Immortal Inquisition [Dragon Age Inquisition/Massive Chalice]

[Simpli]

=} Immortal Inquisition {=



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Immortal protector of the Nation, Progeny of the Great Bloodlines, Master of Strategies, Eternal Conductor and Forger of Matrimony.​

The Cadence was at the gates – it wasn't a figure of speech anymore and it might be strange, but for the first time in 300 years, for the first time in her whole life – the Immortal Protector of the Nation saw the hordes of demonic corruption that engulfed her nation for longer than anyone, but maybe the Chalice itself could remember. She had coordinated and commanded her heroes for centuries against the incursions of the pawns of the Cadence, had seen hundreds of them die to the strikes of the Caberjacks, getting blown to smithereens by the alchemists' concoctions and saw dozens of Cradles go down under the arrows and traps of the Hunters. She had watched them attack province after province, fought them through the eyes and arms of her heroes in the Keeps of the families, the forests and even the salt-rocks of the southern region. She had lost more heroes, more friends and allies than anyone else alive, she could remember their faces, their jokes and in most cases even their birth and their moments of death on the battlefield.

None of this would've happened if you weren't here…​

She remembered the face of Alexandria von Kühnen, the great-grandmother of the boy of barely seventeen who was fighting on the floor below her throne right now. She had an easy smile, sickness had made her frail as child, but her quick hands and even quicker wit had seen her send against three incursions in her lifetime, before she died in the attack on the first Crucible, dying to the hand of a Twitcher, who send her against a wall after having teleported into the middle of her team. The sound of bones breaking, the dismay of her niece who had joined her for her own first battle and the bloodlust in Argyle Ezcellion's voice as he throw himself at the Twitcher and knocked the monster down into the dust of the Arena, before letting his cousin Miralda bomb it to death with her flask. She remembered Alexandria's face as she died on the stone floor, she remembered the white clad body of Miralda after she died at the age of 90 as part of the Sage Guild and she even remembered the black day when it was told that Argyle had died as Lord of his Keep, leaving behind his own gaggle of children, which had grown to take their fathers place on the battlefield.

If we're not reforged again, we've had a good run.​

Maximilian Eisenfaust had been a weird one, a great warrior at the start of the second century of her life, when the Cadence was growing stronger and the outer provinces proved unable to be defended as the incursions grew more and more rapid and sizable. He had greyed early, attacks from Wrinklers leaving him age to nearly seventy, when he had only been in his forties upon leaving for battle. He never bemoaned the fact he has lost decades of his life, taking the hits that had been intended for his teammates, he never whispered a word about his love now looking nearly a generation younger or about how his old bones grew weary before he could take part in a second battle at all. She remembered his smile when he came by with his children, remembered the faces he would make at all the children – maybe not dignified enough for the Lord of a Keep, but if she was honest? Who did care in these days, when the Cadence was advancing, and their once impenetrable defence had been turned into so many festering wounds? Back then it had bene a Twilight, the end was coming closer one way or another, but the oldest of her heroes had still lived when the Cadence had never advanced in more than one or two provinces at a time. Maximilian had been a man who would have fit very well into the first century of the war and was a bright light in the second – but now that the third was closing? He might have been horrified at the dark pessimistic nature of his grandson, who shared little more than the features of his face and the colour of his hair with his easy going ancestor – but being the last of his line, having barely escaped his families demise as they went out defending their keep to allow the refugees to come to the capital…

Your efforts will usher in a new age of peace and prosperity.​

She couldn't remember all of the normal citizens of her nation, bound to the throne, immortal but also trapped at the Chalice side, she never left the halls of the palace, her throne and her few rooms centred around the flowing water of the Chalice that was their one shot at victory. But there were some memories she cherished, the one time even the sombre halls of her throne room and the martial barracks of her heroes had resounded with the laughter of children. She had opened the gates to a class of children, a flight of fancy, a bright spot in a decade of peace between Incursions, it had been an eventful afternoon. Sometimes she had been shown babies when it came to adoptions and the trainees of the Bloodlines came to life in her palace upon turning 15 to join the war – but children between those ages? Only if a bloodline died without leaving an adult heir or heiress for the throne of their keep. They had been interesting, small – not as messy as the babies, curious and somewhere between a plague and a gift if the grumbling of her heroes could be believed. None of them had dared to step too close to her throne, only peeking around the corners till their teacher pulled them away, but it had been an experience…

…especially when a woman would step forward twenty years later, citing this visit as her reason to enter public service and becoming a charity worker for the masses of refugees that had and were slowly losing their homes to the Cadence. She died years later, she wasn't sure – she did send a hero to hold a speech at her burial in the capital and from what she knew the group she created still held to this day, guiding the refugees into the last bastions of the capital in this very moment.

