[ open ] Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.

[morework]

Who: Cullen Rutherford (morework) & YOU
Where: Entrance Hall
When: 08/20-08/21, the night from Saturday to Sunday
Rating: PG-13 for blood and violence
Summary: Several months have passed in Thedas. Cullen is in the middle of fighting his way through a demon army, when Wonderland decides that it's time for him to come back. He has mixed feelings about the timing of that.
The Story:

Elsewhere

The cacophony of battle smothers most sounds easily, but in front of him Cullen hears the stone crack. Hundreds of winters in a single moment, warping even rock. He brings his shield up high, and lets the icy blast crash against it like a wave. He doesn't need its attention long: The creature's shriek rise and die in an instant. Cullen lowers cover, and nods his approval to the archers.

"Hesyll, keep your men by the gate!" he calls down, and makes for the next choke point. "Barwik, to the eastern battlements!"

Somewhere out of sight the blighted dragon lets out an ear-splitting roar. Cullen jumps a set of stairs, and forces back his last memories of the sound. Not this time. Not this time. Not this time, he repeats, until he stops running. Ahead of him his men - three, four, fi-- dead, four - stand against three demons, all red-glowing with rage.

"If they disappear on you, watch the ground! Heat will give away their location before they strike!"

Cullen closes the distance, and charges in. The metal of his blade hisses, but the demon recoils from the strike. Cullen does not like their odds. He brings his shield up, finds focus in one deep breath and--

Entrance Hall, 2:17 AM

--appears in a burst of white light, crying out furiously as the holy fire strikes a wave around him. His shield connects with a mirror, slamming into glass, not a demon. Cullen barely just turns his eyes from the shards. And then he draws back for the counterattack that never comes.

His eyes dart across his surroundings anxiously. He doesn't lower his weapons all the way.

"What in the Maker's name..."

His voice is small then, hoarse from shouts across the battlefield. He stands in a large entrance hall, covered in blood and dark ooze, and too many parts of his enemies. The side of his breastplate is dented in, a souvenir of three large claws. Only one of them broke skin. On his back the metal must have run too hot once, and he feels the burn underneath now. Even deeper underneath he suspects that something might not have taken one of the heavy falls well. Cullen swallows. He is impossibly thirsty.

All just as it was a second before, or so he thinks, if the battle had left him time to notice. Were it not for his surroundings. Because now that battle is gone, replaced by silence, and memories of a place called Wonderland, which rapidly start floating back to him...

[[ OOC: In case your character stands too close to Cullen when he appears, the thing he did, aka. Holy Smite, (1)(2)(3) is an ability that can deal spirit damage and knock back or stun an opponent. It will likely hurt a bit. If your character is a mage/wizard/spellcaster or any form of supernatural creature it will likely hurt a whole lot. We can hash out details together if you'd like, or you can just go with any amount/sort of effect/damage (or lack thereof) you'd like to play out! ]]

Other

[ Cullen will get cleaned up and spend the rest of the night wandering. He will be outdoors more likely than not, but I'll roll with any starter you give me! ]

Comments

/zooms in here

[mandrakes]

Complete silence, yes, for a long moment before a strained sound comes from the direction of a middle-aged male lying sprawled on the floor some distance away.

Regis had been minding his own business, walking through the corridor, when Cullen had made his abrupt entry. The noise was a surprise, but what surprised him more was the sudden and sharp pain that ripped through him in the immediate moments following. Slammed backwards by the unfamiliar magic, he hit the ground with enough force to break several ribs. The spell fizzed along his nerves and spine in slowly fading jolts and he heard Cullen's voice as if from down a distant tunnel as he lay gasping on the floor with all the grace of an overturned turtle.

"... ow," he croaked weakly as the initial pain faded to a lingering discomfort. Muscle spasms made sitting up a difficult task, and he didn't look entirely well when he managed it. Dark veins stood out against his pale skin and burst capillaries in the whites of his eyes made the irises seem darker.

"That... was an entirely unpleasant experience. I would prefer not to repeat it, if you don't mind."

Re: /zooms in here

[morework]

The battle still hums at his back, a tension that didn't disappear along with Adamant Fortress. My men, the thought beats at the back of his head, even as he already knows the truth, I have to go back to my men. He can't. Not by any means of his own, which he discovered when he was here- months ago? He doesn't have to, either, but that thought sits poorly, to say the least. His men won't suffer his sudden disappearance. There. That says it better, if not without growing frustrating at his return.

Cullen forces himself to lower his weapons. To convince himself that the next attack truly won't come. And then he hears the groan.

"Regis....?" he hears himself say, part still caught in Thedas and surprise at his own recognition.

