entrancelogs | ☼ Arrival; ☼

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☼ Arrival; ☼

Who: Bethany Hawke and [open]
Where: Outside the caves!
When: Now...ish?
Rating: PG-13 for now!
Summary: Yass queen

The Story: Her head was swimming. The battle with Orsino had taken nearly all her magical power, but it was more than that -- seeing him use blood magic to take the corpses of all the mages that she’d known living and working in the circle to turn himself into an abomination -- it was too much. Too much on top of the templars and countless innocent people who had no doubt been killed when the Chantry had been obliterated. Her heart ached as if her mother and brother had died all over again. So much senseless violence because of Meredith, because of the extremist templars -- she squeezed her eyes shut and when they opened again, she was surrounded by a cave of brick icicles. What fresh hell was this?

“Garrett!” Her voice echoed hollowly in the cave and she spun, panicked. “Garrett!” What if this is some sort of last-ditch effort that Orsino learned from that horrible beast, Quentin? Was she going to be trapped in some sort of labyrinth for the rest of her (probably very short, very painful) life? She scanned the room and let out a sob of relief at the sight of the entrance to the cave, scrambling up the incline with little care for whether she was letting the barbs of once-molten stone bite into her skirts. She rushed toward the point of light, awkwardly using her staff to half-vault her toward the ever-growing gleam.

Blissfully, the Circle-mandated wear was spelled to be durable and once she made it to the sunlight, she skidded to a stop and took in her surroundings, staff at the ready.
“Show yourself!” There had to be someone here, there had to be some meaning of this that could be explained. The pain in her heart was too fresh for this to be heaven, and she had been to the Fade -- this was not it. Impatient at the lack of an answer, she slammed her staff down on the ground. A bolt of flame shoots from the spot it hits, landing nearby in an explosion of sparks.

“I don’t have time for this!” She needed to find her brother, because nothing about this place made any sense.

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He'd been slowly shaking off the event's aftermath, in part. A clean shave and a few moments spent on his hair, if only to brace himself for any further unannounced visitors. The bags under his eyes still linger, as does the restlessness which gives his skin a near ashen tone in the sunlight. But in the sunlight he is, the work in his room completed one way or another.

And for all the areas which Wonderland renders inaccessible to them, there must still be many he has left unexplored, despite the means to do otherwise. He heads for the area near the vendors that day, and turns sharply at the commotion at his back. At the magic in use, which jolts him awake.

He shrugs the shield off of his back, and approaches with a hand around his sword. Never gets to assess whether he ought to draw it yet, because he finds the culprit first: None of the mages he knows to be here. Not quite a complete stranger at all. (And nobody else in sight, but the frustration on her features strikes a familiar chord, so the sparks--)

"Calm down," he manages to say, while his eyes dart over her- Circle robes? Kirkwall Circle robes? Maker, what is going on here? "I can explain where you are."

Poorly. While he would rather ask a million questions instead.

The familiar voice catches her off-guard. It's hard to forget the sound of the voice belonging to the man who brought you to the Circle after years of being an apostate.

Still, Cullen hadn't been needlessly rude, nor violent - he'd been doing his job as a templar - and she didn't hold his actions against him. The fact was, though, that the templars seemed to still be under Knight-Commander Meredith's command, and with the Right of Annulment being active...

"Calm down?" She doesn't lower her staff, not when she sees him with his hand on her sword. "My brother just stopped the Knight-Commander from executing me, and the rest of Kirkwall is in chaos --" she shakes her head, as if trying to reconcile the current setting with that particular chain of thought, "-- and now this?

I don't know that I can calm down." She at least hasn't shot any more fireballs at him yet, so that's -- some improvement.

Someone's shouting. Fenris hears the woman's voice from the gardens, where he's currently taking a pleasant walk. He pauses when he hears her, taking in the tone of her distress, then moves toward the sound at a rapid clip.

His greatsword is back in his quarters, but he hardly has need of it here. Whatever it is that attacks her, Fenris is quite confident that he can kill it with his bare hands. He gathers himself, ready to activate the lyrium for battle. Yet when he rounds the last hedge and can see the scene, he finds that his preparations are for naught.

There are no monsters or miscreants attacking a helpless woman. There is only a mage, panicked, perhaps, or angry. He recognizes the robes as similar to what he'd seen in Kirkwall so many years ago. He recognizes the staff in her hands. Beneath his skin, the lyrium flickers briefly, the glow dim and uncertain. Does he attack? Does he speak to her? Is she a blood mage? He has no way of knowing.

