faderift | THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

WHO: Any Inquisition members + all rifters
WHAT: A semi-involuntary tropical island vacation
WHEN: Kingsway 20 onward
WHERE: The sea and an island east of Rivain
NOTES: OOC post.

I. THE JOURNEY

Two ships depart from Kirkwall on the morning tide, sturdy vessels crewed by veteran sailors--but a mere skeleton crew, as it turns out, or so a few of them would have you believe. They're prone to assigning tasks to anyone who happens not to look busy, shoving ropes into hands without a care for station or experience, barking out instructions and expecting to be obeyed. With plenty of work to do the journey seems quick, and besides the unexpected chores it's otherwise smooth sailing through the Waking Sea. Some claim to've spotted the Windline Marcher one night, but it could just as easily have been clouds on the horizon, and that's it for excitement until the ships round the island of Brandel's Reach and out into open ocean, the ever-present coastline finally falling away behind.

The sky is bigger out there and the waves are too, especially when a storm strikes a few days out, dark clouds and driving rain sending any inexperienced sailors below decks to wait it out. The worst of it being the pitch of the ship rolling up and crashing down the massive waves, and the way the hold fills with the stench of people being sick. But the next morning dawns calm and clear and with no lasting damage done.

The group is bound for a desert island, drawn on maps with a big deep cove like a bite chomped out the side it, and a narrow channel through the surrounding reefs to reach it. That's the only moment of true tension on the voyage: as soundings are taken every few feet and the helmsmen adjust and readjust in response, carefully threading the needle to avoid running aground on ship-killing banks of sharp coral.

Both ships make it, and anchor offshore in the bay in the sheltering lee of a cliff, safe from future storms. The first party ashore reports back that Qunari are present in the area, but while they've displayed a palpable wariness, hostility does not seem their aim today, and they retreat back up to the hills above the beach as Inquisition forces arrive. Anyone able-bodied is tasked with assisting in unloading, and those less hale with helping the quartermaster's assistants track the process to make sure nothing goes astray between hold and shore.

Camp is to be a collection of tents: large ones beneath which makeshift facilities for cooking, eating, and working are set up, and many small ones designed to hold 2-4 Inquisition agents. They're still hammering stakes into the sand and tying off ropes to the sturdier palms when a shout goes up, though anyone present who possesses an anchor shard will not need to be told: a rift has opened nearby, a couple hundred yards out into the bay, a knot of shapes splashing about it. Better hope the rifters can swim.

II. ARRIVAL

Rifters

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, when the afterimage left by a flare of too-bright, greenish light fades, you will find yourself at sea. Not metaphorically (though perhaps that too) but literally: dropped into what is unmistakably the ocean, from the salt in your mouth and the incessant slosh of waves into your face, the squawk of gulls circling overhead. You had better start treading water.

Thankfully, if you can keep your head above the waves long enough to make a quick inspection, it turns out that land is in sight, only a few hundred yards off. Unfortunately, between you and it is a strange slash of greenish light. It sticks up out of the water but seems to continue beneath as well, turning the otherwise-turquoise waters the same pale greenish shade of a man gone seasick. The cluster of demons emerging from the rift are tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes who flail about like stickbugs dropped in pond, but use the long reach of their arms to attack. Some are hunched and hooded with no eyes at all, their shrouds sodden and draped in seaweed. Others are mere wisps of greenish light that float easily over the surface. While you might get the impression they are as surprised as you to find themselves in the drink, any humor that might bring is probably outweighed by how angry it seems to make them.

If that were not enough to contend with, there is also the narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here that now glows out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. But there is some good news: from the beach over yonder boats are launching. Perhaps they'll save you.

Rescue

As if rescuing rifters from drowning and demons weren't hard enough work, all the commotion in the water inevitably draws the attention of the local predators. But what arrives isn't the usual eel or ray or even a shark: it's something much bigger and much...redder?

Slinking through the water comes the flash of a fin and the glint of a scaly back, so quick and sinuous it's hard to say how many of the sea serpents there are. As wide around as the circle of a man's arms, with snapping jaws lined with an unnatural number of curving teeth, but what should be smooth snakey curves are instead jagged with the jut of brilliant red crystals that catch the light and make the sea seem to be already splattered with blood. They're studded all over its body, making any even glancing blow carry twice the danger: there's not just the stunning force of the strike to worry about or the possibility of being coiled in a crushing grip, but also being sliced and gored by red lyrium.

