faderift | DRAKONIS RIFTER ARRIVAL

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DRAKONIS RIFTER ARRIVAL

WHO: New rifters
WHAT: People fall out of a rift, get attacked, and discover that they are trapped and alone.
WHEN: Drakonis 10
WHERE: A snowy pit.
NOTES: This month, the arrival log is CLOSED to new rifters only. Don't worry, there will be chances for everyone else to meet (and help!) them soon.

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. At least in some worlds.

In this world, you wake with a jolt when you hit the ground, soft for an instant and then bone-jarringly hard. You've landed in a pile of loose snow, beneath which is more snow, frozen solid, and all around you are walls of more snow, tinted by the shifting green gash in the air. There are other people finding their feet after a similarly sprawling arrival, and then emerging from the rift in your wake are a number of hunched, greyish creatures in tattered robes that shuffle about, keeping their distance as they send sharp spikes of ice flying toward you.

They're accompanied by floating beings with too many insect-like arms, and creatures that seem to emerge from the ground like plumes of magma, their fire causing the walls to drip and turning the ground beneath your feet treacherously slick. There is also one giant scarecrow, nearly twenty feet tall, and with giant scalpel blades for arms. It is dressed in a tuxedo, a fine bolo tie, and a cowboy hat, and accompanied by five normal-sized scarecrows in matching suits and hats. Needless to say, they are not friendly either. There are many of you, but even more enemies.

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, and seems to call your attention back to the rift.

II. TRAPPED

After the first few waves of demons are defeated (there will be no more scarecrows), there will be a lull long enough to regroup and take stock of surroundings. You appear to be at the bottom of a deep crevasse, the walls stretching high above your heads. The space is only about 20 feet wide at its center, but nearly fifty yards long, tapering narrower at the ends, with the rift located near the southern end. There is no exit, no cracks or tunnels leading away, and no hand or footholds in the sheer walls. There are some animal bones scattered about, but no evidence of other living creatures. There is also no evidence of other people, here or above you.

Luckily, the rift has spilled out a great deal of crap along with you and all the demons. There is a gigantic cake several feet tall half-smushed into one wall, its ten tiers delicately decorated all in white fondant, with whorling patterns and flowers made of frosting. Each layer is a different flavor, ranging from the mundane (chocolate, vanilla, carrot) to the bizarre (strawberry & pickle, spicy lemon olive, red velvet mackerel). There are also some actual mackerel, a heap of live fish having spilled through the rift and scattered about the crevasse during the battle, along with bundles of dried (but now soggy) cornstalks.

You can see a narrow patch of sky above and sunlight does filter down to you, for the few hours of the day that there is any sunlight at all. Given the reflection off all the snow and ice, during those daylight hours it is pleasantly bright, though tinted a bit blue (and green by the rift). Unfortunately, daylight only lasts about eight hours, and it is frequently cloudy, which leaves the crevasse dimly lit, as if in a perpetual dusk. At night it will be utterly pitch black except for the rift's eerie glow. It's also very cold, with temperatures remaining below freezing during the day and well below at night.

III. LOST

Whether with magic or creative ice-pick improvisation, scaling the walls of the crevasse is not impossible—but there is minimal reward for the effort. Fully exposed to the wind, it's colder on the surface than in the crevasse, and on the third day there's a whiteout blizzard that reduces visibility to twenty feet for hours. Even when the weather is clear, though, there's not much to see. The land above is a wasteland of ice, snow, and wind, without visible vegetation or landmarks other than monotonous gentle hills. The only disruption to the landscape in any direction is about a hundred yards north of the rift, where spots of color and piles of snow mark what is, on closer inspection, an abandoned camp.

Whoever was there before built low walls out of packed snow to block some of the wind and dug enough snow caves to sleep a dozen people, though a few have since caved in. There's no food—there was food, before, but overturned crates and animal tracks suggest the area is not as devoid of life as it looks—but there are thick fur blankets and sets of boots or outerwear. More than a dozen, in a variety of different sizes. Almost like they were expecting poorly-clothed company.

