OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

[faderifting]

WHO: New Rifters & Inquisition Members
WHAT: A journey south to make new friends and kick some ass
WHEN: Drakonis 15-25
WHERE: Sunless Lands
NOTES: Violence and language assumed. Warn for anyting else. OOC post.

The Sunless Lands are not, in fact, sunless. This time of year there can be as many as eight hours of daylight, some of it blinding where it reflects off of snow and ice that stretches from the southern edge of the Kocari Wilds as far as anyone can see, broken only occasionally by rocky masses of land jutting out of the snow cover or barren tundra peeking out in patches where constant, unforgiving wind has pushed it aside. You'll be traversing this span primarily on foot—there are sleighs, too, pulled by hardy dogs, but they're carrying essential supplies rather than spare people. The only way to get a ride is to successfully feign passing out.

Beyond the dogs, the area isn't devoid of native wildlife: white fennecs hunt rodents underground, and a herd of excessively fluffy wild druffalo is seeking out whatever vegetation it can find. But hunting down a meal or two early and preserving rations for further south would not be a bad idea, because the further south the team travels, the more inhospitable the terrain grows, and the less life can be seen. And sometimes not much of anything can be seen, when clouds roll by and burst with snow thick enough to halt progress entirely for hours.

The nights are cloudy as often as clear, but when they are clear the sky is split by green and purple ribbons of light.

I. THE RESCUE

Two days' journey south, the monotonously icy horizon is broken by something new: smoke rising in interrupted puffs, an intentional signal. Someone is out there. Chances are, it's the rifters, with or without their first group of intended rescuers. But there's no way to be sure. And approaching with caution is wise either way. Rifters have strange powers (and strange personalities), and they've been out here for days now, dealing with demons and Maker knows what else on their own. For all anyone knows, they could be the reason for the rescue team's disappearance. Orders are to approach carefully.

Then, once contact has been made and initial concerns have been allayed, make sure those poor people have something to eat, and try to figure out where their original rescuers disappeared to.

II. THE STORM

After the rifters are recovered, there's still the matter of the red lyrium mine to address. Another two days' journey south will put the group within good range of the mine: not so close as to be seen, but close enough to be able to get there in a couple of hours as needed.

Halfway there, however, in the middle of the day, progress comes to an abrupt half when the darkest clouds yet gather suddenly on the horizon and barrel down on the group, bringing with them a glut of snow that reduces visibility to only a few feet and wind that roars so loudly you have to shout to be heard. Magic can help some with heat, but the storm shows little sign of quickly abating and with hours of deadly cold conditions to deal with, digging in and getting cozy for a few hours might be the most feasible solution for everyone.

III. THE VILLAGE

Shortly before the point everyone is aiming for—one marked by an enormous stone carving of an owl, several times taller than a man, that's inexplicably been left by the ancients in the center of the tundra—something else appears not far to the west. On closer inspection, it turns out to be a circle of low-sitting animal-skin tents pressed down into the snow to protect them from wind, rocky fire pits, and abandoned sleighs. Overall, it's a cross between camp and village indicative of a nomadic group that's staying a while but not forever.

It's empty now, with a coating of snow on most of the structures that indicates it's been at least a few days since anyone was here. Closer inspection reveals personal belongings inside the tents, including toys and clothing belonging to children—and, in many tents, chunks of red lyrium in the center or beneath the skins that form the beds, each piece emanating heat. They probably thought it was safer than fire.

Wherever they went, they don't come back while the Inquisition is there. But the activity does get noticed. A few hours after arrival, enormous white bears apparently moving in a pack come within a hundred yards of the camp and pace at a distance, watching the interlopers with wary interest. Some of them are wearing collars or harnesses decorated in the same style as the tents. For enough food, they may come closer, and they'll turn out to be abnormally tame.

IV. THE BATTLE

The red lyrium mine that Corypheus' followers built when their operations were crippled in Emprise du Lion is nestled in an icy canyon, with massive scaffolding built up the sides of the cliff and too many cages to count, though few of them hold living prisoners anymore. It's a massive operation, but one that's been crippled by its distance from civilization. It's sparsely guarded compared to its size, and other than the cliffs, it has minimal natural protection. The enemy has magic-silencing Templars, enormous behemoths, and a chained white-furred giant, but they are clearly not prepared to be attacked.

