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.

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i. i drag you back a sleepyhead, sleepyhead ( arrival )

❰ adalia dreams of pursuit. everyone she knows, chasing after her for their own reasons, her chasing after the spectre of a family she's never known... it's a restless dream, and she'd be glad to leave it if the leaving weren't so... muddy. and full of falling.

why is it muddy? they were in the middle of a trek down a mountain when adalia had fallen asleep. a difficult proposition, to be sure, but not one particularly full of mud — nor was she in any danger of falling. and why is her hand in so much pain? truly, a rather upsetting set of questions to go unanswered.

blinking her eyes open blearily, adalia pushes herself up to sitting and takes stock of the world around her. smelly, muddy field, a number of her effects scattered around her — the egg she pulls close to check for cracks, then holds protectively against her chest — a sickly bright green light in the air above her, demons approaching...

demons?!?

adalia yelps and scrambles back, searching around on the ground for her shield. as soon as she feels its strap she yells ❱

Fethos, fuck's sake, how in the godsdamned —

❰ the shield leaps into the air and hovers in front of her just in time to block a sweeping claw aimed right for her face. still clutching the dragon egg close to her chest, an unwieldy but precious thing, adalia finally pushes herself to her feet, sparks crackling in the air around her. anything that gets close enough is shocked, not enough to debilitate, but more than enough to injure and annoy, while she uses the cover granted by her shield to pick up the rest of her effects and look around for... literally anyone who isn't currently trying to kill her. ❱

Mat? Elly? Anybody? Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?

ii. i don't know where i'm going ( caravan )

❰ it's taken adalia perhaps a surprisingly short time to accept everything going on around her — travel between planes is rare but not impossible, and though she's never heard of this "thedas" or a "fade" she's not overly concerned about her ability to get back to faerûn. in the meantime, being separated from her party is a blessing, her safety and the egg's now slightly more assured, and adalia's using the relative peace of the nevarran caravan to take stock of herself and her things, and then to talk to... basically anyone who will talk to her. ❱

ii a. ❰ first, she can be found meditating, frowning to herself as she sits quietly, her black dragon egg blanced in her lap. anyone who walks by will hear her whisper ❱ I'm not sure if that's good or bad... ❰ before she opens her eyes and smiles at them. ❱

ii b. ❰ second, meditation over, adalia will be bothering people, peering over shoulders and into places she has not been invited, trying to learn about thedas, the fade, and the inquisition as a group. ❱

Hey, hi, hello there, so I have a few questions for you, please get comfortable. Firstly: who are you?

ooc.

❰ i defaulted to brackets because that's what i'm used to, but if you tag me in prose i'll match! if none of these prompts appeal to you but you'd like to do something with adalia, add me on plurk at salvatrice and we'll see what we can come up with! ❱

Edited 2017-11-15 07:19 (UTC)

i; arrival
[Curled in the shadow of a dragon's ribs, skins stretched over then between to block the worst of the snows when dark had started to fall. Her bow in her hand clutched tight; Skyrim is lawless, you never know what might come creep into the tent in the dark.

She's slept in worse places. High ledges, tucked into what looked like a warm dry place that gave beneath her in the night or when something appeared and she had to turn from it, or high in branches not so suited to it as those in Valenwood. Falling hard in the night, swearing to the moons hanging in the--]

Y'ffre's green-knotted bones-- [not daedra, not draugr, but enough to get the bow up when she bares her teeth at them. The snarl catches in her throat, turns to a rattling feral hissing as she takes aim.

(Her hand is glowing. It isn't a priority. Survival is a priority.)

Squinting past the glow, the ache, into too many eyes, limbs stretched out she fires. Thinks of flames like cold fire that lit the forest, of flesh that burns from the inside out and the dragon's belly she'd been sleeping in. The arrow punches clean through one of the eyes of the spindly creatures that puts her in mind of a spriggan gone horribly wrong as it lurches her direction.]

ii
[After and Brónach breathes.

Sets the bow back. Salvages arrows. Seems relatively unconcerned with the mud covering her person as she sets about conducting a thorough inspection of herself for injuries then through her possessions. The greater part of it wasn't strapped to her so that's-- that's somewhere else.

Not here. Another hissing curse. Easy enough to interrupt any of this as she moves quietly and quickly, an eye for anyone watching her once she starts to investigate the left hand with intent.

