faderift | Wintermarch Rifter Arrival

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Wintermarch Rifter Arrival

WHO: New rifters and their rescuers
WHAT:
WHEN: Wintermarch 10
WHERE: The Southern Hinterlands
NOTES: This log is backdated intentionally to allow new rifters to also immediately play in Skyhold and have a few days to handwave acclimation and explanations, if you'd like. It's open to rifters and to any Inquisition members who would volunteer to recover them.

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 stone, dropped from above by a flaring, crystalline green rip in reality that hangs overhead. Beyond it is blackness--no, if you focus, it's not emptiness, but stone, with the light from the rift reflecting on distant crevices and stalactites. You're underground. And you're not alone. There are two other people on the ground with you, and something with a deep, guttural laugh not far from you.

The source of the laugh is soon lit up with light of its own, arcing purple electricity rippling over a hulking body so large that humans don't quite reach its hip. It's the only demon here, but it isn't going to go down easily. And the only way out is a narrow tunnel that the demon is--demonically--blocking.

But you're not alone. There's that. The ground around you is scattered with weapons and belongings--maybe one of them is yours--and it won't be long before more people arrive, armed and armored and ready to fight.

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Slumber was an oddity for any Elf; dreams even more so! But surely this wasn't reality? Thingol recalled the feel of Dwarven weapons colliding with and slicing into his body. He had felt death; he had felt his immortality shatter. The Halls of Mandos awaited him surely and when he hit the unforgiving ground, the breath was knocked from him.

Did a fëa have breath? Did a fëa have a beating heart? His strong hand shook as he pressed it to his chest. No, his senses were not deceiving him! He was...living; a fact that would need to wait for awhile yet once he heard the ominous laughter.

Rising onto his feet in one smooth motion, Thingol found his sword and daggers amongst the other weapons, quickly sheathing the daggers where they belonged. The sword he kept out; Aranrúth had always served him well and it would do so again as he faced this unknown and large foe.

"Wake!" he ordered, voice deep and resonating against the cave's walls. He was not alone and now was not the time to slumber no matter what spell was lying over them.

New names, but always the same faces, marched across his dreams. How many times had the same drama played out with only slightly different variations? He'd lost count by now. Though perhaps this time, the soul had finally found rest. And then he felt a sudden dip, as though his foot had slipped off a ledge. Dreaming, he thought. He was dreaming.

That was fine then.

He relaxed into the fall, letting his subconscious carry him where it would. He passed through familiar currents, that became suddenly and violently alien. There was a burst of vicious green that flooded his vision, a sharp and sudden pain in his hand, and then dark unconsciousness.

The Medicine Seller awoke to the feeling of cold stone under his cheek and a voice ringing in his ear.

Noisy, was his first thought. His second followed the crackle of electricity, the metallic taste of a storm, and the overwhelming feeling of a presence. He knew the sensation in the vague way a river fisher could recognize a shark as a fish, even if he'd never seen one before.

This was new.

He dragged himself to his knees, forcing his eyes open. Ayakashi, he thought, looking over the pride demon. He'd never seen one like it, but that didn't really mean much - Ayakashi were as varied as gods or people. The process of dealing with one was, at least, familiar. He could work out the minutia of the strange situation when the hulking being had been dealt with.

He reached into his sleeves as the pride demon bared down on them, the electricity taking shape.

"You should duck," was his only warning.

The Doctor didn't sleep often. Mostly did standing-up catnaps whenever anyone else was talking. But he was... Well, he was depressed. He couldn't hardly think about her, let alone consider saying her name. He was mental, but that really wasn't anything new. He was sad. Very sad. Some might call it depression. He would never admit it, but he was grieving. And sometimes, grief forces one to sleep.

Nardole was off having some - Nardole time and the Doctor was supposed to be piloting them to their next "But, less adventurous, please" adventure. He had sat down to just take a load off and rest his eyes for a minute. He really should know better than to give himself a break. Good things rarely came of it for him.

He... Hit the ground with a hard thump and all thoughts flew out of his mind as he was quite winded. After blinking his eyes a few times, his breath came back to him and he muttered. "It's never the fall that kills you, it's always the sudden stop at the end."

He shook his head to clear it and did a quick assessment. "Arms, legs, neck, head, nose. I'm fine."