Maybe someone was coming for you. Maybe they'll be back. Or maybe not.

[ ooc | The rift will continue to spit out demons at semi-regular intervals. After the rifters defeat the first couple waves of demons, the pace of these reinforcements will slow—instead of a few minutes, it may be a few hours until the next batch comes. It is possible for your characters to close the rift themselves, but because they have no idea what they're doing it will require trial and error to figure out how, and all (or near enough) of them working together to succeed. This should take at least two days to manage.

Other than the stuff described in the post and the inventories everyone arrived with (as approved in your apps; please don't suddenly remember some other useful things in your characters' pockets) there is nothing in the crevasse except snow, ice, rock, and animal bones. But don't worry, we promise we're not leaving your characters all to die. Your characters have arrived in the Sunless Lands, and the Inquisition is on its way. When the mod plot post goes up this coming week, it will include a prompt to rescue all of you. Until that time, please refrain from RPing elsewhere in the game and enjoy this exclusive opportunity to bond with your rift-mates.

Your characters will be alone for approximately five days IC. Please keep them from wandering off too far, since that will make it implausible for the Inquisition to find and rescue them and then you won't get to play in the game. If they would insist on trying, you're welcome to use adverse weather, ice collapsing into other caves beneath them, or whatever other natural obstacles necessary to stall their progress. ]

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Ah. There's a bit of touchiness there. Interesting. He glances down at Newt, brow furrowed as he considers the retort. Most people are born without magic, unless they're sorcerers or dragons or something else with an innate magic of their own. Humans and elves, for example, have to study extensively to learn how to twist the fabric of reality. The idea of being born or not born with it is... strange.

"I believe that is where we differ; anyone can learn magic, should they apply themselves to careful and long study of the subject. It may take a good deal of time, but... wizardry isn't limited to bloodlines. At least... not where I'm from."

He flashes a grin that's mostly teeth.

"What is your name?"

Newt keeps himself tense as he listens to his companion, cautious and alert. Any kind of hint of superiority over others sets him on edge, especially considering the situation he's left behind in New York. But he also finds himself fascinated by how one of his fellow refugees explains the way magic works in his own world. That anyone could study and perfect it.

How unexpected and ironic, he thinks. His companion's world is more equal than his own when it comes to magic.

"That...would solve a lot of problems, I think, if the magic in my world functioned in that same way," Newt admits, still hugging himself to keep warm. With his shoulders as tense as they are, he feels like a porcupine hunched in on itself.

"I'm Newt," he says. "Newt Scamander. And yourself?"

They're both cold and Alacruun doesn't offer to share his blanket. After all, he doesn't want to freeze to death. So he cinches it a bit tighter around himself, gaze going a bit distant as he contemplates the idea of magic being so available solving problems. From the sound of it, Newt's world focused it in a gorup of wizarding families or bloodlines or... clans or something.

Which hardly seemed fair to Alacruun. That meant they were probably hoarding all of the important knowledge for themselves. Less that Alacruun was worried about others in this case, more that he knew that if he ended up there he'd want to find out about all of it.

"Alacruun," He replies with a nod, "Is there any particular reason magic seems so limited in your world?"

The cold seems the only constant so far, whether down in the crevasse or up here in this abandoned camp. When the wind chill hits, it proves especially brutal, and Newt is thankful that, despite the awkward fit of his school robes on top of his ugly Christmas jumper, he at least had the presence of mind to dream of himself wearing layers.

He notes the way Alacruun tightens the blanket around himself, not offering to share, but he doesn't vocalize his thoughts on the matter. After all, he's perfectly fine keeping his distance, no matter that shared body heat might be useful right about now. He nods as Alacruun says his name, a polite, if curt, gesture.

"Only that magic is inherited," Newt explains. "The ability to perform it is something someone is born with, though they still have to study it to be able to use it properly. That's just the way magic works, where I come from. As far as I can tell, there's no reason why magic is a matter of blood and birth over study."

