calderamemes | TDM #5

Entry tags:

!mod post,
!tdm

TDM #5

ARRIVAL

It happens in an instant. A heavy weight in your gut, a trembling of your limbs, the world spins and you barely have time to register that you're falling before you lose consciousness. And when you awaken, it's not where you were last. Dark, unadorned oak walls surround you in a tiny room, the only furniture the bed you are currently resting upon, and the bedside table with a folded piece of parchment resting atop it that simply reads:

“The Tavernkeeper is awaiting your arrival downstairs.”

As you exit you find others like yourself emerging from the surrounding rooms. You are indeed in a tavern, but there is no hustle and bustle one might think to hear in such a place. The only person down on the main floor is a humanoid figure wiping down the bar, who smiles when they see you. They're familiar, but not, and you can't quite place their face. For some reason, however, their presence is comforting and warm.

“Welcome, Visitor. I'm sure you have a lot of questions.”

And you most certainly do.

Due to popular demand, the starter tavern and the drinks provided are available to in game characters via a portal accessible only to those with a faction gem.

DRINK MENU

FLAMEFRUIT SANGRIA a deep red wine based punch with chunks of softly glowing fruit floating in it. A single serving makes you feel relaxed, social, and maybe even a little flirty.

MOLTEN MEAD Though the thick drink itself is room temperature, it bubbles sluggishly, and feels very warm going down. The bold flavor affects your mood. You feel very bold! Like you could do anything!

BESALT BRANDY a hopefully staple drink for the brewery, this liquor is smooth and rich with a peppery bite. Ironically after consuming it, you kinda want to bite someone! Not hard! Just a little nip and nibble!

THAT ASHY ESPRESSO a single potent shot of dark espresso swirled with a gold-tinged cream. Intense and bitter with a hint of caramelized sugar. You are now very awake, hyper, and excited.

PYROCLAST'S WHISKEYa glossy black whiskey that turns a vibrant glowing orange when swirled. You now breathe fire.

EMBERMARK WINE a rich, velvety, spiced wine that immediately makes one feel mellow and calm.

CHOOSE YOUR DESTINY

As the effects of your drink wear off, the Tavernkeeper speaks once more:

”It is time, my friends, for you to find your new homes.”

You are compelled to walk through the only door leading out of the tavern, finding yourself not outside, but in a deep black, seemingly endless room with five portals arranged in a circle. As the last of you leave and the door closes behind you, gone when you look back again and replaced with nothing but that black void, three of the portals illuminate:

The first portal is surrounded by an almost blinding light, prismatic rainbows shining brightly in the dewy air outside of the tavern. A soft breeze may gently caress you, pulling you toward it. The portal seems to lead to a city in the clouds, airships and winged beings of all sorts soaring through the skies. Of the little bits of visible land, much of it boasts giant waterfalls that look like clouds melting into the land below. The portal calls to those who crave independence and freedom; and especially to anyone that wishes to find the strong bond of a family not forged in blood.

The second portal is encircled by a fairy ring of spotted white capped mushrooms, the faint scent of damp stone and rich earth wafting from within the faint green glow. Peering inside, one can see a sprawling harbor city of gray hewn stone, a melting pot of humanoid beings going about their day, and beyond, rolling green farmland and cottages clustered in small villages. This portal is destined for those who crave stability and solid ground beneath their feet. A simple life, an adventurous one, and everything in between can be found within.

The last portal is adorned with shells and seaweed, the glow of blue around it catching on droplets cascading down the circular opening. Beyond it you see a city housed inside a massive bubble deep under the ocean, spiraling towers encrusted with coral, and a variety of different creatures mingling about the streets. Outside of that bubble, merfolk swim, a massive squid engulfs the view from the portal as it smoothly glides through the water, and schools of fish disperse as it passes. A sanctuary in the sea that calls to those with a hunger for knowledge and a desire to aid those in need. Or perhaps it is the mystery that beckons you - the lure of the unknown in the depths that bids you explore it.

Upon following the pull of the breeze through the first portal, you are thrust into the beauty of a lively city that goes by the name of Heaven's Bow. Much of this main city feels exactly as you would expect on a city below, but there are clouds surrounding every direction you look. The walls of buildings are made with light-colored limestone, and buildings are generally built up to heights made even more grandiose by their position in the sky.

The Skyfall Docks are the first thing you notice, boasting hundreds of airships sailing in and out across the clouds with shouts that accompany a typical port city. Just outside is a fantastic market with goods not only from the other regions of Caldera, but from what some shopkeepers claim are other worlds--items sold or left behind by Visitors. Almost anything can be found in the markets if one is willing to look hard enough. Transport to other locations throughout the sky and even to the land or sea can be found here.

If the docks are too lively for you, you may instead find yourself roaming the underbelly of Heaven's Bow and finding brothels and gambling parlors filled with the promise of pleasure and fortune. The guild house for the Sylphs can be found here as well, giving out quests and training to prospective adventurers and guards alike--though none of them seem concerned with the illicit activities that surround them. Perhaps the freedom the Sylphs boast of extends to what others may deem an undesirable activity.

But most curious of all, you find a shimmering opal gemstone in your hand. When placed anywhere on the body, it will transform into a piece of jewelry with the gemstone set in the center.

