Every war needs a base of operations, every rebellion a headquarters, and if they’re going to be freeing slaves and taking on recruits, then they’ll need more space —
So today, they saunter through the Vi’Revas, emerging into this corner of the Crossroads they’ve carved out for themselves. A tall and towering building awaits them, a blinking beacon on this floating chunk of land. Plans are taking shape in the back of Solas’ mind, ticking over necessary logistics: they’ll install protective wards, an arcane engine at the center to power its enchantments, set up spots for a kitchen and bedrooms, because one of the most aggravating side-effects of physical bodies is endless, unceasing hunger and exhaustion.
A formless spirit drifts along beside them, still coalescing, radiating benevolence and need and assistance. It wants to help. They’ll let it help, and it’ll find its purpose in so doing; this place has a malleable shape, clay to be formed into whatever they need.
Solas shoves the creaking front doors open, entering the hollow room at the heart of the lighthouse. There are sprawling empty chambers to be claimed above. It would be dusty, if dust existed here. It all has the air of—
Expectance. Waiting. This building wants to be made of use.
He looks up and up and up, to the spiraling staircase, the doors unfolding like a puzzle-box. “What do you think?” he asks, over his shoulder.
the lighthouse.
So today, they saunter through the Vi’Revas, emerging into this corner of the Crossroads they’ve carved out for themselves. A tall and towering building awaits them, a blinking beacon on this floating chunk of land. Plans are taking shape in the back of Solas’ mind, ticking over necessary logistics: they’ll install protective wards, an arcane engine at the center to power its enchantments, set up spots for a kitchen and bedrooms, because one of the most aggravating side-effects of physical bodies is endless, unceasing hunger and exhaustion.
A formless spirit drifts along beside them, still coalescing, radiating benevolence and need and assistance. It wants to help. They’ll let it help, and it’ll find its purpose in so doing; this place has a malleable shape, clay to be formed into whatever they need.
Solas shoves the creaking front doors open, entering the hollow room at the heart of the lighthouse. There are sprawling empty chambers to be claimed above. It would be dusty, if dust existed here. It all has the air of—
Expectance. Waiting. This building wants to be made of use.
He looks up and up and up, to the spiraling staircase, the doors unfolding like a puzzle-box. “What do you think?” he asks, over his shoulder.