faderift | Cloudreach 9:44 Rifter Arrival

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Cloudreach 9:44 Rifter Arrival

WHO: New rifters & their rescuers.
WHAT: Welcome to Thedas.
WHEN: Cloudreach 10, 9:44
WHERE: Amaranthine
NOTES: This is the arrival log for all new rifters, open also to current characters who would participate in their recovery. New players can also assume everyone survives and arrives back in Kirkwall within a couple of days, but please note there will be a brief quarantine period when they won't be permitted to leave the Gallows, to get them up to speed while ensuring they're not diseased or otherwise going to kill anyone, before they're set loose on the city.

You were asleep—whether deeply or fitfully, falling unconscious for the last time in a pool of blood 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 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, bathed in the light of a flare of too-bright, greenish light you will find yourself hitting mossy cobblestones with an unforgiving smack. You're alive, and you're fine, except for 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.

Above you is a shifting, crystalline tear in reality; beyond that, gray clouds and a sea breeze, framed by the high walls surrounding the city you've landed in. There are people on the walls, some of them armored and armed, all of them briefly and collectively paralyzed by the sight below.

Don't let their terror go to your head. It's not you that has them intimidated, nor is it any of the humans (or Qunari) who are sprawled out on the ground around you, nor is it the assortment of unfamiliar—to them, not to you, perhaps to you it's very familiar—junk that's spilled out as well, most notably some flaming metallic debris and a giant wooden cross.

It's the beings that are coming out after you, almost as if in pursuit. Two are drifting, spindly things with six spidery limbs in addition to grasping skeletal arms, eager to grab hold of anyone who comes too close and fill their field of vision with swirling darkness and corner-of-the-eye glimpses of whatever frightens them. Several more most closely resemble trees, perhaps, with half-melted squids for heads—which might not sound particularly scary, fine, but their ability to dive into the ground and resurface anywhere with rasping screams helps on that front.

All of these things would like to kill you, and the people around you, and the people on the walls, and perhaps the other people screaming and scurrying into taverns and shops for cover. But you're not alone. Out of those same taverns and shops come people who do seem to know what they're doing; many are wearing a symbol that looks a bit like a hairy eyeball being pieced through by a sword, and at least a couple of them seem to know what they're doing. Almost like they've been waiting for you. In fact, exactly like they've been waiting for you.

AFTERWARDS, the grateful citizens of the City of Amarenthine might provide a drink, a meal, or a place to tend to wounds before everyone sets back toward Kirkwall. It's not a long trip, but one that requires boarding a ship to cross a narrow sea. It will be a rough, stormy journey, but there won't be any demons.

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Willem glances up at his sword once, then rapidly again, reminding himself&mdashh; right. To most people, it looks like a big fucking sword, rather than a magical focus of any sort. He's had surprisingly little experience with proper stabbing, actually. He tends to prefer to stay far away from things that want to kill him. Something that he imagines Newt can sympathize with, considering he keeps shooting stuff out of his wand.

"I will lend you the Hexblade if your next spell doesn't work," he agrees, after the briefest moment of hesitation. After all, the blade's inscrutable spirit has woven itself deep into the fiber of his psychological being. "But I hope it-- look out!"

The demon has taken a lunging step forward. No. Not exactly. It seems like it'd skipped forward through space itself, reappearing much closer to Newt than Willem would've expected. A face that'll shrivel your balls, rearing nearer to the wizard as it opens its limbs toward him.

Well, Hexblade sounds promising, if it comes to that, Newt thinks. It sounds as though the sword itself is infused with some kind of magic. That's hopeful, at the very least.

But he doesn't have the luxury of time to dwell on such promise; the young man shouts, and suddenly, the demon is right in front of him, snarling and vicious, snapping open towards him as though it means to devour him. (It almost certainly wants to eat him, he thinks.)

Well. He doesn't have time to hope; only to act. So act he does, thrusting his wand forward and casting another spell, this time, the Full Body Jinx. The demon freezes for a moment before falling backward, stiff as a statue. Newt breathes harder, feeling as though he's just sprinted.

"I don't know how long it will stay like that," he says, gesturing towards the fallen demon. "But we should probably run now."

