THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

[faderifting]

WHO: Any Inquisition members + all rifters
WHAT: A semi-involuntary tropical island vacation
WHEN: Kingsway 20 onward
WHERE: The sea and an island east of Rivain
NOTES: OOC post.

I. THE JOURNEY

Two ships depart from Kirkwall on the morning tide, sturdy vessels crewed by veteran sailors--but a mere skeleton crew, as it turns out, or so a few of them would have you believe. They're prone to assigning tasks to anyone who happens not to look busy, shoving ropes into hands without a care for station or experience, barking out instructions and expecting to be obeyed. With plenty of work to do the journey seems quick, and besides the unexpected chores it's otherwise smooth sailing through the Waking Sea. Some claim to've spotted the Windline Marcher one night, but it could just as easily have been clouds on the horizon, and that's it for excitement until the ships round the island of Brandel's Reach and out into open ocean, the ever-present coastline finally falling away behind.

The sky is bigger out there and the waves are too, especially when a storm strikes a few days out, dark clouds and driving rain sending any inexperienced sailors below decks to wait it out. The worst of it being the pitch of the ship rolling up and crashing down the massive waves, and the way the hold fills with the stench of people being sick. But the next morning dawns calm and clear and with no lasting damage done.

The group is bound for a desert island, drawn on maps with a big deep cove like a bite chomped out the side it, and a narrow channel through the surrounding reefs to reach it. That's the only moment of true tension on the voyage: as soundings are taken every few feet and the helmsmen adjust and readjust in response, carefully threading the needle to avoid running aground on ship-killing banks of sharp coral.

Both ships make it, and anchor offshore in the bay in the sheltering lee of a cliff, safe from future storms. The first party ashore reports back that Qunari are present in the area, but while they've displayed a palpable wariness, hostility does not seem their aim today, and they retreat back up to the hills above the beach as Inquisition forces arrive. Anyone able-bodied is tasked with assisting in unloading, and those less hale with helping the quartermaster's assistants track the process to make sure nothing goes astray between hold and shore.

Camp is to be a collection of tents: large ones beneath which makeshift facilities for cooking, eating, and working are set up, and many small ones designed to hold 2-4 Inquisition agents. They're still hammering stakes into the sand and tying off ropes to the sturdier palms when a shout goes up, though anyone present who possesses an anchor shard will not need to be told: a rift has opened nearby, a couple hundred yards out into the bay, a knot of shapes splashing about it. Better hope the rifters can swim.

II. ARRIVAL

Rifters

You were asleep--deeply or fitfully, for the last time or just resting your eyes for a moment-- and then you were not. And wherever you were was not, anymore, replaced by nothing but the sensation of falling, tumbling into endless, bottomless nothing. If this were still a dream, you would wake before you hit the ground. You can't die in a dream, they say. In some worlds.

In this world, when the afterimage left by a flare of too-bright, greenish light fades, you will find yourself at sea. Not metaphorically (though perhaps that too) but literally: dropped into what is unmistakably the ocean, from the salt in your mouth and the incessant slosh of waves into your face, the squawk of gulls circling overhead. You had better start treading water.

Thankfully, if you can keep your head above the waves long enough to make a quick inspection, it turns out that land is in sight, only a few hundred yards off. Unfortunately, between you and it is a strange slash of greenish light. It sticks up out of the water but seems to continue beneath as well, turning the otherwise-turquoise waters the same pale greenish shade of a man gone seasick. The cluster of demons emerging from the rift are tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes who flail about like stickbugs dropped in pond, but use the long reach of their arms to attack. Some are hunched and hooded with no eyes at all, their shrouds sodden and draped in seaweed. Others are mere wisps of greenish light that float easily over the surface. While you might get the impression they are as surprised as you to find themselves in the drink, any humor that might bring is probably outweighed by how angry it seems to make them.

If that were not enough to contend with, there is also the narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here that now glows out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. But there is some good news: from the beach over yonder boats are launching. Perhaps they'll save you.

Rescue

As if rescuing rifters from drowning and demons weren't hard enough work, all the commotion in the water inevitably draws the attention of the local predators. But what arrives isn't the usual eel or ray or even a shark: it's something much bigger and much...redder?

Slinking through the water comes the flash of a fin and the glint of a scaly back, so quick and sinuous it's hard to say how many of the sea serpents there are. As wide around as the circle of a man's arms, with snapping jaws lined with an unnatural number of curving teeth, but what should be smooth snakey curves are instead jagged with the jut of brilliant red crystals that catch the light and make the sea seem to be already splattered with blood. They're studded all over its body, making any even glancing blow carry twice the danger: there's not just the stunning force of the strike to worry about or the possibility of being coiled in a crushing grip, but also being sliced and gored by red lyrium.