Ahead of the onslaught, traps are set and any surviving prisoners are evacuated under cover of darkness. Everyone else sent to fight either creeps down shortly before dawn, rappelling quietly to avoid notice in the dark, or waits at the top for the first surprise strike to provide enough distraction for them to descend more openly. If anyone has been particularly nice to the bears (see above) then it is entirely possible they'll allow themselves to be ridden into battle.

Once their presence is known, their orders are pretty simple. Destroy it all. Leave no one behind and nothing worth returning for.

Fire is a good strategy. Red lyrium doesn't do well in heat.

Comments

FIRST CONTACT

[faderifting]

[ ooc | Please keep the initial meeting of new rifters and Inquisition to a single log, here! But after that first meeting has established who everyone is and that nobody is going to kill anyone else, everyone is free to mingle and do top-levels for everything else. ]

[periastron]

"Hey, hey hey." Alexandra's hair is billowing around her face, eyebrows and hair a little frosted, as she looks out across the ice. She's so fucking hungry, gave a good part of the last portion of food she had to the little koala curled up inside her coat. "Hey mates, I think the bloody reinforcements are here!"

Reinforcements, or a threat, but at this point, even a threat might be welcome compared to freezing to death.

She jumps down, and starts wading through the soft blanket of snow to try and make her way closer. She cuts a potentially underwhelming figure - just a couple inches over five foot, wrapped up in some furs, with a white coat peeping out underneath.

"Hey," and her accent might sound a little strange, unfamiliar. Does Thedas have Australian accents? It does now. "Took you dickheads long enough."

[somethingwild]

Newt is worn down, clinging to the blanket he's wrapped around himself on top of the additional layers he has on and his wand, which he clutches more out of a sense of security more than anything else. He hasn't been sleeping much and he can't seem to get warm, even when he paces back and forth. (Well, "paces"; more like, shuffling at a speed that makes snails seem fast.) Ice has turned his hair into auburn frosticles.

He's so hungry, he aches. He ran out of his portion of food a fair while back, even with all his rationing. (He got rather desperate enough that he couldn't hold out over the previous couple of days.)

Tired and hungry, he hasn't gone scouting today. He favors, instead, sticking at camp, though he's really not much help for the moment. He squints when he thinks he sees shapes approaching; he doesn't know if he's hallucinating or not.

"Please, please be here to help," he mutters to himself, glancing around to see if the others have noticed these potential rescuers.

"Hello?" He calls out, his voice croaking as he makes his way cautiously forward. He brings his wand out from habit, even as he doubts he has the strength for a single Lumos spell. If it comes down to it and all else fails, he can improvise other ways to use his wand as a weapon; it never hurts to be prepared.

[mactears]

They'd followed the smoke signal rising on the horizon to this point, and what little Loghain can make out in the distance makes it clear to him that they haven't found the Inquisition team sent to retrieve the rifters. Far more likely they've found the rifters themselves, if their cries for aid are any indication.

His dour face looks even more unfriendly than normal, what with the unforgiving cold winds that have been blowing against him and the frost that has formed on what little is visible of his hair. (Next to him, a wolf-dog forges her way through the snow as well.) But he does not reach for his sword, which ought to be enough to allay some of the concerns of the people ahead of him. Instead he raises a hand, in what he hopes is a universal sign of peaceful greeting.

"Are any of you injured?" he calls out once he's close enough for his voice to be heard over the wind.

[somethingyettocome]

Dolores is tired, bone tired. She stinks of corpses, has burned herself on the fire and from the cold, and the rumble in her stomach has progressed so far past hunger that it's gone straight through pain and into numbness. Still, she carries on with the tatty tarp she'd pulled out of the camp and making those smoke signals. She carries on right until they spot the caravan on the horizon.

They don't hustle much when it comes to approaching, but Dolores can't find it in herself to mind much. Despite how warm it is, the first thing she does once they've been spotted is drop the tarp over the fire and start piling snow over it. The stench has gotten into the very core of her and the sooner she can move away from it, douse it and forget, the better.

