If God Was In Hell We Would All Be Dead [OPEN | MINGLE]

[inconsequence]

Who: Who wants to kill some slavers? You do! Of course you do!
When: May 15th and onwards
Where: Slave trade outpost in the Runoff
What: The slavers that targeted the crew of the Moira in July are overdue for some justice. Chara breaks some regulations to make that happen. THIS IS A MINGLE LOG; anyone and everyone who wants to get in on this and kill some slavers is absolutely free to do so! Chara is relying on there being some chaos for this to work.
Warnings: PROBABLE DEATH. Probable references to slavery, trauma, and also death. Chara.


The Ingress opens to a spilling wash of gray and white, a monochrome cast of shadows and hard angles. The Runoff, it seems, is not a place of many colors; every inch of it is drab and washed out, cold and impersonal as the people who would employ such a place for their own twisted ends. A swirled nebula of stars glimmers overhead. It is night.

Knives are useful tools, but their reach is limited. A quiet transmission to the network, a select few messages delivered to a select few individuals, the hissing strike of a match igniting on the edge of a box. The place is angular and looks to be comprised of some sort of galactic equivalent of asphalt, likely inflammable. Still, it is entirely too dark. Too gray. Too poorly maintained. Tents and shabby establishments line the streets, places where, evidently, personal agency may be bought and sold on a whim.

It does not take long to find a structure of cloth and wood, and the whole of it soon emanates the rank, coppery tang of some interdimensional brand of gasoline.

Knives are useful tools. But they did not come with knives.

Or rather, they did not come only with knives.

One of the stalls is alight in a matter of moments. Red and gold tongues of flame gobbling the establishment whole, filling the place with both the color and light that it so lacked. Knobs of wood harvested from the wreckage form handy torches to set anything else aflame, to thoroughly raze the entire area to the ground, every stall and ship and vendor that supported and enabled the inflorescence of slave trafficking and slave keeping. Armed guards begin to converge on the disturbance at once. But small as said disturbance is, there is no guarantee that it will not come to grow.

That is, of course, where you come in.

One child alone cannot possibly take the entire place down, and flame can only take things so far. It is hardly enough when their aim is one of total destruction, however unrealistic an expectation that might be. They'll need help. Lots of it.

So won't you join the dance?

Comments

[lavelly]

[He doesn't let go, and his hands shake under Solas's touch, but his fury twists into something else, something he can't put words to. His breathing is strangled and he realizes with horror that his cheeks are already wet, and he hates it, hates himself for crumbling in the face of this, but he can't run from Solas now. All he can do is look down and pray Solas doesn't see.

It turns out not to matter. His own voice betrays him, thick and uneven. Small.

Solas is dooming all of them, and he knows it. This isn't new. But the deep-seated conviction, the resignation, truly, finally sends it home that Lavellan never had a chance. Solas is asking Lavellan to kill him, and Lavellan could not possibly. It's like being betrayed a second time.]

You were wrong once. Why can't you be wrong now?

[dirth]

[ Neriel doesn't let go and Solas doesn't move away, either. He doesn't have the energy to fight with the bite of this man's anger and disappointment, not when he feels it so keenly and so surely. He is aware of his own failings, aware of his own mistakes and faults, and there's no way for him to pretend as though he isn't or that he's somehow better than what he is. Solas knows himself, and he does not dare to claim anything more than the person he is, cruel and dangerous and wise beyond the appearance of his years.

He knows, too, that he is incredibly selfish, but he truly believes he is doing what is best.

Turning his head away, Solas frowns, considering for a moment. He doesn't know what Lavellan wants to hear right now and for a moment he is completely and utterly without words, but... He manages to search, to find them, to try and find the right thing to say - or if not the right thing then the best thing. ]

There are no mistakes this time. There cannot be.

[lavelly]

[There is nothing Solas could possibly say that would be what Lavellan wants to hear, except for capitulation. The one thing Solas will never give him. So it doesn't matter what he actually says. Lavellan barely hears it.

He just stands there a moment, shoulders slumped, fingers still clutching the fabric of Solas's shirt, unable to look him in the face. Then he lets go, and steps back, and wipes his face, and turns, and leaves.

He doesn't say a thing. Not an argument, not a parting shot, not even a dismissal. He has no words for Solas anymore. And he'll walk back in silence, to the Ingress, to the house, if Solas doesn't stop him. He feels numb. All he wants to do is sleep.]