And the serpents aren't alone. While all eyes are on the churning water and the incredible sight of demons battling it out with sea monsters (because everything in that water is fair game to the beasts, not just the Inquisition), one sailor is suddenly plucked out his boat and carried screaming down into the depths by a great, crystal-encrusted tentacle. Cleansing runes are effective, but the monsters are canny enough to avoid capture, falling back into deeper water before attacking again. The arrival of a red lyrium-tainted kraken is just about the final straw for the ship's crew, and after seeing the monsters come dangerously close to cleverly flipping one of the longboats, they insist that the Inquisition row back for shore.

If flight is hard to stomach, consider it a tactical retreat: in shallower water the great bulks of the monsters become a liability, thrashing about among the rocks as they try to give chase. Escape back to the beach is possible, and surely the safer course, but it may be possible to lure one of the sea serpents into a tide pool or to beach itself up on the sands. The rest continue to prowl the bay, visible circling the ships at anchor and making any return impossible for the time being.

III. STRANDED

Once everyone is safely on land and out of the monsters' reach—after any wounds have been seen to, with particular attention given to any that may have been exposed to red lyrium—it's obvious that there's no way to leave for the time being. There isn't much to do but to try to make the most of things and try to accomplish what you came here for.

Some of the team will be tasked with continuing to set up camp. Now that the stay might be longer than a single night, it needs to be a little sturdier. The beach and cove are protected from harsh winds and exposure by a half-circle of rocky cliffs, and the Qunari communicate in grunts and one-word answers that large predators make sleeping in the jungle itself a bad idea. They've only been here a few days (that much can be gleaned despite their reticence), but some of the untamed jungle has been cut through to make clear paths to fresh water and fruit sources.

Penetrating the rest of the island is slow, difficult work—though magic may make it easier. The goal is near the top of the formerly volcanic peak in the island's center, but hacking through the growth to create a path may abruptly become a waste of time when it gives way to a steep drop-off or an equally steep incline and forces everyone to double back and try another route. If there was ever a clear road to the top, it's gone now, grown over during centuries of abandonment. But there are signs of past habitation: the lower portions of the island are spotted with crumbling ruins, chunks of moss-coated wall rising out of the forest floor, the occasional pillar looming up amongst the trees. Some have architecture and faded murals that are distinctly elven. Others, more recent, are clearly human, including a statue of Andraste in the center of a clearing. Others are harder to identify.

The predators the Qunari were trying to warn everyone about turn out to be real--they're large, jet-black cats about the size of a height of a mabari but longer, with short manes, near-scaley skin, and horns almost like the Qunari's. And before anyone gets any ideas about keeping one, they're fiercely territorial—always likely to try to eat your face, but doubly so if you come near their adorable kittens. Feeding them may buy a moment or two for escape, but nothing is going to win them over.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

II. Arrival: Rifters

Fingon breaks the surface with a gasp and a shake of his head, the saltwater blurring and stinging his eyes as he tries to make out his location. The results of that are mixed: he find the shoreline, though it doesn't look like any one he knows, and it seems his sword is floating not far away.

Of course, realizing that the green light shining off it is as much the product of his left hand as it is the blade is more than a little worrisome. The creatures issuing forth from the rift, he'll admit, are also looking a tad inconvenient to get around.

Still, those issues can be worried about later. The priority is the shore, or at least the boats which seem to be coming from it. And it shouldn't be trouble; he's swum farther before.

He's never had to do so in the kind of heavy, elaborate robes the Noldor seem to enjoy their kings suffering their way through court in, granted, but there's a first time for everything.

III. Stranded

Fingon stays at camp just long enough to find a safe place to store his most cumbersome things, then he's off to take a look around. Another world, they said this was, and he's curious to see what a place that sounds both so similar and so different to Arda might be like.

Mostly, he finds, it's quiet: there's the rustle of movement in the jungle, but no hint of the inhabitants' thoughts is open to him. Nor do the stones of the ruins speak back to him, telling stories of their long-lost inhabitants.

