bringspeopletogether | [sandbox] out of the abyss

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sandbox

[sandbox] out of the abyss

It starts as a shimmer out by the lake. Look at the water from the right angle, and the light glinting off it looks a bit...green. Sickly.

(Familiar, if you're from a certain time and place in Thedas.)

Look up some minutes later, and you can pinpoint the source: a thin, glowing ribbon uncoiling in the sky. It emerges slowly, but the more light it casts, the more momentum it gains, until it explodes outward with an enormous crack like lightning splintering the ground.

A much quieter thump follows as something hits the dirt.

Someone.

The glow vanishes; the person doesn't move for a long beat. (Get up, he's telling himself, get up -- ) He manages to drag his hands level with his shoulders, press down to bear himself upward an inch, look up at where he's landed.

Get. Up.

Another shove, and Alistair lurches to his feet, sword hauled from its scabbard and shield at the ready. His breath rattles, harsh against his throat, as he stares wild-eyed around the grounds.

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"All right."

She moves toward him slowly, staff slung across her back -- along with her sword.

Liranan paces behind her, hackles still raised.

"Here, do you think you can use my shoulder to help you stand? I know it's not at a convenient height, but -- "

He manages a nod: he can try, at least.

As carefully as he can, Alistair clasps Ysa's shoulder. The grip gets a little less gentle once it's time for him to stand up -- it becomes obvious very fast that he can't carry much of his own weight anymore. Now that he's not trying to hack his way through hordes of demons, his body seems to have taken its cue: it's finally time to rest.

But eventually, he's on his feet again, only shaking a little bit from the effort.

"All right, here, let's just get inside and to the fireplace -- if that's all right. The couches are comfortable and I'm not sure either of us can manage stairs just now."

The adrenaline rush is over, and Ysa is going to start shaking, herself, soon.

"That's fine." Low.

It's a clear directive he can follow. Better than floundering for some idea of what might come next.

He moves slowly, trying not to lean any more weight on her than necessary. After a moment, he thinks to add, no much louder: "I'm sorry. I didn't..."

If she turns out to be a demon after all, Alistair's going to feel like a fool for apologizing to her. Right now, though, he's too exhausted to care.

"No," Ysalwen demurs, leading him step by staggering step toward the bar proper. "It's all right. The Fade is -- "

Um.

"Very unpleasant. Or it can be. I remember."

Liranan trots behind them, hackles finally smoothing down. A little. Just try anything, world, and he will be right there to worry you to death!

That gets a bark of laughter out of him: quick, sharp, more than a little hysterical. "You could say that."

Alistair looks down at Liranan. "I'm sorry for hurting you, too."

Liranan looks up at him, tail wagging very slowly.

Then he licks Alistair's hand.

It is okay! You are not that great at punching! And he would have ripped your throat out if you hurt Ysa! Forgiven!

"I'll get him some healing poultices once we're inside. And -- do you need any, yourself?"

Call it the Fereldan reflex: Liranan licks his hand, and Alistair immediately turns his palm over to give the mabari a rub behind the ears. Maybe the nuances of that forgiveness have gotten lost in translation, but tail-wags and a lack of raised hackles go a long way.

"I'm fine." He's not. He's very much not. But a healing poultice isn't going to fix anything.

"We both know that's not true."

It's a little obvious.

"But if you don't want healing poultices, I suppose that's all right."

Liranan, meanwhile, basks in the ear rub, because it's normal! Maybe Alistair will be okay!

"I don't." It comes out steelier than he intends; more reflex bred from however many Maker-damned months -- years? -- he spent in the Fade. "I don't want anything."

She's not insisting he take the offer, though. That...might be a good sign? Alistair glances up in another brief search for the Black City. Again, only clouds mark his view.

Ysa is not touching that 'want' comment with a fifty foot pole.

A desire demon would, and -- no.

"Not even water and food? Bar is still the same as she was, so she'll provide. If -- "

Well.

