makinglies | The Shadowfell

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faerun

The Shadowfell

Shadowfell

During the early, blue dawn of the morning, a hole opens in the Material Plane. The energy hums no differently than it had in the facility in Duplicity that had brought them here in the first place. This time, however, just before breaching the glowing white surface of light, a chill greets those who pass through. One, two, three, four shadows step through the light before it closes with barely a pop of energy beside the austere white marble of the recently recast temple.

Waiting on the other side of the gate is a land of barren monochrome. Plants like ash, rivers with the consistency of blood, and pools of thick, dripping ichor decorate a land of black and grey stone that connects to an equally grey sky. The life, like the color, seems gone from the land, and where there should have been unearthly silence, there were low murmurs and ominous creaks and noises that didn't quite make sense at the periphery of everything.

The landscape, at least, could not be called flat. Great, black mountains broke the dim, grey sky like blotches of ink on canvas. Even the group of armed visitors stood now upon a tall, but sloping hill marked with a single, gnarled tree. At the foot of the hill, ahead of the group, sat the hazy, black scar of what was once a city.

Spires of buildings stood as broken bones in the place Melvaunt had as its mirror, with the shattered docks even dipping into a charcoal ocean beyond it. Maléfell, once a town inhabited and infested in equal measure with ghosts, gasts, dopplegangers, and malice, now festers with a malevolent haze that visibly shrouds the city. At its edges, just outside the haze, is a pulsating mass. It's upon closer inspection that the mass gains definition: bodies. Undead. Skeletons. Ghosts haunting black ooze and rotted corpses that press at the Darkland's edges, daring to neither venture in nor go too far from their home.

Hundreds of the displaced mill about, gorging on more of the black ichor that fills the waterways into the city. Here they wait, trapped, the sounds of them muffled and nearly silent in the blanketing nothing of the Plane around them.

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"I love you and I believe in us."

Another thing he's going to need to put in his journal so he can look at it when he needs those words. It keeps him bolstered and not dragged down by doubt as they finish their washing up. It's a warm feeling, settling and comfortable where things could have taken a turn for the dark in his mind. She seems happier too, and he can't help but think that some of that is his doing. She'd been telling him since she got him back that she wanted to be intimate and he'd pushed her away. Not for a silly reason, but unreasonably in retrospect. They should have talked. Matron, why doesn't he ever think to just talk when it comes to his own issues?

Thankfully he doesn't have enough energy to lament it more than the once. Instead he gets into a change of clothes, hurries through scrubbing their laundry, and sets the wet garments to dry on the line so he can sit ensconced with Amelia that much faster. Of course, he realizes he'd forgotten to make any food after he's already snuggled up and comfortable with a book and his girlfriend with needle in hand.

"Drat. I guess food will have to be someone else's problem." He's sure as hell not getting up.

It's easy to fall into the domesticity of life again with Wolfe at her side. Bathing and cleaning are trivial matters, and the couches Chris added to this temple is as comfortable as the pillow pit they've been sleeping in. It's honestly difficult not to fall asleep, which is why she's grateful for the work to keep her mind busy. Adding a second color of thread to Wolfe's pants because of her needy behavior earlier also helps when it's so funny.

His question makes her laugh softly. "Do you think Chris and Jon will bring back any game to cook? I have a feeling we're eating conjured food again." Even if they know to hunt something, she has a feeling Jon will protest. Blood isn't a thing he handles as well as the rest of them do.

She hums thoughtfully as she finishes a line of stitches. "Should we send the girls after them? They've been gone for a long while now, and they could find something to go into a stew at the same time."

"That's a fantastic idea. I wonder where they got off to..." He leans his head back so he's not yelling directly in Amelia's ear and calls for the dogs. There's a jingling of tags as the girls heed their master's call, trotting over from somewhere in another room of the temple. Wolfe isn't sure where; he'd not really cataloged what Chris put in it this morning. They'd been too focused on the task ahead.

