faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Daniel's gathered that they're demons, but he's not sure about the classifications of them yet. "One of those... skinny green things," he answers, carefully pulling up the bottom of his t-shirt so it's not over the wound anymore. He's actually... just gonna go ahead and sit down for a sec. It doesn't look deep enough to have done any internal damage, but it's definitely bleeding, and he's definitely a little light-headed. Not from seeing the blood though. That much is old news.

"Yes. I am knowing."

From around her shoulder she unloops a water flask, and shoves it into his hands. "Drink."

She continues with her shredding, until she is satisfied she has enough, and binds a rolled up and unshredded bit of cloth of up very tight, to create a wad of material, before pressing it very hard against the injury to stem the bleeding. "Fire is good. They burn well."

Don't judge him if he's gonna smell this liquid before he drinks it. The water is incredibly welcome though, and he drinks quite a bit of it. He has lost a fair amount of fluid during this whole ordeal.

Thankfully he's not drinking when he pushes the wad against his wound, and this time he's expecting it, so he only grits his teeth a bit at the pain, staying still to let her work. Somewhat surprisingly, she seems to know what she's doing.

"I'll keep that in mind," he answers, considering how effective the staff blast was. It's not exactly fire, but it does burn. "Thank you," he adds, and not just for the advice, but for the water and the medical care.

The advantage of living a dangerous life and having to treat yourself: you get quite good at it.
The disadvantage of having to treat yourself and also having some sort of strange, enhanced healing: maybe you don't appreciate some of the stuff normal people might need.

The thank you gets an awkward shrug - she is not used to that kind of thing. At all. Don't be weird, bleeding guy.

With the pad of material held in place, she reaches for his hand - the one not holding the flask - and places it over the pad, pressing down firmly. "Hold," she instructs, as she starts to wrap some of the longer shreds of material around him to strap it in place.

"Inquisition will have better supplies to fix you, this only temporary. They might try to be using magics." The way she grits her teeth, almost like a little snarl, might suggest her disapproval of such methods.

Well, based on her methods, Daniel would not necessarily guess she would be used to being thanked either, but that seems like even more reason to do it.

He follows her instructions, and he's honestly more surprised by her expression than the fact she mentions magic. He's fairly used to magic as a term for these kinds of things, even though he himself believes there's no such thing, there's just technology and science you don't understand yet.

"I take it you're not a fan?" he asks.

"Unholy." A quiet mutter, as she works on wrapping the bandage around. Her work is quick, perhaps oddly precise for someone as chaotically put together as Helena. "Demons and witches."

No, she shakes her head. No magic. Not for her, not for her sestra.

"They make unclean. They are abominations."

Well, he's not going to argue with her, though it had come in useful during the fight just now. And Daniel doesn't generally considering things holy, especially if he just considers things a different form of science. (Though he sometimes feels vaguely hypocritical about that after ascending to a higher plane of existence...)

It does make him wonder whether she's from this world or not though. He's not sure yet if being comfortable with magic is a common thing around here or not.

"Can I ask where you're from?" he asks, keeping his arms raised a bit while she wraps. "You sound Eastern European."

Where you're from?

That is a complicated question. In the past she might have said she was from God. Now she knows she is from science, but does not know if that undermines the first possibility. She is from flesh and blood and bone and the same womb as her sister. She is from despair and joy.

Helena looks at him for a moment, head tilted so her gaze can drift up to him and examine him steadily for a long moment before she resumes her task.

"Ukraine." She has to pause to check how steadily it is wrapped, before making sure it will stay in place. "You sound American."

"I am," he answers with a slight nod, relieved that not everyone around here is an alien. Although, how exactly someone from Ukraine ended up here is probably an issue to be considered. She definitely doesn't look like she was part of the Stargate program. Or the Russian Stargate program, for that matter.

"Я не говорю по-украински, но я говорю по-русски," he adds. He knows Ukrainian and Russian are fairly mutually intelligible, so hopefully she'll understand. Even if he's been told his pronunciation leaves something to be desired.

["I don't speak Ukrainian, but I speak Russian."]

There is a long pause when the American speaks Russian. A sort of quiet that might precipitate something rather more chaotic. Whatever that might have been, though, she seems to set it aside for now.

"Ukraine does not love Russia," she says, rather slowly, deliberately keeping away from Ukrainian. "You try make bridge, that I like - but that is not bridge to make."

She pats his shoulder, a little too hard for it to be a comfort or reassurance, to emphasise her point. "And your accent is bad cement mixer."

Well, at least she didn't jab at his wound again. That's fair though, sore subject, probably. He'll find some other bridge to build.

And he can't help but snort a laugh at her insult. "Yeah, yeah, I've been told," he answers, nodding and finally cracking a proper smile.

Proper accents has never been his focus, when you're learning dozens of languages. Her accent isn't great either, but considering everyone's speaking English around here, he's not about to fault her for having to speak what is obviously not her mother tongue.

"I'm Daniel, by the way," he says, pulling his bloodied t-shirt down over the bandage. "Thanks for patching me up."

"Daniel," she repeats, committing it to memory. She may just end up calling him something else, regardless. "I am Helena."

Task complete, she stands, wipes her hands on some of the remaining rags. She doesn't say you're welcome, just shrug.

"I need to move my crate now." She looks at him, considering, before concluding, "you too weak to help."

"Uh, yep, that's accurate," he answers with a nod, amused at how straightforward she is. It's a little refreshing, honestly.

But yeah, he's gonna get some more medical help now, and, like, go sit down for a bit, at the very least. Maybe get some answers about where the hell he's ended up, that would be nice too.

"See you around, Helena," he says, leaving her to her crate.

Helena, now focused on the peanut butter (priorities!), just makes a grunt in response, and does a raise of her hand that could be a wave, or could be her shooing him away. It's hard to say. Hopefully he doesn't bleed out. He would be inconvenient to carry.

Cloudreach 9:44 Rifter Arrival

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sorry for my slowness, work was hideous this week

i'm slowly panicking about four upcoming exams, it's totally fine

we can defs truck on slowly or handwave if you've got a lot going on :]b good luck with your exams!

just keep on truckin' (thx ♥)

👍

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