faderift | FIRSTFALL RIFTER ARRIVAL

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FIRSTFALL RIFTER ARRIVAL

WHO: New rifters & their rescuers
WHAT: People fall out of a rift and get attacked by stuff, as usual.
WHEN: Firstfall/November 14
WHERE: Somewhere a ways off the Imperial Highway between Cumberland and Nevarra City
NOTES: This arrival log is open to all. Solas was able to alert the Inquisition to the general area where the new rifters would be arriving so people can pick them up. Rifters can then either continue on with the main Inquisition caravan to Nevarra City or be escorted back to Kirkwall.

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 landing with a wet smack. There is no avoiding the mud: this rift has opened up in the center of some unfortunate farmer's field, and all his hard work plowing and manuring has now been ruined, first by the rain that has churned it into a thick and especially fragrant muck and then by the arrival the rift itself, splitting the air mid-field and making it impossible to safely plant. And now, of course, there's you as well, tumbling out of the Fade and into the shin-deep mud.

The cluster of demons emerging from the rift seem at odds with the setting, strange stark shapes in this empty space, standing out against the grey sky. Some are tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes who seem like they should tumble down the hill in a tangle of limbs but instead sink into the snow to anchor themselves and use the long reach of their arms to attack. Some are hunched and hooded with no eyes at all, others mere wisps of greenish light that float over the icy ground. None look friendly or familiar. Also unfamiliar is 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.

All around is more fields, except for an abandoned farmhouse a ways off, beside a windbreak of spindly trees topping a low ridge before the next stretch of pasture. As you find your feet, you may catch sight of a handful of figures in the distance, exiting the farmhouse and hurrying away over the hill. If anyone ventures to the farmhouse, they will find the remains of a camp, and may be able to locate a dropped notebook or what looks like pieces of some unknown scientific instrument, apparently broken in the rush to leave.

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i; arrival
[Curled in the shadow of a dragon's ribs, skins stretched over then between to block the worst of the snows when dark had started to fall. Her bow in her hand clutched tight; Skyrim is lawless, you never know what might come creep into the tent in the dark.

She's slept in worse places. High ledges, tucked into what looked like a warm dry place that gave beneath her in the night or when something appeared and she had to turn from it, or high in branches not so suited to it as those in Valenwood. Falling hard in the night, swearing to the moons hanging in the--]

Y'ffre's green-knotted bones-- [not daedra, not draugr, but enough to get the bow up when she bares her teeth at them. The snarl catches in her throat, turns to a rattling feral hissing as she takes aim.

(Her hand is glowing. It isn't a priority. Survival is a priority.)

Squinting past the glow, the ache, into too many eyes, limbs stretched out she fires. Thinks of flames like cold fire that lit the forest, of flesh that burns from the inside out and the dragon's belly she'd been sleeping in. The arrow punches clean through one of the eyes of the spindly creatures that puts her in mind of a spriggan gone horribly wrong as it lurches her direction.]

ii
[After and Brónach breathes.

Sets the bow back. Salvages arrows. Seems relatively unconcerned with the mud covering her person as she sets about conducting a thorough inspection of herself for injuries then through her possessions. The greater part of it wasn't strapped to her so that's-- that's somewhere else.

Not here. Another hissing curse. Easy enough to interrupt any of this as she moves quietly and quickly, an eye for anyone watching her once she starts to investigate the left hand with intent.

After that it's the turn of the remains, a wicked blade flipped into her palm to open up the few remaining parts (whatever happened, they're gone; her mouth pulls in a question) with a critical eye. Weighing them. Sniffing. Prodding with the blade.

The questions come in order of importance to someone used to chasing down game and not always having a map.] Where am I, how did I get this thing in my hand, how do I get back?

[Not your name, not the offer of hers. Skyrim made her stop caring about that one a long time ago.]

[Standing before her is a woman who could very well be a Nord, given her height and complexion. Yet when she speaks, her accent is markedly different. She takes the battery of questions in stride, answering as best she can.]

You're in Thedas, you got that shard the moment you were pulled in from the Land of Dreams, and you can't get back. No one knows how to return you, I'm sorry.

[She lifts her shard hand with a wry-smile.]

Some of us natives got struck, too. I hear it has several uses if you train for it, but sealings rifts is the constant. And I know it stings like shite at first, but that'll go away.