"You know, I don't think there's any need for these anymore," he shifts around so he can remove the girls' collars. Both immediately shake their heads and Cookie sits to give herself a good scratch. "There we are. It's not as if anyone knows where Marzipan Terrace is if they get lost, nor could get there anyway."

He snorts at his own joke then shakes his head, gesturing to his arm with the raven feathers down the back so Patience knows who he's talking about. "Patience, take your sister and hunt down Chris and Jon. They're probably not too far."

Patience does her customary boof and bow to show she understands. Cookie finishes scratching and gives a languid yawn. Wolfe gives an amused sound and kisses Amelia's cheek, making to get up. "Sorry, Love. They don't have thumbs."

The girls come to join them and Amelia can't help but smile. How often they had similar moments in Duplicity, only without the need to rescue the rest of their family. Wolfe's right that they don't need the collars anymore, though; they're free of the one place they would be necessary.

"Fine," she sighs dramatically, sitting up so her mage can extricate himself. "But when you return, I'm laying myself in your lap and you'll simply have to deal with that kind of distraction while you read." She winks at him, not meaning it in a sexual way at all but if she's being honest with herself... that's always a possibility now that they've found their way back to one another. Time will tell.

She sees the dogs off with a wave before finishing the last necessary stitches to fix the trousers in her hands. A few more in strategic places will help them stay together better until they can buy more clothes, but they can wait. If she were asked, she'd say almost everything could wait right about now.

"Get back over here," she calls after Wolfe from the couch after he's let the girls out, "and remind me to tell Chris tomorrow's temple needs a doggie door for them." It'll save all of them a lot of trouble.

"Not a bad idea. If anything undesired comes in, the girls could handle it," he agrees, obediently sliding back in behind her so she can drape herself on him as she pleases. As he pleases too, honestly.

"Do you think we'll head to Bastilla tomorrow or that they'll want another day? I don't really mind either way," but if they do stay another day, they'll definitely need to have that talk with Chris, and he should spend some of that time studying. He's not sure if this is part of the blessing or not but since he's been reading this afternoon, he's retained more than he had from all his study with Jon yesterday.

Lover returned to her, Amelia rests her upper body across Wolfe's lap, head propped up on the arm rest of the couch so she can watch his face as they chat. This is a far better view than her stitches or his book, she's certain.

"I could use another day's rest before we go to Bastila," she admits, reaching for one of his hands. After so long apart and without his touch, she can't help but want to hold onto him as much as she can. "I'll need to check my gear, repair my shirt, and adjust a few more of the clothes Chris got for us." A beat, and her smile up at him warms. "I have something to give you before we go, too. I meant to give it to you before we went to the Shadowfell, but last night was... not the right time."

Her smile holds for a moment longer before her cheeks flush and she lifts a hand to stop him from saying anything. "I-it's nothing romantic or overstepping like I've done in the past, I swear. It's practical. Something you'll need for protection and general use, really."

Dreams, she... didn't need to say that, did she? It was likely obvious. She groans and covers her face with her free hand. "Maybe I should just get it now and spare us both from my fumbling."

He's about to say that he'll suggest it then, if she wants to stay, but then she says what she does about having something to give him and his eyebrows raise. He's about to reply to that and she keeps talking instead of letting him speak, culminating in his barking laugh when she covers her face. He playfully puts a finger against her lips so he can get a word in.

"Go on, then, before you talk yourself out of it," he chuckles. "Though I have no idea where or when you had time to get anything other than what you brought with you since we arrived."

Rather than attempt to tell him that it did in fact come with her from Duplicity, she nods and hops to her feet, cheeks still a bright red. She rummages in her bag for a moment, taking care to pull his mug from Shadows' Rest out so she can't knock it over or break it in her haste to find her prize, then makes her way back to Wolfe with the last remaining feather dagger in hand. Before he can say anything or ask any questions, she pushes the sheathed blade into his hand and sits beside him.

"I brought the last one with me from Duplicity. I wasn't certain what I'd do with it, but I didn't want to leave it behind. It was never going to Aloïs even if I did return to Ragneux." For the myriad reasons she's explained before when speaking about the rogue and her decision to leave what happened between them in the city in the past. "LIEs took what I gave you in friendship and affection, and I'll not let them get away with that. These are my knives I had made for my chosen men, and I want you to have this one."

