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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.]

I said they're back; I didn't say someone was raising them from the dead. Most likely they found some empty corner to hide and breed, and returned when their numbers were enough. And there was a civil war in Orlais, a great empire west of here, but that's over and done with. Now we focus on the shite that matters, like smiting the arse that started all this.

[Skadi will carefully slip off her blade from her back, resting it against the wall as she stretches and takes out a wineskin. Glancing over at Bronach's stash, she raises her eyebrows. That's a nice-sized stash, though she's not about to reach for any.

Taking a swig from her skin, she answers the rest.] Aye, you add it to your name. For example, I'm Skadi Iceblade; the latter is my legend-mark. Before then, I was Skadi Thyrisdotten. You gain it when you do a noteworthy deed. It doesn't have to involve battle, but Avvar being what we are, it often does.

A smith, eh? Maybe you'll find the forge back in Kirkwall to your liking. I wouldn't mind watching you forge a bone-bow, when I've the time. I'm the stablemaster, tending to the mounts. Most rifter know what horses are, so is it fair to say you do? Does your Skyrim have harts or dracolisks? Nuggalopes?

How much do you really know about them? Really. Everyone thought the dragons were gone in Skyrim, never to be seen ever again then they came back to darken the skies right when the civil war was brewing between the Empire and the Stormcloaks. [If ever she picks up a book here well, it might get interesting. All hell might break loose if there's a person she bothers to trust.] Easy enough to say that, always some sod you'll stick with it who gets no thanks from anyone. Maybe a shit song every bard harps on with when you're in a tavern.

[Cramming a portion of cheese into her mouth will have to do for now until she can go on the hunt somewhere. Nothing worth eating from what she fought just there, and here the game is going to be scarce on the ground. Another pat and there are her coins, there are her jewels; the grimace at the investigation of the pouches says she landed on something hard enough to hurt her.

And-- lifting something small out of one pocket that might look like a scrap of old leather, she laughs.] Fuck, forgot I had that.

See-- that's a Nord thing. Folk like Shatter-Shield or Mjoll the Lioness. We don't do that. I'm just Brónach. [Of Valenwood no longer, the bitterness that chases it, the hollow echo; a mountain trembled with her other name but to use it her and now? With a stranger in the wilderness? Not yet. Tempting fate too soon.]

Bone takes time to make it flexible, you'd be watching your own hair grow doing that bit. And yes, of course I know what a horse is, I have one in Skyrim. [How many of the other useless horses did she eat when a bandit cut them out from under her? Wasteful not to.] Harts are for hunting, why waste your time riding a thing like that but the other two-- is one like a dragon?

[At least she finally has a name, to go with the fierce elven face. Skadi's eyes glint in amusement that she seems to have so much in common with these Nords she's never even met.]

Well met, Bronach. I had to ask; at least one rifter told me about a world where they never had horses, only these great yellow birds to ride. They had some ridiculous name for them, too, but it escapes me at the moment. Dracolisks are akin to dragons, aye. They're smaller and wingless, spindly-legged beasts but damn if they aren't swift. Nuggalopes are large nugs -hairless subterranean creatures- with great curving horns. Slower, but very sturdy. I prefer my hart, though. Kodlak's smart and sure-footed, and he's not let me down yet.

[She savors another swig, then offers the skin to Bronach. It's just mead, nothing fancy.]

I'm no dragon expert, what I've to share is just common knowledge. Same with the fact that Corypheus has his own dragon. Some think it's an archdemon and that we're facing another Blight, but I've not seen darkspawn swarm to the surface in the numbers they did a decade ago. It doesn't seem smarter than the rest, but when it can raze villages without any effort, it doesn't need to be.

Falling out of the sky into the muck's a shit idea of well met. We've got birds you could ride but only if you're not fond of your liver or living long enough to talk about it to another soul. [Wiping her mouth doesn't move the little smirk.]. That dracolisk though, sounds like a pest or a daedra's idea of a jest, other one could be good eating; they poisonous? Most shit under there likes to bite or spit, it's being…

[Under her skin a wolf slain howls, her ears prick up at the name - old man I killed you, I sent you on, I am you now - and her breath is the ragged bark of a kicked hound. Laying out her bow to check it, the arrows, she doesn't look, can't look in the shadow of the name.