"This is not Kirkwall," he decides to speak instead of act, though he remains poised on the balls of his feet just in case. "If you are willing to listen, I will try to explain."

Things have been... progressing really strangely. Not that it's any surprise, really. This entire place is strange and everyone being from different places is strange. He's trying to just keep going, keep moving forward and find his way back home. It may not be the most stellar life in Thedas, but it's his and it's familiar and... Well, someone has to live his life. He's already familiar with the ins and outs of his daily schedule, so it might as well be him.

Since his arrival, he's been avoiding mostly everyone when he can. Except for giving Fenris reading and writing lessons and trying to make a bid at having some sort of friendship with Alistair. And trying not to throttle Anders—which is turning out to be harder than teaching an illiterate elf. But, so far so good—on both fronts. Lastly, he's taken to spending time by himself to think and that's not turning out so well. Usually, he goes outside to meander the grounds just to get some fresh air and not have to feel so closed in while inside.

Which is what he's doing now. He left Bethy inside—and he'll dread to see what she's gotten into this time when he gets back—and just came out by himself. Most days have him feeling particularly morose, though he hides it under a thick veil of anger and annoyance. When he rounds the corner, it's the voice that hits him first, slamming into him like a charging druffalo. Carver's breath is stolen and his whole world narrows down to one point. It's a voice he'd recognize anywhere, one he still hears sometimes when it's nightmares of another sort that bother him. He feels as if his whole entire world has shifted and he can't find proper footing. So he stumbles slightly, nearly catching himself on fire from those sparks but he doesn't care.

He doesn't care because Bethany is standing right there. She's alive and whole and hale and Carver has no idea what to do for several heart-stopping moments. Carver would never claim himself a weak man, in fact he'd fight the very insinuation. But, he feels it right now. He can't breathe properly, his insides are shaking, and there's a lump in his throat the size of Ferelden itself. The last person he ever expected to see again and here she is. His heart throbs so painfully but already it feels as if it's mending, making itself whole again just from the sound of her voice.

"Bethany—" his voice is too low, rasped and choked off. Maker he needs to get a hold of himself. He tries again, this time propelling himself forward with the speed of a man on a mission. "Bethany!"

And, hopefully, she's prepared because he's going in for a hug so tight not even a crowbar could pry him off.

Typically, yelling outside the manor was a good way to catch a passerby's attention.

Failing that, the fire would certainly do the trick.

Brennan had been heading back from a morning walk when he heard the shouts and then heard the familiar sound of a spell nearby. Breaking into a run, he rounds the corner of the house to spot the source, a dark-haired young woman looking more than put out with... something. She's dressed in Circle robes vaguely familiar to him - not Ostwick's. Kirkwall, maybe? Starkhaven?

He holds up his hands in a nonthreatening manner as he comes to a stop a few feet away, catching the last of her exclamations as she does so.

"I'm afraid that's not entirely true, my lady. If you wouldn't mind calming down a moment, we can try and see if we can get you sorted, yes?"

Bethany may have an advantage over Fenris. While the sight of the lyrium tattoos might have startled most other people, the sight of them -- and the elf that they're attached to -- actually makes her shoulders relax noticeably. The staff is moved easily from its offensive position to its place in her sling, and she immediately searches Fenris' face with her eyes, brows furrowed.

"Fenris," she starts, deciding against moving much closer to him than she is already (she knows he isn't exactly a fan of people invading his personal space), "How is it that that's possible?" She's never heard of a travelling spell, and she thinks she'd certainly remember if they'd left Kirkwall in the middle of the madness going on. His lack of greatsword is certainly puzzling, and she can't help but wonder if this isn't just some sort of elaborate illusion. She crosses her arms over her chest, though, and nods.

"Please, go ahead." She tries to let neither the anxiety nor concern leak too much into her voice. It wouldn't do to panic further, would it?

Things happen too quickly for her to properly process exactly what it is that's going on. She knows that she heard her name called a few moments ago almost too softly to be heard, and then again -- more certain, and more importantly -- more familiar. Carver's voice is enough of a shock to her system to override her immediate survival instincts as his body comes barreling towards her, as his arms wrap around her tight enough to constrict her breathing. She drops her staff straight out, the wood clattering to the ground noisily.

