faderift | OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

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.

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A city creature through and through, this entire adventure is a romp outside of Galatea's comfort zone—not that anyone would know it to look at her. Well, perhaps that she's not so experienced in the things she does, but not that it might have ever in her short life have occurred to her to pause before trying something, certainly, a hurricane in miniature. And this stranger is even less familiar than she is, the anchor-shard he bears marking him out for a rifter and his unfamiliarity for one of the new ones, so when he approaches the bears she is at his heels like a little sheep-dog, unconvinced that this is wise.

“They are bears,” she informs him, not in disagreement, but out of uncertainty as to whether or not he must recognise them. He is quite significantly taller than she is, by more than a foot, but the way he carries himself doesn't say warrior to her eyes and bears,

while beautiful,

might really fuck up his day.

Though they don't seem inclined to. And she has some food on her. And they really are very beautiful—

“Are there bears, your place beyond the fade?” A reasonable question, she thinks, when some come from places without elves or dwarves. (No one, yet, from a place without humans. She's not saying, she's just saying.)

Newt turns at the sound of a new voice, a bit startled out of his thoughts, lately occupied with the bears in front of him. The first thing he notices is that the woman approaching him is short - more than a foot shorter, if he isn't mistaken. But he doesn't linger on her height (or lack thereof) long, as his attention is soon drawn to the beautiful designs on her face, like intricate paintings of ink. Not to mention, her pointed ears. Some sort of elf, he wonders. But unlike those that he knows from back home.

"Yes," he nods, his voice slightly wry. He's had this sort of conversation before, people seeming startled at his curiosity with creatures and beings that could quite easily kill him. "Quite so."

Still, she seems polite enough, as well as curious. And he's curious himself, about her. "There are," he answers. "Though, admittedly, I haven't spent much time with the bears from my home. I have other creatures I tend to concern myself with." He pauses, as he stops to consider the place he finds himself now, as well as the past few days.

"I don't suppose these bears breathe ice, or anything of that sort?" He ventures, wondering if he should, in fact, be more cautious. One never knows.

Galatea spares the bears a more suspicious look at the prospect of breathing ice—it seems highly unlikely, but—

Wait.

The gloved hand that emerges from beneath her cloak hits him palm-first in the stomach, not hard but abrupt and restraining; carefully palm-first, because the metallic gleam of vicious spikes worn on her knuckles would also go some way toward fucking up his day if she'd done that at just the wrong angle. She strides forward, not too far, clearly trying to get a better look at the animals in front of them:

“Do you see red?” she asks, quieter and more urgent for it. He's got at least a foot on her, can see over her head and therefore probably more of the bears, past the first few that she doesn't think glow anywhere... “A red glow, on any of them? Like in the village?”

Newt starts at the sudden press of her hand against his stomach, letting out an 'oof!' as he's entirely taken by surprise at the gesture. He tenses on instinct; he tenses even further when he notices the spikes decorating the knuckles of her gloves. But the hit has the intended effect of keeping him from moving closer to the bears, though he still thinks they look more interesting than dangerous, personally.

At her question, Newt furrows his brows, his gaze narrowing as he guesses as to what she's asking. He takes a moment to study the polar bears, now deliberately looking for any hint of red surrounding them.

He studies them carefully; he takes his time, searching even for any tiny details that might hint to the presence of red lyrium.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I cannot see any red glow, on any of them."

Normal, maybe-tame bears are definitely preferable to red lyrium bears; Galatea relaxes, very slightly, although she doesn't immediately drop her hand, having apparently and at least probably temporarily designated herself this rifter's minder. Anyone who wanders idly towards bears

(other than Galatea herself, who is historically not known for being cautious)

is probably somewhat in need of minding. Why not by her? She has big eyes. Good for narrowing suspiciously, more dramatic than little eyes.

When she does take her hand back, she presses her knuckles together for a moment, metal singing as alternating spikes slide together. She offers him a sunny smile that certainly she intends for reassuring: “These are for demons, mostly, not for you.” Don't worry, Newt, you don't seem like the sort of person Galatea might punch in the face while armed.

(There are a pair of chain morningstars holstered on her back, when she moves ahead of him. What part of her isn't spiked?)

