faderift | 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

Waver didn't hesitate.

"Do you think you can leave your stuff here for an hour or so then?"

In truth, the Medicine Seller was probably one of the better people to travel through the area with, as far as Waver was concerned. Not because of concerns of the big cats, but in terms of learning more about the jungle and what plant based residents were within it.

"It weighs less than you might think," he said, gathering up the pack. The Medicine Seller was considerably more sturdy than people might assume. You didn't carry around a hefty wooden box on your over mountains and valleys back for nearly ten centuries and not wind up with considerable core strength.

He hefted the straps onto his shoulders with practiced ease. He probably wouldn't have minded leaving it behind, but he was loathe to be parted from his sword and beloved scales.

"Lead the way. I will follow."

"I'll take your word for it," Waver said, observing the process of hefting the pack up. There was no way it was that light, so it was a result of years of carrying the thing about. Well, no matter. It was likely to come into use at some point in the jungle.

"It's about half a mile from here. Not too bad of a walk."

That was the only prelude Waver offered as he began the return trip back to the jungle. He had parchment with him already, tucked under his arm, and the path had already been cleared, allowing him to carry the calligraphy set with ease.

A quarter of a mile in, the barest of ruins began to peak through the jungle floor. Stones, weathered heavily, but the footprints of something that had once stood there. Further in, low walls replaced the nearly destroyed structures, the whole path seeming to build up and up and up until structures stood with nearly in-tact walls. Some were blank, or else the murals on them had been completely erased by time, but others held the fragments of murals in long-faded colors. The elven elements announced themselves with no fanfare, the simply towered on the walls, hinting at a former glory.

It was in front of one of the more in tact murals that Waver stopped, and crouched down onto the floor.

"The whole area's like this, as far as I can tell."

The Medicine Seller was used to treks through uneven terrain and was strangely sure-footed, especially given his impractically tall geta. When they came to the wall, even he would have to admit he was impressed.

He was tempted to touch, though he exercised some restraint there. However much he resembled an elf, he wasn't one and he knew better than to go poking ancient things that didn't belong to him.

"Has any meaning been deciphered?" He asked slowly.

"Not that I can tell," Waver said. His eyes were still fixed on the giant painting, like just looking at it long enough would determine the meaning.

"I actually wonder if it was part of a larger series. If you look on the right and the left, there's evidence of corners of a room, and the space between them and the one painting we do have looks like it could have accommodated two more of a similar size."

"Murals often tell stories," he said with a nod.

He paced around the ruin, carefully navigating the uneven floor, committing to memory what had survived the long eons.

"A shame we lack the context to tell."

Waver sighed in agreement, beginning to set up his little work station. He sat on the ground, crosslegged, parchment propped up on a board between his knees.

"I think there's some paint flecks on the floor around where the murals were, but I don't know if it would be possible to reconstruct anything from that."

"We must make do with what time deigns to leave us," said the Medicine Seller, crouching down to examine the noted paint flecks. He pressed his finger into them, and held it up for inspection, giving it a perfunctory sniff.

"It is odd, however. I wondered if, at first, those here counted years differently," he continued, in one of the rare moments he had more than a sentence or two to share with the class. "For it is a marvel when something survives a millennium this intact. Let alone over eight of them."

Waver watched, unsure if sniffing bits of paint would reveal well, anything of note. It was worth trying though, although his attention went back to starting to put what he could see down onto paper.

"Well, the question becomes what was an average elf's lifespan? If it's longer than what one would expect, even compared to today, two years feeling like one would make perfect sense. We're essentially talking about the opposite of dog years."

"I do not think dogs measure years," he said. He rubbed the red dust from his fingers.

"Iron oxide," he stated bluntly. "For the red. I do not recognize the other smell."

"No, but humans do, to try and relate a dog's lifespan to theirs. One year in a dog's life puts them at about seven years old for humans and so forth."

Moreover, iron oxide. Interesting.

"I wonder if the pigment was locally made or if they were trading."

THE SEAS SHALL RISE & DEVOUR, Part I

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