faderift | WINTERMARCH RIFTER ARRIVAL

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WINTERMARCH RIFTER ARRIVAL

WHO: New rifters & their rescuers
WHAT: People fall out of a rift and get attacked by stuff. This time, not everyone makes it.
WHEN: Wintermarch 11
WHERE: The foothills of the Vinmark mountains, somewhere between Ostwick and Markham.
NOTES: The arrival log is open to all. Solas was (as always) able to alert the Inquisition to the general area where the new rifters would be arriving so people could be sent to pick them up.

I. ARRIVAL

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, you wake with a jolt when you hit the ground, though at least it's reasonably soft. You tumble down onto a grassy knoll, a grey and chilly day in a piece of countryside that would be entirely unremarkable were it not for the rift that brought you here, and you, and the other beings that have accompanied you. There are other people finding their feet after a similarly sprawling exit, and there's a monstrous, horned beast with too many eyes and electricity rippling down its arms, tall, spindly creatures with gasping mouths and too many eye sockets that immediately advance on you and the people lying around you, and beyond them, flickering, ghostly wraiths that begin to throw bursts of green magic that saps anyone hit of energy and strength.

If that all weren't enough there's also a narrow splinter of light in the same sickly green as whatever brought you here, now glowing out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. Given how many other things there are to take in, it may take some time for anyone to notice that one of the people to stumble out of the rift has not gotten back up. But nothing can be done for him until the demons are no longer trying to kill everyone present.

II. AFTERMATH

With the demons dispersed and the dust settled, there's time to regroup—for the new arrivals to collect their scattered belongings, for anyone who was injured to seek a healer or healing salves as needed, and to deal with the man still lying where he fell from the rift.

He isn't moving at all, in fact, just lying face down, and it's strangely difficult to focus on him. If you look away you may find your mind skimming over him entirely, no time at all required to simply forget that he's there until you look again or someone else calls your attention back to him. Which is especially strange because he should be a very striking fellow, extremely tall and quite broad, with gaudy gold and purple attire, some sort of robe fringed with fur that looks metallic but is soft to the touch. When he's turned over there's also the way his bangs and his eyebrows have been braided together into an elaborate netlike pattern over his forehead, which really ought to be more memorable. It's currently matted to clammy skin, as is all of his dark hair, drenched in droplets of bright pink sweat. His eyes are closed, and he will remain firmly unconscious despite your best efforts.

[ ooc | No attempts at healing the unconscious rifter, magical or otherwise, will have any visible effect. What's done with him is up to your characters. But we assume they'll bring him back with them instead of leaving him in the wilderness to die, so please make sure to let us know if that's not the case. The rifter is not an apped character or a canon character. We'll provide more information in a few days, but if you have questions in the meantime, you can ask here. ]

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I. Arrival

You don't know real luxury, he'd sagely told someone once, until you've slept naked on embersilk sheets.

They don't have embersilk sheets in the drafty-ass caves the Earthen Ring likes to set up shop in. And there's no luxury in freezing one's tropical-born balls off on a cold stone floor in the middle of a maelstrom. But it's a matter of pride, and also of shirts being perpetually uncomfortable under the armpits, and so the only concession to comfort and modesty he makes is a pair of pajama pants.

He wakes to find these shredded by legs a foot longer and hips twice as broad as they had been when he fell asleep, baring pink skin and angry marks reddened by blood that is most certainly no longer green, his chest weighted down by approximately a fifth of his worldly possessions--all of which are now capable of fitting across his chest, when before they might have buried him.

Janzik is not a stranger to shapeshifting. You wouldn't understand, he'd told a curious elven rogue when she'd asked what it was like to run around a city in the guise of a wolf, and why in the world he would ever want to do such a thing--but his body understands being something other than what it is, his mind is capable of wrapping around it even when involuntary, and had he time to think about it, he would reassure himself that the problem is temporary.

He does not have time to think about it. His ears are uselessly small, the noises around him dampened as if far away, but the ungodly screech that emanates from the pile of limbs and teeth that burrows out of the ground a foot from his head does not need to be any louder to get its point across. He grabs for his mace and shield and dodges, clumsy around this unwieldy body's new center of gravity, rolling through the mud and sending up a silent plea to fire as he goes.

I'll pay you back for it, I'm always good for it, you know I am--

There is no answering tug, no catch, no tangible acknowledgment of any kind--but the creature wheels away, spontaneously aflame, and Janzik hauls himself up off the ground in the brief ensuing reprieve.

II -- Aftermath

"Hey." His voice is hoarse, and not his own, and his limbs are twice as leaden as they've ever been after any battle in his life. But he's in better shape than this poor sonofabitch, he's got to concede that much.

"Hey, buddy, it's all over. We're good. We got places to be. Come on." He crouches to examine the man's face, reaching to check for a pulse.

"Aw, hell. All right, let me deal with it. He'll be wet, but he should be okay. Gimme a minute."

Edited 2018-01-12 04:46 (UTC)

He's checking over people as well, coming over to the man on the ground as the tiny dwarf looks for a pulse.

"If... you think you have it." There's a little doubt in his voice. Sure, the Dwarves have managed for years, but he's a Spirit Healer and rather sure of his abilities when it comes to injuries.

"Of course I have it." He might sound less defensive if he were less tired, less confused, less shaken, less inexplicably hulking and pink-skinned--but whatever the fuck is going on here, he's more confused than he was at the start, no explanation of anything is forthcoming, and his usual cheer is strained beyond the breaking point.

The elements here don't seem to trust him, so far from familiar ground, and no matter how inconvenient it is for him, he can't entirely blame them--he hasn't yet proven himself, hasn't made any offer of solidarity or shown them the goods as promise of future tribute, but there's always a silver lining. There should be a silver lining. No accumulated goodwill means no lingering conflict; a blank slate is both curse and boon. Fire and lightning might be wary of him yet, but he can't be on any worse terms with water than he was at home.

Help me out here. It'll be worth your while. He isn't hurt so bad; it'd be nothing for you, the work of a second, and I'll owe you one--

He knows to stand back a little from an unconscious patient--he's used to getting wet through himself when the healing waters need a conduit; it's too simple and obvious an occupational hazard to merit complaint, but nobody's ever going to want your healing after you drown some hapless bastard with it. He stretches his arm gently toward the man and waits.

Nothing comes.

Despite his desire to get in there and help, Anders waits. The Dwarf seems confident in himself and maybe he actually does know what he's doing.

Anders continues waiting as the guy steps back and holds his arms out. Then he waits a little more, and... nothing happens. The man's not waking up, Anders has no idea what shape he's in, and he's rather certain he's been patient enough.

"Let me," he says, voice neutral so as not to set the guy off. Anders steps close and casts, trying to figure out what's wrong. While he hadn't made complete note of everyone they'd left Kirkwall with, he's nearly certain this guy hadn't been a part of the group which might well make him a Rifter.

"Can Dwarves do magic where you're from? Because I've never seen a Dwarf mage before."

Janzik Joltcable

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Chloe Price

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