullshit before either of them freeze to death out here. There's more productive things to be done right now.

[varhellathen]

Lasulahn's lips turn in a wry, tired sort of smile. It is not the first time someone has suggested he looks terrible, however kindly - or unkindly. "No, I'm alright," he insists, though he sounds resigned more than offended, voice straining with the effort to grasp his staff in his good hand and prop against it. He does stand, slowly, a little stiff. If he is otherwise wounded, his arm is apparently the worst of it.

Lasulahn's gaze lifts to find the other man's face. "I don't suppose you know somewhere we might get out of the cold." This man's clothes are hardly meant for this sort of weather, which logically means he has a home nearby. (Then again, Lasulahn does notice the shiver, however faint. But he is not of the Inquisition, so he could not have also been brought here from somewhere else simultaneously... Right?)

[bigbaddy]

"I have absolutely no clue where we are," the man admits - somewhat bluntly, giving his wording, but that's just Bigby's style. Even the other's poor physical state can't change anything about that.

Though he honestly could be doing worse right here. At least he isn't being outright rude. Judging by everything about Lasulahn, Bigby is pretty sure they're two people stuck in the exact same situation, unless the other is deceiving him. But after all his work back home, he's pretty sure he's got the experience to be able to usually tell when people are bullshitting him or not.

Lasulahn seems honest.

"But getting out of the cold is a good idea to start with." So he guesses they'll just have to look around. Maybe they can find some sign. Tracks, Bigby thinks, especially with all this snow around. If there's any living soul anywhere around here, they've got to have left tracks somewhere leading to where they're residing.

But before the other turns to walk, he instead glances over at Lasulahn, his gaze moving to the other's staff and arm before traveling back to his face.

"You sure you can walk?"

Granted, it doesn't seem like his legs are injured, but it's hard to tell with the other's general state.

[varhellathen]

Lost or- somehow brought here, too? Lasulahn wonders where the man is from, but survival is more important in the moment. He can hear wolves, and however distant, he knows they can be upon him quickly. Without his magic and an arm wounded to the point of immobility, he will be an easy target.

"Agreed."

He looks around first, though sees nothing from where they stand. A glance back to Bigby. The man is more capable than he, in their respective states, so while Lasulahn might say it is safer to travel together, it really benefits only himself.

"I can. If you wish to go on ahead, I do not blame you." A grim smile. He is tired, and in pain, but his legs work fine. He is reminded of the trudge through the snow after Haven's ruin. Strangely, he feels he is not doing so poorly, now as then. Lasulahn indicates with his staff. "Otherwise, I will follow your lead."

[bigbaddy]

It's a bit of a conundrum. Nothing huge, but-- well, Lasulahn leaving the choice up to him is very considerate, but it actually makes things a lot harder on Bigby. After all, the man sure loves to pretend to be entirely uncaring while actually helping people out, but it's a whole lot harder to give off that usual impression when he has to actively decide to hang back with Lasulahn, rather than moving on more quickly himself.

So he breathes out - so heavily that it's more like a sigh - before shaking his head.

"Might be easier to deal with anything we run into if there's two people."

Granted, it's not really true when the other is clearly injured, and more likely to be a liability than an asset, but Bigby needs some excuse to save face here, really. It's why, when he starts walking, his pace isn't too quick, like he's trying to make sure the other can keep up.

He might have noticed the other looking up at the sound of the wolves, since there's a dismissive hand gesture coming from him, followed up by: "Don't mind the noises. Their bark is probably worse than their bite."