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

[rowancrowned]

“Nothing so cultured,” Thranduil demurs, settling into his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his hands easy in his lap. “I understand that there were some difficulties upon arrival for you, and that you may not have had your questions answered.”

He offers one hand, palm up, in the space between them. In the palm, a green light glows, the pulse of color sluggish.

“The Inquisition’s hospitality towards Rifters—what you are, what I am—is the best in Thedas, and far better now that we are settled. We have not had someone in your position—” meaning, presumably, the dungeons “—in a long time.”

By Inquisition standards, anyway.

“And I would prefer you not remain here overlong. It gives the wrong impression, both to natives and to those like us.”

[reshapes]

That one eye remains steadfastly closed, the other equally determined about staying open. There isn't much blinking going on, though after a moment the boy does smile. "You're worried I'll make you look bad."

How very interesting. Nothing new, exactly, but the part where someone is taking a seat to explain it instead of just insisting (with the leverage of the Red-Hot Stipples applied somewhere especially delicate) is somewhat unique.

[rowancrowned]

“There are slightly more than two dozen Rifters in the whole of the world,” Thranduil says. “All of them here in Kirkwall. We are, at best, a convenience for our ability to close rifts—the thing you tumbled out of—and, at worst, actively a threat to the world and all of those in it, and thus ought to be killed, for the good of all.”

He curls his fingers into his palm, takes his hand back where it settles in his lap alongside the other.

“I know all of them by name, and nearly all of them well. We have spent a good deal of time convincing the rest of the world that we are not threats—that we might even be beneficial, even people,” wry, now, his tone veering into dryness for the thankless job of it all. “but it is delicate work, and the sort so easily undone by, say, an errant fit, mistaken for something much worse.”

They laugh and joke and carry on in the Gallows themselves, but outside—at least for Thranduil—everything else is a carefully curated display. It must be.

[reshapes]

That second dark eye opens at last.

"I see." This, all delicately breezy. Why, get a few more words in there and his tone might have been downright sing-song. Luckily, the boy doesn't persist in that tenor beyond that. He's quite frank, if obnoxiously self-satisfied, as he goes on: "So this is a 'behave yourself for the greater good' sort of thing, is it? Or, what? You'll do away with me so no one gets the wrong impression by having someone rotting in the dungeon? How very thoughtful."

[rowancrowned]

"Not at all," Thranduil says. "You needn't fear."

As if he'd risk that. No. It's not a good look, to have a Rifter in the dungeons, but it might put some rumors to bed (he has his wife to think about, more so now than ever) even as it sets precedent for it to be done again, in the future. Possibly to someone taller and fairer.

"Why?" he asks, coming out of relaxation into leaning every-so-slightly forward. "Why did you attack the Inquisition?"

[reshapes]

Fear. The boy scoffs.

"Why wouldn't I? I think you'll find that anyone who lands unexpectedly in the middle of a fight makes a few educated guesses. I may be the sharpest tack in the room, but not even I can get it right all the time, you know."

That doesn't exactly explain why when given the option to pick sides between a bunch of humanoids with sharp objects and a few raging spirits, he defaulted toward the second party but hey! Details, details.

[rowancrowned]

“And now? With the battle fugue gone, and your temper cooled?”

He likes clever; warms to wordplay. Loathes the stilted nature of this, coaxing a fist uncurled finger by finger. Still intent, still watching.

[reshapes]

The boy gives an ambivalent shrug and gestures to the interior of the cell with a wag of a his finger. "I'm still here, aren't I? I'll assume you've heard a thing or two about what I can do from the people you had waving swords around when I arrived. If even half of it's true, then there's virtually no reason for me to be waiting around here unless I'm trying to make up for getting a little prickly right off the bat, now is there?

"The door's not that thick."

Which is, profoundly speaking, a lie. He's biding his time, testing the devouring presence of the artifact cemented to his Essence, and - he'll admit to himself, if no one else - feeling just slightly out of depth having no obvious place to return to were he to, say, blow the door of its hinges and make his escape. Would he go back to the place he'd arrived in? But he'd seen where the hole in the world had been and how it had been closed, how there'd been nothing left after but dust and stone. Would he just find some place to hole up and wait for whoever had summoned him so poorly to recall him to a pentacle? If that was the plan, then why not wait it out here instead of sacrificing so much energy to the magical tear in his hand?