After that it's the turn of the remains, a wicked blade flipped into her palm to open up the few remaining parts (whatever happened, they're gone; her mouth pulls in a question) with a critical eye. Weighing them. Sniffing. Prodding with the blade.

The questions come in order of importance to someone used to chasing down game and not always having a map.] Where am I, how did I get this thing in my hand, how do I get back?

[Not your name, not the offer of hers. Skyrim made her stop caring about that one a long time ago.]

Wake Up

[ He is falling - this is not unusual. Ever since they learnt of their father's fate, both Elrond and Elros dream of flying, of the deck of a ship they only remember because other people have described it for them, as it soars across the sky. Ever since the War, when they watched Earendil kill Ancalagon the Great, Elros has dreamt of that ship falling, and himself falling with it.

He laughs - he has never feared death.

He twists and puts an arrow to the string and fires, up into the gleaming eye above him, and smirks as the light in it goes out.

He is Elros Earendillion, and like his father, he is a Dragonslayer.

And then he lands in mud.

That's new. (also, rather painful) ]

What?

[ He pulls himself to his knees and blinks at his surrounds, yelling in surprise as a demon lunges at him ]

Morgoth's BALLS!

[ He draws the sword without thinking, takes off its head, and rolls to his feet in one smooth move with a smile that has too many teeth to be friendly, blade between him and the rest of the demon pack. His myriad of aches and pains he dismisses, although he worriedly notes that his left hand is much more painful than he prefers - he must have landed on it. Oh well. He can use the blade right-handed, although he prefers his left. ]

Not my usual way of waking up, but come then, let us see how you fare against me!

Anyone home

[ He's young still, by the count of the Eldar, but old, as Men consider it. Still a little caught between the two worlds. But not even Maedhros at his best could fight without rest indefinitely, and Elros is not his utterly crazy foster father. There's no way he's facing Elrond at the End of Days and explaining that he died because he let himself get surrounded instead of sensibly retreating.

So he retreats, as little as he enjoys doing so, pulling back to the farmhouse. A part of him feels guiltily that he should probably find the owner and apologise for the utter ruin that he's made of the field. Then again, it wasn't entirely his fault. He ducks into one of the buildings and bolts the door behind him ]

Hello? Anyone there? Sorry to intrude...

Whoa!

[ Elros blinks at the sparks, one hand (the left, since it's hurting too much to risk his usual style) open in a conciliatory fashion, the other carefully keeping his blade in view, point down ]

Easy, milady! No need to throw sparks at me!

[ And then curiously ] How do you do that? I don't see tinder and flint on you.

❰ — oh. a friendly face. ish, at least, in the sense that his weapon isn't pointed at her and he seems not to want to fight. adalia doesn't turn off the sparks but she does sort of shift them away from the man in front of her, so he's not in danger of being shocked. ❱

I don't know, I just do it? I mean, I do sort of know, I fuck around with the Weave and I make it do what I want, but I never was one for magical theory so much as practice, also is this really the time to be asking that?

❰ all of that said in a long rush as adalia keeps an eye on the demonic whatever that just tried to attack her. it was distracted by the animated shield keeping it at bay, but now it screams, and that doesn't sound good. it sounds extremely very not good, so adalia steps forward, in front of her new friend, and holds out her hand. ❱

Stay behind me, ❰ she says, and it would all be very badass were she not about a foot shorter than him and unarmed. the sparks around her begin to hiss and pop, though, and she stands her ground. ❱

[ He swings around to put his back to her ]

But that would be boring, no? I am guessing you can't direct those sparks terribly well though, so I'll take this side, and you can take that one?

[Standing before her is a woman who could very well be a Nord, given her height and complexion. Yet when she speaks, her accent is markedly different. She takes the battery of questions in stride, answering as best she can.]

You're in Thedas, you got that shard the moment you were pulled in from the Land of Dreams, and you can't get back. No one knows how to return you, I'm sorry.

[She lifts her shard hand with a wry-smile.]

Some of us natives got struck, too. I hear it has several uses if you train for it, but sealings rifts is the constant. And I know it stings like shite at first, but that'll go away.

[A slight elven woman in armor is crouching down by her mabari, her staff nearby marking her as a mage. She's adjusting Garahel's collar...or she would be if the mabari, perking up at the sight of someone new, moves more than he should.]

Garahel, stop fidgeting. This will only take a moment, if you allow it.

