FIRSTFALL RIFTER ARRIVAL

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

ii b

[mactears]

Loghain Mac Tir keeps to himself during the journey to Nevarra, a task not difficult for him to accomplish, even in relatively close quarters. He rides his mare, Sooty, at a respectable distance from the rest of the party, often takes his evening watches alone--alone, save for the company of a fairly menacing-looking wolf-dog often seen shadowing his steps, that is. He's not a man many others go out of their way to meet; some seem to take a particular pleasure in sending venomous scowls his way, though no one has yet been bold enough to try to overtly antagonize him. (Whatever fight they might start, perhaps they have the wisdom to recognize he's more than capable of finishing it.)

All this to say that, when Adalia suddenly pokes her head into his peripheral vision while he sits alone near the periphery of the camp taking the blade of his dagger to a whetstone, he does indeed look surprised to see her. It's short-lived, however, once he spots the green glow in her palm. Then he only smiles wryly.

"The Traitor Teyrn," he replies, tone almost mild, as he turns his attention back to the dagger. "Among other names. I prefer to go by Loghain." Nodding to the half-wolf, half-mabari hound warming herself near the fire, he remarks, "That's Primrose. Who are you?"

[thunderproof]

Adalia is making the rounds of people in the caravan she wants to talk to, and the one man who rides alone, walks alone, eats alone, is top of the list. She's noticed the scowls some send his way, and her heart immediately fills with a fierce protectiveness — this, she thinks, is familiar in a more personal way than anything else in thedas has been. She knows the look of a person holding themself apart from a group for their own protection, knows what it is to be reviled in a party you must cleave to for reasons beyond your control. He is alone because he must be, not because he particularly wishes it.

...it's possible she's projecting. Probable, even. Still, Adalia has a particularly determined and cheerful set to her expression when she approaches the man and plops down on the ground near him, clearly settling in for a long conversation.

"I'm Adalia, pleasure to meet you," she says pleasantly, leaning forward to prop her elbows on her knees and her chin on her hands. "Three things you think a Rifter needs to know, and three things you want someone to know about you specifically, go."

An expectant stare as she waits for his answer — although her eyes keep darting to Primrose, who is AMAZING and will get her due attention as soon as Adalia is satisfied with his answers, oh yes she will.

[mactears]

Precocious young women, oddly enough, are familiar ground for Loghain. He likes to take at least some credit for raising one up enough to become Queen of Ferelden, after all.

He chuckles quietly as he returns his attention to his dagger and whetstone, and resumes his work while he thinks about his answer. "Three things I think a Rifter needs to know, eh?" he answers her at length, gives the blade a few more steady strokes, then stills his hands and considers his words. The silence stretches on almost to the point of awkwardness.

When he does speak, his response comes almost reluctantly. "The burden the rifts have given you--" here, he nods at the anchor mark in her palm, "mean you are the only ones capable of closing those rifts. The rest of our world has no choice but to work with you; it's your greatest strength to be leveraged." He strokes the blade across the whetstone once more, then says grimly, "You haven't been asked to put yourself at great risk for a cause you know nothing about, but the Maker has given you no choice in the matter. It's your burden, and your Calling, and no one will ever thank you for it."

Silence follows. Grim words, to be sure, but he won't sugar coat the truth, even for a young girl.

[thunderproof]

Adalia is really, really bad at silence. She doesn't like the quiet and never really has — if she wanted to be poetic and pretentious she could probably say it's due to the thunder roiling around inside her, but really she just doesn't like being left alone with her thoughts. They're so much harder to ignore when the world is silent, and ignoring them is far easier than dealing with them. Who wants to deal with thinking about how their entire life has been totally upended, how they're now a parent to a very possibly dangerous creature, what if her disappearance from Faerûn makes her deal with Alacruun null and void and Mat and Akrasiel die —

All that to say: by the time Loghain speaks again, Adalia is trying very hard not to squirm and failing miserably, her fingers picking at the ground beneath her, her dress, her hair — anything to distract her from the silence without losing this challenge. Which — maybe he didn't mean it as a challenge. Loghain can't have known how bad she is at silence. But it feels like a challenge, and that is enough for Adalia to want to be able to rise to meet it. When he finally opens his mouth, her shoulders sag in relief, but that relief only lasts a moment. She'd expected... not this. Something about the dominant cultures, maybe, or more warnings about magic. This is much more serious, and much more dour.

