RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters, rescuers, and anyone else
WHAT: New arrivals are collected and transported to Kirkwall
WHEN: Mid-Guardian, 9:45
WHERE: The hills north of Starkhaven
NOTES: This log contains prompts for the ARRIVAL and RECOVERY of new rifters, as well as the subsequent QUARANTINE period. All prompts are open to anyone.

Comments

[reshapes]

Here's a troubling thing: in the most real sense, Bartimaeus isn't completely sure of the answer. The shard in his hand aches, and while it might not be actively gnawing at his Essence just this moment, the memory of it shredding into him with the least provocation is... Well. It might not be a hurt in the way this gormless young man before him means, but it isn't exactly pleasant either.

Setting aside the uneasiness of that reality though, he knows an opportunity when he sees one.

"I am. Just a little," says the prisoner gingerly, all shrouded in the cell's shadow. "One of those spirits gave me a good swipe when I first arrived. I was given some bandages, but-- well, I don't suppose you could fetch a healer, could you? I worry about the cuts going all moldy down here."

[keenly]

Going all moldy down here. It can happen. It's possible. It won't.

"I am a healer," Colin says gently, "and I don't have a key. Here." A pouch slides through the slot as well. "Pack the wound with that. It's strongly recommended to moisten them first with crocodile tears."

If Bartimaeus looks again, Colin is giving him a tight smile.

[reshapes]

So much for that idea. Time to try a different angle.

"What?" He must surely be gravely wounded for how hurt he sounds. "Such a cruel thing to say. Why, you hardly know me at all! Here I was thinking you might be a kindred spirit, but if you've only come all this way to mock me then I'll have nothing to do with you. Go back to whoever sent you and tell them I've refused to be handled so unfairly. If they're going to torture me like this, the least they could do is be honest about it."

The packet of herbs gets shoved back through the slot. "Here. I don't want it."

[keenly]

The herbs fall to the floor outside the cell. Colin doesn't look down at them. After a second, he picks up a nearby light and angles it so he can get a glimpse of Bartimaeus' face. It clatters to the floor and snuffs out.

"And you're a demon," he says with a manically pleasant edge. "That's. Good. I heard you were some apostate but, um."

'Um' seems to be the entire sentence there. It translates to weeeeeeird. He steps back as if ready to leave, then forward again as if he has a question he thought of but isn't quite ready to ask.

[reshapes]

He'd already started to make a few subtle alterations to his guise - a little longer in the nose here, a little sharper in the face there, and so on - in the hopes that old Sense Of Humor here would find a way to slip inside. It would have been a simple matter of knocking him over and taking his place and closing the door behind him then. Usually he wouldn't have had to prepare like this at all; usually he could have made the change between one step and the next. But here, it takes some preparation. Some attention. Some time.

Which is why when that light lifts up to illuminate his face, he most closely resembles a slightly mushy copy of the young man standing in the corridor.

Bah. It was a good idea at the time.

"That's rude, you know," says Lopsided Colin. His hand in the slot has strangely long fingers and his eyes are very, very dark¹. "You shouldn't call people names."

1. So he's not getting the door opened, that much is painfully obvious. Might as well have a little fun with it.

[keenly]

"Shit." Colin immediately stumbles backward and starts scrambling for the stairs. He's at least two floors up before his footsteps fade away.