[Glancing over, she raises a finger in a 'just a moment' gesture, then finishes her work before Garahel can be distracted further. Straightening, she reaches for her staff.]

I am Warden Inessa Serra, leader for the Rifts and the Veil project of the Inquisition. Are you partial to tea? I was about to pour some for myself anyway and certainly don't mind sharing.

[Garahel closes in, sniffing at Adalia and looking up at her hopefully as his tail wags. Friend?]

[Looming by her is a tall, tattooed woman in leathers and furs. She should apologize for invading personal space (she knows, 'barbarian' doesn't mean stupid) but that egg in the newcomer's lap has her attention. She stares in awe, resisting the urge to touch it.]

Lady, the size of it...is that what I think it is?

Edited 2017-11-15 15:39 (UTC)

Alistair.

[ That’s a terribly easy first question. Alistair answers it before even turning his attention away from the horse he’s fussing with, picking brambles out of one of its legs, but a moment later he lets the leg loose and smiles at her. He saw her meditating before. Talking to herself. Not the weirdest thing a rifter has done, that. In the grand scheme of foreign weirdos with strange habits, it’s honestly more endearing than freaky. He talks to himself all the time. ]

Who are you? —and before you answer, [ he adds, holding up a stalling hand, ] remember that I’ll have no choice but to believe whatever you tell me. Sort of. As much as I believe any of this, at least. If you’re nobody from nowhere, here’s your chance to be somebody from somewhere. Dazzle me.

i.
She had fallen asleep in her room on Dragonstone. She dreamed of the day before, facing Cersei Lannister for the first time, her greatest enemy. Then the dream changed, and she was flying on Drogon's back, but she fell, green light sweeping up to envelop her like wildfire-

-and then she was laying in mud. Eyebrows furrowed she pushes herself up, hands slipping in the muck. She didn't bother sneering in revulsion at the grime covering her fine clothes now. She had been forged on the Red Waste, Khaleesi of the Great Khal. She was used to dirt. It was only a dream, though an odd one. She managed to stagger to her feet, boots sticking in the mud, coming up nearly to her knees.

It was once she was on her feet she really saw the chaos around her. Others, some standing with weapons drawn, others still in the mud. She inhaled sharply when she saw the demons, looking around her for some kind of cover. There was nothing, they were in the middle of a field. A lesser woman might quail and try to hide behind the nearest person with a sword. Daenerys Targaryen has the blood of the dragon, and she stands her ground. Instead she seizes an abandoned pitchfork on the ground, holding it out in front of her. She is entirely unskilled in battle, but she will not be attacked by demons in her own dreams.

"You will leave this place!" she yells at the green and spindly creature advancing upon her, her voice steel.

ii.

After the danger has passed, it's more obvious that this is not a dream. Dany isn't always the most flexible person. She can adapt to her situations, but once she gets set into something, she isn't happy when things suddenly deviate. The look on her face is one of sheer unhappiness as she steps into the abandoned farmhouse, looking to escape the rain for a moment.

"Where are we?" she doesn't expect a response she'll understand, but it would help to know. Is she still in Westeros, is this some magic that Cersei Lannister employed? The warlocks of Quarth cross her mind, for the first time in a long time. They had never come at her again after the markets of Yunkai, could they have been gathering their resources to create this? The possibilities swirl in her mind as she examines the room before her.

The demon's head swings backward at the arrow's impact, its scream ripping through the air as harshly, raggedly, as its swinging claws. Animalistic, it drops into a spider-like crouch in the mud and muck, coiling its sinewy limbs in preparation to lunge--

--and that is when Loghain's shield bash connects solidly with the side of its skull, his sword following with an upward slash across its throat. Ectoplasm spurts in hot gouts, but it's in its death throes now. (A death that is helped along by the sudden appearance of a wild-looking wolf dog that goes for its throat.)

Loghain stops to look at Brónach just long enough to assess her state in a glance. "Are you injured?" he asks, already searching the field for the appearance of more demons.

a: The Rift
He must have dozed off at his desk back at the headquarters. The aftermath of the fight with Veneno and then Curious had incurred a mountain of paperwork over the last few days and Klaus had vowed to tackle the brunt of it to spare Steven another... well, they just referred to it as an Incident now. But even Klaus was not immune to exhaustion, and the comfort of his office chair and the warmth of Gilbert's tea had lulled his eyes shut. He dreamed his dreams, the chaos of Jerusalem's Lot merging strangely with places from his youth. And then he felt a strange tug as though he'd forgotten about a stair, and suddenly he was tumbling through thin air.

