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.

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"Oh, the Keeper never let me do anything either!" Ellana says, glad to be talking to someone who knows what it feels like. "I was made hearthkeeper since she told me I would never be a Keeper of the clan someday, and the most I could do outside the camp was gather firewood. The hunters could go out and trade, explore, all kinds of things. But I was stuck. Safe, I suppose, but stuck." But that's all in the past now. Both she and Fern are out here exploring without anyone or anything holding them back.

Her attention is drawn to her companion and her amazed expression before she looks out before them and grins. "Well, we have to get a closer look. Let's use a bit of caution, okay? If it's elven, sometimes there are traps to deter people from coming around."

[ ooc: so sorry for the delay! i lost internet for 3 days and just got it back, and typing tags on a mobile phone did not appeal, lol. ]

[ooc: no worries, glad you got it back!]

The ruins definitely look elven--or, they probably would look that way to Ellana. Fern, perpetually disconnected from her elven roots, can't tell the difference between this type of ruin versus a human one, and is all too happy to rely on Ellana's expertise in this area. Still, one thing her companion says catches her attention, and she blanches.

"...traps?" uh oh.

Ellana nods seriously before turning towards the ruins. "Usually gates that lock you into a tiny room, or stepping on a pressure plate that wakes up corpses or something." You know, typical stuff. "I have a theory that the ancient elves put a bunch of puzzles and traps into their ruins as a test. The unworthy would be thwarted and would turn away, but those who were clever enough to complete the puzzles would gain entry. Of course," and here she smiles, "That's in ruins that are still mainly intact. This one might be nothing but stone walls with nothing inside. Still, better safe than sorry, right?"

"Still, better safe than sorry, right?"

"Right," Fern replies--squeaks, more like, and looks very clearly nervous as a foal over this whole prospect. Nervous, and rather out of her element; she's no Dalish elf and knows nothing of the ancient elves of Arlathan, or what the various statues might signify. All she can do is clutch at her staff like the last line of defence that it is between her and the rest of the island, and follow closely behind Ellana as they venture further into the ruins.

"We'll be okay," Ellana says, though she really doesn't know for sure. But she has to say something because Fern looks like she's about to throw up. Or pass out. Or throw up then pass out. She starts in ahead of Fern, so if anything happens, it will happen to Ellana instead. She pokes at the underbrush with her staff, looking for any tripwires or special tiles, but it all seems like grass that's grown up through a stone floor. As they step inside the structure properly, they can see that it's mostly just walls with a corner of a roof remaining. And of course the walls have painted murals that time has started to erase.

"It is elven," she confirms. "I've seen these images before. Pretty common for elven ruins." Still, she pulls a journal out of her satchel and opens it up to a fresh page, when she takes notes on their location and the ruin they've found here. "See, I've drawn these halla before." Flipping back a bit in the journal, she shows her a similar image. "And on that wall is Elgar'nan's sun."

Fern relaxes very gradually as it becomes clear to her that there aren't any traps lying in wait to ensnare them and trap them in these ruins for all of eternity, which allows her to become curious in an almost kitten-like fashion as the murals and statues become clear before them.

The inside of the structure is a bit dark, and so Fern conjures up a little orb of floating light to drift and hover warmly around them as they explore. "...I've drawn these halla before. And on that wall is Elgar'nan's sun."

"Who's Elgar'nan?" she asks curiously and crosses over to the mural to examine it with interest.

"He's one of the Creators," she explains, taking a better look around thanks to the added light. But nothing strikes her as being new or unique, so she tucks her journal away again. "The All-Father. He cast down his father, the sun, and it was only through Mythal's words that he was convinced to put the sun back into the sky." Moving towards the wall, Ellana pushes some high weeds away with her staff.

"Though I think this place was dedicated to Andruil. She's the goddess of the hunt. See here? The hare and hawk chasing the sun?" She points down to where the little paintings of the animals were hidden by the weeds. "That symbolizes Andruil. That plus the halla."

