Cloudreach Rifter Arrival

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters & her rescuers
WHAT: Weird people fall out of a rift with demons, now with bonus civilians to save.
WHEN: Early Cloudreach
WHERE: Jader
NOTES: This log is OPEN to new rifters and to anyone who might have volunteered or been ordered to go retrieve new rifters. It takes place during the migration from Skyhold to Kirkwall, along the way, so those going early and those staying in Skyhold can still easily participate. Rifters: the log is intentionally backdated to allow you to also jump straight into RPing elsewhere. It's safe to assume everyone lives.

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 cobblestones, dropped from above by a flaring, crystalline green rip in reality that hangs overhead. Beyond it the sun glares down through scattered clouds, and there’s wind—strong salty wind off a sea, whistling now through the narrow spaces between the buildings surrounding the city square.

That’s where you are now: a city. Around you and the rift, merchants and shoppers freeze where they stand, a few with fish or coins extended. The shocked silence extends for whole seconds before it’s broken by two things at once: a man’s terrified shout, and the heavy, stone-rattling stomp of a massive purple demon that’s followed you through the tear. Then everyone is moving at once, screaming and shouting and snatching up children to carry with them as they run.

Another demon follows shortly—smaller, hooded, floating, shrieking horribly and freezing everything around it, emanating despair. But there’s also hope! Your belongings might save you; they’re scattered on the ground where you fell. There's also 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, but it’s going to help, promise. And it won't be long before more people arrive, armed and armored and not at all surprised to see you.

Comments

[limier]

Bound by gods. That's obviously metaphorical, right? Right.

"The Maker," They're in the middle of a city, heathen folklore's of little immediate use. "The work of His Prophet, Andraste, continues through the Chantry."

"Her word binds us to god and to realm." Her head tips slight; silently, she puzzles at the tone. She's heard it of Arnault, in his more dolorous devotions. Agitated, and unwavering for it. "By serving the Maker's people, we hasten His return."

If the words seem a touch route — well. It's not a mistaken impression.

[intruthandlove]

"A comfort to know mine are not the only ones with a habit of disappearing," Diana says, the grim set of her jaw turning to tired resignation. Someone would show themselves sooner or later, she was not fool enough to think this world only had one theology. At the very least she holds off from asking if there's anyone else. Best not to tangle oneself in the games of another world's gods.

Nevermind then. "I am Diana," she says instead, "My thanks for the drink. And the information."

[limier]

"He makes a poor husband, 'tis true."

Wren stoops back up to her feet, ignores the creaking of tired knees.

"Ser Coupe," She returns, offers a hand down, "If you shall permit, I recommend returning with our ranks to rest — if only for a time. We've food and blankets enough, and this city is wary of outsiders."

[intruthandlove]

Diana laughs, perhaps more than the comment needs, but- "Ah, but you never ought to accept a god as your husband, that was your first mistake."

She takes the offered hand, though she doesn't let Wren take much of her weight. The light touch, too soft to be a squeeze, she returns before dropping Wren's hand. A communication of something. Deeper thanks, perhaps. Or maybe just sentimentality, the icy ache of the despair demon still fluttering in her chest. "How could I turn down such an invitation."