It takes around an hour for the fire to finally smother itself out--good riddance. It takes a while longer than that before the caravan arrives, and when they do she sags with such relief that she nearly faints. She settles for dropping down into the snow, sitting and resting her arms, and smiling at anything and anyone around.

She'd always liked the newcomers but she can't recall the last time she'd been so very happy to see any one of them.

[nadasharillen]

On the ground in the snow doesn't seem like the best of places for anyone to be, and so Nahariel stalks up through it to offer a hand to the blonde woman who'd sunk down into the cold profusion of white.

"You're tired, I'm sure, but we've better" (and warmer) "places for you to rest than there if you can manage a bit longer on your feet."

[somethingyettocome]

Dolores takes the offered hand without hesitation, but she's heavy, almost deceptively so, and so she tries not to lean her full weight into it as she lets the newcomer help her to her feet. Her smile is exhausted and grateful.

"I can stumble a ways if I've got to," Dolores replies, her drawl thicker with her exhaustion.

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Dolores," she says, introduces on reflex. "Dolores Abernathy."

[aforethought]

A bag of skin and bones (and wool and fur and anything else half-warm and left unattended in her presence for a second too long —) flops down beside, without apparent regard for the cold or damp.

It's a whole lot of regard, in truth. Never thought she'd say a prayer for the fact they've got mages with them, but any of this goes wrong, and the smug fucks might be the only thing keeping keeping them from frostbite. There's an ache in her bones she knows isn't just cold-deep, and the smell of the fire doesn't help none.

But that's just for her to know.

"Y'all ain't hurt?" Dropping on her own legs like that, smiling like that. Could be relief, could be a lot of things. Worth asking, at least as an excuse to go fumbling in her pockets, filch out a battered little pipe and flint. She chews at the end, and doesn't look over. "Didn't crack your head or nothing?"

She's a sensitive soul.

[justice_is_blond]

He parts from the large group to start doing what he can for the ones scattered about, and Anders' eye is caught by the woman suddenly sitting down. Hastily he makes his way over, holding out one of the spare blankets they've brought.

"Here, here. Are you hurt? Is it the cold?" She's smiling, which suggests the cold might really be getting to her and she might be hallucinating. Anders can't really think of any other reason to be smiling when it's this horribly cold out.

[coiledscales]

It's been a miserable few days camped out on the ice and snow. Alacruun's managed to keep himself distracted by learning about the people he's stuck with. Not out of any genuine affection, of course, more for the future and to keep himself from going insane. He needs something to think about, to turn over in his head. Of course, he's used to having long periods with nothing to do but be stuck in his own head.

Maybe that's part of his problem, honestly.

Still, he is not prone to self-reflection. And he's had enough to do - helping to collect food, fighting off the occasional demon that comes wandering through the rift. There's little else to do besides, but when they realize that yes, someone is coming, it's an intense relief. He won't have to eat frozen corpses or try to find his own way out of this desert. There is something out there that isn't snow and ice. This isn't the elemental plane of cold.

Not that he lets any of that relief show. Instead, he's standing in the snow, blanket wrapped around him and examining the newcomers as they come in to their makeshift camp.

"You certainly took your time," he says to the first newcomer who gets anywhere close to him. The glint of a smile adds a touch of teasing to it - or menace, depending on who you ask.

[thunderproof]

"It's a bit of a way from Kirkwall to... wherever this place is, gods, I am so not made for snow —"

For a second there Adalia almost managed to sound like she knew anything about anything here, but by the end of the sentence her false bravado has fallen apart and she shivers, shuffling her way through the snow with her cloak pulled tightly around her. It's a good cloak, at least, thick and warm, with a matching hat and gloves, and she's not nearly as cold as she could be — though still too cold for her coast-raised comfort.

"We came as soon as we could, anyway," she says once she's finally made her way over to the qunari, pushing down her hood and beginning to tug her glove off one hand. "Are you injured in any way? I can help a little, if you are. We brought some other essentials, if you're hungry or cold."

