Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2016-10-11 06:56 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2016-10-11 06:56 pm
Entry tags:
Harvestmere Rifter Arrival
WHO: New rifters & their rescuers
WHAT: People fall out of a rift and get attacked by stuff… in the desert!
WHEN: Harvestmere 10
WHERE: The Western Approach
NOTES: The arrival log is open to all. Solas was able to alert the Inquisition to the general area where the new rifters would be arriving so people could be sent to pick them up.
WHAT: People fall out of a rift and get attacked by stuff… in the desert!
WHEN: Harvestmere 10
WHERE: The Western Approach
NOTES: The arrival log is open to all. Solas was able to alert the Inquisition to the general area where the new rifters would be arriving so people could be sent to pick them up.
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, you wake with a jolt when you hit rock or sand or wooden planks--you've been dropped into a narrow canyon, into the rocky orange sand at the floor or onto the rickety scaffolding along the steep wall. Judging by the heat, somewhere above is a bright and unforgiving sun, but view of the sky overhead is blocked by a flaring green rip in reality. There's a narrow splinter of light in the same sickly green as whatever brought you here, now glowing out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions.
The way ahead is blocked, too, by a monstrous, horned beast with too many eyes and electricity rippling down its arms: a pride demon with a very off-putting laugh. The only quick way out is up. The ladders and scaffolding and narrow bridges across the gorge have demons, too, but only smaller shades and wraiths. Your chances are better up there--you and the people you arrived with, four altogether, collectively less dangerous-looking than the demon.
Along the way, the planks are littered with debris: crustaceans, skateboards, crustaceans on skateboards, a cyvasse piece, a dagger, a set of bloody and very sharp canine teeth. And an enormous, moving, roaring tiger made of something green, translucent, slightly bouncy, and fruity smelling. The tiger has a rider, at least briefly, clad in a crinkly white suit and rounded helmet. It also has saddle bags, which are full of donuts if anyone is able to get close enough to check without getting swiped by a giant paw, claws sticking out through the ends of pink bunny slippers.
And at the top of the canyon walls, there's help--armed, armored help--already making its way down to meet you.
In this world, you wake with a jolt when you hit rock or sand or wooden planks--you've been dropped into a narrow canyon, into the rocky orange sand at the floor or onto the rickety scaffolding along the steep wall. Judging by the heat, somewhere above is a bright and unforgiving sun, but view of the sky overhead is blocked by a flaring green rip in reality. There's a narrow splinter of light in the same sickly green as whatever brought you here, now glowing out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions.
The way ahead is blocked, too, by a monstrous, horned beast with too many eyes and electricity rippling down its arms: a pride demon with a very off-putting laugh. The only quick way out is up. The ladders and scaffolding and narrow bridges across the gorge have demons, too, but only smaller shades and wraiths. Your chances are better up there--you and the people you arrived with, four altogether, collectively less dangerous-looking than the demon.
Along the way, the planks are littered with debris: crustaceans, skateboards, crustaceans on skateboards, a cyvasse piece, a dagger, a set of bloody and very sharp canine teeth. And an enormous, moving, roaring tiger made of something green, translucent, slightly bouncy, and fruity smelling. The tiger has a rider, at least briefly, clad in a crinkly white suit and rounded helmet. It also has saddle bags, which are full of donuts if anyone is able to get close enough to check without getting swiped by a giant paw, claws sticking out through the ends of pink bunny slippers.
And at the top of the canyon walls, there's help--armed, armored help--already making its way down to meet you.
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"He is, my lord. Are you hurt at all?" It's been ages since she's seen him and he looks worse for the wear but she does not release his hands, too shocked to see him alive.
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"...I. Yes. But nothing major." He cleared his throat. My it was dry in the desert. "Just a few claw marks."
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It seems that there are others who want to talk to them and a flurry of activity all around them. It hardly seems the place for a private conversation but Sansa knows that they must have one and soon.
"Do you promise, my lord?"
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"I am ... I promise, Sansa. I will ... tell you whatever you wish."
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Her smile grows but only a little. "I saw my brother Jon again."
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Something in his chest surged, bastard, you live yet, before he exhaled slowly. "I want to hear all about this -- once we aren't getting hunted by horrors."
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Not in the condition that he'd seen her last, no, but that doesn't matter. What matters is that she survived and she'd made it north again to Winterfell along with Jon and they are the last Starks in their ancient seat once again.
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"I am glad."