And then he finally returns whole, to Wonderland, where he just cast smite blindly at anything in the vicinity.

"Maker, that wasn't supposed to--"

Less of that, now. First he hurries to Regis, and holds out a hand to pull the man up. Not a mere man, Regis' complexion reminds Cullen.

[mandrakes]

Despite the pain it caused, Regis can't help but privately examine the experience. Being attacked with magic, however accidental, reminds him very starkly of several things in far too recent memory and he finds himself very glad indeed that it wasn't a deliberate attempt on his existence.

Cullen holds his hand down and again, the vampire is surprised. He reaches up in kind, accepting the offered help and gripping his arm when finding his feet can't be done without staggering.

"Thank you," he says, taking a moment to settle himself. His careful breath in is stiff, but the internal damage caused by the impact is already knitting back together.

Regis sniffs slightly. The man is covered in blood, most of it not his own, and it hasn't escaped his attention. He looks him up and down with that customary spark of curiosity.

"Fresh from battle, I presume." A grim smile. The statement isn't one that expects an answer. "I had no idea that you were capable of sorcery."

[morework]

"You usually don't hear fresh from battle until after you've made it through," he mutters, and helps to steady Regis. "Being plucked from the middle is new."

New and entirely unwelcome. The natural course, at least, allows the edge to taper off, if only a little. It allows for a first look at the results, no matter how grim. It doesn't leave you-- He forces himself to breathe slowly, to convince his body of the calm.

"And it wasn't sorcery you saw." Though many here seem to mistake it for that, he remembers unhappily. "I was a former--"

A beat. Would his world even be familiar with the term? Cullen doubts it, somehow. Much as he doubts that he's already in the mood to give cultural insights while a Terror's gut still hangs from his shoulder. He flicks off the offending ornament.

"Our world's magic is innate. My former order's skills are trained."

[mandrakes]

He releases Cullen's arm the moment he's steady enough to be able to do so without feeling he might shake too badly to keep his balance. That he is still feeling the after-effects of the magic is strange, but he trusts it will wear off.

Regis requires little explanation further to what Cullen is willing to offer. He nods, understanding the distinction between those abilities that are innate and those learned, and watches the piece of entrail fly from the man's shoulder to land wetly on the floor.

"You're bleeding." Though Cullen is covered in blood he can smell the human kind through the sour odour of the rest. "I believe that casual discussions of differences in magical distributions can wait until you are not."

He pauses, then adds-

"However, it may comfort you to know that you have not been poisoned."

:3

[mettatonvevo]

The mansion is oddly peaceful at night, which is a blessing and a curse for those who don't need to sleep as often as the regular populace. All of this peace and quiet is absolutely BORING. Which leads to Mettaton walking through the Entrance Hall, intent on meandering through the gardens a bit before doubling back and attempting to do something else with his night.

Then the hall explodes with light, and Mettaton feels what he imagines is a magical punch to the gut. He stumbles back a bit, his systems going into hyper drive as they attempt to compensate for the sudden drop of magical levels in his body. It's about half a minute of stunned shock before his magic comes surging back, giving him back his equilibrium.

He turns his attention to what, exactly, caused this and sees a man in full battle armor covered in guts, blood, and who knows what else stumbling around the hall.

"That was quite an entrance there! Bravo, I say!"

He's still teetering a little unsteadily on his legs, but he's not worried in the least. Tonight just got fun!

[morework]

"An entrance," Cullen repeats dully.

A great deal of things are shooting through his mind after his sudden displacement, but pageantry comes an exceedingly distant second to all of them.

Still the echo of Adamant is screaming at him to keep up his guard, while the growing familiarity with his surroundings tells him differently. He listens to the latter, and forces himself to sheathe his sword. The shield still hangs on his arm. Just a moment longer.

"This is- Wonderland, isn't it?" He doesn't need to ask, not really. "I've been here before, several months ago."

[mettatonvevo]

Mettaton continues to observe the man as he speaks, noting the details of the armor and the perfection of a hair style he has. How does his hair look that good despite having been involved in what looks like an intense battle? He'll have to ask sometime. Maybe try out whatever hair gel he's sporting and see if it works better than his. It probably won't, since he has human hair and human problems, apparently.

"Oh yes! This is Wonderland, darling."

He makes a face. "So it grabbed you back, huh? How many months were you gone? It's... August 20th, if I remember correctly. Just in case you were wondering about what the date is."

Hm. The more he looks at this man, the more he can find to appreciate about his looks. A beautifully chiseled chin is only one of this human's finer qualities.

[morework]

"I was, thank you."