Fingon has never been an expert at communicating with animal or earth, but it's still strange to be so completely deaf to either. Is it simply that the world is different, he wonders, or whether he is by being here?

He has relieved himself of some of his armor so he doesn't feel so damn hot and heavy. But his gaze is still curiously unfocused - as if part of him hasn't made the transition between worlds. He absently flexes the fingers of his right hand, relearning the feel of it, as he walks about. Really, he is an imposing figure, though his height is less of an issue, it seems.

"Reborn through fire and water..." he murmurs to himself, probably sounding as mad as he looks.

Maybe madness is in the sea water. Maybe it's catching.

Either way Fingon looks up from the campfire, where he's been patiently working the ornaments from his hair and waiting for his outer robes to dry. The voice had been faint-to faint to be nearby, surely- but he could have sworn he heard...

"Russandol?" He can't help but call out. It's probably nothing- just dreaming up a familiar, friendly voice in a strange place, though admittedly the Maedhros in his head is usually more lucid- but he can't resist trying.

That's all the Rifters need: liquefied madness! Just one sip and nothing will matter anymore! Or everything will matter...to an unnerving degree.

He, in turn, has heard Fingon's voice so often in his dreams...his daydreams...his simple waking moments...that he does not trust reality. Blankly, he stops in his tracks, peers around and spies the firelight.

No matter the promised warmth, he will not go there.

"I'm always here, Finno. You should sleep." because that is what the dead do. Sleep and dream and heal...

In the light of the campfire Fingon stills for a few moments. Then, with an impatient tug, he pulls the ornament he was working on out of his hair.

Maedhros's voice again. It still could be imagined, he supposes, but somehow he's less and less certain of that idea. And yet...the alternative is that Maedhros is out there, nearby, but won't come to him.

The thought stings a bit, but Fingon shakes it off. Well if it's a chase Maedhros wants, that's what he'll get.He leaves his things by the fire to dry, then follows the direction the voice seemed to be coming from.

"And what if I don't wish to?"

A stubborn ghost! Maedhros closes his eyes, envisioning Fingon in all his stubborn glory. A faint, insistent smile touches his lips. It isn't often his visions talk back or seem to be...closer? How could they be closer than inside of his head?

He opens his eyes, a little confused. Fingon's form blocks the firelight briefly and he inhales sharply, wonder and panic warring in his heart. As much as he wants to see his cousin - dearly, unendingly - he knows he is not worthy of being his presence.

"It's just like you to argue." he pauses, perhaps making himself easier to track; easier to find, "Rest is good for you, no matter your age."

"And when was the last time you rested?" Fingon calls back. If he argues, it's only because he knows the habits of his cousin- and thus he knows that Maedhros so rarely practices what he preaches. It's an admirable, self-sacrificing habit in the abstract- but more than a little frustrating in practice.

Fingon makes his way through the darkness, searching the unfamiliar grounds for his cousin. calling out "What game is this, Maitimo? Where are you?" He can't figure out why Maedhros hasn't come to meet him, if he's here. Surely he knows by now that Fingon won't stop until they stand face to face, right?

"I do not need it." or maybe he needs it desperately and with every breath he takes. His madness has certainly not been helped by many sleepless nights and there are times his limbs feel impossibly heavy.

Fingon will not have long to wait. A pair of strong hands will grasp his arms soon enough and press him back against a tree. Fiery copper strands have fallen over sharp blue eyes, but Maedhros makes no move to push them away.

"You're..." solid. Real. Warm. "How?" his voice breaks.

"Rest is good for you," he parrots back, utterly unrepentant, "and you never take enough of it." He turns to his left, catching sight of a tall shadow-

And the sudden scrape of the bark against Fingon's back is nothing compared to his racing heart as his cousin looms over him. "Maitimo?" He murmurs, taking in those dearly loved features and the urgent pressure of Maedhros' hands...wait, hands?

He looks down and inhales sharply as he confirms. Hands, the one long missing and long missed now restored to what it was. Fingon looks up to Maedhros again, shock and wonder mingled on his face. "Should I be asking you the same question, my dearest friend?"

Fingon | Open

III. Stranded

III. Stranded

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