If it was the second portal that called to you, you will find yourself in the busy city of Grey Ward, with its cobblestone streets and sturdy grey stone buildings. You are in the heart of the city, the Glass Market, so named for the colorful stained glass windows of the surrounding buildings. The scent of cooking food and the sound of barkers fills the air; watchful guards keep an eye out for pickpockets and thieves, and citizens go about their day. From here, one can investigate the rest of the city: the Sundown Docks, where both sea and sky faring skips transport people and goods. The Soot Spire, home of inventors and engineers. The Hearthstill, the main residential area. The Downs, a smaller residential area for those with less means.

Outside the city walls, one can explore acres of farmlands to the east and west, or follow Terra’s Pass to the less settled areas, but take care. Past the Skyward Range, out in the smaller burrows and villages, the influence of the city guard diminishes quickly, and you’ll have to keep your wits about you. Bandits along the road are always a risk, and the wildlife are less controlled by regimented hunting.

In your hand is a gemstone, a brilliantly green emerald that, when placed anywhere on the body, will transform into a piece of jewelry with the gemstone set in the center.

If the last portal beckoned you through it, you find yourself within that bubble covered city beneath the sea, the city of Salt Spire. Your ears pop with the change in pressure, and the smell of the salty sea fills your nostrils. All around you buildings made of dark stone encrusted with coral and seagrass tower high above your head, the backdrop outside the dome a deep blue, seemingly endless sea filled with fish and merfolk and all other manner of creature swimming through the water. You stand in the heart of it all, surrounded by people with gils on their necks and scales upon their vibrantly colored skin, all of whom seem intrigued by your arrival. You have many options of where to visit in the city under the sea, but where oh where will you go first?

The Salt Spire Library is right before you, an impossibly large building housing thousands upon thousands of books of all genres. Fiction, non-fiction, romance and mystery and all between. You may even find books from your world and others! Oddly enough though, no Calderan history books are to be found, and if you ask for them, the librarians and locals all choose to ignore your questions.

If scholarly pursuits aren't to your interest currently, perhaps a trip to Bluetide Market would be more your style? The marketplace is host to every manner of shop one might ever need: artisans of all varieties, apothecaries and healers in the Shimmer Quarter, the most in fashion undersea clothing shops, food stalls, and all between can be found in Bluetide. There are also the Tideshore and Fogbottom docks on either end of the city. The former allows transport to the surface via large, magical bubbles for those that cannot hold their breath or make the swim themselves yet. The latter allows people to venture further into the sea. Those without their underwater abilities are offered rebreathers for travel that last for four hours before needing to be replaced.

In your hand is a gemstone, a shining sapphire that, when placed anywhere on the body, will transform into a piece of jewelry with the gemstone set in the center.

IGNACIA'S CRADLE/EMBER VEIL

Months ago, a piece of land from Heaven’s Bow fell from the sky and scarred the land below, damaging a part of the city. From that chaos and ruin rose new life, a new ruler, and a new city: Ignacia’s Cradle. Just a short walk from the edge of Grey Ward, the gates of the city are guarded by two massive obsidian golems, and any who did not rise from the lava itself are warned at the entrance that to travel about the city will be most difficult, unless they have obtained a way to mitigate the extreme heat: be that with a charm, an ability, or a potion. The very streets themselves are paved in slabs of volcanic rock, tall spires of buildings constructed and shaped by rapidly cooled lava. The main method of travel are the mine carts, with tracks that wind through the spires ready to take one to almost any location.

Currently, the main feature of Ignacia’s Cradle is the Lava Flats, home of skilled smiths that use the extreme heat of the lava to melt the strongest metals and create unbreakable weapons, glassmakers and jewelers who fashion elaborate headpieces, rings, and amulets. These items are sold at the Ember Market on the outskirts of the Flats.

At the edge of the city lies the Ashfall Terrace, where a small farm using the rich volcanic ash and soil is in its infancy, as well as the Basalt Brewery where clever alchemists are researching ways to use the extreme heat to craft new and unique beverages that they are eager to find folk to test them out on.

The hot spring of Ignacia’s Cradle is a breathtaking anomaly located just beyond the Ashfall Terrace, tucked into a secluded crater formed by the celestial impact that gave rise to the city. Here, molten veins from the Lava Flats weave beneath the earth, heating a natural reservoir that bubbled to life amidst the chaos. The spring’s waters shimmer with an ethereal brilliance, hues of deep turquoise blending with molten gold and fiery orange, as though Heaven’s Bow itself left behind a fragment of its essence. Steam rises in curling wisps, carrying the tang of minerals and faint traces of sulfur.

The spring, known to locals as The Ember Veil, is both a sanctuary and a marvel of natural wonder. Its soothing waters are reputed to heal wounds and fortify the spirit, with the temperature kept in perfect balance by an intricate system of naturally formed vents and channels. The edges are lined with intricately carved obsidian benches, where patrons can soak their feet or meditate in the rising steam. Plants resistant to the intense conditions—vivid fire lilies and ash ferns—dot the perimeter, their resilience a symbol of life’s ability to flourish even in the harshest environments.

Sometimes, when two or more individuals share the waters, the spring creates a subtle connection between their minds, allowing memories to surface like ripples on its surface. These shared memories appear as glowing, translucent scenes that hover above the water, visible to all within the spring. Participants can relive moments from their lives, experiencing them through each other’s eyes, fostering profound empathy and understanding.

