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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[The laughter becomes fuller and more warm.]
You needn't remind me of that, Elros. What do you think we were doing at Mithrim when we first arrived?
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[ Elros laughs ]
It was always amusing that Maglor was the stricter of the two, at least, until we got onto the training fields.
[ He snorts in amusement ]
To hear Maglor tell it, it sometimes sounded like you landed on the shores and launched straight into war!
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[Shaking his head]
Oh, no. Between the nuin-Giliath and Lammoth, the orc population thinned itself out nicely for a few years. We had a few lovely years of building and glaring across the lake, save for the occasional bouts of poisoned gas.
[The sarcasm is heavy on lovely. Those years were difficult, if not nearly as bad as the Ice.]
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Maglor never mentioned the poison gas. [ Elros says interestedly ]
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[His lips thin briefly.]
I'm sure he did, indirectly. I used the cover of a particularly bad storm to conceal my path to Thrangorodrim.
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Cousin, you are either ridiculously reckless or ridiculously brave - I don't think I would have used a poison storm cloud as cover!
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Or at least, that was what I thought. [Shrugging] They told me later that Father never imagined I went North at all. I still don't understand why.
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[ Elros suggests ]
I mean, it worked, so you can't argue too much about the result, but....
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There was no reason to go South. We were not prone to making casual visits then, and from what they had said our cousins knew little of value about where I was going.
[Fingon does know now what scenario his father had really been afraid of, actually. He'd gotten an earful on the subject when he returned. But it hadn't happened, and seems pointless to bring up now.
Besides, he absolutely could have taken Celegorm and Curufin if they'd been stupid enough to try anything. No doubt about it.]no subject
True enough! I don't even begin to think that I understand what went on in your heads, back then.
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There are some things that you need to have lived through to truly understand. Those early years- they were a strange time for everyone. The world around us was dying and being born anew around us, and we...we were unfamiliar even to ourselves.
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[ Elros eyes him and then impulsively hugs him ]
Cheer up, you're not there anymore, and we hopefully won't have to build things to live in here!
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[But he returns the hug]
No, that we need not do. When this is over, the Inquistion returns to its home base in the city of Kirkwall, and there is not much room for building new things there.
[Unless they raze the city and start again, of course. Which Fingon is not in principle opposed to, so long as the people of the city were to get decent housing in the meantime....]
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[His is a remarkably lighthearted voice for what is probably the first verbal acknowledgement of his impending death that he's made. ]
But we've been here two months. Rifters do disappear, at times. Perhaps they've gone home. But as far as I'm aware it is not something we can control.
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[ He offers ]
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[He'd like to keep his memories, though. And. Obviously. Have a plan figured out to combat all the crazy back at home.]
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[ He grumbles ]
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You'll become used to it. Or at the least a disaster or five will keep you from thinking about it for too long.
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[ Elros grins back at him saucily ]
Although I could happily live without more disasters of the shiny jewels and oaths of doom type. Once was enough, thank you!
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[If he never sees the Silmarils again it will still be too soon.]
It ought to focus the mind. From what I've heard, that wouldn't be the word for it.
[And here he thought Beleriand was ridiculous with missing the point in the face of the apocalypse.]
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Let me guess - bureaucracy?
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[Want to be depressed now, Elros, or later? Because either way, you are going to be depressed.]
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[ He says gloomily and then brightens ]
On the plus side, it's not my politics, so I don't have to bother.
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Can't avoid it entirely. We are part of the politics, after all.
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