It will end in time, but so do all things.​

Netch Altunia was torn to shreds below her, the battle cry of his house: "Our land! Our lives!", resounding over the battlefield as it had for the past three centuries. As his body hit the floor – the claws that were the relic of his house were taken up by new hands and with surprise she would see, his mother: Myra Altunia taking the weapon and stepping over her sons body to carve through the ranks of the Cadence pawns – especially as Myra had died more than thirty years ago as their keep had been under Siege by the Cadence. But today not even death would keep the heroes from giving their last for the Nation – at the very cup of victory, with the Chalice ready to release the gathered energies of three centuries to banish the Cadence once and for all. Maybe it was the amount of energy, the proximity of the fight or her own nerves at finally seeing the cause she was created for, trained for and to which she had devoted all of her 300 years of life, finally come to an end, but she could feel it: she could feel the bloodlines connecting her, the Chalice and all the heroes that were and had been. Their Ashes had been strewn into the Chalice upon their Death and with them their very souls were bound to this battlefield, taking the place of their descendants when those died under the never-ending assault of the Cadence.

Don't worry.​

She felt it more than she saw it, felt the cracks in the Chalice, the claws tearing on the material even as her heroes gave their lives once again and one final time to give her just a bit more of them: wasn't that what all of this had been about? To get the time needed for this, to spend 300 years watching everyone she considered a friend or ally pass away – constant threats and uncertainty, all of this for this one chance – and her hands dug into the arm rests of the throne, keeping up her commands, ordering Kühnen to fall back as one of her oldest heroes lobbed a flask into a gaggle of seeds, blowing them up in once swift strike as an Eisenfaust she could barely remember charged a Twitcher and knocked it into a row of cradles, sending all of them to the ground in a tangle of corrupted flesh and legs. But then…. then it was time, the Chalice finished, its two voices resounding in her name – congratulating….and telling a truth: no true victory, just a reprieve – one longer than even she could imagine, but at the same time death to her, her heroes and the Chalice. Fitting wasn't it – to have spent centuries working for a peace she won't see herself. But this was for all those who had stood behind her, all of those who had supported and fought at her behalf: from the Commoner's Queen who had ruled at her side for as long as a mortal could, to the refugee who had once walked into her throne room…just to speak with her. Both of them were gone, long gone by mortal standards and she was the last one to remember.

You'll be in..​

She could feel the Chalice tearing up, bits and parts loosening, tears and hits of the Cadence digging deeper as the power welled through hit – through her and for a last time she saw everyone, the bloodlines that raised her, the bloodlines she raised and the heroes who died for the protection of their nation. 300 years – and for a moment it seemed worth it. Even as the voices around her cut out she could make out what might have been cheering – as if those that remained knew that they had own and she didn't begrudge the Chalice for giving them or her that illusion, this was a victory, not the one she had hoped for, but a victory for all of her people – all those survived to see the world once more pristine and seemingly limitless, stretching out in all directions. Just waiting for them.

And with her last breath the Immortal protector of the Nation, Progeny of the Great Bloodlines, Master of Strategies, Eternal Conductor and Forger of Matrimony knew the sweet fruit of Victory. Felt her body and mind shatter and unravel with the Chalice, their voices the last thing she heard, the promise – the knowledge that they had done it…

…and then her world flashed green, her spirit reaching out -flailing and struggling as the rode the wave of the Chalice energy, feeling the Cadence being scourged away around her and then – then she hit something and instead of stopping she pushed through: and her world became filled with green fire.

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The world was ending.​

There was no other way to call it, no other way to even grasp what was happening in this moment. One moment he had been standing on guard at the stairway leading up to the temple of Andraste, his presence a gesture of his father's trust in the Divine's Conclave and the knowledge that a peaceful solution to the conflict was the aim of most people in Ostwick, the next he felt like his whole body was on fire, his boots loosing contact with the ground as he was thrown through the air as if a giant invisible hand had picked him up and flung him through the cold air, till he hit snow and stone. His head was spinning, his body pulsing with pain and it felt as if something had pressed half of his armour into his very body and something had cracked loud enough that he had heard it even over the explosion that had thrown him around. Blood was sipping down over his eyebrow as he pushed himself upwards, his shield forgotten somewhere on the side as he stumbled up once more to the sound of screams and mortar and stones falling down around him, a brick hitting his shoulder and sending him right back into the snow.