It isn't the strength of his arms around her that catches her breath in her throat. It's the solidness of the body pressed against her, the fact that the pressure against her doesn't evaporate like water when she blinks her eyes. She'd sworn that she'd seen Carver in the crowds during their first few years in Kirkwall, and even late at night in the Circle tower, but...this is different. When she blinks again, it's to keep the tears that are filling her eyes from blurring her vision. She shakes her body loose of the stiffness that had developed when he'd first hugged her and leans her head down to rest against his shoulder.

"Carver," she says finally, squeezing her eyes shut, "What's going on?" She doesn't bother to hide the confusion from her voice, for her brother -- her twin -- would always know. Part of her annoyance with him had always been her inability to tell him lies. Her hands find the front of his shirt, grasping desperately for something solid to hold on to.

"Are we dead?"

He isn't dressed like a templar or a mage, which actually puts her at ease at this point. Bethany likes to think she can be reasonable except on the rare occasions where he emotions get the better of her, and the fact that he's addressing her with respect and not complete and utter terror bodes well. She takes a deep breath, lowering the staff to a neutral position as he approaches with his hands held up.

"How can it not be true?" She sounds impatient, if restrained. "The chantry is in ruins, and the templars are out of control." Her hand tightens its grip on her staff. "And the First Enchanter..." she swallows the rising bile in her throat and grimaces at the bitter taste, shaking her head. "I need to find my brother." Surely Garrett would know what to do.

He always did, didn't he? Her brother might've been hard-headed and brash, but he'd always had her best interests at heart.

It isn't often that he witnesses a stranger relax upon seeing him. Though that little mystery is solved before it can take hold of him when she says his name. Fenris' brows furrow and he frowns slightly, more than a little confused now.

Is it possible that word of who he is has reached the Gallows? He knows Varric put him in a book, but this woman doesn't look like a haggard apostate wearing the same worn robes from when she fled the Circle. If she has come from Kirkwall as he remembers it, then the book hasn't been written yet. He wants to ask, but as her situation seems more pressing, he decides to attend to it first.

"There is a world called Wonderland," his lip curls as he says the word, clearly finding no wonder in it. "Magic exists here in abundance. It is that which brought you here. As it has brought others from Kirkwall." A normal man would stop here. Fenris just continues on. "I cannot claim that this world is free of danger, but I can say that there is no immediate thread to you now."

Given that Fenris' default state of being is that mild furrow-and-frown, Bethany doesn't think too hard on it. His words hold much more interest to her for the moment, and she's frankly glad for the extra information that Fenris can provide about the lack of immediate threats ... even if she isn't entirely certain she should believe it. She tightens her own arms about herself, the pressure enough of a distraction to calm down her anxieties just a little.

Fenris has no reason to lie to her, she reasons, and there's something else that he says which catches her attention more than the idea of a place of abundant magic that isn't the Fade.

"Others from Kirkwall?" She steps forward at this point, still too wound-up to properly restrain herself entirely. "Who else has found themselves in this place? Garrett, Isabela...?" She finds herself studying his face again, eager to find out the answer.

"The Chantry?" he echoes for a moment and suddenly it all clicks, her robes and what she's most likely upset about.

"Maker," he straightens up in surprise. "You're from Kirkwall?"

Well, that's... a bit of a pickle, isn't it?

He takes a step closer again, one hand outstretched to her. "Look, there's an explanation for this - not a very good one or one that makes much sense, but you're not currently in any danger here. Look around you. You're not in Kirkwall right now. You're not even in the Free Marches, I'm afraid. There's no immediate threat here. My name is Brennan, Brennan Trevelyan, of Ostwick. Might i know your name?"

"Yes." How could they have heard about things in Ostwick already?

There is no need to protest that he isn't telling the truth, as it's plain as day that they aren't in Kirkwall. Her mind is still moving too quickly for her body to keep up with it easily and she feels queasy despite his assertion that there is no immediate threat in the area.

At least he's from the Free Marches -- thank the Maker for small miracles. Instead of going for his hand, she offers him a half-hearted bow. "Bethany Hawke," she manages steadily, "and you've already guessed where I'm from."

Tension coils through him as she steps forward, his body instinctively preparing for an attack. He doesn't move, doesn't take his eyes off of her, but he is ready, the power of the lyrium thrumming beneath his skin, waiting to be activated.

And with so few words, she steals it from him. Garrett. Isabela. Fenris doesn't know the former but for a few words they've exchanged since his arrival, but he does know the latter. One version of her, anyway.