Another of the spring’s mystical properties occurs when bathers who enter the waters feeling drained, injured, or burdened by grief often find their vitality restored. The waters seem to draw out negative energies and emotions, replacing them with a warm, invigorating sensation that spreads through the body. In rare instances, the spring has been known to accelerate physical healing, mending minor injuries and soothing chronic aches, as though the magic itself is stitching the body back together.

A lesser-known but equally fascinating effect happens on particularly clear nights, when the moonlight reflects on the spring’s surface, some bathers report fleeting glimpses of potential futures. These visions are often cryptic, appearing as brief, dream-like flashes, but they have guided many to life-changing decisions. The alchemists of the Basalt Brewery believe this effect stems from residual cosmic energy, and they have begun experimenting with enhancing it through the addition of rare minerals and lunar elixirs.

RADIANT SUN

The day begins like no other, with the skies painted in hues of golden-pink as the Radiant Sun ascends. Its light spills over the world, warm and soft, caressing the land and filling every heart with a sense of peace. Beneath its glow, emotions of love and connection bloom like never before. Strangers exchange heartfelt smiles, old friends embrace as though no time has passed, and lovers find their feelings deepened, their bonds strengthened.

Even the air feels different—lighter, sweeter, as though the universe itself is celebrating. The songs of birds harmonize with the melodies of impromptu musicians who feel inspired by the sun’s radiance. Those with magical abilities sense their powers of healing and creation magnified, as if the sun itself lends its strength to their intentions. Long-held grudges seem to melt away under the sun’s tender gaze, replaced by tears of reconciliation and words of forgiveness.

The Radiant Sun touches every heart differently:

◾A widow finds peace as memories of her late spouse no longer bring sorrow but gratitude for the love they shared.
◾A timid youth finds the courage to confess their feelings to the person they’ve admired for so long.
◾A gruff warrior lets down their guard, laughing freely with their companions for the first time in years.

For a fleeting moment, the world feels as it should be—unified, harmonious, and drenched in love.

But as the day wanes and the Radiant Sun dips below the horizon, an unease begins to settle...

JEALOUS MOON

The golden light gives way to deep purples and silvers as the Jealous Moon rises, its glow pale and cold. Its light pierces the heart, not to warm it, but to expose the insecurities that lie buried within. Where love had flourished during the day, doubt begins to creep in.

Under the Jealous Moon’s influence, emotions twist and darken:

◾A once-reconciled pair of siblings argue over old grievances, as jealousy over perceived favoritism resurfaces.
◾A couple, who had spent the day lost in each other’s arms, now question each other’s loyalty and intentions.
◾A nobleman, inspired to be generous during the day, grows suspicious of those who received his gifts, fearing they may exploit his kindness.

The air grows heavy with tension, and the magic of the Radiant Sun fades, replaced by the sharp sting of distrust. The moon’s pale light seems to follow people like a judgmental gaze, amplifying every fear, insecurity, and lingering resentment.

Worse still, the night seems endless, as though time itself has bent beneath the weight of the Jealous Moon’s envious glow. For three long days and nights, the moon lingers high in the sky, its pale, piercing light casting a shadow over hearts and minds, amplifying discord and despair. Its power sows strife among even the closest bonds, driving some to dangerous extremes. Yet, when all seems lost, the scholars of the three factions unite their wisdom and uncover a glimmer of hope—a means to dispel the moon’s cruel influence. For those who have not yet succumbed to jealousy’s grip, there remains a chance to reclaim harmony, a chance for redemption before the damage becomes irreversible.

The solution lies not in complex rituals or rare relics but in the simplest and most instinctive actions: physical connection. To weaken the moon’s hold, people must embrace one another—offering a hug, a handshake, or even resting a hand on someone’s shoulder. These gestures of closeness disrupt the isolation and mistrust that the moon thrives upon. Sitting side by side or holding hands creates a barrier against its oppressive light, reminding the afflicted that they are not alone. Even small acts, like sharing warmth through proximity or clasping arms in solidarity, build a shield of connection that the moon cannot penetrate.

As these actions ripple through the night, the Jealous Moon’s light begins to dim, its sharp, cold glow softening until it fades from the sky entirely. The tension in the air lifts, replaced by a quiet calm that feels almost foreign after the chaos of the past three days. Slowly, the world seems to exhale, and the darkness that clung so tightly to the hearts of many begins to loosen its grip. People step back from the brink of despair, their minds clearing as if waking from a long, disorienting dream. Relationships strained by the moon’s influence begin to mend as apologies are exchanged, tears are shed, and bonds are reaffirmed.

ALL IS WELL(?)

With the Radiant Sun rising again, its golden-pink hues spilling across the horizon, life begins to return to normal. The birds resume their morning songs, markets reopen, and the hum of daily activity fills the air once more. Though traces of the moon’s influence linger in whispered memories, there is a collective sense of relief and gratitude among the people—gratitude for the light, for connection, and for a second chance to heal.