He wasn't. But he knows that he should have been, the moment he hears it. August, especially memorable to him as the only month that never sounded strange to his ears. The last month he remembers here. Cullen shoulders his shield.

The Winter Palace seems ages ago, but in truth it hasn't even been a year. He can't have been gone from-- It works differently. He cringes a little, none too happy to have a reason to remember all of Wonderland's peculiarities.

"I remember that it was August when I left. I can recall... the last event I recall, an island? I can't think of the name, but we- had different lives. Abilities. And we remembered that it was an illusion, before it even ended. How long ago was that?"

Could it be? Was that how it was supposed to go? All that time- and it was only days?

[mettatonvevo]

He thinks for a bit, or at least appears to be thinking, though it's more of a ploy to continue drinking in Cullen's features. Goodness. So many attractive people in Wonderland. Would this be an appropriate time to flirt? Probably not. Is he gonna do it? Weeell.....

"Genosha, sweetheart. If it's been awhile, it's not surprising your pretty face forgot it. Though... that event only ended ten days ago. Are you sure that's what you last remember?"

Mettaton may not be a scholar, but he knows ten days does not equal a month in any stretch of the word.

[widows_kiss]

Natasha had been on her way to the kitchen when there's a flash of light so bright and blinding that she instantly thinks attack. Bomb, or flash grenade or something infinitely worse. She lunges to the side, out of what she hopes is range, even as a furious cry echoes through the hall, followed by the sound of glass shattering and raining down on the otherwise pristine floor of the opulent corridor.

It falls quiet immediately after, no impending explosion following the flare of whatever had just happened. No sounds of struggle or fighting. It's enough to have her peeking out around the corner of the hall once more to scan her surroundings, trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

All she found was a man in plate mail standing alarmed and way in the entranceway, looking as if he'd just stepped out of some medieval battlefield.

Considering Wonderland's sense of timing? He probably had.

Natasha steps out from behind the wall, bringing herself into his line of vision, her form cautious and alert as she watches him, making sure he didn't mistake her for an enemy.

"It's alright. No one's going to attack you here. Are you hurt?"

With as much blood and gore he's currently covered in, she has no way of telling what's his and what's not.

[morework]

The familiar sight of Wonderland's entrance hall gradually settles over his unease. The cover isn't seamless, and Cullen still stands poised to attack an enemy who is suddenly worlds away. He tenses further at the reassuring words, a very grating contrast to a situation that is anything but. Remember, the ones who take people don't show themselves. She's trapped here, just like the rest. Just like you, again.

More familiar memories, none of them even remotely reassuring. At least it matches the mood. Cullen exhales in a huff. More memories still, of zombies and darkspawn and magical curses.

"They aren't? In that case I remember this place very differently."

But he takes her meaning, not now, not just yet, and not her, and lowers his weapons. The sword to its sheath, the shield to his back. He straightens, and makes a point to feel all the places which object to the notion.

"I am. Nothing serious."

Yet.

[widows_kiss]

His particular wording there assures her that he's not brand new and therefor probably less likely to be quite so volatile in greeting anyone coming too close. It has her outwardly relaxing her pose a bit more, projecting calm assurance as she saunters towards him, even though there's still an alert manner in the way she watches him.

"Sent you home, did it?" An easy enough assumption to make, considering how he'd just reappeared. "Okay, let me amend that to 'there's nothing here to attack you right this moment'. Especially since you already got rid of the only potential threat in the room." She nods her head at the mirror he'd smashed upon arriving as evidence.

When he sheathes his weapons, she comes a little closer still, although remains just out of his reach. Mostly out of habit than anything personal.

"Are you certain about that? That's an awful lot of blood."

[morework]

"Not nearly long enough."

No amount of years could be. Although. Should he appreciate the second chance at getting to the bottom of this place? He might need to make himself, if only to distract from the frustration about where he should be. Cullen clenches his fist. Now, of all times. Why now?

He turns his head at her prompt. It takes a moment to catch on. And another to turn back quickly. He isn't too eager to get reacquainted with that side of Wonderland. He still tenses when she walks closer, too, relieved that she stops just out of his reach.

Cullen turns, just enough to show a glimpse of the claw marks.

"A scratch. The rest isn't mine."

[widows_kiss]

Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the long rake of massive claws, giving a low whistle, impressed.

"What the hell were you fighting?" she asks as she leans forward a little to get a better look at the wound, mentally calculating the size of the hand or paw or whatever could have made a slash with that sort of spacing.

[bloodmagics]

Only a few days had passed between that disastrous evening and when Hawke sought Cullen out again. He isn't so foolish as to think his feelings would just disappear, but pushing things down and locking them away is the Garrett Hawke specialty. Even if there had been a brief lapse earlier in the year. Dog had been antsy, and he'd been hoping that the buffer of a Mabari would prevent things from becoming awkward.