She looks up with a small, hopeful smile and then back down at his hands quickly. Whatever his reaction, she's not certain she can take it in fully if she's looking at him when she's so breathless and nervous about this whole thing.

She puts the knife in his hand and he's not sure what to say. It means quite a lot to him and he wants to say as much but he's also a sentimental man. He knows if he were in her shoes, he'd not be able to give up something so precious. A last remnant of a relationship he'd held so dear. Dear enough to her that she'd mourned for over a year. She'd kept Alois' room just the same as the day he vanished and it had been a trial for her to let go of that.

That's what she's giving to him. That devotion.

He's not sure he could do the same, not like that. All he has of Anders is the ring, and he's not sure he'll ever take it off the cord around his neck. Maybe she just doesn't see it the same way, but to Wolfe, Amelia has just proven herself stronger with this gesture than he will ever be.

Holding the sheathed knife against his chest, Wolfe tips Amelia's chin up with his other hand. When her eyes meet his, he leans in and kisses her slowly and with all affection. "Thank you. I know how much this means to you; I'll keep it close."

He couldn't possibly understand what it means to her to have him accept this. A piece of herself that she gave only to those who mattered to her most. Something she made once and never again despite opening her heart to others. This blade was made for a man she loved, and the one who carried this one who doesn't exist anymore. It needs to go where it was meant to be: in the hands of someone she loves who will use it well. There is nowhere else for it to be when his own is lost to time and a plane she hopes blinks out of existence one day.

Aloïs, the one who lived and breathed and loved in Duplicity, would be proud of her for this. She didn't need any push to move on in this way.

She rests a hand on the back of his neck as they kiss, the other resting lightly on his chest to keep herself from pressing too close. "Protect our family with this, love. That's all I ask." Not her, not only Chris and Jon, but all of them. They're bound to one another for better or worse, and this blade's work is meant for a cause like this.

There's a small gathering of tears in her eyes as she looks up at him. "It's only a knife, but I trust it'll serve you as well as the other did. As far as I know, these blades have never done any of us wrong."

"I know its not only a knife, Love," he replies softly, kissing her tears away and holding her close against him if she'll allow it. She's holding herself apart but he's certain its for his benefit and not her desire to do so.

Carefully, he sets it aside for now so the knife is still close and he can use both arms to hold her. Later he'll attach it to his belt and there it will always be, whenever he needs it, but for now he needs his hands free. He shifts, tugging her so he can recline on the couch with her laying on him comfortably, head against his chest. With one hand on her back, he picks up his book again with the other. "Here, we'll study together until my girls bring the boys back."

Or they'll fall asleep like this, but that would be alright too.

It is just a knife, but she won't contradict him. What matters is that he accepted it and will have it going forward. He'll use it to keep himself and their family safe, which is all she truly wants. That, and to lay across him like this where she can hear his heartbeat and the low rumble of his voice as they help him work on his Common.

"Read aloud to me, and I'll guide your words." A beat, and she chuckles softly as she cuddles against him and loosely grips at his shirt just to have something to hold onto. "Careful or you'll pick up my slight accent and varied pronunciation, and Chris will never let you hear the end of it."

"Matron forfend! I would sound Orlesian," he says with mock disgust. Mostly. He loves Amelia dearly and would never begrudge her how she speaks - in fact, he has no issues with Orlesian people as a whole, but as he is Ferelden born and bred it would be like spitting on the land that reared him to take on the speech of their would-be conquerors.

"Alright now, let's see... Azuth, the god of wizards all, Who spend their whole lives learning." he intones, reading with eyes that can still see his own language and Faerûn's Common both. He recites it aloud in Faerûn Common, though, and his pronunciation could probably use some work. Still, with both languages transposed over each other, he can more easily see what words correspond to which and how the sentence structures differ. It made his head swim a little before when he studied with Jon the previous day, but now his mind seems to latch onto the new language so he can actually absorb it. "He grants their spells both big and small, for M...Mist- Oh! Mystra. For Mystra always yearning."

