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

john mandrake | ota

[cyclic]

I. ARRIVAL

His first thought is, very tiredly and stupidly: this is not the Frog Inn. John stiffly pushes up from the stone where he's landed face first, twisting onto his back. He doesn't startle when the hand he lifts to rub dirt from his lip gives a brilliant flash of green. The young man draws his hand back, dazed, eyes narrowing as he studies the bright gash. It hurts. He also has no idea what it is, but his gut helpfully fills in the obvious. Magic. Same color as a Detonation, and for an odd moment he waits for his hand to explode in his face.

The eerie expectation's derailed by a loud, jagged roar. Electricity skitters off the stone on his right and John yelps, snaps out of it and scrambles to his feet, expensive shoes skidding unhelpfully on rock as he turns to face down the demons. Because that's what they are, clearly; there's no shock there, except for the fact that they're trying to kill him.

One of them churns out a splash of fire and John stumbles back, his aching hand conscripted into a whip-crack gesture, a quick defensive Flux meant to snuff the flame out; it doesn't work. Maybe the flame sputtered a bit, or maybe he's not focused enough, did something wrong. Either way, the cuff of his best suit is now singed on top of being scuffed and covered in dust.

He should have been more prepared is his next, sharp thought, which is both unreasonable and harsh — nobody could have predicted this, whatever it is. More fairly: maybe he shouldn't have sent every last one of his demons off to chase down one man. Now what? He reaches into his pocket and feels cold metal, the familiar chalk. Not enough time to summon.

Pride tamps down the very sensible decision to shout for help as he takes another tripping step closer to the edge of the platform, pinned in by one of the lesser demons. Pale-faced and red-eyed and wearing what was a very nice suit, John tries a different approach; another ornate gesture, more deliberate this time, a shout that's buried in the roar of the water and the rift — and a weak crackle of blue light flashes out from his hands and scatters across the demon's shoulder, barely slowing it down.

II. RECOVERY

John keeps to himself. He shouldn't. He knows, reasonably, that it isn't the strategic option. He should be networking, demanding answers and learning everything he can. What he learns simply by listening, however, is enough to temporarily shut him up: he's not in England. He does not have his demons. And, alarming in a way that's perhaps more vain than existential: his title means nothing.

Perhaps a low profile is the more strategic approach, in the long run. Better to figure out what he's up against before making noise or exposing his cards. John settles in by one of the quieter campfires, hands wrapped around a lopsided bowl of soup that he hasn't touched. He looks out of place, a rustic blanket draped over his three-piece suit; and young, though that's undercut by his severe expression as he watches the fire and picks apart his situation. He doesn't make any effort to cover the gash of green on his hand.

ii

[seaboard]

She doesn't mean to bother him, truly she does, just she is doing her level best to keep out of the way of all of these soldiers. These hard-looking men and women, quite simply but, terrify her in some way of - what if someone saw her talk too long to one of them? What would they say or think of it?

It's more than custom, it is a fear too deeply embedded to do away with right now that each time they pass, it startles her.

Makes her jolt.

Right into him.

Which is a mildly less terrifying concept overall, but an infinitely more embarrassing one as her face goes bright red in the face as she begins to stumble through yet another wave of apologies. "I'm sorry. I'm - I did not mean."

[cyclic]

The sudden interruption doesn't get much of a response, immediately. It does cause the bowl in his hands to slip into a perilous tilt, spilling soup on his hand and the ground, and it does nearly knock him off his perch on a cracked block of stone. But there's no shout of dismay, no severe look; it takes him a moment to snap out of whatever place his mind's wandered off to, and when he looks up at her his expression is blank.

Carefully blank. Neutral to the degree that the immediate impression is of a chilly disinterest, though that's countered slightly by the way he looks her over, studying.

"It's fine," also neutral. Polite. There's a dull pause, and the follow-up sounds a bit rote. Something obvious to say, also polite. "Would you like to sit?"

[seaboard]

Like is a strange word to her mind, what she would like is to be left alone, what she would like is to curl up and weep until this all went away, and what she would like is to curl up once more in her mother's arms and ask her what to do.

But here she is, being asked a question. And when did she refuse anything? Not in greed, but in some terrible fear of being rude.

"That is kind of you, sir, thank you."

The refinement is there, if different, in the way she arranges herself. Though the blood stains her clothes and the fear taints her movements. But she sweeps the skirts delicately, she curls her fingers lightly to brush the frazzled locks of hair out of her face (to no effect, there is no keeping them out of the way really), and she settled with her legs neatly underself, hands in her lap and her eyes turned down.

Mercifully, however, silent.