In the outskirts of Ignacia's Cradle, Aella and Terra, two of the three leaders of the factions, come together to address the gathered crowds. Together they assure the people that this celestial event was a rare anomaly, something never before recorded in the annals of history. They explain that while the Jealous Moon’s influence was unprecedented and deeply unsettling, it was a unique alignment of cosmic forces that is unlikely to occur again in their lifetimes—or ever.

The leaders thank the people for their resilience and compassion, emphasizing how their acts of unity—simple gestures of closeness and connection—proved stronger than the moon’s envy. They commend the scholars for their quick thinking and the Visitors for their role in guiding others through the chaos. Finally, they urge everyone to move forward, not in fear of what has passed, but with the knowledge that even in the darkest moments, their strength lies in the bonds they share.

QUESTBOARD

Settled in? Good. It's time to make your way to the Questboard located in every city in numerous, easy to access locations. That is, if you want to make any kind of impact on the world or just get some Bones for anything you might wish to purchase. Visitors are given a very small stipend in which to survive every month, but all it does is keep you fed and housed. These quests will assure you greater wealth, and they're the main reason you're here: each finished quest helps the Calderans fix their shattering world.

Quests can be accepted at the questboard via magically signed parchment upon the board. Just sign your name to accept and the paper will be whisked away... somewhere. You're not actually sure. Probably nothing to concern yourself with.

Once quests are completed, earned Bones will be dropped off at the character's residence by Bonita, the mysterious artisan who has supposedly handcrafted every Bone circulating in Caldera. Please do not speak to her, she startles easily.

*February will be the last month to complete quests for this rotation. New ones will go up on March 1st.

OOC NOTES

Welcome to Caldera's fifth TDM! All characters awaken in a strange tavern with nothing save the clothes on their backs, all of their powers stripped, and a piece of parchment directing them downstairs to the Tavernkeeper. There is a thread of all questions answered by the Tavernkeeper here, and if you have more, feel free to ask there for what would be offered ICly.

For OOC questions, please direct themhere.

All locations are available to be explored! Ignacia's Cradle and Ember Veil have been added, along with details about the Violet Drop regarding the Cult of Triton.

The TDM is game canon and all completed quests can be carried over once accepted into the game.

Participation in the Radiant Sun/Jealous Moon effects is not mandatory.

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Gods and monsters. Barcus is just a gnome, and not one that's all that spiritually adept. Clever, sure, but a hedge-wizard has more magic in his little finger than Barcus does in his small, scrappy body. He is perpetually out of his depth, has been ever since he stepped out of Baldur's Gate to look for his lost friend, but this isn't the first time he's looked into the eyes of someone adjacent to powers beyond his ken.

Enver Gortash is gone, and in the end there wasn't a damn thing Barcus could do for him, for solace or forgiveness or retribution. But he wonders a little, what he and Solas would have made of each other. Maybe the most bitter enmity imaginable, or maybe not.

He's very still, alert as Solas speaks, like a rabbit listening for a predator, except that Barcus isn't afraid. Whatever else this man may be, he's a person that at one point needed reassurance and backup, and likely still does.

It will be a privilege to see him die.
They labeled me Harellan.
What's treason, after all, except defiance toward whoever holds the power to label it?

At length, Barcus manages to break his gaze, shivering just once as he looks into the water. Mercifully, no more memories dance there at the moment. "It's funny how many people I know are looking toward a future where they have to face down gods or god-eaters or aberrations...ostensibly the worst I'll have to deal with back home is negotiating the price of steel ingots out of Waterdeep."

It would be humbling, except Barcus is innately pretty humble. "I'll do what I can to help you get out of here," he promises quietly. "And Beleth. Though that may not be much."

"An enviable simplicity," He says, quietly amused. You don't know how good you have it in life, until it's all so... terrible, "Believe me when I say, if I could wash my hands of it all, and simply live an ordinary life, I would. But there is no path except the way forward, now."

Or death, of course. The world swallowed up forever by the Blight, a final vengeance that devours everything in horror and corruption, and what little remnant of Elgar'nan that remains, to rule over it. Until he too is eaten, at the last...

...No. No, it cannot, will not, be so. It will be stopped, and all things returned to as they were meant to be.

"Beleth is mortal. I never intended to fall in love— in truth, I have done everything in my power to separate us. But she is...Utterly indomitable," He says. Despite himself, Solas can feel the unwilling tenderness come into him at the thought of her. Soft, Dread Wolf, you've gone soft, "I do not believe I can survive watching her die. So I must succeed."

"Are you sure?" Again, his voice is mild, but the look he gives Solas is gently quizzical. After thousands of years of watching empires rise and fall, what even is a normal life, and how could you possibly adapt to one? "Maybe you were always going to be stuck with extraordinary, dear."

"No point in speculating, though. We work with the materials we're given." And for a moment Barcus dares to wish he had a little more, if only for the sake of offering better work to others.

"Love is like that," he says. "It brings out the best and worst in us, one way or another, though it's not always the most enjoyable experience. Maybe the pain makes it more precious, in its own way."

"True peace is rare," He admits, a tilt of the head standing in for a shrug, "But, my memories of it are precious."

His normal, he thinks, and Barcus' would be very different indeed. Five years courtship is long for a mortal, but when elves were immortal, Solus would have called it very quick indeed. That a mere decades stands between meeting Beleth and today...

