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.
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[A slow, fond smile is aimed at Maglor, but clearly intended just as much for the relation in question.]
For once, I'm glad to hear he's wrong.
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He's my brother and I will always love him.
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[Vaguely he wonders whether he'll ever have a reunion of his own upon these shores. But he can be happy for his cousins, as things stand.]
Let's go find the redheaded giant then, shall we?
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...It is good to see you again.
[He hums in agreement and reaches for his cousin's hand with his good hand.]
Yes!
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[He takes the offered hand, and gives it a small squeeze.]
It will be even better to be together again.
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[Fingon's still there, and bit by bit, he finds it easier to believe. Even if he might still think he's dead.]
....I think there is much I do not yet know. Is there time to fill me in? [Assuming this is real, and not just another figment.]
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[Fingon would think that figments of one's imagination would make more sense than Thedas does, but admittedly he hardly has personal experience to back that up.]
The green light you came out of is called a Rift. Think of it as a portal between worlds. This world, Thedas, has seen many of them in recent years.
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But he does listen, and attempt to understand and accept what he's told as he leans against his cousin.]
The music feels different.
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The stones do not speak here, nor the trees. The animals do, but only faintly. I wonder if even your brother could draw much out from them.
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Somehow I think Tyelko would find a way.
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[Fingon hopes the rifts don't take that as an invitation. Celegorm isn't the person he'd least like to see from home, but Fingon wouldn't trust him not to make trouble.]
But for the rest of us, living here might be strange. Nothing we cannot handle, I think, but strange nonetheless.
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We will adjust and do what we can.
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[
Yell at the gods enough, and sooner or later they have to pay attention, right?]An order of these lands, the Inquisition, has been combating the rifts. They offer a place to those who have come to this world. We have been staying with them since we arrived.