[~~There are eight voices in Skyrim. How many times has she murdered people who scream like her few friends?~~]

Thedas. [Turns the name over, hears shard and her mouth twists all wrong.] Why bother saying sorry, what's it going to do for me?

[Getting up won't put much of a dent between their heights but prickly as she is with her hand burning as if an arrow went through it, Brónach rises, looks her up and down.]

Wasn't in a land of dreams. I was out Markarth way, this isn't Vaermina's way.

[Skadi just shrugs, lowering her shard hand.]

None of that means anything to me. And aye, you were...though lowlanders call it the Fade. That's where spirits and demons live, that's where you came from even if you don't remember it. It's why we call your lot 'rifters'; you enter this world through a rift, a tear between the physical world and the world of the spirits. You were asleep, aye? That's the way of it with every rifter I've spoken with so far. They dream, and somehow they enter the Land of Dreams -what my people call the Fade- from elsewhere.

Call me a milk-drinker and you owe me five septims. [You look like a Nord and you're starting to quack like a Nord.] This is all mage talk-- this where things live.

[Last time she straddled a dragon to do it. Not that she's going to go saying it but she was awake, it was easier, and her hand didn't hurt.

The knife is wiped off, green ichor lost against the drying mud caking much of the front of her armour.]

Sleeping, not dreaming. [That bit feels important.] What d'you mean but spirits and demons? We don't got those where I come from. Aedra and Daedra, Nirn where folk live but they helped make and-- [another hiss. She's having a Bad Fucking Day.]

Why would I call you that? [Skadi raises an eyebrow, puzzled. She shrugs at mention of mage talk, but to her, things aren't so easily compartmentalized. Avvar heritage and spirit warrior training make that abundantly clear.]

I don't know about Aedra and Daedra, but I can tell you that the blob of fire roaming around the rift was a rage demon, that large spiky one with a lightning whip was a pride demon, and the cloaked figures that spewed ice were despair demons. And there are others, of course. Pride demons are the most powerful ones, but just about any of them can be a threat if you're unwary.

Some were likely just spirits, but the Breach -the mother of all these rifts- pulled them in from the Fade and drove them mad. So, they lash out and we send them back where they belong.

Don't look far from a Nord. Lowlander sounds like something that'd fall out their mouths. Lady luck says you've a Nord sounding name to go with all that. [Still looking out for the things that had fallen from the sky, Brónach bends, picks up what had been left when it fell that she'd been poking at and holds it in her hands. Cold. Doesn't feel like flesh at all. Too green for comfort.]

Aedra are immortal, means our ancestors, most men and mer where I'm from worship them as gods. Daedra are different. Powerful ones are Daedric Princes, got their own planes to rule but you can't kill them, just banish them. They aren't our ancestors. All of them are powerful but Daedra get involved more. Do things. [Blood on her hands, pieces of her cut away to divide amongst them, how many times over did they name her Champion from Oblivion?] Those things might be like atronachs, lesser daedra but mage stuff.

[Her hand jerks back to her bow, tongue clicking.]

Something happened like that a long time ago, all the daedra tried taking over. Next you'll be saying there's dragons everywhere again. [This is her idea of a joke. She's bad at them.]

[Skadi can't help but chuckle at that, because, well---]

Aye, 'tis true. Once they were thought hunted to extinction, thanks to dragonslayers, but they've emerged once more. That's why this age is called the Dragon Age. I've not fought a high dragon myself, but even their wee ones, the dragonlings, are damn fierce.

[She shakes her head, remembering well the event that preceded her legend-mark. A tale for another time.]

Those Daedric Princes sound a bit like the more powerful demons; they always try meddle with mortals but do it through possessing mages...or something else. At least that was the usual way of it, up until the Breach happened and spawned all these rifts. Now it's much easier when they can just cross over through a rift, eh? [She glances to her own anchor and scowls a little bit.] At least these are good for something; point 'em at a rift and stun the fuckers, or close it. I've heard of other bearers gaining abilities beyond that, but it's not happened to me yet. [And she's not certain she wants it to, that isn't a connection with the Fade that she signed on to have.]

Dragons. Again. Wasn't enough to have the skies full of them in Skyrim again, wasn't enough to hunt them and the leader down--

[Cutting herself off is easily done, Paarthurnax's laughter and the snow drifting through the gaps in his wings, Odahviing whose back she rode to the World-Eater's eyrie.