Alistair shakes his head. It throws his balance off-kilter; he stumbles, winces, catches himself on Ysa's shoulder.

He doesn't feel particularly hungry or thirsty, anyway. Just tired.

(It doesn't occur to him that hunger or thirst might be contributing to that exhaustion.)

"It might help with your balance problem. And the tremors."

She bears up under his weight, though, as if she weren't made for anything else.

"You'll probably feel safer, a bit, if those can be fixed."

Maybe --

Maybe if he gets the water himself. That might work. If nobody else touches it but him.

Alistair breathes out, and goes back to focusing on his feet: one step, another, left foot, right foot. "I'll ask."

"All right."

She doesn't say 'good'. She doesn't say 'thank you'.

"Do you mind if I eat, a little? Maybe some bread, and a little cheese. To settle my stomach."

A drink would also do wonders, but -- not just now.

Blankly: "Why would I mind?"

They're nearly to the back door. Five more steps. He can make it five more steps -- and then however many he needs to take to get to the bar, but it's not as many as crossing the grounds.

"I don't know, but you're acting -- well. I mean. The Fade, so. It would make anyone a little strange. For a while. So I wanted to be sure."

Or something like that.

"Here, by the fire."

Sometimes, to do what needs doing, you can't afford to feel what needs feeling. Ysalwen has gotten very good at that over the years.

He nods. Already, he can't remember why he wanted to go to the bar first. It must not be important, he decides, and moves where Ysa directs him.

Alistair isn't sure how long it's been since he sat down, that little collapse outside notwithstanding. The couch feels like it's going to envelop him when he drops onto it; he digs his fingers into the armrest just in case.

Well, if he's going to be like that --

"Liranan, wait with him for a moment, if you please. I'm going to Bar for supplies."

She brings back a glass of water, a pitcher to refill it with, and a plate full of bread and cheese.

And some spiced potatoes. And roast pheasant. And some venison.

Liranan, meanwhile, sets himself a little away from Alistair, panting up at him. He is going to be okay, right? Right!

Maybe it's trying to lull him into complacency. Sending a mabari to a Fereldan would be a pretty good lure. Alistair tries to take stock of his remaining weapons -- the sword, though that'll take effort to draw; a knife somewhere, he thinks -- then gives up and offers his hand to Liranan to sniff.

When Ysa returns with the food, he glances up, sharply. The smell makes his mouth start watering so fast that it's nearly painful, but all he does is eye the plates as she sets them down.

Liranan is terrible at lulling people. He has too much energy!

He does sit up, though, as Ysa comes back. Throw him some venison, Ysa! He is hungry!

She obliges, of course, after setting down the tray and pouring out some of the water.

"Here."

She hands it to Alistair, after taking a sip herself.

"This will help a bit, if your head is swimming. It's water."

Cautiously, Alistair accepts the glass, eyes fixed on Ysa the whole time. He finally pries his gaze away to study the water instead.

...That was why he wanted to go to the bar. He remembers now. So he could get the water himself.

Damn it all.

If it were poisoned, she'd be falling over dead right now. (If she's a demon, it doesn't matter. But -- demons wouldn't be this subtle. Would they?) Just as cautious, he takes a sip.

And then a gulp.

Ysa waits patiently, settling herself in a chair and folding her hands carefully in her lap.

No matter how much she might want to do anything else.

"Slow down, just a little."

Her voice is deliberately straightforward, not gentle at all.

"I don't think you want to sick up just now."

She's got a point: there's no telling how long it's been since Alistair ate or drank...well, anything. He certainly can't remember. And even water is enough of a shock for his stomach to flip unpleasantly; he stops, the glass half-drained, and draws a few deep breaths.

"It's been a while," he mutters.

"I had a feeling."

Or a guess. Whichever.

"Considering you ended up here. And solid. And -- "

Incredibly paranoid and disoriented.

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