"We have some people like that. We call them sorcerers to differentiate them, but their magic is something... natural. It's a natural ability for them to tap into the source of their powers. Our wizards have to learn how to manipulate it. A bit like... learning any other skill, I suppose. Like drawing or craftsmanship."

He shrugs, "Of course, learning how to manipulate the fabric of existence is rather different than making a chair. But it's the same general principle."

"Interesting," Newt notes sincerely, growing even more curious about Alacruun's world the more he describes it. "So anyone who wanted could pursue the study of magic. Are your sorcerers more powerful, or is it just their natural abilities that distinguish them from wizards?"

He manages a flicker of an amused smile at that. "Indeed. I know what you mean."

"Wizards typically require spellbooks or some sort of focus to allow them to tap into the magic that surrounds them. Sorcerers call on it naturally - pulling from a power within themselves that's connected to the wider world," Alacruun replies. Honestly, he could talk about this stuff all day. He loves magical theory.

"Most of them have some sort of ancestry or other heritage that defines it. Draconic, for example. It's also possible that random chance gifted it to them. Spells come to them naturally, through practice and repetition. Like running or walking or anything else that one can do. They can cast until they're exhausted, calling on which ever spells strike their fancy. Whereas with wizards - it's more like learning a song or a poem or a rote speech. They need time to prepare and generally they have to carefully select which spells they want to cast for any given day. A bit more like putting on a pair of shoes or choosing a tool and one's mind can only 'carry' so many."

He pauses.

"An inelegant metaphor, but I think it gets the point across."

Edited 2018-03-12 23:54 (UTC)

"Your sorcerers sound like the witches and wizards of my own home," Newt admits. "Only we still have to study from books and classes in order to be able to best utilize our powers to their greatest capabilities."

In a way, it's a comfort to know that he can speak of magic to someone else here. Magic, even that he doesn't know, is something in which Newt can find relief, temporary though it might ultimately prove in the end.

"You mean they're descended from dragons?" And at that, Newt's eyes widen. He can't hide his obvious fascination, especially with the possibility of dragons, and how their existence might effect magic in the world.

"Yes," he says, considering. "I understand." He takes a moment to contemplate the differences between their worlds, fascinated.

"I admit, it's...very interesting to hear about different sorts of magic," he says.

Honestly, Alacruun's rather pleased himself. It keeps his mind occupied and gives him something to think about that isn't analyzing the situation and trying to figure out how to survive it. Because so far, he's concluded that odds of walking out of this are very, very slim, unless he can figure out the magic that brought him here.

"Yes, some of them. A very, very, very long back in their family tree somewhere, someone had a dragon as an ancestor and occasionally the power of that blood makes itself known in them..." He seems entertained at the thought, "It's really quite fascinating. I haven't done any studies of sorcerer bloodlines myself, but I did do some reading on it in my youth."

Which is a bit rich, because he doesn't look that old. At least, not in this body.

"Conversation keeps the mind occupied. Better than sitting around and waiting to die."

Which is true and rather blunt.

"Dragon ancestry," Newt repeats, thoroughly delighted and curious all at once, the distinct opposite of how a good majority of wizards and witches in his world would feel, had they heard such a concept. Those same witches and wizards would probably make the argument that Newt was more beast than human, given his love for creatures, anyway. "It sounds especially fantastic. How common is it, sorcerers descending from dragons?"

He arches an eyebrow when Alacruun mentions his 'youth.' He looks plenty young, Newt thinks. But then, appearances can be deceiving.

"I agree wholeheartedly," he nods, hardly bothered by the blunt words. He's made use of blunt words himself plenty of times before, after all. Not to mention, his companion is certainly right. "Better to keep looking in another direction entirely than to dwell to long on these frigid surroundings."

"Mmm... relatively common so as to be noticeable. But I wouldn't say it's a majority or even a plurality. But it happens and it makes itself known," Alacruun replies after a moment of consideration. There's more to it, of course, but trying to cram the entire sorcerer experience into a few sentences is problematic. He has to think about to place all of it in its proper context. There are, after all, sorcerers who derive their powers from other sources. Like Adalia, for example.

"It's not a secret, in any case. I'd have to think on it before I gave you a more concrete answer."