She leans in to consider the mural as Ellana draws attention to it, but it's the beauty, the artistry of the thing that captures her attention moreso than the symbolism behind it. Elven history, elven language--these are things that sit uncomfortably with Fern, because she should know what these things are. She just... doesn't. And, as she will demonstrate shortly, her questions can be quite ignorant.

"So... does that make him the Maker, then?" she asks, and turns completely guileless and honestly curious eyes on Ellana, not recognizing how her question might cause offence.

In the nearly two years she's been away from the clan and a member of the Inquisition, she's never been asked if one of her gods was the Maker. In a funny sort of way, she thinks things might be simpler if he was. Not that either humans or elves would be very happy if that were the case.

"No, he's one of the Creators. There is a whole pantheon of elven gods, and they rule together. Or they did. They're lost to us now. I hardly know anything about the Maker, except he apparently abandoned humanity." And least her gods would help their people if they could. She doesn't know what the Maker's excuse is.

"I thought the Maker left us because of our sins," Fern replies, sounding puzzled in the way of a young person who hasn't seriously considered their faith before. She looks up to the murals again, eyes drawn to the artistry, the beauty, the attention to detail. Looking up at it causes her some frustration, too, like there's something being dangled in front of her that she can't quite understand, though she longs to.

"I don't know anything about the Creators," she admits after a pause, though surely that should be patently obvious to Ellana by this point. Looking back to the older woman, there's a flicker of uncertainty across her face, as though she expects to be treated with some censure because of this revelation. Her father had warned her, though she'd almost forgotten his words until now, that the Dalish don't view the city elves as being true elvhen. Fern seems to brace herself for that condemnation now.

Ellana has no idea, but that answer sounds puzzling itself. "If he left you because you sinned, why does anybody still bother praying to him?" Because it's not like he's doing anything for them. Is he really not listening or watching? If he isn't, then how would praying bring him back? Andrastianism is confusing.

Leaning on her staff with both hands, she takes in Fern's uncertain expression. It's not like Ellana expected her to know anything to begin with, since outside the clan only scholars or people who really take an interest tend to know anything about the Creators at all.

"Would you like to?"

"Would you like to?"

It's not the response Fern had been expecting. Blinking in surprise, she looks from Ellana to the murals again; she's clearly intimidated by the sheer enormity of her ignorance in this arena, and perhaps a little afraid of it, too. No, she'd never paid much attention in particular to the Chant or devoted much energy to contemplating the various canticles the same way her parents did, but she liked the idea of Andraste, of the Maker's Bride who respected the elves--that much, at least, she remembers from her parents. To set all that aside... but she doesn't have to set it aside, does she? She's an elf, it's natural to be a bit curious about the culture of her Dalish cousins, and that's all this is. Right?

Looking back to Ellana again, Fern nods a few times and offers her another shy smile. "That--might be nice, yeah," she says, twisting her staff in her grip.

"Great!" Ellana replies, giving her a bright smile. This won't be the first time she's taught city elves about their lost culture. There were a couple she was teaching to speak elvhen, and the offer to teach elves is always open. But she's always treated it as sitting down with friends and helping them learn, instead of some sort of strict teacher and student thing. Some Dalish elves pity the city elves, or don't count them as the People, but to Ellana, they're all elves. Besides, it'd be pretty hypocritical if she only counted herself among them when she willingly left her clan, right?

"There's a lot of them, so I'll just tell you their stories. That will be a lot more fun than you trying to memorize them. Did you want to start now, or some other time?"

"Oh, later," Fern immediately says, along with a nervous little laugh. Her small smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, which are still quite uncertain. She looks to the fidgeting grip she has on her staff, picking at the worn leather grip with her nails. "I've never done any schooling before--I wouldn't even know how to remember the lessons.."

"Oh, you don't have to think of them as lessons," Ellana assures her. "It could just be the two of us talking about it. I'm not going to make you take an exam or anything. That'd be no fun at all!" Besides, this is supposed to be something done on the side. It's not like Fern is required to know the Creators to join a certain career.

"The ancient elves often paid tribute to the gods," she says, lifting a hand to acknowledge the ruins. "There isn't a ruin I've seen that didn't have murals or mosaics depicting the Creators, or the symbols associated with them."

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THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

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