Reading it over again, Wolfe's eyebrows draw together. "If wizards have a God, is there one of sorcerers, or would that be Mystra herself?"

"You're awfully defensive about that," she teases. "If you keep this up, I'm going to have to let go of what keeps me from sounding so close to that in your head." She worked hard for years to train most of that accent out of her speech, but she knows a little remains. With a little practice, she could lean back into it.

Would it make sense to do that? It's not her accent, it's 'hers'. Wouldn't it just confuse things to do that?

She presses her lips together and forces herself to focus on Wolfe's voice instead. His ability to speak is drastically improved over even yesterday, and she smiles as she listens. If he talked to people on the streets of Bastila, they'd have no trouble understanding him now. A few corrections as he immerses himself in the language and he'd be all but fluent in a few days. Jon, too, which should please the man to no end. It'll be interesting and honestly delightful to see the two of them flourish with this gift from the Raven Queen.

"It's learning and always, love," she corrects gently, stressing a different part of the words for him. There's really not much to correct, so she hopes he doesn't take offense. "And I'm the wrong person to ask about that. I haven't read this book yet and none of these gods existed in Ragneux." She huffs a laugh. "It would make sense if they had separate gods, though. Sorcerers have no reason to worship someone who teaches them through learning when their talents come naturally."

Her lips purse in thought. "I wonder what gods rogues like me would worship. I'm trying to think what would be useful when we either live or die by our skills, not divine intervention." Always so pragmatic, no matter the context.

"Don't change yourself just for that," Wolfe chuckles, kissing the side of her head. "I know Ragneux is different. They didn't temporarily conquer Ferelden."

The correction is welcome too and he kisses into her hair again in thanks. "We could look. Maybe a God of shadows? Or the Matron Herself? Since you deal quite a lot with death. Speaking of, I know Chris said something about a God of murder, but He's of the same ilk as Chris' former God and I don't like the idea of giving faith to an evil God. Here, let's see what other ones there are in the book."

He flips through the short collected volume, disregarding the entry on Bhaal after a catching the word 'murder' and identifying him as the God he'd been thinking of, then pauses. "What would you look for in a God? I shouldn't presume."

They've never really talked about faith, being that Wolfe had none in a higher power before now. The Maker was always a deadbeat as far as he was concerned, and let his doctrine get taken so far out of context as to make the Circles possible. At least in Faerûn that sounds more like cultish behavior than the law of the land. The Matron, though. She reached out and helped them when She didn't have to, and that's worth a great deal to Wolfe. Maybe it's not proper faith, when he's got something tangible, or maybe it is. Its just not blind, like the Chant.

It's a fair question now that they live somewhere that's filled with deities who would gladly take worship from mortals. The truth is that she hasn't thought about it; she had friends in Duplicity who were gods or god-like and never thought once about believing in them as anything more than the people she enjoyed spending time with. Why would she bother in a place like that? But here it means something and that means she should care about what answer she gives.

"I wouldn't look for anything. I've never believed in gods or desired to have faith in anything that could possibly be greater than myself or my people." What good would 'faith' do when it gets you nothing in return? Not even a god of pragmatism could convince her there was a reason to have 'faith' when they could simply teach her to do something or give her the ability to do it in their name before setting her loose to do it. Unlike many who find comfort in knowing someone else is watching over them or can believe without proof, Amelia can't. There's no 'faith' to be given when she, a pragmatic woman, needs to see something with her own eyes to believe in it.

"I know the Raven Queen is real and I choose to believe that all those gods mentioned in this book are too because Chris has assured me that they are. But I don't think I'd ever choose to have faith in them. I don't work that way." It sounds rude when she explains it, and she sighs at the realization. "I can promise my soul and service to one of them, but I'm never going to be on my knees praying or begging for their aid unless I already know that they'll listen and care. I don't need empty promises. I want to know exactly what I'm getting into with someone and why I should care."