Landing face-first in mud which smelled distinctly like one of the phosphorus rich fertilizers he used in his greenhouse woke him right up.

Dazed, confused and hastily trying to scrub the muck from his spectacles with a clean section of his sleeve, Klaus almost didn't see the spindly, gangling monstrosity speeding towards him.

Almost.

He caught the blur of movement out the corner of his eye, and with skill and reflexes born of years of training, he he slammed his fist directly in the center of the demon's face.

The creature was sent flying several feet into the air from the force of impact where it arced as gracefully as a ballerina, before landing face down in the mud, skidded for a few yards and finally came to a rest in a tangle of limbs at the feet of its brethren.

b: Aftermath

His spectacles seemed to be a lost cause until he got to some clean, fresh water so he'd tucked them neatly into his breast pocket. And his mobile phone seemed to be gone - either sitting at his desk in the office or lost to the mud of the field. He approached one of the reasonably friendly seeming blobs of colour.

This wasn't the first time he'd been in one place and woken up in another without the aid of a considerable amount of alcohol - Jerusalem's Lot had all manner of strange quirks and the city changed itself on a whim.

But even then, he knew something was Wrong. Jerusalem's Lot didn't have sprawling farmland - maybe further along in upper New York state - which would mean that the strangeness of the city would have spread beyond the fog. He also hadn't missed the peculiar attire of those he'd fought beside, but he hadn't yet given it too much thought. The outfits looked like something out of a well-researched fantasy film - plausible for the technology, but historically inaccurate to actual clothing worn in analogous eras. But he'd also taken into account that Renaissance Fairs were a thing.

He'd never had guessed the participants were such skilled combatants.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice soft, his tone polite and a broad hand raised in greeting. "Can you perhaps tell me where I am and what's going on here? I need to get back to Jerusalem's Lot right away."

c: Journey

ii.

What was going on back at headquarters

Steven and the others must be worried.

Edited 2017-11-15 21:24 (UTC)

Church is ready to fight. He always is, when it comes to closing rifts and protecting rifters. It's kind of what he does, or at least, he likes to think that's what he does. Not his first rodeo. So when he sees one of the demons leaping at the redhead, he's ready to go in on the offense.

...And finds out he doesn't need to. His feet slow to a stop as he watches the demon skid and slide, and man...man, he's always impressed to see when someone's got everyone else outclassed to hell and back. "Do you even need rescuing? Jesus."

The woman approached is tall and tattooed, clad in leathers and furs, with a blade seemingly made out of solid ice strapped to her back. She's searching in her pack for something, but lifts her head and flashes a smile. When the point is to seek out newcomers to rescue, of course they're not unwelcome.

"You came from a rift, right? Pulled from somewhere else? I hate to say it, but you're stuck here for now. No one knows how to send rifters back, sad to say.

As for 'here', this is the kingdom of Nevarra, in the continent of Thedas. Nice place, even though they have some weird customs." Though 'weird' is relative, since no one else seems to be clad quite like her.

[~~There are eight voices in Skyrim. How many times has she murdered people who scream like her few friends?~~]

Thedas. [Turns the name over, hears shard and her mouth twists all wrong.] Why bother saying sorry, what's it going to do for me?

[Getting up won't put much of a dent between their heights but prickly as she is with her hand burning as if an arrow went through it, Brónach rises, looks her up and down.]

Wasn't in a land of dreams. I was out Markarth way, this isn't Vaermina's way.

"Ah - my apologies -" Klaus said, a tad sheepishly. "I acted quite reflexively- are they hostile?"

That question was soon answered once the rest of the fear demons recovered from the shock of seeing one of their own brought down in a single blow. The high, shrill screeches echoed throughout the abandoned farmland as they broke off, charging at Rifters and Inquisition indiscriminately.

"Some assistance wouldn't go amiss," he said, bracing himself for the onslaught of demons.

One might have expected an outburst of denial at this statement, but Klaus instead grew quiet and still. Every muscle seemed to tense as he ran through everything that could possibly happen in his absence.

Libra was without a leader. At least until they realized he was gone - and Steven would take the helm. For now, he'd have to trust his second in command until he somehow made it back.