At length, Adalia laughs.

"You must be a hoot at parties," she says with a smile. She's no stranger to Callings, capital C, which no one will appreciate her for undertaking. At least this time she hasn't been forced to serve evil.

"Well, that's one thing. Two more for Rifters in general, and then three about you specifically, come on."

[mactears]

"You must be a hoot at parties," she says, and that makes him chuckle dryly because what parties. :c

"Two more things," he begins, considering, and resumes sharpening the blade of his dagger on the whetstone. Then he lifts it up to her so that she can see the glint of the blade, gives her a serious look, and says, "Maintain your gear. Better to invest in something sturdy, and in the necessary equipment to look after it properly, than purchase a bargain that fails you when you need it." He fetches out his scabbard and sheathes the dagger, then sets it aside. Lastly, he says, "Don't travel alone."

Which is pretty rich, considering the source of the advice. (He also skillfully avoids revealing any information about himself, by just straight up dodging the question.)

[thunderproof]

"See, that's more along the lines of what I expected. You can't jump straight into all the doom and gloom, you have to ease a girl into it. Like boiling a frog!"

Adalia doesn't sound all that upset, truly, she's talking more just to talk, trying to get a feel for who Loghain is — does he get annoyed by pointless prattle, or can he stand it without frustration? He certainly looks the type to dislike fun, but looks can be deceiving, and all that.

"Honestly, I've only recently come into possession of gear I have to maintain. I don't know the first thing about how to keep armor or weaponry."

That is noted down, along with don't travel alone, and then Adalia stares at him expectantly.

"Well? Come on, three things about yourself you want somebody to know. You're the one who introduced yourself as 'The Traitor Teyrn' rather than by name, you clearly can't have issues talking about yourself."

[mactears]

(Realistically, he's a bit like his wolf-dog. Toss a toy his way, and he'll look at it in confusion. He's not opposed to fun--it sounds useful in theory--but he doesn't seem to know what to do with fun when it's presented to him.)

"Well? Come on, three things about yourself you want somebody to know. You're the one who introduced yourself as 'The Traitor Teyrn' rather than by name, you clearly can't have issues talking about yourself."

Loghain gives the girl a speculative look, then shifts his attention back to the fire again, scratching absently at the side of his neck. "I'm a Grey Warden," he begins, then clarifies with a gesture, "We're an order of soldiers who fight the darkspawn--I expect you'll learn more of them, in time." Again his words taper off; it's clearly not quite that easy for him to discuss himself in such detail. "My daughter," he decides, a note of genuine affection entering his voice, "is the Queen of Ferelden."

This time when he grows quiet, it's short-lived. He reaches out for a piece of wood and adds it to the fire. "I betrayed my king. That's why I'm the Traitor Teyrn."

[thunderproof]

(That's okay then, Adalia will teach him!)

Adalia listens patiently, without interrupting and without taking notes — except on the explanation of Grey Wardens, Inessa never got to explain that part. Other than that, though, Loghain isn't a subject to study and memorize, and she doesn't want him to feel like she's turning him into one, so her book stays folded closed on her lap. The more he speaks, the more Adalia feels a strange kinship with Loghain — though, to be fair, give her enough time and she'll manufacture a kinship with anyone. Still, even knowing that, she can't shake the feeling that the frankness with which he can describe betraying his king speaks to her.

When he's finished, she lets the words sit for a moment, then admits:

"I have no idea what a Fereldan is, but congratulations on your successful offspring."