It takes a few minutes to convince her body to work. When did she sit next to a person last?]

No. Can't stand mead. [Which poses a problem: find a stream and drink, steal a skin from someone, figure out what she can make do with. Misses Valenwood with the savagery of a cracked bond beneath the teeth.]

Right. Dragon priest or close enough for him, don't know about them but falmer go on raids sometimes. Wretches.

Fair enough. [More for her, then. Skadi savors the mead, a taste of the south and a welcome familiarity in this alien land. But she can hardly complain, when that fish-out-of-water feeling has to be even worse for Bronach.]

Poisonous? No, hardly. Not that we eat the big ones, they're too small in number and too valuable as mounts. I've heard talk that dwarves eat their smaller cousins, though, at least those that live underground. They're welcome to it; I took in a wee one before I left, so I can't imagine eating them now.

[Then she raises an eyebrow.] What are falmer? [So many unknown terms thrown about, so if Bronach isn't going to ask questions, she'll just do the asking instead.]

[Juniper berries in the mead at Helgen. Why is she thinking of Ralof?]

You've got horses. Horses were meant to be mounts, don't see why you need anything stranger than that but fine, poison. So. Down in the dark, in lots of places you get this thing called a chaurus. All segments and chitin - if you kill them and take that it makes some good armour or weapons - but they're a bastard to bring down. Falmer keep them. Long jaws too. [Arms out to mime impressive mandibles; imagine, creeping through the dark that's darker than you can imagine, just listening for them, waiting, heart pounding.]

Falmer were elves. They're blind now, living in dwemer ruins, don't even speak but if you fight them you need to know what you're doing or you're dead. In the dark you're as good as blind too but that used to seeing it's a problem. All-- all hunched over when they move, bigger ears than the rest of us mer, don't even have noses just slits. [Softer now, how many of them rot in the dark when she took from them what she needed because falmer flesh is poison near enough, sickening to the stomach. A depravity.] Folk pay a lot of money for you to go get stuff out of ruins or clear out caves or ruins infested with them.

[Her eyebrows raise as she takes in the chaurus description, even more so at mention of falmer and what they really are, though she seems more impressed than horrified. (Well, slightly more horrified on the latter part.)]

Lady...now those sound like a challenge. The rifts only seem to bring over people, but if that changes and I find one, I'll know who to ask to bring them down.

...'were' elves? So, they were corrupted? They don't happen to dig for Old Gods, do they? Because if so, they overlap with our darkspawn.

Old Gods? I don't-- no. What's that? It's--

[Again there's a noise in the back of her throat; how does she explain any of this? This isn't her thing, she's not some priest and faith is lodged in her deep enough to never pry loose but always to rub, to chafe, to burn at parts of her that should never see the light.]

Like I said. Aedra, Daedra. Then there's the Divines and we might worship some under different names. It's how it is. Mine are Auri-El that Men call Akatosh the Dragon of Time, Y'ffre spirit of the now, Arkay of the cycle of birth and death, Lorkhan trickster who fixed death in us; Y'ffre made himself the first Ehlnofey. What's older than the Earth Bones?

[Fervour creeps in. Sweat under her armour now. The night the shamans took so many to drive the people out, when her father forbid it and her belly coils with it, with the shame of the Falmer, with what they were, what they are in that dark alone. That her friends, her family, they were twisted when she was pressed out, away-- But this was about the falmer so she shrinks back again.] Corruption. Even their bodies are poison.

Aye, that I understand. Different names for the same beings.

[Skadi knows better than to try and remember all those names, but the general idea is more important than the specifics, anyway. With corruption confirmed, she nods grimly.]

They sound a lot like darkspawn, then. Fight one of those and if you get their blood in you, it's a fast painful death or you turn into a ghoul and that's worse. They're not intelligent, not most of them, but they have this drive to seek the Old Gods -in the form of dragons- slumbering beneath. When they find an Old God and corrupt it, it becomes an archdemon and leads them to the surface where they destroy or corrupt all they see. That's what we call a Blight. The last one was just over a decade ago. The Grey Wardens could tell you a lot more than you'd ever care to learn, but the only important part is protecting yourself from their taint.

