Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2015-11-22 01:28 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2015-11-22 01:28 am
terror takes the sound before you make it
WHO: New rifters & characters in the Fallow Mire
WHAT: More people falling into the bog than usual
WHEN: Firstall 21
WHERE: The Fallow Mire
NOTES: This rift will open just as the Inquisition manages to close another with the assistance of previously-arrived rifters, and reinforcements will be called in quickly, so everyone in the Mire is welcome.
WHAT: More people falling into the bog than usual
WHEN: Firstall 21
WHERE: The Fallow Mire
NOTES: This rift will open just as the Inquisition manages to close another with the assistance of previously-arrived rifters, and reinforcements will be called in quickly, so everyone in the Mire is welcome.
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.
But there's no waking here, just a flare of green-white light and a jarring impact, a plunge into waist-deep water that smells sour and tastes worse. It's raining, dark, and you are not alone. Others splash into the murky water nearby, as bewildered as you, and those who have already found their footing in the muck are no less confused.
You are also not as you were: in the palm of your left hand there glows a narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. Like the freezing water. Or the fact that you're being attacked by monsters--some tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes, some hunched and hooded with no eyes at all. Every splash into the water and every thrash thereafter brings wakened corpses rising out of the bog with their old weapons still in hand.
From dry land--near a small cluster of homes, one with firelight--there's a shout, then another, where Inquisition forces had just closed a larger rift and begun to regroup when the Veil split open again across the bog. A few arrows are loosed at the demons that look most likely to succeed in killing someone. Help is on its way; just last until it arrives.
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He's still going to take off his shirt. Tunic? Top. Whatever the hell kind of shirt this is. What, it's still damp! He'll catch a death of cold. "Not bad. Seen worse." Has he? He's never exactly seen Grif or Simmons outside of armor, but he has assumptions. Let him just...grab a blanket from the sleeping materials. That and new actual tea he hopefully won't drop because crazy invasive magic women are getting up in his grill should get him warmed up.
"So. This adequate man's name is Church. What's yours? In case I need you to work your magic," ha, ha, "on my aches and pains again."
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Well.
If he was silent he could be but- no. Not her sort. Too...something. Too much? Too much. "Ask for the Orlesian Spirit Healer if you cannot remember that much."
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