He stood up properly and patted down his pockets to make sure he had everything. That was when he heard that low, guttural laugh. He looked up to be momentarily distracted by the green rip that he momentarily figured was what he fell through. "Infiltrated the TARDIS. Impressive."

He was reaching into his pocket to pull out his sonic to do a scan when he heard the laugh again and he actually looked at the creature this time. "Oh, hello. Who might you be? You know I think I saw your cousins not too long ago. The Shadow Kin?"

He looked at the creature and sort of waited for a reply. If there's anyone else around, their existence hadn't yet distracted him...

Edited (Added link to reference photos because I like visual aids like that) 2017-01-15 23:59 (UTC)

He comes to the Rifts for a reason that ought to be apparent to anyone who knows what he is, and what he has lost. The caves do not frighten him—he was born underground; his palace is belowground. What sparks caution and mindfulness in him is the laugh that echoes through the halls. He steadies himself on his feet, swords at the ready, but the voice that echoes after the laughter freezes his blood.

Thranduil knows what he hopes for when he visits these rifts. He did not dare dream that those passed into the care of Mandos might be—

“Hîr vuin!” he shouts, echoing the words a coltish elfing once used in his court. But this time, he is armed, and there is no parents telling him to run, that the dwarves are upon them—it is so easy to flank the pride demon, to slice with the whole weight of his many years behind him, to do what he could not before—save his lord.

His King is more than capable of protecting himself, and Thranduil leaves him confident that Thingol can handle himself and watch Thranduil’s back (as Thranduil will watch his—some vows cannot ever be truly broken) and so it’s onto the next newly-arrived Rifter, who—for all intents—appears unarmed. Pride demons are—it is difficult for Thranduil not to look at one and wonder if he has his own on the other side of the veil, but between the new arrivals and the Inquisition troops, the demon fell easily.

He has cleaned his swords and returned them to the scabbards, washed the ichor off his boots. All that remains is to wait for the orders from the leader of the little group that came down, and pick through the detritus that fell through the rift. Nothing from Arda beyond Thingol himself, and here will be time for asking questions later, but for now, there is this one—a Man, but his fëa was strange and his pulse stranger. That’s enough of a reason for Thranduil to wind his way over, and indicate the shard in the Man’s hand with an elegant little gesture.

“Is the shard causing you pain?” There’s no Solas to soothe it away, but there is elfroot and a healer not too far off who ought to be able to dull the worst of it.

He would rather be noisy - commanding was the descriptor he preferred, Medicine Seller - than allow his fellows to perish in their sleep! Thingol had once thought himself a better warrior than most; the Dwarves had proven him wrong with their rage and numbers. As such, he was not as confident that he could defend those around him from such a mighty foe; not that he wouldn't try valiantly. No King or Elf of his reputation would flee like a coward.

"Excuse me?" he did not let his confusion slow him, however, and he ducked as low as he could, marveling at the power. Surely that was magic?

"You are accustomed to such foes? Weaken him and my blade shall rend him to pieces." his silver hair shimmered in the light available; the strands were nearly the same hue as his sword, which was thrusted, blade out before his body should the demon come too close.

His heart had sank upon waking, but now it soars. Thingol knows that voice - though it has deepened with age - and he watches, in wonder, as Thranduil challenges the demon without pause; without fear. This child of Doriath has grown magnificently!

"Thranduil!" he cannot help smiling as he swiftly joins him in battle, cutting at the place where the artery should run in the beast's leg, "I do not think my eyes deceive me? I shall make certain once we are victorious!"

For they will be. He no longer feels vulnerable now that he is amongst one of his people; one of his family, in truth, for those in Doriath are always held dearly in his heart.

Magic or something else, he pulled the paper talismans from the depths of his voluminous sleeves. In a great flurry, they left his fingers, rapidly unfurling and lining up in a rectangular array between Thingol and the demon. Electricity crashed down onto the hastily eradicated barrier, giving the pride demon a moment of pause.

Several of the strange talismans turned a murky red colour, and disintegrated on impact. The others went from blank to strange black writing appearing on them. The writing shifted into an images of an eye, the ink changing from black to a bright and blazing red.

The Medicine Seller was quiet, seeming to ignore Thingols question as he fortified the barrier with fresh talismans, his eyes searching for... something.

His medicine box was on the other side of the blockade, tipped on its side with the contents of the drawers spilled all over the cavern floor. His poor scales. And his sword probably wasn't exactly thrilled with the ordeal either.