And the serpents aren't alone. While all eyes are on the churning water and the incredible sight of demons battling it out with sea monsters (because everything in that water is fair game to the beasts, not just the Inquisition), one sailor is suddenly plucked out his boat and carried screaming down into the depths by a great, crystal-encrusted tentacle. Cleansing runes are effective, but the monsters are canny enough to avoid capture, falling back into deeper water before attacking again. The arrival of a red lyrium-tainted kraken is just about the final straw for the ship's crew, and after seeing the monsters come dangerously close to cleverly flipping one of the longboats, they insist that the Inquisition row back for shore.

If flight is hard to stomach, consider it a tactical retreat: in shallower water the great bulks of the monsters become a liability, thrashing about among the rocks as they try to give chase. Escape back to the beach is possible, and surely the safer course, but it may be possible to lure one of the sea serpents into a tide pool or to beach itself up on the sands. The rest continue to prowl the bay, visible circling the ships at anchor and making any return impossible for the time being.

III. STRANDED

Once everyone is safely on land and out of the monsters' reach—after any wounds have been seen to, with particular attention given to any that may have been exposed to red lyrium—it's obvious that there's no way to leave for the time being. There isn't much to do but to try to make the most of things and try to accomplish what you came here for.

Some of the team will be tasked with continuing to set up camp. Now that the stay might be longer than a single night, it needs to be a little sturdier. The beach and cove are protected from harsh winds and exposure by a half-circle of rocky cliffs, and the Qunari communicate in grunts and one-word answers that large predators make sleeping in the jungle itself a bad idea. They've only been here a few days (that much can be gleaned despite their reticence), but some of the untamed jungle has been cut through to make clear paths to fresh water and fruit sources.

Penetrating the rest of the island is slow, difficult work—though magic may make it easier. The goal is near the top of the formerly volcanic peak in the island's center, but hacking through the growth to create a path may abruptly become a waste of time when it gives way to a steep drop-off or an equally steep incline and forces everyone to double back and try another route. If there was ever a clear road to the top, it's gone now, grown over during centuries of abandonment. But there are signs of past habitation: the lower portions of the island are spotted with crumbling ruins, chunks of moss-coated wall rising out of the forest floor, the occasional pillar looming up amongst the trees. Some have architecture and faded murals that are distinctly elven. Others, more recent, are clearly human, including a statue of Andraste in the center of a clearing. Others are harder to identify.

The predators the Qunari were trying to warn everyone about turn out to be real--they're large, jet-black cats about the size of a height of a mabari but longer, with short manes, near-scaley skin, and horns almost like the Qunari's. And before anyone gets any ideas about keeping one, they're fiercely territorial—always likely to try to eat your face, but doubly so if you come near their adorable kittens. Feeding them may buy a moment or two for escape, but nothing is going to win them over.

Comments

[aceso]

Maybe she was talking to the person behind him. Why would she ask an injured man where it hurts if she can clearly see it, huh? Huh? In any case, she's here now and ready to see to him if he needs it. Since she sees he was tending to himself with some sort of magic prior to her arrival, she takes his arm in both hands and looks over his work. There is only a little bit more to go, and so her eyes glow blue as she gets to work. Ordinarily she'd ask if a person is comfortable with magical healing, but that seems a forgone conclusion in his case, leading her to simply get on with it.

"I see," she responds, letting the spirit of Faith that helps her confirm that fact after its own examination. She is nothing if not thorough. "There is not much left to heal. You did well on your own." Quiet for a moment as she magically closes up the wound, she then adds, "Do you specialize in healing magic?"

[fireandsmoke]

"I don't," he admits drolly, drawing his arm back appreciatively and actually taking the time to admire the work. Not exactly, anyway. His specialty (where he comes from) has more to do with quashing or cleansing corruption and all the arts, whether dark or light, that batter it most effectively. "But that hasn't stopped me from knowing enough to become moderately proficient on my own."

He already bears quite a few large, silvery scars down the length of his bare arm; previous healers (or healing attempts of his own) could not quite rid him of the marks on his body, even if the wounds are gone. This time the flesh closed and his wounds appeared nearly indiscernible to his critical eye. That's quite a feat. Too bad it didn't also mend his jerkin, because that would have saved him an extra dressing-spell.

