[An open path is an opportunity. He's still focused on getting out, on getting home, so when he finds the new stairwell with something like life clinging to its edges, he takes it, without hesitation.
He's not one of the lucky ones, though; the stairwell never flattens out, and it's a slow, trudging climb to get to— wherever the hell this is going, some twisting labyrinth that doesn't make any sense. If you cross paths with him on the climb, Carver will treat you like a de facto party member:
( a ) If he knows you by sight already, he'll stick close, one hand raised in a silent half-salute. There's something like solidarity, in diving into this bullshit together.
( b ) If he doesn't, he won't engage directly, but he will trail at a short distance; either behind, if you're quick, or ahead, if you aren't. It might have the unintended consequence of being kind of creepy, in a place like this.
( c ) If at any point you stop, or slow down, or need to take a break, Carver will stop, too. He'll double-back, whether you're familiar or not. (You don't leave people behind in the Deep Roads, and this blighted place is close enough to count.)
When he reaches you, he'll offer you a walkie-talkie from his pack: clunky and small, obviously for a child, with a cheap paintjob in army camouflage.
What? He's been around the block. He knows how this goes.]
ii. don't forget to loot the bodies
[In the end, it's worth it, because the green place on the other side is so much better. It's familiar in the way that almost everything in the core isn't. He can survive. He can hunt. At least out here, he doesn't feel so out of his depth.
He is, incidentally, also very used to clearing out whole swaths of giant spiders, when the situation calls for it.
He gets caught by a handful of them at the edges of the trees, but it doesn't matter. He hardly flinches when they drop, chittering, from the canopy, and he definitely doesn't hesitate when he catches one flat across the abdomen with the bladed edge of his maul. The hard exoskeleton splits, and the thing goes limp, spindly legs twitching and guts spilling fluorescent out into the dirt.
Some of the others scatter back into the brush. The ones that are left don't fare much better than the first.
When it's done, he leans back on his heels, and wipes sweat from his forehead with the inside of his elbow. (The air is cool here, but it's still humid, and gross for it.) He waits, and when the spiders don't dissolve or reform or pull themselves back to wholeness, he grunts, satisfied.]
About time something around here died like it was supposed to.
iii. maintenance mode
[Here's the issue, though: he's used to just sort of letting whatever— collateral that comes from smashing up a bunch of spiders land where it may, to be cleaned up later. Usually that's fine, except when the spider guts are corrosive and acidic and start to eat through even the professional finish of your breastplate.
He's not without his armor often, too paranoid to leave it somewhere and have it go missing the moment he takes his eyes off it, but, well. It won't matter if it snaps down the middle in a fight later, so here he is, at the edge of the river, buffing out surface corrosion and swearing up a storm. Language barriers be damned; tone is probably enough to carry, here.]
Blighted— bloody— piece of shit—
iv. bird rights
[You'll have to sneak up on him for this one, either on purpose or accident. Once he finds the crystal cave the first time, once he realizes what it is, he never goes back when he thinks someone else might catch him there. Sometimes, though, rarely— he finds opportunities to go there by himself, to just... stand in there and look at what the crystals reflect back.
There's no catharsis, or outpouring of grief. The scars are too old, for that. If anything, he's very stoic, arms folded in something approximating a loose parade rest. He doesn't like to move, doesn't like to see them copy him like they're puppets on strings tied to his wrists and elbows.
He just— it can be hard to remember what they looked like, sometimes, after so many years. He wants to remember. So he'll stand here, sometimes, and remind himself.]
carver hawke | dragon age | ota
[An open path is an opportunity. He's still focused on getting out, on getting home, so when he finds the new stairwell with something like life clinging to its edges, he takes it, without hesitation.
He's not one of the lucky ones, though; the stairwell never flattens out, and it's a slow, trudging climb to get to— wherever the hell this is going, some twisting labyrinth that doesn't make any sense. If you cross paths with him on the climb, Carver will treat you like a de facto party member:
( a ) If he knows you by sight already, he'll stick close, one hand raised in a silent half-salute. There's something like solidarity, in diving into this bullshit together.
( b ) If he doesn't, he won't engage directly, but he will trail at a short distance; either behind, if you're quick, or ahead, if you aren't. It might have the unintended consequence of being kind of creepy, in a place like this.
( c ) If at any point you stop, or slow down, or need to take a break, Carver will stop, too. He'll double-back, whether you're familiar or not. (You don't leave people behind in the Deep Roads, and this blighted place is close enough to count.)
When he reaches you, he'll offer you a walkie-talkie from his pack: clunky and small, obviously for a child, with a cheap paintjob in army camouflage.
What? He's been around the block. He knows how this goes.]
ii. don't forget to loot the bodies
[In the end, it's worth it, because the green place on the other side is so much better. It's familiar in the way that almost everything in the core isn't. He can survive. He can hunt. At least out here, he doesn't feel so out of his depth.
He is, incidentally, also very used to clearing out whole swaths of giant spiders, when the situation calls for it.
He gets caught by a handful of them at the edges of the trees, but it doesn't matter. He hardly flinches when they drop, chittering, from the canopy, and he definitely doesn't hesitate when he catches one flat across the abdomen with the bladed edge of his maul. The hard exoskeleton splits, and the thing goes limp, spindly legs twitching and guts spilling fluorescent out into the dirt.
Some of the others scatter back into the brush. The ones that are left don't fare much better than the first.
When it's done, he leans back on his heels, and wipes sweat from his forehead with the inside of his elbow. (The air is cool here, but it's still humid, and gross for it.) He waits, and when the spiders don't dissolve or reform or pull themselves back to wholeness, he grunts, satisfied.]
About time something around here died like it was supposed to.
iii. maintenance mode
[Here's the issue, though: he's used to just sort of letting whatever— collateral that comes from smashing up a bunch of spiders land where it may, to be cleaned up later. Usually that's fine, except when the spider guts are corrosive and acidic and start to eat through even the professional finish of your breastplate.
He's not without his armor often, too paranoid to leave it somewhere and have it go missing the moment he takes his eyes off it, but, well. It won't matter if it snaps down the middle in a fight later, so here he is, at the edge of the river, buffing out surface corrosion and swearing up a storm. Language barriers be damned; tone is probably enough to carry, here.]
Blighted— bloody— piece of shit—
iv. bird rights
[You'll have to sneak up on him for this one, either on purpose or accident. Once he finds the crystal cave the first time, once he realizes what it is, he never goes back when he thinks someone else might catch him there. Sometimes, though, rarely— he finds opportunities to go there by himself, to just... stand in there and look at what the crystals reflect back.
There's no catharsis, or outpouring of grief. The scars are too old, for that. If anything, he's very stoic, arms folded in something approximating a loose parade rest. He doesn't like to move, doesn't like to see them copy him like they're puppets on strings tied to his wrists and elbows.
He just— it can be hard to remember what they looked like, sometimes, after so many years. He wants to remember. So he'll stand here, sometimes, and remind himself.]
v. wildcard
[Got something else in mind? Hit me!]