Not that his sword would do much good in this situation, but his gunpowder was out of reach. Probably for the better - setting off an explosion in a cave would be... ill advised.

He returned his attention at last to the elf. Impossibly tall, ethereal and inhuman beauty - If this man was trying to pass as human, he was doing an even worse job of it than the Medicine Seller - but he was no one to judge. He couldn't place what Thingol was, but his presence was even stronger than the demon's. Powerful, but not overwhelming. Radiant but not blinding. Perhaps he was some manner of kami.

"I can hold it if you can strike," he said as the demon rained another blow down on the barrier, destroying more of the talismans. The Medicine Seller made a soft hissing noise at the back of his throat, and redoubled his efforts to replenish the destroyed wards. He couldn't keep this up forever.

The only reply is that deep, ugly laughter, one that gets the attention of a very tall horned woman whose strides take her close enough to cast a Barrier over herself and the new rifter. With her staff and spirit blade brandished, she certainly doesn't see a conversation partner in the enormous, spiked creature. As it moves to backhand, she blurs forward to strike at it with her glowing blade.

"Over here, pride demon! Let's go!" Their kind is annoyingly powerful and immune to her favored element, but she's not about to leave someone to deal with them alone. Without looking back, she raises her voice so the rifter can hear her. "Raise your shard hand to the rift! That'll stun it!"

During the battle, one elven woman made her presence obvious. Her debilitating ice magic was rather unsubtle, though she did her share of hexes and protective barriers as well Alongside her was a large war hound, providing defense as she cast her spells. Sometimes, that defense was needed and at those moments, the war hound reacted swiftly and with a strong bite.

When the demon is drawn back into the Fade and the rift is sealed, Inessa doesn't take a moment to rest. Instead, she slips her staff onto her back once more and makes the rounds, casting healing spells upon those who seem to need it. Rifters get the bulk of her attention, as they tend to lack supplies. Spotting the elf that's nearly two feet taller than her, Inessa automatically straightens as she approaches. Her voice is calm and even, her accent matching the Fereldan forces of the bunch.

"Are you hurt? Do you need healing?" Her mabari pads over alongside her, tail wagging hopefully.

The Doctor is utterly confused at this point. When the tall woman shouts her command he looks at his hand and sees something glowing green on the back of his hand. He's not sure what her command means but he raises it up toward the other green thing that he's pretty sure he fell through.

"Okay, what do I do now?"

It's rare that he's the one asking the questions, but he's not really been in a situation like this before. He waits to see what the shard will do, he's not sure what to expect.

He does feel... something as if the shard is somehow trying to do something, but other than causing his hand to hurt, nothing seems to happen.

During the fight, the Doctor had found that neither sonic worked. Which was disappointing and frustrating. He had also discovered that he didn't really understand some of the languages that were being spoken here. That was - troubling. So, he figured that his taunting didn't fall on deaf ears, but probably he wasn't speaking a language the other could understand. If it were one of his Companions, well, he'd write it off as faulty wiring with the TARDIS, but he knows five billion languages himself... he should be able to understand some of it.

He decided to forego the silliness of using his spoon and picked up one of the free swords that seemed to be on the ground. He would return it to the owner, should anyone claim it, but this particular foe it seemed better to be armed. He had put the sword back where he had found it after the battle.

The Doctor was a bit dazed. He hadn't fought like that in... billions of years. God, he was old. So, when he was asked about the shard in his left hand he looked down at it.

"I... Hadn't but now that you've pointed it out. What is this thing? And why is it the same colour as the rift? And why did people keep telling me to use to to do things, nothing happened."

Sure people had instructed him to use it, but he hadn't really known what he was doing. And nothing had really happened, anyway. Though, the pain was getting worse the more he was thinking about it.

"Keep holding it up and--there, that's it!" There's a crackling sound as the rift reacts to the mark, which causes the pride demon to freeze in a kneeling position, overcome by the fade energies. When that happens, Korrin slams her staff into the ground, taking advantage of this moment to cast Firestorm, summoning flaming meteors to pelt the horror from beyond the Fade. As noisy and deadly as it looks, though, she knows better than to expect that to be the end of a pride demon.

"It won't last! Be ready when it stands again! When it's defeated, it'll get sucked back into that rift!"