(Do you laugh at her World-Eater? She bent time and shot her arrow through your damned eye.)

Over the sound of her jaw working, her teeth grinding there's a motion to the farmhouse because it's got to be better than this standing out here like a pair of fucking targets.]

Daedric Princes give you something if you serve them well: staffs, maces, rings, something more useful than a glowing hand that's going to mess up your aim and hurt like a skeever took a chunk out of it. [Daedric Princes also want to take a piece of you too but well, that's never been a problem to this one.] Not so bad compared to some, had worst from the priests peddling whatever they worship. Atronachs from mages. Hagravens. Folk raising the dead. [Spits at the last bit - no blood, good sign at least.]

[Skadi doesn't seem to mind staying outside, but if it puts the newcomer at ease, she'll start heading over to the farmhouse. Her usual long strides shorten a bit, so as not to leave her companion far behind.]

Leader? Your dragons organize? We have high dragons, but they spawn a clutch, defend their territory...and that's it. They're wild, untameable beasts; beauties, but nothing you'd want living anywhere near you. Some are smart enough to stick to the wilds, the areas no one wants or dares to tread. Rarer are the ones that stray near settled areas, but when they do it's us or them.

[As for the shard, she avoids glancing at hers again.]

The hurt will die down, I can tell you that much. It flares up again near rifts or interacting with rifts, sometimes where the Veil's thin. If you stay away from all that, you're almost able to ignore it. [Almost. It still unnerves her whatever the situation, probably will until it or she is gone.

She furrows her brow at all unknown terminology thrown about, no or little recognition in her eyes as she glances over.]

Aye, is that so? And were these rewards worth the service? [She gestures to the two-handed sword seemingly made out of pure ice on her back.] The only service I ever had before the Inquisition was to my hold. That's how I got my own blade, and now I want for nothing else. At least, not weapon-wise, it just wouldn't feel right.

They don't breed. [Ugh.] Alduin the World-Eater returned, started raising other dragons that raised havoc all through Skyrim. He ruled once with Dragon Priests and everything but that's a Nord thing. [Skadi's a stranger whose name she doesn't know yet so she's not getting into this whole metaphysical religious prophetic slice of bullshit as she wipes mud off herself.] Burned villages. Burned watchtowers. Couldn't hunt without a dragon screeching fire or ice down on top of you.

[A knife edge smile crosses her face.] If you can do something others can't that they need you to do so they get a quiet life, they never let you forget it. Life's like that.

Depends. D'you want an enchanted ring or axe? [Do you want to bash someone's head in on an altar or skin them? The choice is all yours!] What is it with some folk getting sentimental about a weapon?

'World-Eater', now that's a name. Lady, I don't even want to think about what would happen here if a dragon could raise others. We've enough shite to wade through, as it is. [For all that Skadi shakes her head, there's an adventurous glint in her eyes. She thrives on challenge, and the thought of earning another, even greater, legend-mark is a tempting thought.]

And why not? When you earn a blade, when you use it often enough that it becomes part of you, you get a wee bit attached. This blade was gifted to me when I received my legend-mark, so it will always be special to me.

You pledged yourself to serve those princes, aye, for enchanted trinkets? Don't they mean something to you?

You just said they're back. What else is there - dragons, this rifter shit; Skyrim had a civil war churning away. [Dragonborn they call her. Ysmir dragon of the north. Nords, she decided at it but when the dragons all circled the mountain it had--

No.]

I'm a smith and a hunter, lost count of my bows but I've made them from antler, bone, all sorts of ore forged fine. Legend-mark - that a thing you tack on at the end of your name or did you swap it? [N o r d. Why can't she escape Nord hell?

Continuing the approach, she doesn't answer right away. The farmhouse doesn't remind her of Skyrim. Well fine, she doesn't care right now, she can sort through that as she takes out the bow to peer through the doorway, listening out.]

Empty. And not my gods. [A pause.] One is. Not always about pledging yourself, it's-- sometimes it's a drink. Sometimes it's running into someone else and their mess. You don't owe them forever. [Okay, some do but not her. Not to all of them but she's going to sit. Take off her weapons and some of the armour and start going through her things to check that the mammoth cheese survived.

There's a lot of cheese.]

brónach | skyrim | ota

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