...They would laugh. They would scorn him. Much too fast to take seriously. And yet he was sincere, and knew his own heart. He had always known loyalty as a rare and strange, unshakeable thing.

"You continue to surprise me; few would have taken the revelation so in stride."

"Sometimes I wonder if what I thought of as peace was just ignorance," Barcus says. "Not knowing what battles were being fought just outside my line of sight."

But then, he's a small gnome, and Toril is a big world. Solas' perspective is bound to be different; he's a much bigger, older fish in the proverbial pond.

Barcus leans back and squints his eyes closed against the brightness of the sky; even without full sunlight, it stings if he tries to stare upwards in daylight. The light on his skin feels pleasant, though, and it buys him a moment to decide how much to say.

"When I first got here there was a man from my own world in the Tavern. I knew him at a glance. Enver Gortash, the tyrant of Baldur's Gate, and the Chosen of Bane. He was supposed to be dead. He is dead, in the Faerun I come from, but maybe he got a respite here, however briefly."

"I got the chance to ask him some questions he never would have answered otherwise. Those Tavern drinks are good for something, sometimes." He lets out a sigh. "He caused so much pain. To my people. I pitied him anyway."

"He's gone now, and I don't think he'll be coming back, or I wouldn't be telling you he existed at all. I promised I would keep quiet about his past, for whatever it was worth. I think he respected that. I hope he didn't get returned to Bane. I wanted...for him to get a second chance, in the absence of all the people baying for his blood and all the people who did him wrong before he started lashing out. I don't know if he got anything out of it, but I don't have any regrets."

"Maybe there are gods and godspawn and Chosen out there who aren't also, in some way, just people struggling with themselves and the world around them, but damned if I've ever seen one."

It's a good point, and a sharp one— Solas' reverie of better times inevitably stood on the labour of slaves. On his own enslavement, not least of all. But it was not war, and for a few centuries he had at least had the illusion of normalcy— perhaps that was indulgence enough for any one lifetime. If he had had none since then, until coming here...

...It is all merely academic. The work of the day was what consumed him, always.

"Wise beyond your years, Barcus Wroot. I may choose to aspire to your sense of humility, though I fear it a pointless quest," His name means pride for a reason, but the good thing about people is that they can always change— if they want to, "I... doubt I shall ever outrun the shadow of my mistakes. Even here, there are those who revile me for it— as you saw."

When they met, he means, and having been made helpless he had borne a bruise for several days, until able to earn the bones to have his magic back.

"I don't know about that," Barcus says softly. "Compassion and wisdom aren't the same thing. Sometimes they even run counter to one another. But thank you."

He takes a couple wary steps deeper into the pool, sinking up to his collarbones. "Anyway, my point is I could hardly offer the benefit of the doubt to someone who harmed me personally and then refuse it to someone who hasn't, just because of what? Risk? Uncertainty?" He shrugs.

"Sooner or later, maybe someone will want to pull me aside and explain whatever it was you've done. Maybe it will be more than my moral compass can handle, or maybe not. Maybe I'll even have to stand up to you some day, as I did with Wulbren, but I won't hate you for it. I couldn't."

Solas considers that sentiment, the idea of this tiny, stolid little person standing against him. It is in many ways laughable, but in all others an undeniably noble idea. Whether or not it might work at all... He cannot say. Such arguments have not won the day, in the past.

He opens his mouth to say so, but the voice from the water comes first; cold and warlike, melodically beautiful for all its iron chill.

'Have you created what we need?'

Her face swims up from the depths, her face framed by a peaked diadem, crystalline spikes framing the sharp planes of an impossibly beautiful face. She seems almost carven, in her ageless, lineless appearance; as manufactured a countenance as one might imagine, with storm-grey eyes. She turns and looks at Solas, as if she can see him, and his own voice answers, as another shade comes into view.

'With this, the proper ritual will sunder every Titan from its spirit,' A younger man, frowning, sorrowed, but no less stern. In his hands a dagger of peculiar design that glows from within, forged from a blue, crystalline material, 'But you must know, those severed dreams will certainly be driven mad, a disembodied blight of pain and anger.'

His face twists, the blade loose in his fingers, half-turning away. Can he even be considering this? Solas' face, his own true face, is bloodless and wide-eyed, still caught with his mouth half-open to speak.

'It... is awful,' the specter says, 'What we're doing.'

But the woman's face is unchanging. She reaches out, quickly, and then with a gentle hand, takes the blade from him. And Solas lets her.

'And the only way to end this war.'

What would have happened with Wulbren, had Tav not been there to suggest Barcus put himself forward as leader of the Ironhands? He'd have stood his ground all the same, but chances are he'd have been killed. He's still not sure he has it in him to actually fight Wulbren, to hurt or risk killing him. He'd have the same conundrum with any friend, to one degree or another, and probably the same willingness to continue to love and care about them, even if he had to turn his back on them.

In the meantime, he knows the idea of him actually fighting Solas, physically or with magic, is insane, but that's not the point.

The voice from the water makes him start slightly, but because he's deeper in it now, the little jump barely makes a ripple. Instead, he finds his eyes drawn to the motion on the undulating surface. An unfamiliar face, and then one that is quite familiar, if younger.

A chilling thought, that the power in these waters can pull memories from him, and Barcus finds himself looking over at his friend. The pallor and shock in his eyes leaves no doubt; this is his memory, and it's not a nice one.