He had never beheld anything remotely resembling the barrier. The swift change of color, the strange writing, the symbolic eye did not have him retreating, exactly, but he was cautious. Only after he saw the spell's effect did he nod his assent and prepare himself to strike, Aranrúth, his sword, glowing in the cave's dim atmosphere. His aim was true and his force was far beyond that of a normal Man.

The Medicine Seller had fine eyes, though Thingol had not sought to hide himself. He was one of the first Elves of Arda; he had seen the Light of the Two Trees of Valinor; he had seen the world before the sun and moon even existed - when only starlight filled the air. He was old - ancient - though he still looked and moved with youthful dexterity and grace.

With the demon distracted with the barrier, subsequent blows were delivered to the beast's legs and stomach. Draw enough blood and a foe had no choice but to fall.

"Hold it as long as you are able!" he spun to the demon's other side, coaxing the creature to bend slightly so that he had a clear shot at his chest.

The surprise of the shard could do made the Doctor stumble a bit. He's not sure he likes the fact that he's been dropped into a war again.

"Another war! I wasn't even looking for a bookshop this time!"

At least then, he had been doing something productive.

"It won't kill it? Have you tried talking to it?"

Not that he had much success, but he was always hopeful.

The battle had shaken him; it had not been long at all since the Dwarves had taken his life and to fight after such an event was unsettling. However the demon had brought him together with one of the most precious residents of Doriath, his kingdom: Thranduil, son of Oropher. The child had grown into a bright, confident and fierce warrior. Thingol's heart sang to see him and the shock of the revelation had not subsided much when Inessa approached him with her fine companion at her side.

"Only that which you cannot see needs to be healed, lady, and that will take time." he sighed, "Much time."

He spoke of his heart - his soul - and his mind. Elves moved slower than other races because they had the time to do so. Thingol was not against spending years allowing himself to heal and to cope with the changes. It did not occur to him that his time might be limited.

"One moment I think I am dreaming. The next, I am awake. I must be for how can a mind produce a creature that ne'er walked on Arda?" his pale gaze focused on her, but it was the mabari that earned a small smile, "I am King Thingol of Doriath, Lord of Beleriand."

Was.

Edited 2017-01-16 05:07 (UTC)

For the most part Jamie doesn't get the chance to come help out the new rifters, at least not anymore. Usually there's something that gets in the way, another mission for the Inquisition or a different rift that needs closing - something that stops him from being able to come lend a hand.

Today is different, but in some ways, very much the same. There's still demons, although "a demon" would probably be more accurate, really. The fact it's a pride demon, though...well, that more than makes up for the fact that there's only one as far as he's concerned.

At least there's not too many new people that have to worry about getting killed by it this time around, although he can't for the life of him fathom why the one with the grey hair is trying to talk to it rather than fight it. Hit his head on the way down, maybe.

Still, he can't sit back and let the man get flattened by the thing, and it's only a matter of a few seconds before a handy rock goes sailing past the Doctor and towards the demon's head. It bounces off without really looking like it's done any appreciable damage. But that's not the point. The point is to get its attention, something that Jamie is more than used to doing by now.

"Take that, you overgrown horned beastie! Why don't you pick on someone more your own size?"

Talking to aliens, let's be honest, is what the Doctor does. There was lots of commotion and he was easily distracted, but when Jamie spoke, it was like a blast from the past. The Doctor stopped cold and turned to look at the young man.

He couldn't quite believe his eyes, because well, Jamie. He ducked and avoided a swing of an arm as he made his way to his former companion.

"I could be wrong, Jamie, but I think I'm closer to his size than you are."

Oh yeah, the Doctor went there. Mostly because he could. Sure, it was only two inches closer, but still... Taller than he was when Jamie knew him.

"Aye, that's not the-"

He'd been about to say that wasn't the point. However, any thought of that - and what he'd planned on doing after he'd gotten the demon's attention - wound going clear out of his head as his brain caught up with the rest of what the man'd said, leaving him staring for a few seconds before a crackle of electricity played over the pride demon's hands and snapped him back to himself. As the demon raised them once more, Jamie threw himself to the side, avoiding the glowing talons by mere inches.

"Look, I don't know how you know my name, but now's not the time for that. We need to get you a weapon, and fast."

He rolled the other way to avoid the other arm and group of talons. He then looked over at Jamie to make sure the lad was safe enough.