After a moment: “They seem friendlier than the bears I've seen before.” Killed, she means.

Newt can't help but wonder why her hand is still pressed against him. Honestly, he thinks, very much not the self-aware sort to consider the truth that, especially in this new and strange land, he probably does need watching.

When she does remove her hand, he visibly relaxes. Part of him, partially out of defiance, wants to run right over to the polar bears. But even Newt can admit that, given the number of bears and the uncertainty as to whether or not they've been tamed, that would be a ridiculous and stupid move on his part.

He stares, her bright smile especially unnerving in conjunction with her spiked gloves and the weapons she carries on her person.

"Are demons often a problem here?" He asks, wondering if they all look like the creatures that they'd had to fight against down in the crevasse.

Newt rocks on his feet, unable to keep his glance from straying to the polar bears. He doesn't have any of his creatures with him, and frankly, the sight of animals, no matter how potentially dangerous, proves comforting to him.

"What if we approach with caution?"

“Yes,” of demons, a blithely given answer—there is no sugarcoating that and she doesn't try, for as much unsettling sweetness as is inherent to her. “More, lately, because of the rifts.”

The rifts, like the one he came through. Her glance over her shoulder is thoughtful, but in her (admittedly not significant yet) time with the inquisition she's mostly accepted that the rifters are probably not themselves demons. Some of them are appalling people; being appalling is not, in her personal experience, anything like limited to the sole purview of demons.

This one, who looks soft and likes bears, seems fine.

(She looks sharp, and sounds French but can't be; Orlesian, then, if he's yet heard of it. If not—another Thedosian mystery. He will find no shortage of those.)

His next question she doesn't answer directly, but she is still moving forward, so: he can follow her, if he likes. He is probably more experienced with approaching wild animals than this bright light in dark places. They might learn a thing or two from one another.

"So the demons come through the rifts with the rest of us?" Newt wonders. He wonders if his own presence here is part of what draws the demons through the rift. "Are we considered demons then?" He asks the question clinically, a scientist trying to make sense of his new surroundings, hardly offended in the least. He's been called worse in his lifetime, after all.

It strikes him that his companion's accent sounds French. Except, from what was explained to him, it would be considered Orlesian, as France doesn't exist here. Still, he's curious about the similarities all the same.

She doesn't answer him but she approaches closer to the bears, so Newt takes that as his cue to follow. He keeps his steps slow and steady, holding his arms out in a gesture to show that he means peace.

“There are always demons,” she says, slowing to a stop before she gets quite within arm's reach of the bears, loosening her pack to rummage through it and see what's inside that might lure a tame animal nearer to her. “Not always rifters. So: you come through with them, more.”

As for the question of whether or not they're demons...

Her shrug is eloquent. “I think you're not a demon.”

...but that doesn't sound like a particularly ringing endorsement, or like it's a firm conclusion for everyone.

Newt halts when she does, standing a bit further back even as much as he wants to press forward. "Ah, I see," he says with a wry smile. "We're the side effects, I suppose?"

He blinks, surprised. Frankly, he wouldn't blame her for thinking him a demon.

"Thank you," he says, awkward as he rubs his hand against his arm. "That's kind of you."

In the mean time, his gaze reverts back to the polar bears, still as entranced with them as ever.

Her swift smile is easy—it seems the thing her face most wants to do, most all of the time—and she says, “No,” but lightly, not lingering over it when she's still inclined to stay very alert to the potential threat of polar bears. They seem tame enough, now, and she's willing to coax them to her, but...

Well, she's very armed. One hand out in friendship and the other ready to pull a knife is a smart way of approaching any part of the world, but especially when the part in question has teeth and claws and the capacity to really ruin an afternoon.

“I don't close my eyes and hope. It's very new, rifters, but very new still means—some years. They fight and die alongside the rest of us. Live, make livelihoods, take lovers. You'd be a funny sort of demon, no?”

What's Newt going to tempt her into, walking directly into a bear—

all right, bad example.

“I've seen rifters, now. I share my room with one. People who don't see rifters, they maybe think differently about things that come out of the fade.”