And Divine has a different meaning here; that's the title for the Chantry's leader...or was, the last one died in an explosion that kicked off all this mess. I don't know if they're getting a new one and don't care, it's not my faith. [Skadi shrugs, more or less indifferent and wishing she could be indifferent from a distance. But, the shard dictates otherwise.] You'll hear about the Chantry a lot, though, it's the dominant religion of Thedas and its influence is just about everywhere, even the Inquisition.

[Guess what she has more but that was enough to demonstrate the point.]

I wasn't meaning like that, more that alchemists make poisons out of bits of them. Usually the ears. [But now she listens very carefully to the word, wonders what they look with detached horror because after her life not much gets past the armour. Things she can't eat. The Green Pact allows for this.] That's...well, Greybeards might tell you how it works better but even the worst days of Skyrim weren't like that. So kill any of them I see before it sees me?

Chantry? [The accent drags the word out more than her hesitance.] Imperial faith is the biggest and loudest back home but the Thalmor [nothing but bile scorching up the back of throat to say it, black robes laid out be dead patrols with notes on her hand, their blood in mockery: by my hand and seal] got them to outlaw worship of one god. Caused the civil war.

Poison from...ears. Waste not, want not, eh? [Skadi can't really be that disgusted when she can see pragmatic side of it all. If hostile things are going to attack, why not use their parts however is needed?] Aye, killing them at a distance is best but if you're like me and tend to fight up-close, it helps to at least cover any place their blood can get into you. Same with the Red Templars, too. That red crystalline growth coming out of them is no joke, and a sure path to a quick, painful death.

[Better get the warnings out of the way now, before Bronach gets irreparably tainted with either substance.]

One god? Why just the one? The Chantry more or less only sanctions the worship of the Maker. Any other worship is for us 'heathens', you know. My people stick to the Frostbacks, the Dalish elves keep moving all over Thedas...and anyone else is on the fringes, like us. They dominate any 'civilized' place, even without a Divine to shepherd them...at least, so far.

I favour the bow, the knife is for when I need it. [The knife is for the back, the kidneys, the lungs, a hand over the mouth to come around for the throat if needed but not for fighting that way. No matter how sharp the edge, how wicked the glint in the light, the way it glows as the heart once did that cooled it.] Tell me about that again later, only so much right now. It's been a long day already and I'd been walking in a fog so thick before I slept I couldn't tell what was day from night.

[This is getting to be too much. Between the talk and her hand her head is throbbing.]

He was a man. United all the nations of Tamriel into a single Empire but he was still a man, the Eight Divines supposedly made a place for him when he ascended to godhood. God of War of course. [Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Like her. A Dragonborn but not yet, this is new, and right now to have a moment where she isn't all the things sung and spoken of in legend is a welcome respite.] There was a war between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire, the Thalmor were the instigators of course but in the end part of it was banning Talos worship. A man couldn't become Divine so he wasn't a god, so he wasn't to be worshiped. What's a Dalish?

The red lyrium? Aye, I can do that. Someone -another new rifter lass, her name will come to me- mentioned doing a list of terms for newcomers, that ought to be on the list anyway. [Skadi can only strongly approve of that, knowing it'd save a lot of time assuming said newcomers could read their script. If not, it'd be available for those who could translate.]

...ascended to godhood. What happened to Andraste isn't much different, though the Chantry would probably call that heresy. But what else would you call it when a mortal woman is the Maker's bride and goes to his side after her martyrdom? [She shrugs, Andrastians are the only ones who have a hangup about more than one god, anyway. Mention of banning Talos worship has her scowling for all that she's not familiar with the god.] That's utter shite, no one should dictate who and how another worships.

Dalish are the elves with the face tattoos. I don't know much more than that, except that they worship multiple gods just as my people do, and that worship is a bone of contention with the Chantry. That's why the Dales was destroyed, I think? They didn't worship the Maker, and the surrounding humans didn't like that. You ask a Dalish about the fall of the Dales, they'll have a lot more detail to tell you, I'm sure.

That's soft. That's not how you learn a thing. You learn a thing by learning it. D'you want to know what happened when I left my home to go north? Got caught in an ambush Imperials set for a group of rebels then got sent to be executed along with them. Me and some horse thief. The thief ran when we were taken off by the Imperials, he got shot full of arrows. The first Stormcloak rushed the priestess along doing her blessing, he got his head taken off. I was next, had my head on the block. Then Alduin came.