But a Trevelyan doesn't give up so easily and once more he pushed himself up and towards the stairs – or rather what remained of the once shining marble work. Steps had been splintered, thrown around and that was only the beginning, nothing could prepare him for what he saw when he raised his head to check on the temple itself: there was nearly no trace of it left, beyond charred walls and blasted towers – but above it, high above it: a green tear was visible in the very sky itself and it pulsated with nauseous intensity, screams and wailing descending from it onto the hellscape that the Conclave had become.

He wasn't the only one staring in disbelief nor the first one who stepped forward to do…something. Maybe he saw the familiar blue robes and brown-haired bun of his cousin in the shocked crowd, maybe he was simply imagining it – but when he found himself moving forward, he was soon followed by others, some wearing the crest of his house, others in the uniform of the templars and even some of the mages. They were surging forward as most remained standing or lying were they had fallen in a daze, making it hard to tell who was wounded, who was dead and who was still alive.

"Lord Trevelyan – Lord Travelyan." – it took a moment for Maximilian to remember that was him and even longer to squint through the red haze over his left eye to look into the bruised face of his squire, the young woman of a befriended family clinging to her shield and looking at him for…. for what? Guidance? An explanation? He wasn't sure, and he didn't know what to tell Helena or what was happening, but something had to be said as her face was just as torn with panic as his own most likely was. Coughing and trying to find his voice, his ears still ringing, he grasped his sword and pointed upwards towards the smouldering remnants of the Conclave:

"Gather….", a coughing fit broke his words and he had to feel for his throat as his squire looked at him worriedly: "…. gathered all of the escort father send with us, try to get those who are wounded down towards Haven, everyone else is to follow us towards the temple. We have to see what has happened, if there's anyone we can help and…"

Before he could continue a scream pierced the rumbling silence of the aftermath, an otherworldly howl screeching through the air and sending many into panic as others drew their weapons – and got to see how long green tendrils seemed to extend from the hole in the sky above them – before monster's bursts from the ground around them. The wails and screams of children, holy litanies and the explosions of spells mixed in his ears – as if he was back in Ostwick at that horrible day. His legs buckled, his sword wavered in his hands and he saw many around him loose control over their bowls before collapsing or running off towards the safety of the valley in downright horror!

Only when the tall thin monster turned towards him could he see the many – far too many eyes of it, tall gangly limbs that were slowly moving towards him, a mandible like mouth of fangs that was opening and closing as if savouring a particular tasty treat with the true knowledge of a connoisseur. It didn't just want them afraid for the sake of an advantage in battle like a human opponent would – this thing wanted them dripping in fear and panic because it enjoyed it. Savoured it even!

It was slowly stalking closer to him, tall hands reaching out as if to give his head a lover's caress – and he simply couldn't move, his eyes transfixed on events long past, his ears filled with the screams of the innocent and the guilty alike, and then when it reached out to tear his head off his shoulders…

…. Helena impacted it from the side, sending it sprawling on the floor, its long sharp tail cracking as it was brought against her and hit her shield, sending his squire backwards into the snow as well. But that saved his life, that was enough to bring him back into the here and now – and now he had a demon on the ground and a sword in his hand!

No one could remember what happened afterwards, at least not clearly: there had been many survivors on the stairs, just far enough not to be obliterated by whatever had hit the temple: magic undoubtedly. But when the demons appeared all over the temple things took a turn for the worst: some ran in panic and were hunted down, others tried to stand their ground and those who weren't quick enough to gather into small groups were picked off by the flood of different demons that were slowly but steady stepping into reality and pushing them from all sides.

Somewhere along the road he had picked up a shield from one of the fallen, bearing the crest and motto of a Chevalier, who had been torn to pieces by a group of hungering demons at the broken gates of the temple. Maximilian couldn't say for sure what he was hoping for: survivors, knowledge about the divine – the question of what happened to the mages and templars who took part in it? All they found were ashes, ashes and ruins and burned out husks that were once people, standing with eerie green light flickering in their empty eye sockets as if they were shrivelled and mummified in the pose and moment of their death by an Mortalitasi from Nevarra.