He listens to the rest of the memory unfolding, almost holding his breath, but his gaze remains mostly on Solas' physical presence there in the water nearby. Part of him is afraid the man might faint, or flee, based on the look on his face, but part of him is watching for cues, as well.

A weapon that will sever a spirit from its body. A blight of madness and pain. A war, desperation and uncertainty. Titans? He blinks slowly, brows knitting as he thinks of what Ashton has told him, shards of dead elemental entities, power running so wild through him that he shattered. It's overwhelming, disparate, unsettling elements that the gnome's little brain, clever as it is, cannot draw together into a coherent whole.

He's quiet for a long moment, drawing a ragged breath. The water feels cold, for a few unpleasant seconds.

"...are you all right?" First question's first. He takes a step or two closer to Solas, trying to read his expression.

Solas is transfixed, caught and pinned, until the tableau fades away into the water. The breath he sucks in is pained, and he has to breathe for several heaving seconds before he can parse what it is that Barcus has said.

"I... am fine," He says, unconvincingly, and then backs himself up until he can find a ledge at the edge of the pool, and drop onto it. A memory, only a memory, "I have not thought of that moment, for a very long time."

It was an unpleasant memory, one of Solas' deepest regrets, and yet it was not the memory itself that had shocked him. Mythal's face, just as she had been... For a single horrifying heartbeat it had seemed so real, and he had balked.

"Give me a moment, I—" He might be sick, "...You must have questions."

Solas may normally be a good liar, but that? That wasn't. "No, you're not," Barcus tells him, matter-of-factly, and he moves to his side, clambering up to stand on the ledge beside him so their faces are roughly level with each other. His instinct is to touch and comfort here, but looking at Solas, he's not sure he should, quite yet. It's like watching a sleepwalker wake.

"I have a lot of questions," he admits. "But you don't owe me answers."

Still, it seems like too much of a coincidence for a memory like that to pop up here, unbidden. Someone's trying to tell them something, and that someone may be, in some unconscious way, Solas himself. The least Barcus can do is listen, even if he suspects he won't like what he hears.

"Take a few breaths. Feel the air above us, the stone under your feet. You're here, now, not whenever or wherever that just was."

Edited (typo) 2025-02-23 16:04 (UTC)

Solas does as he is bid: it is good advice, to ground oneself in techniques of meditation and calm as ancient as time itself. Selfconsciously, Solas passes a hand over his scalp— the memory of him had had hair, after all. A pointless, inane piece of vanity, that impulse.

"I am well," He says eventually, though it is not quite true, "That was... surprising. I apologize."

There may come a day when he does not react to the visage of Mythal like a wounded animal, but it is not today.

Barcus is one of the majority of deep gnomes who simply don't grow hair on their heads. It's especially common among males, although there are certainly a few with luxurious flowing snowy locks. He thinks that's unwise, for working purposes. Either they'll get singed in the forge or caught in a machine. Seems like a hindrance.

Baldness is just practical. Anyway, he doesn't quite read Solas' gesture as vanity, just general insecurity, and so he gives into the impulse to put a small hand on his shoulder. Small, but strong, and hopefully grounding.

"I'm sure. I wasn't entirely expecting mine, either." He squeezes his shoulder gently, hesitates a long moment and then asks:

"Was it the only way? To end the war?"

Edited (clarity) 2025-02-23 17:08 (UTC)

"What can I say? I cannot know what another history would have brought, all choices vanish, once they are made. If we had stopped taking the lyrium sooner, or never taken it at all. If the dwarves had been less mindless, in those days, or our leaders more compassionate..." Solas shakes his head, "By that time, there only two ends to the conflict. And by far the most likely seemed that the elves would be killed, all of us that there were."

He falls silent, a moment, thinking of the cities buried under landslides, the villages crushed underfoot, or swamped under waves of fire. The refugees pouring into Arlathan, their feet bloodied by the long road, the smell of sulfur clinging to their clothes.

"...It would not have been the end, not completely, of every aspect of what we were, but the death toll— the Spirits who survived would rebuild over a marshland of blood. We had already gone too far, I believe, to simply surrender and yet live."

Barcus' instinct is to believe there is always a third option, or a fifth, or a seventh, if you have enough courage and time to search for it. But it doesn't look like Solas was in charge in the moment he just viewed, and he's not reacting like it, either. The gnome can't tell what aspects of this memory have him so shaken up, but it seems like the other person in it is the source of at least half of the disturbance.

After a moment, he settles on his knees on the surface beside Solas, which puts him at a lower height, but maybe that's reassuring. He puts a hand on his arm and leaves it there, a small, comforting presence.

There is no doubt what was being contemplated there was monstrous, probably on a level beyond Barcus' comprehension, and there is also no doubt the horror was carried out. And yet, he finds himself more concerned with his friend, still, because Solas is alive and in front of him, and the slaughter is just a reflection in the water. Speaking of wisdom and compassion being two different things...

"What started the war, then?"

Solas agrees, if only he knew how to articulate it; anything, anything at all would have been better than this. If he had never made the dagger, if he had simply let all of them die, himself included, it would have been the superior option. Would have reduced the bloodshed to the merest fraction of what it one day would become.