"Okay, but only because you insist."

He scavenges the strange belongings and finds a sword.

"Last time I held a sword, I was teaching a bunch of Vikings how to use them. Though I don't know what good this is going to do against that."

After the commotion had passed, the Medicine Seller was taking his time to recover his wooden pack and what supplies that had survived. Many tinctures and powders had been trampled into the dust, but his rarer stock seemed reasonably unscathed.

There was a new kind of chaos, strangers from something called the 'Inquisition'. The Medicine Seller was no fool - if this wasn't some elaborate illusion or trap, then the situation was, potentially, precarious. Now was the time to seem innocuous, and listen to what snatches of conversation he could pick up to better gauge the matter at hand.

After making sure his sword was still in its box in the top compartment, he set about gathering up the scales that had spilled, placing them carefully back in their drawer. The medicines, various paraphernalia, and the occasional book of dirty woodcuts that hadn't been trampled by the demon came next. There were a few powders he was going to sorely miss, but it seemed the damage to his stock wasn't terrible.

His sword and scales safe and his belongings secured, the Medicine Seller could more accurately assess matters. For starters, the strange grin sliver of light in his palm. It left a dull ache, and something about it left him uneasy. It thrummed with the same energy of the rift, and if he were to wager, it likely was the cause of his presence there. He inspected it closely, more curious than concerned for now.

Thingol's speed and movement was something to behold. The Medicine Seller had only managed such feats when he was able to release the sword.

He directed the talismans, sometimes with subtle gestures, others more forceful. The pride demon was burning through them faster than the Medicine Seller could replace them, the little papers disintegrating with each forceful blow. On the other hand, the creature had to focus almost exclusively on the barriers that the Medicine Seller used to restrict its movements to the detriment of being vulnerable to Thingol's attacks. Every time it tried a proper retaliation, it found itself more forcefully blocked.

To the Medicine Seller's relief, the blade was able to cut the brute. At that rate, they may actually have had a chance.

He would find that his needs had increased, but his talent with a sword was not diminished. Each slash of Aranrúth was deep and precise. Blood was pooling at the demon's feet and Thingol allowed himself a small smile of triumph.

"You are doing well!" he launched himself onto the beast's back, driving his sword deep to keep his balance. The resulting shriek of pain was promising and as one of the demon's hands grabbed for him, he sliced it off at the wrist.

Between their various tactics, Thingol, at last, felt their foe stagger. Good. Death was not far. Then they could focus on other matters.

Garahel whines a little, not wanting to see people in shock or distress. As long as the large elf doesn't recoil, he'll close in and lean on him a little in an effort to comfort. Fortunately, Inessa cleaned him up a bit beforehand, not wanting newcomers to be fearful of a large war hound.

Not truly understanding what he means but sympathetic, Inessa responds with a grave nod. "Many who have crossed over from beyond the Fade have described it in that way, so you are not alone in that. Nor do I know Arda; I am a native of this world." She nods again, polite but not subservient. "I am Inessa Serra of the Grey Wardens. My only title is Warden, not Lady. No elf in Thedas carries a noble title, let alone a royal one." There's so much to tell beyond that, but Inessa tries to keep them focused on the present. "The Grey Wardens have allied with the Inquisition, a force meant to investigate the rifts, find the being who caused their spawning, and restore order. Or at least that is the plan." Reality is more complicated, as her wry smile shows.

"Doesn't matter! Being drawn through the rift drives them mad, and they lash out--"

Honestly, that's only part of the reason but Korrin knows this is a terrible time to give a lecture on why mages talking to demons is a monumentally bad idea. True to form, not long after she stops raining down fire from above, the pride demon begins to stand up again. Preparing for this moment, Korrin slashes at it with her glowing blade once more. She gets in a few good hits before it backhands her, then lashes out with what seems to be a whip made of lightning.

Edited 2017-01-16 15:18 (UTC)

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Page 1 of 11

Wintermarch Rifter Arrival

King Thingol | Open

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The Doctor | Open

more delighted screaming

after the fight! lmk if that doesn't work.

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;-; thranduil <3

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After the fight?

hope this is okay? I don't have AC points yet for shooty things LOL

YAY! Yes this works, thanks :D sorry for the TL;DR

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Sure! :D

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The Medicine Seller | Open | Post battle

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