"I think I would make for a terrible demon, actually," Newt says with a wry, self-depreciating smile. "Unless demons have a fondness for studying and approaching creatures that could potentially kill them? Then I would excel, I believe."

He considers what she says, considers what he's seen of the technology and the people of Thedas so far. If he had to guess, he would hazard that Thedas seems to a land from the Middle Ages, or close to it. Her description of people's reactions to rifters seems rather mild than what he would expect. (Pitchforks and people being burned at the stakes.)

"I can't really blame them for that," he admits. "People always...react to things they don't know or understand." And usually react badly, at that.

Galatea pauses.

It's easy, most of the time, to see only the unsettling shine of her; occasionally it becomes clear that some of that brightness is the glint of light on a blade, and she is much, much sharper than just the monstrous ingenue she appears to be. Incongruously it is clearest in the way that she softens, now, slows down and takes his hand to turn palm up in both of her own where the anchor-shard is embedded.

“You understand that this can close the rifts, yes?”

(she says it very kindly, and this cannot be going anywhere kind.)

Newt tenses when she takes his hand in both of hers, unsure what to expect as she exposes the shard embedded in his flesh. The shard itself doesn't make him uneasy, oddly enough. He's used to pain and dull aches from working with magical creatures. But the color, the green glow of it, that is what most unnerves him, a reminder of the most terrible curse one can utter back home. He can't help but wince, looking at the shard.

"Yes," he says. "We had to close one back in the crevasse, all of us. It took a long time."

He wonders what else this shard might mean.

It makes her uneasy, looking upon it—a wrong thing, a thing that shouldn't be among a hundred others. Visible. Tangible, and yet impossible to grasp, to pull out and dispose of. And who would wish to, when...

“There are more than two dozen of you, now,” she says, breaking her fixed gaze upon the ugly glow of it, looking up at him instead. The peculiar intensity of her gaze is, perhaps, not more comforting. “All of you with one of these, but only an even more tiny handful of our own who bear them. The Herald, who had the whole anchor before—who everyone pinned all of their hopes on, at first. She died. She is dead.”

So much for fucking heroes.

It is so, so gentle, the way she says: “No one will miss you, if you die closing a rift.”

She doesn't say this to be cruel. The searching way she looks up betrays it, the way her tattooed brows draw together, how she has to steel herself for the words. She says it because it's important that he understands, she thinks; he should know, they should know, what it is he walks into, and why.

“Well, maybe I will miss you, now,” a kinder offering, more warm, “but—rifters come from nothing and sometimes to nothing you all return. Lots of rifters came, are gone, as mysterious as the arrival. Maybe one person misses you. Maybe a handful. Maybe we are at war, and people who came from no where are easy to forget. The rifts have to be closed, and you can do it. You bleed the same blood as everyone else, if they aren't; you're in this world, none of us get to say it isn't for us to do. But...you have nothing. And no one. And you can do something that most of us can't. That the world needs.”

She presses his hands together between hers, squeezes before letting go—

“Be careful what you think is kindness, all right?”

There should be comfort in numbers, or so Newt was always told. And, in his way, he took that kind of comfort from the numbers of his creatures around him, not other people. So when she describes that there are over two dozen of them with the shards embedded in their hands, not to mention the handful of people like herself, he ought to find that assuring, in some way.

Whatever expectations of comfort he might have expected to glean from her words vanishes as she mentions someone called the Herald, dying with the whole of the anchor. It's a very sobering thought, one that likely shows in his face as he listens to her.

He doesn't doubt her at all when she says that no one will miss him. It's the sort of thing he's almost used to, though not as much as he once was prior to New York. As grave as such a reality is, he sees no point in dwelling on it. If he can die at least attempting to make a difference, that's all that matters, much moreso than anyone remembering him.

He nods, tilting his head as he considers what he wants to say. "We're just passing through," he observes. "We're not supposed to be here; we just fell through."

He does smile, though, when she mentions that she will miss him. It's one of the kindest things anyone has ever said to him in his life, though she couldn't possibly know that.

"Thank you," he says, bowing his head in gratitude. "I appreciate your honesty. I will try and keep that in mind." Like anything else, he can't make any promises.

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OPEN ↠ HEART LIKE ICE

village.

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