[So in all of that there's a lesson about how you learn a thing. Picking a side, picking a battle, waiting, learning. Maybe Skadi can guess who she might have run with in the chaos that followed still once the bindings had been cut from her hands.]

Talos is a man. It's a man thing to do, making one of them a god then starting another war over it all when there was one war already. Lorkhan the Trickster is enough, they still wring their hands over that one, him their other great hero. [A raw wound that one. Men getting to feel the same sting Valenwood knew long ago from the Altmer, the Thalmor. She knows all about the Altmer pedigrees for who might be acceptable enough for them to continue their lines, the view of her people and what they do. Arrows in the throat, bodies laid out for the next patrol to know. Her own notes pinned to them in Skyrim: By my hand and seal in blood, a mockery, always always always.] That's how it happens, how everything happens when things are deceived to maintain the world or die, and when mortality is fixed in us by a god men worship. It lingers. Rots. The Altmer in particular are...vicious about it but mer aren't what we were.

Face tattooing...foolish. War paint washes off, goes back on. Easier to blend in that way when you have to. [Children. Utter children already who are these people of course they had their place destroyed if they were tattooing their faces: strategy dictates you know how to hide and if you have a face that sticks out. After all it was her own fucking mistake in being too obvious once that got her kicked out of Valenwood to save her own skin.]

And who says they want to blend in? [Skadi just laughs, gesturing to her own facial tattoos.] I don't. I never could, but you'll see that soon enough, since I'm the only Avvar in a sea of lowlanders. The elven tattoos represent their gods, so I'm pretty sure they don't care about blending in, either.

[Nah, Skadi doesn't see the point, not for herself. Stealth is pretty much the opposite of how she operates; loud and obvious and up closer is more her style.]

So, you're saying sink or swim? That's one way, and plenty of my people wouldn't disagree. Though Lady, almost being beheaded is one steep learning path. Those shards in our palms are powerful things, necessary to seal rifts, so soft or not I'm surprised that list wasn't made earlier. Lowlanders love to keep everything nice and organized.

Heh, I almost need my own list just to understand all that you mean. Not that I'm complaining, your world sounds like it has some good tales to it.

You said the Dales fell, I'm assuming that was their home if they're called the Dalish. [Knowing something of it with the way the Thalmor move, a long history that stretches out before her.]. You're a man, mam comes with that, not needing it same as most elves in a man's place.

[By now that's a thing she can say matter of factly, no bitterness colouring it because what would the point be of that?]

Empire loves their damned lists, that's what I heard when I came off the wagon, all of us with our best read or asked for. Trouble. Having lists. When I was a girl I had to be able enough to go on the hunt. [So more like swim or starve.]

My world is old, everyone with god's overlapping here and there, wars and crises and empires. This is the stuff that matters to do with what we're talking about. Other tales are for bards or people with too many books, historians, all that.

[Skadi listens with interest, though at least tries to keep in mind the fact that Bronach is the newcomer and not herself. It's only fair to answer more of her questions than bury the elf woman under a mountain of her own. At mention of hunting, she smiles.]

That was my life, as well. Hunting, climbing, fishing...the gods provided for those that helped themselves, and those who listened. Anyone who didn't would not last long in the Frostbacks.

And aye, the Dales fell several ages ago. I don't know if you're immortal like some of the elves who have crossed over, but the elves of Thedas live only as long as the rest of us. No one who lives now was around for that, and tales are all they have of that life. I understand, a bit; my mother is a skald, and she keeps alive our heritage in the hold.

What did you climb? [There can't be graht-oaks, there can't be anything like Falinesti but she says climbing and another life peels itself back before Brónach's eyes.] And what gods, Skadi not-a-Nord?

[But ah, they're talking about the span of her years now. Maybe she looks a little rougher than she should but stand her next to a human woman pushing forty and see who looks it.]

Not immortal, not after Lorkhan tricked the gods to take that from us mer to make us like men but longer than that. Longer than you. If you guessed my age it'd be wrong; a century is easy, two isn't that hard, three means a mage. [Here she sits, not even halfway through the first and so much seen, felt, done, lived.]. You even have skalds. If I walked into your home it might be like a rift never spat me out.

FIRSTFALL RIFTER ARRIVAL

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