"Yes, if you refer to a Garrett Hawke." A note of uncertainty enters his voice when he says the name, though he doesn't linger upon it. "Isabela is here as well. Along with Anders and Carver. If there are others, I've not yet found them, though there are others from Thedas."

He is not the only one who feels as if their readiness has been knocked off-balance. She scrambles to prioritize the names that he gives her, uncertain of exactly where to start until --

"Carver?" The name sounds almost foreign on her lips, for how often she's avoided saying it in the last few years, and she knows that her tone comes off as disbelieving as she feels about it. She shakes her head, countering her previous step forward with two back.

"That's impossible." And yet ... what else about this place was more possible than her dead brother somehow being here? That of all people in Thedas, Anders, a mage she'd seen executed right in front of her eyes, was here as well?

"Impossible," she repeats again, with less protest. She feels unsteady, moving her eyes off Fenris so that she can look for a nearby place to sit down.

Well, shit.

She's not Marian, and she's definitely not Garrett or Carver. But the name Hawke means a lot of things, even to him, so he hesitates as he absorbs that and quickly debates what he can do about it.

"I did. The robes," he supplies, motioning to her before letting his hand drop to his side once more. "You're looking for your brother. There's a chance I can help you find him, but I need his name. You're in a place called Wonderland and the magic in this place... it does strange things to time and worlds. And when people arrive here, they don't always remember the same people or coming from the same place.

The mention of magic in this place does little to reassure her. She swallows as he speaks, trying to be attentive while her mind races in the background. The important thing for now is that this man -- Brennan -- is saying that he may be able to help her. A glimmer of hope was better than nothing at all.

She takes a deep breath in and nods. "My brother. His name is Garrett Hawke." All she can do now is to pray to the Maker that the name means something to Brennan, if what he's saying about people not coming from the same place has any truth to it.

"Do you know of him?" She knows she ought to give him more time to answer, but she's anxious -- reasonably so, she thinks.

"I know him, actually," Brennan answers, some part of him heaving a sigh of relief. He thought he'd heard Isabela mention something like this - Hawke having a sister rather than a brother in Kirkwall, different than the story he knew, but this at least gives him a direction to head in.

And how to figure out how to bring up the existence of a Carver as well.

"He's here - mostly likely in the manor somewhere. Would you like me to help you locate him? I can tell you what I know as we go. Although I'd wager everything on the fact that you're probably not going to believe it until you see for yourself."

It feels as if at least some of the blood that had rushed out of her cheeks at the thought that she was no longer in Kirkwall returns as soon as Brennan says that he doesn't only know where Garrett is, but that he actually knows him. If Garrett is here, then at least she won't be alone in a strange place.

She nods, glad for the support of her staff. "I would appreciate any help you can give me. I'm a bit -- out of my depth." It wasn't as if she'd ever been all that worldly even before being taken to the Circle -- they'd spent too much time and effort hiding her away for much of her life.

Of all the names he might have said, that it is Carver's that gets the greatest reaction is both unexpected and bewildering. A Circle mage knows Carver? He's never mentioned her and yet by this woman's reaction, he is clearly someone of some importance.

Fenris watches as she backs away, making no move to follow. He understands the need for space after an upsetting revelation, though he continues to struggle to understand why this particular piece of news is so troublesome.

"I assure you it is not," he says quietly, his voice solemn without being ominous. "I know him quite well. He is Carver Hawke."

Fenris purses his lips, fidgeting now, feeling more and more out of his element. Reassurance is not his forte and he does not wish to offend someone important to one of the few—if not the only—friends he has. After a moment, he adds as gently as he can, "Do you know him?"

The nearby grass proves itself a good enough spot for her to drop down. As Fenris continues, she's glad she's sitting down. Nothing about what he's saying makes sense, nor did the fact he didn't show any sort of real recognition for her as far as she could tell.

Her brows knit tightly together and she places one hand on her forehead. "Carver died before we ever reached Kirkwall, Fenris. How is it that you can know him well?" His question draws a sharp, disbelieving laugh from her.

"Know him? He's my brother!" Surely Fenris knew that. No matter how she'd sometimes avoided talking about Carver's death, for as guilty as she felt about it, she'd never outright pretended he never existed.

"We've all been out of our depth upon arriving here, my lady." He gives a soft chuckle as he motions for her to follow him into the house. "Maker, I've been here for months now and I'm still out of my depth. You're certainly not alone in that. I can try and clear up what I can, if you've questions?"

That would at least give him a direction to start.