Such ways of thinking made 'Amelia Royer of Ragneux' a ruthless businesswoman who created and executed some of the best contracts in the city. Everyone knew exactly what they were getting out of it, and if they didn't? They were a fool who deserved to lose whatever the Family robbed them of in exchange for their services.

"I think we have similar ideas of faith," he says though in a slightly soothing tone. He didn't mean to get her worked up. "With the Maker, I never doubted He existed, I just doubted that everything the Chantry said was true and thought He was a gigantic asshole for turning His back on the world He supposedly made. Even if your children fuck up, and I mean royally in that the story goes that people of the time murdered His bride, I still don't think that's a reason to punish all the generations after. The individuals who did it, yes absolutely, but we were born uncounted years after Andraste's burning. Why were we meant to suffer when we'd never do such a thing? And the world spun on without Him regardless, so I saw the need for worship, not when the Maker was the reason touted for imprisoning mages."

It was a point of contention between himself and his father too, one of the few that was never resolved before Malcolm's death. Malcolm had been a devout Andrastian, went to services and the like. He was like Anders in not agreeing with the letter of Chantry law though, instead upholding its generous spirit of serving others, which is why they'd never fought about that at least. Many years later, Wolfe still wonders if his father's faith really was in the Maker, or was instead in the idea of magic as a tool for a better future.

It doesn't matter now, in any case.

"The Gods here, though. They're necessary, or some of Them anyway. They oversee the operations of the world or personify concepts and offer a concrete source of change or support. It feels fundamentally different. To me, at least. I can have faith that a God will do Their job or follow Their nature and I know that faith won't be misplaced." The same way he has faith in people.

"Their necessity doesn't require I have faith in them." She states it as a fact, not upset or angry at all. It simply is the truth in her mind. "As far as I understand it, the gods will do what they want when they want regardless of my belief in them. Hells, I don't know all of them or even how many there are. I'm certain I'm not the only one, too, and so they can go about their business as I go about mine. If they should need me for some reason, and I'm not saying I want that to be true, I assume they'll call for me or simply drag me to wherever I need to be." It's really as simple and as complicated as that.

"If I have to choose someone to officially follow for some reason, I'll choose the Raven Queen. She gave us our soul threads and granted us boons without asking more in return from us after our work in the Shadowfell. That grants her my respect and gratitude, and I'll gladly repay that for the rest of my life. And after, if necessary." That... raises another thought that's worth talking about. She frowns thoughtfully.

"Now that we have souls bound to this plane, what's to become of us when we die?" It actually matters now where it didn't just a few days ago.

"Funny you should ask," Wolfe shifts a bit, setting the book to hang over the back of the sofa to keep his page. "You go to the realm of the God you follow, according to Chris. And if you don't put faith in any God, then you end up stuck in an underworld wall being tortured for the whole of your afterlife, so while the Raven Queen isn't the most cheerful of choices, I think She's a good one."

Expression softening, Wolfe nuzzles her cheek a bit. "Once death takes us, Chris is bound to his Lady to act as a reaper and take souls on their journey beyond. Jon and I don't intend to be parted from him. Its a lot to ask, but if you don't have any solid plans after death..."

He sounds almost nonchalant, like he's planning a dinner out than their ultimate fates, but it hides a bright sort of hopeful nervousness. It's a big question. "I'd very much like it if you stayed with us."

Wolfe may be trying to play his request off as something light or at least not as meaningful as it clearly is, but Amelia can see right through him. Everything about their lives here has always meant a lot to him. Even when he tries to downplay it, he gets a look in his eyes and a specific crease to his brow that gives away how much he wants her to agree to something or at least understand and support him in doing it. It's happening again now and she understands why. If she says no, it'll mean an eternity - or at least something close to it - without her after the short timespan of their lives is done. Of course he wants her to agree to go with them, with him.

She can't make it that easy for him, though.

"You want me to give you my afterlife without asking me to fully share this life with you?" She arches a brow at him, earnest but also teasing. "Adalwolfe Hawke, if you want me to follow you into death, a thing I would do gladly by the way, you'll need to marry me first. Not right this second, of course, as we do need to be written into the Weave, but I need to know you're dedicated to us as much as I am before I follow you in death as I will in life."