Willem was maybe going to do something, actually. Like, he was thinking about helping. He was going to wave his sword and project energy, maybe! But then Newt did the thing and unable to help himself, the warlock tosses a fist in the air and shouts, "Right on, mate!" It does seem rather reason to celebrate, even with absolute chaos still raging on behind the wizard who's...

...now running toward him. And saying something about— oh, a time limit. That's no good at all. "Right right," Willem says, his eyes big in his head for a moment. He turns his lanky frame, and starts sticking his boots to the earth, one in front of the other. The sword clanks on his back and the robe on over his armor flaps in a way that's either ungainly or rather mysterious, depending on your assessment of magic users in costume. "Thanks for that, by the way," he huffs over at the wizard. "What the fuck was that-- thing?"

Clank clank clank. The tree line is getting closer, thankfully.

Newt doesn't slow his pace, determined as he is to get them both out of that particular area of the battle. Later, his body will ache and burn with the amount of energy he expended in using magic and in running; Merlin, he can feel the pain beginning in his muscles as they run now. But he doesn't slow down. He bought them some time; he just doesn't know how much, exactly.

It occurs to him that his companion wears robes that remind him of home. He almost smiles at the realization.

"You're welcome," he says, or, shouts, rather. "I like your robes, by the way."

"A demon, one of many varieties," he explains. "They come through the rifts along with the rest of you. They're rather fond of attacking everyone and anyone in sight." A beat as he tries not to think about the sudden noise erupting behind them. "You should probably get used to them."

As they make their way into the treeline, it becomes evident that they are not alone. Even less alone than Willem had initially feared, in fact! (He hates being alone.) Lots of other people are ranged about, with magic and weapons, and much other talk of demons, which seems solid verification of what Newt is saying. He starts to slow his running, puffing somewhat. Some archers shoot arrows past them, which is quite impressive.

Then he hears the compliment about his robes, a little belatedly. And he automatically starts patting them down, smiling at Newt, more flattered than is strictly necessary. "Oh, thank you. Your wand technique is very elegant, and I don't think I've ever seen quite your style of fashion before.

"But-- I'm sorry, you were saying," trying to course-correct, realizing he sounds a bit foolish. He moves toward the cover of several trees. "'Demons?'" There are unmistakable quote marks around the word.

Newt sighs with obvious relief once the other members of the Inquisition come into sight. At least help is readily available at this particular rift, unlike the nightmare of the rift he fell out of only just the other month. They don't have to worry about freezing to death while trying to close the rift.

"Thank you," he nods, pleased by the compliment. "My magic is usually much more reliable than what you've seen but the magic here doesn't seem to agree with it." He offers an apologetic smile. "If you have magic of your own, you may find out the same. I assume you just arrived?"

He nods towards the sky, where the rift still gapes like a wound.

"Yes," he nods again. "Demons. They come in all shapes and sizes. They usually have multiple ways to kill you, so it's good to be prepared to fight." He gestures towards the Hexblade. "You'll definitely get good use out of that."

Somehow, Willem hadn't seen. Or he just hadn't looked. To be entirely fair, this happens relatively often when he's talking to a young man with pronounced cheekbones— not always with a multiversal rift right there, but comparable circumstances. His head snaps around, afro bobbing, as he looks to where the wizard is motioning. Oh. It's enormous. Very green. It's what he'd woken up staring at, he realizes now, before the demon had snatched his attention away so rudely.

"I thought I'd dreamed that," he says, honestly. It looks incredible. Bigger than any portal he'd ever seen. His stare lingers a moment longer, and then he looks at Newt again.

"Just my fucking luck. A demon infestation, like I hadn't gotten into enough uncanny magic back home. I'd rather not use the Hexblade if I haven't got to," which is. Only half a lie. He doesn't like to fight— but the blade, it's fun to use. Warlock magic is that way. "I'm sorry, I don't think I'd introduced myself," he adds hastily, offering a hand. "Willem Bassey."

Even such a vast burst of bright green light can be easy to miss when demons of all shapes and sizes (and abilities, it must be said) are running around. It's even easier to mistake said light for a part of one's dreams, given how surreal a green it seems to be even now. The ache in Newt's own hand pulses as he stares at the rift.