Newt nods. All of this is fascinating to him; magic works in a certain way, where he comes from, and to hear the way it functions in other worlds is just as fascinating. If they survive this, he would love to learn more about the magic from Alacruun's world.

"Of course," he says. "Even the quick answer sounds like quite a lot. Or so it seems to me."

He flashes him a quick grin. "But I've always loved concrete answers that take time, as it is."

"As do I. It's why I've spent most of my life trying to find them," Alacruun laughs. He's almost pleasant to converse with when he's like this, honestly. He tugs the blanket a bit tighter and tries to ignore the cold. Irritating. Pointless. Just focus on the problem at hand and shut out external distractions.

"Tell me more about your world. Your magic seems to work rather differently, especially if it runs in bloodlines or clans..."

"Well, my world is...currently extremely tense at the moment, I think is the best way to describe it," Newt admits. "I'd been returning home to England from America when I arrived here, and America is even more strict about hiding magic from those without it than we are."

He lets out a sigh. "Some of those who are extremely proud of the 'purity' of their blood insist on their superiority to others with 'lesser' blood. Pureblood is someone who can trace back their magical ancestry thoroughly, without any non-magical heritage. Or so they claim," he adds, shaking his head. "I don't think anyone is really as pureblooded as they claim, but that's an another argument entirely."

He grows quiet, tense again beneath his layers. "It might actually be a blessing that I'm not home, really," he admits. "Given that I think we're on the brink of war."

The names of countries (or cities, he doesn't know which) mean nothing to him, but he still listens with a sort of rapt attention. He catalogs all of it, stores the information away so he can think on it later. There's nothing he can do with it now, but it's interesting. Politics and magic of a far off world. How glorious.

"There's an argument to be made for certain sorts of blood-right, but I can't imagine that magic would be the place to make that argument. You're all... human, aren't you?"

He asks that because in his eyes, one human bloodline is as good as another. The petty squabbles of mortals is somewhere very, very far below him. Still, it's an interesting insight to Newt's world.

"I'll never understand the propensity of humans to fight over very small differences..."

"Well, those who are considered witches and wizards are human," Newt explains. There's an odd sense of feeling as though he's letting something off of his chest, explaining his world to Alacruun. Yes, it's very much a distraction from the terrible hole they've all fallen into, literally and figuratively, but talking about home makes him miss it less at the same time; it still feels like a part of him, here. Wherever here really is.

"But then there are ghosts, goblins, house elves, merpeople, and centaurs, to name a few, all of whom have a magic, of sorts themselves," he explains. "Their magic works differently than ours, but they have it all the same. But those making an argument for the most pure of blood would never stop to consider anyone other than their fellow humans."

He nods at that. "It seems to be a special talent of ours," he says, shaking his head.

"Humans do have a tendency to put themselves at the top of the world... even when they're not. That can... be helpful for them at times, but also incredibly foolish if they're not careful. There's always something bigger."

Now if only Alacruun could remember that, but he has zero capability for reflecting on himself. So he continues on, blithely ignoring his own advice.

"I know about these different creatures and many of them have magic where I'm from, but... it's not always much different from that that everyone else uses. Certainly not enough that anyone could call one or the other better."

"You would think we would have figured that out by now, but no," he says, shaking his head. "Part of our charm, I suppose."

His wry smile suggests his thinks the opposite, actually.

"I'd like to see your world," Newt says, even more curious. "It sounds very much more open about magic than mine." He wonders if the wizards and sorcerers of Alacruun's world have to keep themselves hidden or if they can practice their magic freely, openly.

"It's practically everywhere, honestly. There are ancient civilizations, long since crumbled to dust, that have left behind their artifacts. Alchemists and wizards are features of a noble's court, more often than not. Enchanted items are... not quite common, but nor are they unusual. The idea of having to hid one's magic from society at large puzzles me..."

Well, magic in general. There's certain types of magic that one doesn't simply flash around.

Edited 2018-03-16 16:39 (UTC)

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DRAKONIS RIFTER ARRIVAL

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