Only for Cullen to have vanished from Wonderland entirely.

(In a moment of quiet self loathing, he can't help but think he's to blame. Dog headbutts him for that one.)

It's pure chance that Hawke stumbles across Cullen in the gardens after he returns. Or, rather, that Dog all but barrels into the other man when he catches his scent. They'd been out for an evening jog to burn off excess energy, a common problem in Wonderland, Hawke finds, when Dog had taken off at high speed.

"Dog -- Come back!"

Cue a sweaty, tank top and jogging shorts wearing Hawke catching sight of Cullen and nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Oh -- Uh. Hi. You're back."

[morework]

Washing off the blood and grime helped. Not the part of him that still can't lie still and close his eyes, nor the part that nearly closes his throat with thirst, and makes his fingers run colder than they should, during a warmer summer night. But it helped, and he breathes steadily again, and when he looks out at the sea he sometimes manages to go nearly three full minutes without wishing he had his armor on again.

(It is dirty and dented, but he won't wake anyone else with the repairs tonight. Nor will he stoop to accepting replacement from Wonderland, now that he's in possession of his own equipment. The brown trousers and the plain white shirt will do. They do better for the injuries healing underneath his bandaged chest, he concedes grudgingly. And the sword belt hangs from it all just fine, anyway.)

Cullen plays with the thought of skipping a stone, when the barking sound-- --all but barrels into him at full speed, and his heels dig into the sand to support himself against the canine embrace.

"Wait, not so-- there, there," he scratches Dog behind the ears, and tries to maneuver his kisses away from- all of his face. At the same time. "I've missed you too, now that's- there, I said that's enough, down, pup."

The mabari follows the command with a reluctant whine, and Cullen breathes a sigh of- slobber-free air, more than relief.

"There, that's a good--" He swallows. "--Hawke?"

The sight is hardly surprising, not with Dog to greet him, Cullen knows that. Part of Cullen knows that, but the rest of him still struggles with the difference between home and here. The rest of him just saw Hawke fight through rows of demons, and disappear chasing after a dragon. That part of him can't help but smile with relief.

"It's good to see you well."

[bloodmagics]

Part of Hawke knows that Cullen's natural affinity with Dog is because of his Fereldan heritage, but another, much less rational part of him can't help but think that it's a sign that they're meant to be. Maker, he sounds like a lovestruck fool. You're supposed to be moving on, he thinks to himself as he leans forwards, hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

Dog continues to hang around Cullen's legs, licking and nudging at his hands when he can.

"I'm glad you made it back in one piece. You never know with Thedas."

It's meant to be a joke, but it falls kind of flat given what they know of alternate Thedases and what can happen in them.

"I hope Dog didn't hurt you. He -- " I, "missed you."

[morework]

Cullen's smile falters too easily. A matter of minutes, and the state of his return might be different.

The- other Inquisitor said that Corypheus lies defeated, and Dorian assured him that he himself was there until the end. The possibility alone makes his forced reprieve easier to endure, gives more weight to the tally of their successes, but with the battlefield still so fresh in his mind it's difficult to imagine that there couldn't easily be a different outcome, as well.

"He was careful-," Cullen says. His rib gives a reprimanding throb, when he reaches to scratch Dog behind the ears. "-enough."

He opens his mouth, to tell Hawke about the battle, but quickly decides better. No sense in troubling him with a future so many years out of reach. He kneels down instead, to return some of the attention the mabari demands. To... not quite look at Hawke again for a moment.

"Should I be surprised he noticed? I'm told it's only been a week."

[bloodmagics]

"He noticed Dorian was gone immediately, and you're quickly becoming his new favourite."

Dorian -- and Brennan's departure still weighs heavily on him, especially since their numbers seem to be thinning. There's a chance they could come back, but he can't decide if he wants them to or not. It gives him something to focus on besides the giant, awkward situation between himself and Cullen.

He gives Cullen his time with Dog, unable to bring himself to join him in showering the mabari with affection.

"A week sounds right." He opens his mouth to make a joke about the state of Cullen's room, but something so personal seems wrong now, somehow. "That's how long I was gone, when I returned home to Thedas. It was... Three years for me. How long for you?"

[circlejerked]

Of all the inconveniences he'd expect to befall him on the ten second walk from the stairs to the front door--accidentally tripping on a step, for instance, or someone he doesn't like walking up to him to rope him into conversation--having a templar ability detonate right in his face and send him flying off his feet really hadn't been one of them.