[coiledscales]

Alacruun is stock still for a moment. That voice sounds very familiar, but it surely must be his ears playing tricks on him. He's watching the newcomer closely, watching the bundled form as she begins to flounder over. And then she pushes the hood down and he knows her. Recognizes her as clearly as he can. His smile twitches and then spreads into something wider and almost genuine.

"Aside from a cut on the arm? Perfectly well, if a bit hungry and cold. And much better now that you're here."

She's here. Now there's something worth considering. Maybe she arrived elsewhere - it's possible, considering that she's with this other group. How long has it been, though? He lifts his hand and offers it to her.

[aforethought]

She slugs him in the arm.

Or, well. Tries. It's not much of an effort (friendly gesture as it is), not terribly difficult for anyone paying attention to step back, turn aside, or otherwise ignore. That's the trouble of trying to punch someone in the arm, and not — say — the face, which is a solid foot above hers,

Anyway, how the fuck else are you supposed to say hello?

"Seems to me y'all did fine." They smell like burning, and it's got her hand more jittery than she'd like. Harder to spot, when it's balled into fist; harder to hear the nerves, when she talks this loud. "'S more than you lot usually do."

Araceli and Petra would be right proud, if Araceli and Petra were stupid enough to get sent this far South.

[coiledscales]

Wow, he's being attacked.

OK, not really. He's still a little startled. The sheer physicality of some humanoids toward each other is still very strange to him. He hasn't actually spent much time as a humanoid in a long, long time and most of his more recent adventures have been focused on a tiny group. So being around so many people all at once is... different. He glances down at the newcomer with a quizzical little expression that morphs into a wry smile.

"We did adequately, although we had no idea where to go afterward, is the main problem. There's also a distinct lack of food... or fuel for fires, once we ran out of certain materials."

The qunari dips into a little bow, which is a bit funny to see, "You have my thanks for braving the trackless wastes to come for us, of course."

[thorndergod]

He raises an eyebrow at the qunari judging him and moves on when someone else replies to it, only coming back later. Thor dusts off his nicely made, not-quite-thick-enough-for-this-far-south outfit as he raises an eyebrow at the likely Rifter.

"Are you going to say any rescue attempts you have run have gone more smoothly?" A qunari from another land does not necessarily have to be an enemy, but Thor is certainly squinting at the guy, trying to weigh out what this one will be like. Perhaps not all qunari are alike. Thor has yet to meet one who didn't need a hammer applied to their head, though.

[coiledscales]

"I don't usually run rescue attempts, but yes, I probably could've done better," Alacruun replies with a smile that looks entirely genuine, although there might be a few too many teeth in it.

"Which isn't to say I'm not grateful. Efficiency is to be lauded, but if the ultimate goal is met, who am I to complain?"

[swordproof]

Six is one of the people that's most capable of noticing the newcomers; her darkvision gives her an insight into the world when dusk comes, and returning with the scouting party means that she's on the outskirts when the Inquisition actually arrives. She's on edge, not trusting the strangers with no reason to suggest that she ought to, but the sounds of surprise and welcome that meet them softens the edge of her just enough for her to actually be able to interact with them.

It's clear she's exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and her hair twisted up in a messy bun above her head; whatever she's been doing, it hasn't been sleeping. There's an edge of something almost a little desperate about her as she moves around the new people, stepping here and there so she can dart to a quiet corner and lift a backpack into her arms, holding it close and checking the contents before she finally seems to relax, some of the tension slipping from her shoulders as she forces herself to calm down.

With people around to help guard Six is less tense, less on edge, and she moves to one side to give everyone room to meet and gather and talk, preferring to stay on the edge as much as possible. There are some people she has met and made friends with, of course, and she nods to them as they move and gather their things, as they meet up with the strangers, but there's something almost awkward about her - as if she doesn't really know what to do with herself.

If greeted, she'll nod her head, trying to stand tall despite her apparent exhaustion. Otherwise, she grips the necklace that hangs around her neck, closing her eyes as she whispers brief, familiar prayers.

[aforethought]

She waits until she's done praying. Melys isn't a total shit.

"Y'ain't trying to sneak out on us now, are you?"

Lurking around the shadows like so much bad news. Not that it'd hurt much, probably, leaving this lot behind — only there's been other lots, faces she's liked more.

