faderift | SOLACE RIFTER ARRIVAL

WHO: New rifter & his rescuers
WHAT: Welcome to Sunny Thedas
WHEN: Early Solace
WHERE: The Fereldan coast west of Highever
NOTES: This log is OPEN to new rifters and to anyone who might have volunteered or been ordered to go retrieve new rifters. The log is intentionally backdated to allow new players 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 the ground, dropped from above by a flaring, crystalline green rip in reality that hangs several feet overhead. Beyond it the sky is a dim, cloudy grey, with thick and warm summer rain falling in a way that's more lazy than stormy. Under different circumstances, it might be pleasant.

But here are the current, very unpleasant circumstances: you're on your back, surrounded by scattered possessions, and a narrow splinter of light in the same sickly green as whatever brought you here is now glowing out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. From the green rift above you, tendrils of light extend in every direction. At the end of those tendrils, energy seems to gather, until it materializes into ghostly humanoid figures. Eight of them. And before you begin to think there's anything harmless about wisps of light, half of those figures burst into flame, the others into crackling immaterial ice, and all of them try to attack—

Not you. Not only you, anyway. There are other people here, swooping in to your rescue. Big, armored people, with swords. Some of them are crusted over with red crystals, and one of them is particularly hulking and lets out a roar. Altogether, they're not very friendly-looking, but they are trying to keep you alive.

***

As for the Inquisition: your mission has shifted from the usual kill the demons, save the rifter, to kill the demons, kill the Red Templars, make sure the rifter understands you're the good guys. Good luck.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lyrium isn't a usual item in her inventory, but without a mage with them that might have a few, Beleth had thought it in good order to bring at least one, just in case any mages showed up. Forethought that she's now grateful for, as she fishes out the bottle of eerie blue liquid from her pack, and turns to hand it over to Sarkan.

"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to take the entire bottle, but if it bothers you, you can stop."

That taken care of, she puts her bow by her feet, and starts on the next task--collecting Sarkan's various belongings. While being a small, squishy rogue might not be great for helping fight off demons and Templars, it certainly pays off when trying to dodge around the battle, snatching up books and whatnot. Surely not all of this can be that important, but Beleth knows well that people tend to think that their belongings are utmostly vital.

And besides. All of this are the last things he has from a world he may well never see again. But it would probably be rude to mention that.

The items that are gathered are placed haphazardly on top of the trunk, while she shouts orders to the two warriors, making sure that they're where she needs the enemies distracted, and that they'll be ready to grab the trunk when it's done.

"I think it'd be best if you decided where you wanted your things inside your trunk--I'm sure you know better than I do where they should go." The last thing she needed was to put two volatile magic items together and cause the whole thing to go up in smoke.

Sarkan takes the bottle from her and affords it a quick glance -- hm, most of his vitality potions are yellow-gold, not lapis-blue -- before popping the cork and chugging the entire thing in a few swift gulps. It is clear he's accustomed to foul-tasting concoctions, because he makes it a point to let it linger on his tongue for as little time as possible. He re-corks the bottle and thrusts the empty thing back to her.

Whatever that concoction was, he has to admit it helps. At least, it helps a little. Enough that he can summon and organize what he needs to while the distractions are ongoing. He shall have to request a precise recipe later.

Sarkan takes a step away from her, sweeping one palm in the general direction of his fallen things, and another outstretched in a grasping motion to his right.

"Tualidetal!"

Whatever remained of his books lurched and zipped to his feet of their own accord. In his outstretched, grasping hand flew a black-and-silver embroidered velvet sack, which had lain cast aside and partially singed from flame and ice while the battle seethed on. He shakes it open with a deft flick and changes gears.

"Dualidetal!"

The books proceed to arrange themselves neatly within the sack. His trunk, meanwhile, shudders open with a loud click, and any glowing vials (of all different colors, mind you -- red-violet, violet-red, purple-blue, glimmering gold-green, green-yellow, green-blue...) or alchemic equipment that were misplaced in the fall settle snugly back into their cushioned homes. With all that finished, the trunk slams shut with an elegant clack, and he allows himself to again sag in weariness.

Well, the lyrium-stuff spared him just enough energy to get everything sorted. Barely.

His hands are uncharacteristically clumsy as he knots his sack, and knots it again.

"Finished," Sarkan hisses, satisfied to simply breathe while he keeps an eye out for any stray attacks headed his way. "Tell your men to be delicate with the trunk. It's volatile. Now, which way are we going?"

Well, that was certainly nothing Beleth had ever seen mages do before. Startled, she jumps back from the trunk, hands up and away from the miscellaneous possessions that are rearranging themselves. Useful spell, that. If he could teach it to other mages, he might start a revolution.

A new revolution. With more cleaning and less explosions.

"That--That's convenient." She manages to say, before barking orders to the two warriors, who are more than happy to get out of this clusterfuck of a battle. As to where they're going...Beleth's first instinct is 'anywhere that isn't here', but the head of Scouting getting everyone lost by wandering in a random direction would be a far more mortifying fate than a heroic death by Templars. So she takes the time to recall their encampment's direction, peering around them, before pointing off in the distance.

"We have a camp this way," She assured Sarkan, in what she hoped was a voice too quiet for the Red Templars to pick up, "Where you can get some rest and food. Hopefully the two groups will keep each other occupied while we leave." She's already starting in the direction she's indicated, though slow enough to make sure that she's followed by the three men.

Rest and food. Those are two words that never sounded more welcome to his ears than they do right now. Aside from the phrase, We're in the clear, of course, if they manage to get out of this dreadful predicament.

And after that... well. If he has the energy, his head is absolutely overwhelmed with endless questions and confusion. He can hardly make rhyme or reason out of his own disorganized, muddled, exhausted thoughts. In some far-away corner of his mind he wonders if perhaps that is the shock of his current puzzling reality setting in.

All of that will have to wait.

Following Beleth's cue, Sarkan nods a sharp, silent affirmative and prepares to haul his soot-blackened, singed self and his sack of books as quickly and nimbly as he can while they have an opening.

"Lead on."

SOLACE RIFTER ARRIVAL

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I'm assuming we're about wrapped here, since the fight's winding down? ;)