"It is very dreamlike," he says with a nod. He'd thought he'd been struck with the Killing Curse when he first saw the rift himself. He envies Willem's idea that it was part of a dream.

"They like to make use of the rifts, these demons," he says with a sympathetic smile. "They show up whenever the rifts do."

"But regardless of the current circumstances, it's nice to meet you, Willem," he says, taking the man's offered hand. "Newt Scamander."

There's a look on Willem's face that indicates subtly that he thus intends to avoid these 'rifts' whenever possible. Whether or not that actually ends up being the case will remain to be seen, but right now, making a point to escape from evil squid-headed hugs sounds like the best course of action. He clears his throat, though, and nods. "Thank you for that, mate," he says.

And then Newt offers him his hand. Automatically, Willem reaches to take it, glancing down. It's only by that coincidence that he then catches— another glimpse of green light. This time, emitting from his own hand?

The startle reaction can't be the strangest thing that Newt's seen all day. To be fair, it's quite strange to realize there's a weird glowy seam on one's hand. For most people. Maybe even for most wizards. Willem jolts. He doesn't even finish grasping Newt's hand. "Holy fuck on a cob!" he shouts, drawing a few looks from nearby adventurers. "There's-- my fucking hand! Shite! Nobody cut it off, maybe there's some other—"

Newt can't blame the young man for the look on his face, the one that seems to say that he has little intention of staying close to said rifts for long. Given what said rifts tend to spit out along with people and beings from all different worlds, Newt can understand that look, even as he knows Willem will likely see more rifts than he would care to, given what the shard in his hand is capable of doing.

"Yes," Newt nods sympathetically. "You're rather stuck with it, from what I've been studying on them."

He wonders if he should hold off on the information that you can get rid of the shard: by getting rid of the hand. Probably not wise, he thinks. Given the various amounts of shock he must already be dealing with.

"All of us who've come through the rifts have them," he explains, holding out his own left hand, palm facing up, so that Willem can see his shard as well.

Willem doesn't hyperventilate, but for a moment, it looks like a near thing. He doesn't breathe, then he breathes quite a lot very rapidly, high up in his chest. He stares fixedly at his hand. He waits for a demon to burst out of his own skin, for his personhood to be reduced to some kind of macabre flesh suit. It's kind of good, that ultimately, none of that happens.

A bit disoriented, he looks back at Newt. Nods, numbly. He's dimly grateful that no one is raging over to chop his hand off to prevent anything coming through here, but this is all taking a moment to adjust to. "Right. Sure. Yeah, why not.

"Are you a copper or something?" he asks, finally. It's always a tossup with coppers. Either they help you out, uphold a reasonable law, and provide information— which Newt seems adept with! Or you have to ultimately run the Hell away. "Do you know where I should go next?"

Newt grows concerned as Willem first stops breathing and then begins breathing very fast. He steps forward cautiously, not wanting to cause the young man to panic further by crowding him or otherwise making him uncomfortable.

"It's alright," he says quietly, employing the same tone he would use on a panic-stricken creature. "It's alright. Just breathe. You're alright now, I promise."

At the question, Newt can't help but stare, incredulous, for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing, as scenes from his recent adventure in New York play out in his mind. "Far from it," he tells him. "But I can help you where you need to go."

It's a little better, actually, when the wizard comes in close and uses his fancy voice. Maybe that's a different kind of magic, one that doesn't require use of a wand to focus. Willem isn't sure, but it's much like a spell cast over him, settling down his rumpled edges, and needling some of the feeling back into his face. It's fine.

Newt might not be a copper, but he seems to be one of the good ones of whatever he is. And he'd said he'd been here a month, Willem realizes. He's not the sharpest tack in the tack box, but he does realize that means that the other man managed to survive this long and seems to be voluntarily out here fighting monsters, besides. That's-- encouraging, if you squint a little. Maybe a lot.

Newt has a nice smile. Willem finds himself putting one on his own face, tentative at first, but it settles in proper. It's good. He can feel his face, now. He takes a deep breath.

"Maybe I'll follow you, mate."