[mactears]

"I have no idea what a Fereldan is, but congratulations on your successful offspring."

As unexpected as the comment is, it nicely cuts some of the tension that had been mounting the more of himself that Loghain revealed to this stranger from another world. He chuckles some and dips his head in a gesture nearly of gratitude. "You might congratulate her, rather than I," he notes wryly, and at last tosses that log into the fire. He gives his head a slight shake. "She deserved a better father, growing up."

So many gifted young women do, he is discovering.

He looks to her at last and considers her in all her youthful precociousness; it's difficult not to be a bit taken in by her earnestness, her candour. He gestures with one hand. "Well, if it pleases you, tell me a bit of your world," he invites her. Primrose, who at last appears to have finished warming herself by the fire, eases herself up onto her long, rangy limbs, stretches once, then ambles over to investigate the newcomer, sniffing at her boots.

[thunderproof]

Score. A chuckle is not a full-blown laugh, but it's close enough that Adalia is proud of herself all the same. She grins brightly, pleased — but the smile dims as Loghain puts himself down, and then turns into a speculative frown.

"I don't know..." she says slowly, pensive, "I mean, if you raised her, some of who she is is you, isn't it? And she got to be a queen. You can't have done all that bad!"

A pause.

"Unless she's a tyrannical madwoman who's driving this Fereldan into the ground, I suppose, but then I think you'd rather disavow all knowledge of her and not claim her as your own anyway. Queen of Fereldan who? Never heard of her!"

Please laugh, she's very funny. His invitation to talk about Toril throws Adalia a bit, so much so that for a moment she doesn't know what to say — it's only fair, of course, considering how many people she's put on the spot today, but she can't help feeling slightly betrayed. She trusted you, Loghain. As she considers, Primrose comes over, and Adalia is distracted for a moment watching the wolf-dog investigate her boots.

"Ah! Um. Ummmm. Oh, okay, sure, um, so, on my plane, anyone can do magic. Literally anybody. You don't have to be born with it, though some people are," and here Adalia points to herself and winks, "You can learn to manipulate the Weave through shittons of study and practice or you can go the cheater's route and get a patron who'll give you access to some of their own power if you agree to do things for them. People born with magic are sorcerers, people who study it are wizards, and people who have patrons are warlocks."

[mactears]

He listens in contemplative silence as she speaks, watching her with an attentive and introspective gaze that indicates an alert mind, even if the listener himself doesn't interrupt or ask questions. When Primrose at last comes to slouch all long legs and topaz eyes next to him, he absently drops a hand down to scratch through her scruff.

"It seems a complicated business," he observes at length, looking to the fire. "I confess I know only a little of how our mages conduct themselves or their business. But magic is hereditary. A curse, some would have it believed, but I've known mages both good and evil, and it wasn't their magic that made them so."

[thunderproof]

Noooo Primrose come baaaack she never even got to pet you... Adalia stares after the wolfdog with a sad pout, but she knows better than to accost a strange dog who is not inviting the accosting. Still, she will love you one day.

"I don't know about complicated," she responds, tearing her eyes away from Primrose to look back over at Loghain. "I mean, things here seem needlessly complicated to me. Innate magic is sometimes feared where I'm from, but there isn't a whole system set in place to... what was the word? Harrowing? We don't have anything like that. Magic users just... are. Some people dislike us, some people find us useful."

There is a hint of judgment in her voice — the idea of forcing sorcerers into confrontations with creatures that could possess them, and then killing them when they inevitably fail, leaves a knot in her stomach and fire in her chest. There are better systems, things that could be done to reduce the risk of possession without holding death over peoples' heads!

...she assumes. She doesn't know, can't know yet, but it seems like the kind of thing that's asking for more trouble, not less.

"Anyway, magic doesn't make someone necessarily evil or good. Magic just is, it's all in how you use it, just like knowledge. That's true of anything that grants power."