"You clearly have a strong affinity for healing." Hence why he supposes she was brought along on this dangerous venture. "I can offer you an extra pair of hands for whoever made it ashore. Or if anyone is roused into a panic," namely, any new rifters, "I brought along what is left of a flask of sleep-draught that they are welcome to try."

[aceso]

It's Christine's belief that all mages should know enough healing magic to get by out in the world. Some will stubbornly put their foot down and claim the Circle took care of them just fine, and will again once they're reestablished, but those are the ones who have struggled the most under the rebellion and will continue to no matter where they are.

"The Creation school has always come second nature to me, yes." No need for modesty about it. "That is generous of you. I do believe we shall need all hands that are on offer. Let us look over these people who are coming in now." She nods towards a boat being dragged up onto the sand by its drenched passengers.

[fireandsmoke]

Generous. Christine is certainly one of the first to describe the Dragon's behavior in such a way, as he comes off as rather... imposing and haughty despite his slim frame, to say the least. But he's not going to bank on any recipients of his help to be quite so gracious in extending thanks or praise. He is starting to grow accustomed to the distrust and wariness that the very presence of rifters and foreign magic sow in Thedosians.

Well, if all else fails and one of his 'patients' fall to a senseless panic at the sight of rifter magic, there is always the sleeping draught. No, he's not beyond totally drugging up those under his care if he feels it is for their (and his) own good. He turns and looks off towards the boat, scanning and assessing each of their harried faces for any sign of familiarity and spotting none. No surprise.

"You lead," he demands more than he suggests. "I'm perennially aware that there are many who shrink away from the sight of rifters. Surely your initial presence would reassure them."

[aceso]

That makes Christine's lips twitch with an amused smirk. "The appearance of a mage does little to reassure many, but let us see. Sometimes people surprise you, or keep their opinions to themselves if they want healed."

This group of drenched people may be Inquisition, but that's a diverse group with varying opinions on rifters, mages, and others who aren't like them. Still, these people volunteered to go pick up the rifters, so they're certainly not adverse to seeing them around.

"Is anyone injured?" Christine asks, and there seems to be some disagreement as one claims another is hurt, but that person insists it's nothing.

"Nonsense. It is what I am here for." He finally relents, and with some embarrassment relays the story of how he knocked his elbow against the side of the boat as he was knocked out. The swelling is easy enough to deal with, and she addresses the group as a whole as she works. "Is anyone else being stubborn for no good reason and hiding an injury?" If so, perhaps this man with her can deal with it.

[fireandsmoke]

"You, the one with the limp," Sarkan calls out at a clip to a fellow heavily favoring his left side, taking up the responsibility of weeding out other injured folks alongside Christine. "Don't just look at me with those saucer-eyes. Roll up your breeches, and let me see it."

He crouches beside the man with the lame leg with a knitted brow, all awash in lush fabrics and leathers compared to the modestly-armored, sopping man from the boat crew. Without laying a hand on him, the Dragon casts a critical eye down at the swollen shin, all purple and red from trauma, twisting, god-knows-what. He barely restrains a noise of irritation.

"Tell me, when did you plan on sharing with the crowd? When what's left of your leg snaps at the feet of a corrupted beast? Stay still, I will have to touch it."

And with little more warning, he places a lean hand over the wound and begins a low, curt string of syllables -- almost a song -- while a cool white-gold glow seeps out from beneath his fingers, working its magic to mend the flesh and bruised bone alike.

[aceso]

From her position nearby, Christine is doing her best to focus on healing and not laugh. And some healers wonder why patients try to hide their injuries. If this is the way they're handled when they actually see a healer, it's no wonder they conceal their pains as long as they can. Not to say Christine is always perfectly sweet and kind when dealing with patients. There is only so much protest she can take in the face of someone who clearly needs help, and she's been known to chastise rather heavily too.

"Um, is this--" the man with the limp starts to say nervously, as this stranger starts chanting, or summoning demons, or whatever it is he's doing.

"Stay still for him," Christine says, eyes darting over. "He is Inquisition approved to heal. It will only be a moment and you will be on your way." A little white lie to set his mind at ease. No need to tell him she has no clue what the rifter mage is doing, but it looks to be the same as what he was doing to heal himself earlier, so it shouldn't be dangerous.

[fireandsmoke]

The Dragon spares a swift, half-questioning, almost grimly appreciative glance to Christine, and resumes his thorough concentration on the healing.