But at the time? It had seemed the only way. Barcus' hand, light on his arm— he shudders. So few people touch him, and even then it is unusual for any among that number not to mean him harm. Much has changed, since coming to Caldera.

"The Lyrium," He says, quietly, "It is a magically infused crystalline metal. Very powerful, and very beautiful. It's uses are nearly-infinite, and we took it for our own purposes, where we found it, thinking of Lyrium as nothing more than as any other mineral— but it is not. It is the blood of Titans, living stone, that carries their deep magic within it. They did not appreciate our scavenging."

Edited (fixed awkward phrasing) 2025-02-23 19:53 (UTC)

Oh...oh dear. "Ssh, sorry," he says softly and withdraws his hand. "I'm only trying to be here for you."

And he can do that without touching, so he does, turning to face him and putting his hands in his own lap, looking up at Solas patiently. It's hard to tell how much he's reading into his responses and his body language; truth be told, he's still watching, but discomfort and uncertainty are easy enough to spot. Once again, he's reminded of that first encounter with Gortash, that one revealing whisper he got out of him:

Why that god? Why Bane?
He was the one who answered. The only one.

Barcus draws in a breath, dismayed by the idea of taking stone that was simultaneously a living entity, part of a living body. As if someone had reached into Ashton to drain his blood or chip away at his golden scars. His hands clench and unclench in his lap, and he's quiet for a few heavy minutes.

"That's...the danger with innovation," he says softly, at last. "Not everything we find is ours for the taking, and nothing we create comes without its own consequences. I can easily see my own people doing the same thing."

That doesn't make it right, of course, but it makes it...comprehensible.

"It was how the first of us were born," Solas admits, "Our oldest and most powerful walked in bodies made from Lyrium, and even I roamed the realm of dreams and spirits, until Mythal— she said. She needed me. Needed wisdom. Thereafter, the elves had children in the ordinary way. But our leaders, our brightest and strongest, were always spirits embodied."

And he had known it, too. Had felt the earth rumble its protests, even before he had first awoken. He had known it for folly, his own desires aside... But she had asked, nearly begged, for him to join her. She had needed him. And he had loved her, loved her ardently, his dearest friend in all the world. There was nowhere he would not go to follow her, when she needed him, even if he did not wish to go.

Wisdom, twisting into Pride. Sileal, into Solas.

"After the Titans were severed from their dreams, the dreams indeed became a wrathful blight, which attacked all that lived indiscriminately. I contained it well, with all my power, and placed in a dark and sleeping place, where it might one day be soothed, and diminish, unbreached by any hand. The remainder of the titan's minds fled them, into bodies they had forged from stone, to care for themselves. They were mindless, before it, as devoid of speech or culture as animals are... and then, suddenly, they were not. That was the beginning of the Dwarvish people. And the beginning of a golden age, for the Elves. And all it required to bring about both, was the callous murder of an entire race."

And it was his invention, his weapon, that had done the work. If only Solas had had greater will, or fortitude, or if he had questioned... But he did not. And if his voice gives any hint of the weight of self-loathing he feels, then it is no wonder. It is right that he should be hated, for what he brought about.

Edited 2025-02-23 20:40 (UTC)

She needed me. Barcus feels his heart twist a little in his chest; millennia-old spirit or not, he can read the emotion in Solas' voice easily, just then. Wouldn't he have done the same sort of thing for Wulbren in a heartbeat, if he'd just asked? If at any point he'd had said to Barcus he needed him, he'd have been willing to try to move the entire planet for him.

It casts their situations into sharp relief, which--maybe it shouldn't, because while the emotions are parallels, the stakes of the the situations aren't the same.

Still. Maybe Barcus should be grateful that Wulbren wasn't that interested in him, that he thought he was an annoyance and not an asset.

As Solas goes on, the weight of grief and guilt in his voice makes the gnome ache for him. The horror that he caused is no doubt shocking; Barcus couldn't bear the thought of murdering a single congregation, much less an entire race. There are few crimes more heinous. And yet, as if he were prophesying earlier, not just talking off the top of his head, he can't feel any hatred. Shock, distress, horror, yes, but it seems unlikely that anyone could hate this man as much as he seems to hate himself right now.

"I wish I could tell you it wasn't your fault," he says softly. "I mean...it doesn't sound like it was, entirely, but...degrees and percentages don't matter much, do they, when you're talking about suffering on a scale so big."

"Except it sounds like...you were as much the weapon as the thing you made." Used, manipulated, cruelly. Maybe out of desperation, or maybe out of mere ambition. He can't know.

Barcus wrings his hands a little, the urge to reach out still present, though he stifles it. It's not his place to render judgment against a being that's probably older than his entire species. Equally laughable, perhaps, that he would wish to offer comfort, but--here they are, nevertheless.

"I'm sorry." His voice is gentle. "I wish it hadn't happened. I wish it could be fixed."

"As do many," Solas replies, trying to color the sharpened edge of regret with at least a pale skin of humor, with limited success, "Myself included. But there can be no going back; the damage is permanent, and the consequences irreversible."

You were as much the weapon as the thing you made, Barcus says, and it's all Solas can do not to laugh, or cry, or both at once. He's sure some measure of the confused hysteria shows on his face; he has to look away, seeking dignity.