Newt feels a sharp sense of relief when Willem appears to calm down a little. Not that he blames him in any way; this is an abrupt change of situation he finds himself in, and a drastically abrupt one, at that. He tries to heed his own philosophy of never worrying, knowing the kind of additional suffering it offers, but he also knows that people come in varieties just as much as creatures do; everyone reacts differently.

He nods, pleased that Willem appears to unwind enough to smile. That's certainly a good sign.

"They have places to get food and drink in the nearby town," he says. "Let's find our way there. I always find food helps, even just a little."

He's still a little slow, and he'll-- always be a little slow, frankly, but Willem nods his head in agreement, following along quite well with what Newt is saying. "Don't tell anyone I said this," he mumbles, "but the notion of building a village anywhere near a gigantic bloody green hole in the sky where demons and strangers come out of it seems a bit daft." He feels a bit guilty as soon as he's said it. In his world there's some equivalent of people who bitch about the way that others live in tornado zones or earthquake areas, or or. or or or. He doesn't want to be one of those people, he's just out of sorts.

And thus, a bit unthinkingly, he reaches out to grasp Newt's hand. Casual as you like. It won't be hard to shake him off if Newt prefers; he just sort of is that way. It might be a bit of an odd juxtaposition, this willowy fellow with his giant fucking sword holding hands, like a shy grade-schooler on their first day in class, but there you have it.

"Thank you," he says. "That would be very lovely."

"Your secret is safe with me," Newt promises, offering a smile he hopes comes across as reassuring, even just a little bit. "A bit mad, indeed. I agree with you there. But I don't think the villages have any choice in the matter; I think the rifts came after."

The sudden sensation of having his hand held catches Newt by surprise. He arches an eyebrow in response, an instinctive reaction. But he doesn't let go. He might not be entirely used to or even comfortable with human contact, but if such contact provides comfort to Willem, he won't deny him it. After all, he's had something of a long day; if he can help him in even the smallest way, Newt would like to do something. He knows all too well how much he'd wished for something familiar back when he'd first arrived, after all.

"Good," Newt says, nodding. "Food it is. And then everything else."

It will probably comfort Willem eventually to know that there's a city across the sea, prepared reasonably well to receive them. It's nice to think there are systems in place. Back home, 'adventuring' tends to have very little of a system to it. It's very irregular and hard to follow.

"'Everything else?'" he repeats. He manages not to sound too alarmed. Mostly because he still sounds just hazy and overwhelmed instead, clanking along at the wizard's side. "I suppose it makes sense, that there must be other things else. And a lot of them, if I'm in an entirely new world." He lets out a slow sigh, managing to resist the urge to make a face. A face isn't going to help anything!! unlike, of course, the reassuring grip of Newt's fingers.

"What did you eat, your first meal when you came through the absurd green arsecrack in the sky?"

"Er," Newt fumbles to come up with something placating, not wanting to further distress his companion. It takes him a few moments before he can come up with the most polite way of saying he'll explain it all later. "I mean to say, there's...a lot to come to terms with, here," he says. "It can certainly feel like a lot, at least."

"But you shouldn't worry about it just yet," he adds. "For now, we can take one step at a time and focus on getting food."

"Well now, that is an interesting question with quite the answer," he replies, a wry smile on his face. "Seeing that I feel from the sky into a giant crack in the ice out in the middle of nowhere."

The warlock's eyes get a bit bigger in his head, and deservedly so, for Newt's tale of arrival and bravado, even if the wizard probably doesn't see it that way. Ice. It stands to reason, probably, that the terrain would be as diverse here as it was at home. He couldn't be in a new dimension that was spring and summer all year around, to make up for the demons.

"All right," he says, smiling. "I look forward to hearing all about it, love."

And it won't be too long, before the village peeks into view. And the peasants have dozens of questions, casual and otherwise, about the demons. Willem will defer to Newt to answer that and much else, before the day is out.

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Cloudreach 9:44 Rifter Arrival

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mild powerpose lmk if not ok

You're totally fine! Thank you for asking though! <3

would you like to fade this one and do something else later day c: im good either way

Fading is fine with me, no worries!

fadeyfade <3