And if Six isn't coming with, someone ought to relieve her of those unnecessary supplies.

"Don't reckon you got much luck with that, 'less you're standing near one of them."

The hook of a pinky to distant qunari. Hi, nice to meet you, aren't you fucking tall?

[swordproof]

Six turns her head, lips turning down into something a little more terse as she looks at the stranger.

"I had no intention of leaving. I thought it best to give people space to gather their things." A part of her is a little offended by the fact that she's been called out in particular, and her hand slips away from the necklace hanging at her neck to stare down the woman in front of her.

Honestly, she thinks, maybe she ought not to take it too personally; she is a stranger, woken in a new land, and she ought to consider herself lucky that she has been picked up by someone willing to take her in and make sure she's safe, even if it might only be because of the spark on her palm.

Breathing out, she glances around at the other people.

"I was praying. I didn't realise it was so offensive."

[gatheringstorm]

A tall -easily a head taller than most humans- woman with curling ram horns, clad in armor with a staff on her back, approaches and holds out a canteen. "It's just water, but if you need stronger stuff, I have that, too. After what you've been through, I wouldn't blame you one bit. The name's Korrin, by the way. Do you need a healing potion?"

[swordproof]

There's a brief moment of hesitation before Six reaches out and takes it, letting herself have a few small sips of the water. It's not as though she's been entirely dehydrated, but with scarce resources she hasn't been taking very good care of herself as a whole.

"No, thank you, I am well." She shifts, holding the canteen out again. "I am Six. Thank you, for the water. Are you with this... Organisation?"

[thunderproof]

As part of the group from the Inquisition (entirely voluntarily) tasked with ensuring that the new Rifters each acquired their own bag of supplies, Adalia is in prime position to take note of each and every new Rifter's face. They all seem like a rather motley crew, honestly, but that's to be expected — five days in the snowy tundra with strangers in a new land will probably do that to people — but there is one woman in particular who catches Adalia's eye.

She doesn't look much older than Adalia herself, with blonde hair and tired eyes that suggest she hasn't slept in the days it's been since the rift spat her into Thedas. It's this woman that Adalia seeks out when everything's done, and she waits patiently for her to finish her prayers before speaking.

"If you need to sleep, goodlady, I can watch over you and your things."

[swordproof]

Turning her attention to the newcomer, Six is struck for a moment by an awkward uncertainty that settles somewhere low in her gut. There's something about her that seems terribly familiar, something that she can't quite place or put a name to - it's there, on the tip of her tongue, and she has to pause to stare for a few brief moments. It's probably a little rude, but she can't find any way to stop, not when her brain is whirling to try and work out what it is she's missing.

"I do not need sleep, but your offer is appreciated." She could use a rest, she thinks, especially if there's more travel ahead, but she's loathe to leave anything she has in the arms of an utter stranger, no matter how much familiarity there is. The hilt that's wrapped up in her backpack... She can't hand it over to anyone.

"Are you with the Inquisition?"

[coppelganger]

Sarah doesn't trust anyone here except her sister, but she's spent five days with the rest of these people and they haven't tried to kill her yet, so as far as she's concerned, they're okay for now. These rescuers, on the other hand, haven't been vetted. She watches them approach with suspicion that would be kind of aggressive it she weren't so tired, cold, and hungry. As it is, she can't bring herself to look very intimidating.

She hangs in the middle of the group of rifters at first, intending to go unnoticed. It's only once the new group has reached them and seems to be intent on getting them out of here that she approaches anybody with her questions.

"Oi. When do we go home?"

[justnice]

Somewhat resembling a rabbit caught in the headlights —

"Home?" He echoes, "Um. Ferelden?"

He knows it's stupid before the words leave his mouth. She's not Ferelden, no matter how much she sounds it. Probably demons can't even be Ferelden (he'll have to ask Fern). He unfolds his bundled arms reluctantly, at a loss for what to do with his hands, shifts in place. Tries to stand a little straighter.

It's not the picture of dignity.

"I mean, that is. We're going to camp now, it's sort of. An in-between home, you know?" His smile is somewhere between hopeful and harried; there's clearly something here that he doesn't want to say. "I suppose Kirkwall, after."