"You are not wrong to say that I was used. Mythal... I always held out hope that she would again become my friend. That if only she would understand—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, "Foolish. But perhaps, in the end, we are not so different, you and I. We both wish for better in someone who simply cannot offer it."

This is, if anything, powerful evidence of Barcus' previously-stated opinion: no matter how powerful, or how infamous, Solas is still just a person, and painfully relatable.

There is, of course, always the possibility that Barcus is allowing his own empathy to run away with him. Being manipulated or tricked, for some hidden purpose. He doesn't think so, though. Solas looks exquisitely uncomfortable with the turn of this conversation.

The gnome folds his arms across his chest to suppress the urge to reach out again, but turns slightly toward him, tilting his head to rest it on the edge of the pool. "I don't think it's foolish to give someone a chance. Maybe...maybe you gave her more chances than you should have, like I did with Wulbren, but maybe that will also put you in a place where you can...not fix what was broken, but at least keep it from breaking even worse, or set the foundation to build something new on top of it."

Solas contemplates that for a moment, and draws his knees up under the water until he is sitting cross-legged. Yes, he had at that— he had given her chance after chance, extending his trust until it had stretched so thin that anything at all might break it. What was wisdom, to hope for better, and prepare for worse? To trust in one who had always done right before, knowing they would do so again? To learn from mistakes and— but he had, eventually.

"I loved her," He says, quietly. There is something hideously vulnerable about bare feet, and hot water. Solas feels gutted somehow, as if having told Barcus anything all, all else must come pouring out. The steaming entrails of his history, all spilled out on the ground, "Mythal was... my entire world. We founded an empire, we fought wars together, to free our people from the specter of death and subjugation. Thousands of years of magic and history. Then she raised herself up as the Goddess-queen of a pantheon of monsters, not content merely to rule when they might be worshiped instead. There are no words to express what I felt on that day. The betrayal of all we had fought for was..."

Wrenching, awful, ugly. The worst of him came roaring out— or perhaps the best. And she had not even deigned to look at him, to meet his eyes, or truly answer his accusations. She and Elgar'nan, once so opposed that she had begged him for help, insisted she needed him, needed his advice, his perspective. Now they held hands, and sat in thrones side-by-side, and branded slaves one after the other, by the thousands. What could he have done, but turn away from her? It would have killed him to do otherwise. It tore him apart, even so.

"I had allowed myself to become a slave, worn her brand and collar, and I had not evened questioned it, until that day. But this is all long past, and Mythal is dead. And I have been trying to do just as you say— repair what I can, where I can. And rebuild the rest, as I am able."

Barcus listens, curled up next to him, as small and inoffensive as a person can be, with his head resting on the rock beside him and silver eyes focused seriously on the elf's face. There is nothing he can say to fix it, any more than there are words of blame he could offer to make it worse, and he finds himself once again in the middle of something that is far too big for him, but which he cannot let alone and would not flee even if it were possible.

"I think," he says, "that perhaps the worst part of it is how hard you try to save them from themselves, and they don't listen." 'You' meaning both Solas and Barcus. Gods know he did his best to pull Wulbren out of his own morass of fruitless vengeance. And he did, temporarily, save him from murdering a dozen innocents, but who knows if that'll be the end of it?

Solas is in a worse place. Mythal is dead; he can't save her. Having loved, being betrayed, and then having lost her in a more final way than Barcus has lost Wulbren. After all, he knows if he returns home to Faerun, he'll see Wulbren at least once more, even if that once more is when he come around to try killing him. It's a twisted sort of hope, but hope nonetheless.

"But you have the strength to love again," he tells Solas. "That's worthy. You and Beleth--I see the way you look at one another. It won't change the past, but it's a foundation to build the future on."

"She is all the future I could hope for," Solas says, and despite the tightness in his throat, the words come easily, and soft. As difficult as it is to think of Mythal, let alone to speak of her, speaking of Beleth is as sweet and easy as a warm rain, "I never thought in all of Thedas there would ever be anyone who could draw my attention from the Fade. But I found myself returning her feelings with no regard for anything but... happiness."

He knows he should feel guilty for it, should be crushed by the stupidity, the memory of betrayal, but this one regret he cherishes more dearly than any victory. The way she had smiled at him, flushed and bright-eyed and lovely, that day? It would live in him forever.

"Thank you, my friend, for seeing me. I do not claim the titles my brethren among the Evanuris once did: whatever comparisons some may make, I am no god. But what blessings Fen'Harel can offer you, are yours for the taking."

"I think...you should hold onto that. Love isn't the only thing in the world, and maybe sometimes it isn't even the most important thing, but it still makes us who we are." Romantic or otherwise, love and care are of utmost importance to Barcus, and he doesn't think that's a mistake.

Case in point. He smiles at what is ostensibly an offer of divine favor of sorts, and interprets it in the most mortal way possible. "Friendship is all I ever wanted, you know. Community. Family. Something like that. I don't ask for blessings beyond just that."

If you're going to befriend a divinity, upon the premise that they're just another kind of person, you'd better be prepared to treat them like just another kind of person, he figures.

"...Although," a soft laugh, "If you're ever in a position to make sure Ashton doesn't do anything too reckless on a quest, feel free. They keep warning me they make big mistakes and I'm inclined to believe them."

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