A breath chokes in his throat, expelling harshly halfway and hiccuped on the other half. Carver Hawke is a man of fastidious pride. Carver Hawke is also a man full of hurt manifested into anger. Carver Hawke hasn't shed a tear in many years. That all but breaks the moment Bethany relaxes against him and lays her head against his shoulder. He'll deny it ever happened and it's a secret that's only shared with the soft brush of her hair against his face as he doesn't even hesitate one second before turning into her. She smells like his sister; like summers in Lothering, like wheat and fresh bread. She smells like home and Carver's world slides firmly into place.

There hasn't been a day that's gone by that he hasn't missed her, not one that he hasn't thought of her. Seeing Bethany now brings back that day they fled Lothering like it was only yesterday not twelve years ago.

There's so much to say, so much he needs to say and so much he should say. But, after his time here so far, he doesn't want to talk about any of it. Not yet. Not yet. He wants to be selfish and exist within this little bubble with just his sister and not face anything else. But, that's not fair to Bethany, she needs to know what's going on and more than anything Carver wants to know about her, what sort of life she lived—so fucking thankful that some world out there exists where she's alive. He'd give his own in the place of hers. It doesn't yet occur to him just yet that things may have gone differently when they left their home.

Carver grips her tighter for a split second when she asks that. Something in him feels as if it breaks and he can feel the words bubbling in the back of his throat to say something stupid—because even after all these years, he's not fully grown out of the foot-in-mouth disease—like 'No, just you' or something equally terrible. Instead, thankfully, he exhales a shaky sounding laugh that's borderline hysterical.

"No." At least he doesn't think so. He hopes not. "No, we're in some weird place called Wonderland."

But that literally doesn't matter. Carver pulls back just enough to see her face. Unable to stop himself, he lifts one hand up and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. He's not crying but it's quite obvious he really wants to—that's embarrassing, but he's going to keep it together and just be red in the face. "Maker, Bethany. It's good to see you. I never thought I would again."

Kirkwall Circle robes. Is that where the passing familiarity comes from? A mage, one whose face he remembers barely, and whose name not at all? His stomach clenches. Negligence? Someone from another world, or someone who was taken from his mind? He cannot discount any of that anymore.

--Enough that he should feel so ill at ease. He catches the movement of her eyes. If their worlds have any common ground at all, then it is hardly difficult to imagine what she fears. Cullen keeps the shield at his side, but he lifts his other hand, away from his blade.

"We're not in Kirkwall anymore. Meredith is not here, and I mean you no harm."

Say more? Not yet. He waits.

She's glad that he isn't acting higher and mightier than her because he knows what's going on. Brennan is on the level, it seems, and he's being terribly kind to her. She follows him easily, falling into whatever rhythm of step that he chooses to keep.

"I've got nothing but questions," she assures him with a very small, fleeting smile, "and I wouldn't want to bother you with them all." She supposes they do need to pass the time, though...

"But I must know -- what sort of magic could even begin to pull people to another world?"

She knows that it always appeared to the others that her father had favored her. She knew the truth, of course - that her father was the only one of them that truly knew what she felt about her magic, the only one she'd told outright about it. It terrified her, being a mage -- the idea that she could lose control and let an abomination ruin her life. At the same time that she'd feared being a mage, she'd also feared how her mother would react to her living in a Circle -- she'd coped with it well enough once Bethany had been taken in Kirkwall, of course, but if she'd surrendered willingly -- she wasn't sure that her mother would've survived it.

Hugging Carver had always felt like a bigger triumph than hugging Garrett, at least when he leaned into it like he did now. Always the tough, strong exterior -- less prone to outbursts than their older sibling, and too proud to be 'soft' in front of many people. She's planning to milk this hug as long as Carver will possibly allow it, since it's the last thing she ever expected to be able to do again.

Just listening to his breathing is good enough for now, confirming to her yet again that he isn't just an illusion conjured out of nothing. As he pulls back, she keeps one hand firmly fisted in his shirt - he isn't getting away that easily - and meets his eyes. They're as glassy as hers, and like they always were - like looking into a mirror with a different frame.

They aren't dead, and yet Carver looks -- older, she thinks, something puzzling. His sentiment easily pushes that thought aside, though, and she nods as she brings her hand up to rest against the one on her cheek, closing her eyes for a moment to collect herself.

"I know," she says quietly. There are too many eager questions on her tongue, but there's only one that she needs to know the answer to immediately.

"Wonderland. Is -- is it safe, here?"

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☼ Arrival; ☼

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