His group had been whittled down to only a dozen by the constant attacks from the demons, his own guards making up half of the group, while the rest were a bright mix of mercenaries from Ferelden, an Antivian Duellist and three Chevaliers from Orlais that seemed to hate each other nearly just as much as the demons trying to kill them. That two mages had decided to join them in their expedition towards the centre of the temple was a stroke of luck, for which he would thank the Maker if they were to get out of this alive. Nearly as important was the Daelish hunter they had encountered searching for someone in one of the courtyards – thanks to her they had been able to evade a fight or three by now and with the toll this landscape of death was taking on all of them, he could only be thankful for that.

"Over here, the Divine's quarters were just down the hallway.", one of the Chevaliers, a Dame of Mont so-and-so whispered as the heavily armed group moved through the ruins: no a single roof had survived, walls had been thrown into one another and body parts were sticking out of the rubble they traversed: whatever happened, had happened in the temple itself and from the looks of things: they were heading right for the epicentre of it all. All around them only the chittering and howling of demons could be heard, sometimes fighting broke out – but quickly ended again. They had come this deep without encountering another living soul – and no one really believed they would get out of this again.

The heavy door that had once barred entry to the Divine's rooms was nowhere to be found – only its hinges remained in place: molten and shot into the wall on the other side of the hallway by great force. Truth to be told, whatever happened here, they were lucky there were any walls left standing, but the whole group stopped when an echo carried through the ruins, half-forgotten, a malicious malevolent voice that send shivers down their spines:

"Now is the hour of our victory!"

They looked at one another and only slowly braved forward, shields raised and mages in the middle of the group as they entered the room….and were thrown back as a tear in reality itself opened up before them, green and fiery it was a miniature version of the giant hole above them – and without further warning it begun to spill out demons, sending them struggling backwards towards the doorway to form their shields against one another…but they didn't have the time as the very floor underneath their shoes bubbled and a lance of the fade erupted like a volcano, torching his side and throwing one of the Chevaliers to the floor, flailing as he tried to bring up his shield and a spiked tail tore through his throat, clawed feet stepping over his body as the group found itself in a fight they couldn't win.

Maximilian and Helena scrambled backwards with the female Chevalier, their shields offering some protection as the lesser demons began to pelt them from the distance, the fear demons shrieking and running at them as electricity arched over their heads and stopped it in its tracks, their mages buying them the time they needed to pull back – or which he would have used to pull back if a rage demon hadn't thrown itself against his shield, his helmet barely protecting him from the heat of the infernal flames that were hitting his face. Even in peak state he might have had troubles to throw his shield against a rage Demon – but right now? He could barely keep his footing, before falling backwards and landing roughly on his back. His ears were ringing once more, and his vision was swimming as he looked up to the green tinted and ash filled air, the roar of the demon as he leaned back – and suddenly a blur of deep red burgundy rammed into the demon…no: rammed something into the demon?

His vision shifted back into focus to see a heavily confused looking young girl holding what looked like a bench from a chantry in both her arms as easy as if it was a spear – using the only slightly charred and still massive wooden furniture like a battering ram as she hit it against the demon again and send it flying into the wall, spinning it with inhuman ease as she rammed it into the demons bearing down on him and bought both of them a moment…

…a moment in which the air above him was suddenly filled with arrows, which found their neat targets in the bodies, or whatever passed for it, of the demons. With last cries of dismay and worse they faded into nothingness leaving only residues behind as the chamber was suddenly clear…and something fell on top of him. Not something, but someone: the girl who might just have saved his life. He barely caught her, before she hit her head on his armour or something, but he simply couldn't believe that someone that light could have swung around a whole bench as if it was nothing. He could only try to blink away the haziness that threatened to swamp over his vision again as Helena appeared at his side, grasping the girl and pushing her into the arms of a soldier…a soldier who wasn't part of their group?

"….Trev…..ell…..y the Maker…ight out of….ese holes….ought she was a…..Lor…lyan?", the ringing didn't want to go away and he was slowly slipping into unconsciousness. Things weren't making any sense – he wasn't dead, was he? And there were others here – and a girl who could twirl around massive wooden furniture.

….how could he help himself and do anything but let out a strangled laugh upon looking up into the hard features of the Divines Right Hand – and then slip into blessed unconsciousness.

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