This spell certainly isn't dangerous, although if it were a more severe injury and he had an elixir to administer along with the incantation, it would have been a deeply unpleasant, foul-tasting experience. The man with the limp is fortunate that the Dragon does not have any such elixirs at the moment (and he would be hard-pressed to brew more without the ingredients from his world), and so he feels no more than a tingling warmth in his leg. It begins at the center of the wound, and slowly spreads and glows to the outer edges of the swollen, bruised flesh. After a few minutes of chanting, the glow dissipates, and what is left behind is smooth, lightly tender, faintly tingling skin and bone.

"You'll be tender for a little less than half an hour." Sarkan rises to his feet, drawing a kerchief from a seam-pocket in his jerkin and blotting his brow with an irritated frown. Using his own magic to heal isn't quite as tiresome as casting something with no equivalent in Thedas, but it's still enough of an energy difference to make him balk. He must demand some high-quality healing spells from Anders when they've all returned to Kirkwall and they are out of this mess. "Walk it off. It will pass. And do spare yourself the trouble of squirreling yourself away next time and find a healer."

[aceso]

Christine's assumption is that he's sweating from the heat of the island coupled with what he's wearing and not the exertion in spellcasting. Of course, she happens to have the assistance of a spirit for healing, so it hardly taxes her anymore.

Done with her patient and giving the rest of the boat crew a quick once over, she determines that they're fine and sends them on their way. "Go dry out your clothes by one of the campfires and get something to eat." She doesn't add to the scolding since they're tired, hungry men who just fought off demons and sea monsters in order to rescue rifters. They can have a break.

To this mystery man, she says, "Thank you for your help. My name is Christine."

[fireandsmoke]

The Dragon had turned away from the group when he was satisfied with his work on the man's leg. In fact, he was addressing his torn jerkin-sleeve with a sotto voce mending chant when the woman speaks to him again, giving him a touch of a start and a pause, like he had not been expecting any further close attention on him.

"Nothing to thank me for," he says curtly and dismissively. "We can't afford to lose any more men to concealed injuries. There are already more than enough bodies and ruined ships to worry about."

Christine. The Dragon has heard plenty of foreign, unusual names in Thedas, but Christine is much more familiar, and bears a great resemblance to the Polnyan name, Krystyna. He shall not have a difficult time remembering this woman.

He gives another hesitation before choosing, willfully, to introduce himself with his formal name in the spell-tongue. The Dragon appears to universally elicit both scorn and wariness from the locals.

"You may call me Sarkan."

[aceso]

They do indeed have much to worry about on this mission, but it looks like they've found all the rifters they could, and hopefully none drowned before the boats arrived. Now they have other worries, like those monsters blocking their path back out, but such a thing is the concern of the ship's crew, not a healer like her.

"Well, Sarkan, it appears everyone has worked their way back and are making camp, but should I come across a group of stubborn injured, I may come fetch you." Then she nods her head towards what he was doing when she began speaking. "Your magic can mend clothes? That is quite useful. Does it remove blood stains as well?" That last bit might be a joke.

[fireandsmoke]

Sarkan almost grins at that last quip. Almost. But his reply is actually quite blasé.

"If there are cantrips to dissolve vomit and bile out of an oriental rug, then yes, a blood spatter here or there is no problem. Or I can just dress myself in something more decent."

By dress himself, he most certainly means he can just conjure up a new, equally luxurious outfit, if he wanted. But he is also abundantly aware of how he must conserve his strength when demonic beasts are prowling near, so he is more inclined to budget his workings wisely and stick to the Circle Magic he has learned through Anders's clinic, or to spells that he knows have a close equivalent in Thedas.

"I will come if you send for me," Sarkan concedes with a mildly irritated frown. Running around and healing petty injuries isn't exactly what he had in mind for an assignment such as this one, but considering the lot of them were currently stranded... "We'll need all the manpower we can cobble together if we expect to set back out to sea in any timely fashion. What a mess!"

[aceso]

Christine cannot fault him for frowning about it. This situation has gone horribly and it is really only due to fast thinking and a great deal of luck that numerous mangled bodies aren't lying across the beach or floating in the water.

"Exactly. If a mission ended up going smoothly, I do believe I would die of shock. For now, however, we have the opportunity to rest and recover before we move forward. However that goes." She has the sneaking suspicion that it will involve parlaying with the Qunari, and she wants to be far away for that meeting. Probably the only thing worse than becoming a slave in Tevinter is to be a saarebas to the Qunari.