For now, he had a multitude of questions. Ranging from 'What' to 'Is that sword made of ice?'

"I'm afraid I've never heard of Nevarra," he said apologetically. "Would this place be part of the 'Beyond'?"

If that was the case, then it seemed that the barriers between dimensions were becoming less stable.

Someone else arriving has her coiling, the bow aimed at the stranger as fast as it was at the demon. It's not until the demon is down and she's poked at it with her boot that it's lowered to the ground; falling from the sky and her hackles are up, waiting for a daedra to come out, to speak in a whispering cackling voice from somewhere in her ear.

"No," she says immediately because by the bones of her ancestors she's lucky enough not to have a broken bone she can feel, her head isn't pulsing, then she looks to her hand-- "this hurts, it can wait."

In the corner of her vision another creature is prowling and she bares all her teeth, vicious and hungry. "Another on the right-- wisp mother?" (Despair demon, the ice starting to shoot is the same.)

The ice bursts out of the demon's talon-hands; Brónach's words of warning give him enough time to throw up his shield and go to one knee, bowing his head and gritting his teeth against the force of the spell hurling itself against his defence, icy fingers beginning to curl around, reaching for his skin--

"Flank it!" he calls out to her, and already, his wolfish companion is lunging towards the demon to harrow it.

[Not far away, Fingon's ears twitch as he hears a familiar curse in an unfamiliar voice. It's not enough to startle him- which is a good thing, as in the next moment one of the demons he's dueling gives him an opening to drive his blade home- but Fingon tucks it away as something to investigate when he's finished up here.

A few minutes, some very dead demons, and a couple irritating wisps later, he moves in the direction the earlier shout came from. And- yes, a youth with a demon pack of his own to deal with, how wonderful.

He calls out in Sindarin before he joins, as the new rifter's situations doesn't yet seem dire:]

Hail, stranger! Would you mind if I cut in?

[Skadi just shrugs, lowering her shard hand.]

None of that means anything to me. And aye, you were...though lowlanders call it the Fade. That's where spirits and demons live, that's where you came from even if you don't remember it. It's why we call your lot 'rifters'; you enter this world through a rift, a tear between the physical world and the world of the spirits. You were asleep, aye? That's the way of it with every rifter I've spoken with so far. They dream, and somehow they enter the Land of Dreams -what my people call the Fade- from elsewhere.

Skadi observes his reaction with open interest, and maybe a little relief that he didn't explode at her. She can take it, but she'd just rather not. Skipping past that to other questions saves a lot of time.

"Beyond what? Beyond the Fade? That's what you stepped out of, through a rift in the Veil between the physical world and that of spirits. You were asleep, right? That's a common story, and it makes sense. My people call the Fade the Land of Dreams. It's where souls go when they dream...and when they die. You look alive enough to me, though."

[ The occupant of the house is as much an interloper as Elros, and she jolts when he enters, a look of guilt crossing her face, until she realizes that this man is obviously not the owner come back. She's still clutching the rag she's been using to try to remove some of the mud that's all but covered her, and she really wishes that she'd made more progress before this regal-looking man had happened upon her. ]

Oh--The owners are long gone, don't worry. Some of us are just using this as a place to take a break.

[ She gives him a sheepish smile, then glances at the door with a frown. ]

Are those demons still out there?

Every time Beleth visits a rift she thinks that surely she's seen everything odd by now, and she'll be well and used to whatever rifters get spat out by now. And yet, here is a man that she had witnessed punched a demon in the face. Just. Clock a demon, like they were in the middle of a bar fight.

And now that the battle is over, and Beleth is busily trying to see if she's any skin left under all the mud, and he just walks up to her like it's nothing. So she looks up (and up, and up. Why do they make rifters so tall???), and tries to straighten up and look like she's got some idea of what she's doing.

"You're in a world called Thedas," She explains, while trying to wipe the mud off her arms, and mostly just succeeding in spreading it around. "Wherever Jerusalem's Lot is, I'm afraid you won't be able to go back to it." She pauses for a moment, and then she has to ask: "Did you really punch a demon?"

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Page 1 of 27

FIRSTFALL RIFTER ARRIVAL

adalia | oc | ota

brónach | skyrim | ota

Elros | Tolkien | OTA

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Daenerys Targaryen | Game of Thrones [open]

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Wake Up

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