The first time he'd experienced a smiting, he'd been a fourteen-year-old bigmouth whose growing pains had made him dangerously militant. It had felt like crashing headlong into the sun while on the inside a feeling like sucking had drained at his mana until his core went numb to his commands, the magic in his blood siphoned out and replaced with cotton balls as one packs a wound after the anesthetic.

Blind, that's how it'd felt. Blind, and drunk, and cut off from his senses. It's not a feeling one forgets.

Hitting the floor barely registers; it's the hollow emptiness, the static where there had once been a clear signal between mind and magic, that has him groaning, followed by a whooping breath and a cough. No, he will not gag. Not until he rolls onto his front, at least.

He... hasn't missed this.

Who...? Anders' lifts himself to squint at who'd sucker punched him with a smite. Of course it would be him.

"You."

[morework]

The two worlds are still disconnected, scrambling for a place in Cullen's awareness. He turns, and underneath his feet hears the crunch of glass which wasn't there before. He turns to his target, a step forward to follow-up his strike with-- nothing. Because there is nothing; not the fortress, not his men, nor their enemies. Not the demon. Only--

"...Anders?"

Anders, years in the wind, Sebastian Vael one of the few left who thinks the world doesn't have bigger problems than extracting vengeance on the mage, but what on earth is he doing-- Here. Wonderland. No, that's not right anymore. Anders, before he even set foot in Kirkwall. Different than the chance encounters at Hawke's side, no less obnoxious now than then.

But not the demon. Nor much of an enemy here.

And when all that is said and unraveled Cullen is stuck with the somber realisation that this moment seemed a great deal more rewarding in his imagination, than it does in its accidentally practice.

"Maker, I didn't see!"

Are you hurt, almost slips his tongue, but he doesn't need to ask to know what skill he used, and what effect it has on mages. Cullen flinches, stuck - he realises - between keeping a placating distance, and providing some form of assistance. Held back by the former only a moment he quickly offers- attempts to offer Anders a hand up.

[circlejerked]

Smiting is, Anders imagines, like drinking something Garbolg had brewed back when it was acceptable to put tar in beverages. Every time is like your first time and makes you wonder what's wrong with you that you'd ever do it more than once. Scowling at a blood-soaked Cullen gives him something to focus on.

"Yes, hello it's me, the mage who was innocently minding his own business before you dropped in flecking ichor on everything--"

This makes twice this month he's had his magic suppressed as swiftly and unexpectedly as a punch to the back of the head. He can't say he's a fan, but the templar's full armor and battle-readiness has him thinking he ought to be glad Cullen had apparently only clipped him in his quest to... attack an empty entrance hall.

With all the dignity his battered pride will allow at this point, Anders groans and pushes to his feet without accepting the help. Cullen might as well just stab him now if he has to take his ambusher's hand to get himself upright.

"What just happened? By the way, thank you for reminding me why I don't miss you people."

Ow.

[morework]

--Fair enough, that is one way to get Anders to his feet and- well enough to complain at length immediately. Under the circumstances he'll be forced to mark that down as a good thing, won't he? Cullen takes a step back, really, Anders actually needed a reminder, you wouldn't suspect from spending more than five seconds near him-- Stop that. Although. Come to look at his reception, Cullen would expect Anders to be even more displeased at seeing him. Unless his disappearance went unnoticed in the first place. Well. He'll give it a moment.

"Wonderland sent me back. I remember months in Thedas. Before it pulled me back--" He hesitates. "The attack was meant for a pair of demons. I don't appreciate the timing either."

Because there is really no short or easy way to tell the rest of that story, is there? Least of all to-- Maker. Least of all to a Grey Warden, difficult to forget as it is, that Anders was-- is one of them, as well.

[circlejerked]

It's good that Cullen steps back first--the smiting had done an excellent job of exorcising the charitable mood out of him along with his magic. His eyes say accident but every instinct in him, down to the tense muscles in his calves, says a variety of things ranging from run to put your dagger in that gap in his armor and then run. Some old habits are hard to break especially when they've been provoked

Instead of focusing on the sick feeling and indignant sense of anger building in his chest, he eases backward toward the stairs, doing his utmost to make it look like he's simply putting some healthy distance between them and not what he's really doing, which is grabbing the banister to prop himself up before he embarrasses himself by wheezing and doubling over.

Unconsciously, his free hand goes to his chest, favoring an injury that can only be felt on the inside.

"Yay, you're back." The closest he can get to enthusiasm is a thin sarcasm. "It appears congratulations are in order. You were just a nervous rookie when I saw you last at home, and here you are smiting with the best of them. Kids grow up so fast these days."