Don't you dare accuse her of blushing right now, Wolfe. She isn't flustered by breaking her own promise to herself and asking for this now. Not at all.

He probably shouldn't be as gobsmacked as he is at her reply but he stares at her for a very long moment with his mouth agape. He hadn't even begun to think about that. How had he not? Matron's wings, he'd just sauntered on past life into eternity and asked for that as casually as you please!

But the biggest thing is that she's again asking him to marry her. And this time, there's nothing stopping him from saying yes.

Well, other than the overwhelming need to kiss her right then, which he does with no preamble.

It's the sort of kiss that ends up in novels. Mountains shake, waves crash upon the shore, and the sun pales in comparison to the brilliance of their love. That's how he thinks of it, anyway, practically melting at the thought of finally, finally being officially tied to his partner. Perhaps it may seem fast, given the last few days, but he's been ready to tie himself to both of them for so long it seems instead like an eternity.

One that's come to an end.

"Yes," he tells her breathlessly when he can finally bring himself to tear his lips from hers. "Of course yes, absolutely."

She feels impossibly light as they kiss, feeling and knowing his answer as she presses her chest to his, wraps one arm around his shoulders, and slips her fingers into his hair. It feels as if every shitty thing that's ever happened to them no longer matters, that time itself has stopped, and that there's finally balance in their lives now that they can have something they both have wanted since Wolfe first brought the idea of marriage to her but told her he couldn't ask then. Amelia can't even catch her breath when they part for how it feels like she doesn't even need it right now. With his assent, it doesn't feel like she needs anything else in her life.

"Then when we've completed our task for Mystra and are full citizens of this plane, the first thing I want to do is to marry you." Dreams, she can barely get the words out for how they all try to tumble out at once. She laughs brightly, happily, and tugs him in for another kiss. "With our family watching and involved, however we want and need them to be." Chris and Wolfe will have to decide what they want for their lives together, but if they decide to make that their wedding day too? There's nothing that would make her happier than to have him join them.

He nearly tells her they don't even have to wait that long; as soon as Chris is ready too - and by extension Jon as he knows Chris will want them both together - they should go through with it. Not wait another minute. He's lost too much by waiting.

Its Tranquility that stays his tongue.

He remembers the vacant stares and relentless calm of the Tranquil that wandered the gallows, the ones that 'belonged' to certain Templars. He remembers Karl telling Anders he didn't feel anything anymore, then begging to be killed in a moment of lucidity. If that goes wrong, if Wolfe's made Tranquil permanently... He can't tether them to him like a weight. She's right. They should wait until they're in the Weave.

"The first thing," he agrees, joy barely dampened in the face of his racing thoughts. "We'll need coin for proper clothes, too, but thats it. Just us four, Chris can do the ceremonies. I think he can? Can he do that for himself?"

There he goes, rushing ahead with his ideas before she's had more than her first initial thought. The very Wolfe nature of it makes her laugh again and kiss him in her joy. She feels the need to share it as much as she can right now.

"I have no idea, love, but we can talk with him about it when he gets back. As for our clothes, we'll get all the money we can in Bastila and buy ourselves something magnificent for the day. With luck, I'll have our new crest figured out and can embroider it into everything." If not, she'll figure out something else for each of them.

Her smile warms as she leans in for another kiss. "It'll be perfect. Whatever we do, whatever we say to one another or wear, it'll be a perfect day, for all of us."

Wolfe kisses back enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around Amelia entirely in a rapturous hug. It's a rare moment where words escape him, so he uses his entire self to fill that gap.

The kiss is sweet and needy, not in the way of needing more but simply in the need of her. Every step forward and back that they've made for the whole of their relationship, every time they drove each other crazy and every time one stood for the other when they couldn't stand alone. He needs all of it, wants all of it, for the rest of their lives.

For the rest of eternity.

And that desire, that fervent wish, is encompassed in that kiss.

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The Shadowfell

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Insight 25

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