Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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faderift2017-11-15 12:48 am
faderifting) wrote in faderift2017-11-15 12:48 am
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.
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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
"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."