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

[cyclic]

"Saved you," is the petty, angry correction of the facts (to him) which he now severely regrets. Maybe he should've left that frog to melt, properly, as this chameleon seems so hellbent on doing. Whatever else he'd been ready to spitefully fire off, it's held in check by the demon's question. Mandrake seems to actually listen, focus turning back in a way that feels practiced. He's gone over this all several times, if only to himself.

"The riots, of course, and the state of emergency. And—," he stops. He isn't against brainstorming with the demon, miraculously, but they've already done all of this. Mandrake's eyes narrow, more thoughtful than suspicious.

"We've been over this. You should have been at the Ambassador by now— did you even get that far?" He manages to make it sound like Bartimaeus was screwing around, slacking off; not stolen to another world. Another beat, "And what do you mean, do I think you enjoy it?"

Bartimaeus complains about everything, constantly, but that's about things it's been told to do. Nobody's told the demon to melt. Or he hasn't, at least, so— the other magician, the one who had summoned him? Are they here?

[reshapes]

"The Ambassador-- Ugh." The lumpy puddle makes a disgusted (disgusting? hard to say definitively, given his current state) noise. "Not you too."

This is only the second time he's been through this song and dance, but at this point he feels he knows quite enough to say that he doesn't like it. You'd think the novelty of all this would be a real boon in the face of the utter monotony of centuries worth of getting jerked around through the same sorts of pentacles by the same sorts of people wanting him to do the same sorts of things. But really, it's just unpleasant. It's like getting a kick in the shins when he'd been braced for a punch to the gut.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but that noodly little thing you call an arm isn't the only one with a magic glowing tear at the end of it. And while you might be used to lugging around your body with all sorts of junk hanging off and poking through it, but some of us aren't used to being so limited."

He's exhausted.

[cyclic]

He hadn't noticed. Which is strange, even for him — maybe particularly for him. John glances at the green radiating from the chameleon's foot, dimly reflected back by the scuffed wooden floor. His own hand closes into a fist, though it doesn't do much to camouflage the glow that's mirrored there.

The ache's gone, but that doesn't mean he likes having a hole in his hand. Having it in common with Bartimaeus makes it worse, somehow, but that isn't why he's frowning.

"It isn't still painful, is it?"

He sounds concerned. Spoilers: his concern is not for Bartimaeus's well-being.

[reshapes]

"Painful? Oh no, not at all. Unless of course you'd call slowly draining my Essence away painful, in which case still no. But it isn't exactly pleasant either. To make matters worse, it makes holding most guises downright--"

Here, the chameleon's form either collapses to the point of muffling the rest or Bartimaeus says something very naughty. It's impossible to tell which with any certainty. And so, with a great burbling growl of impatience, the slop in the pentacle's center collapses entirely. It's mucky, stringy bits slough away. The chameleon unpeels like an especially gruesome rubber suit to become a narrow, dark eyed youth sitting with his legs tucked tight to his chest. He's sweating slightly, a sheen of sickly discomfort showing on his thin face.

Looking miserable in front of Nathaniel is becoming a habit. Which: good. Serves him right. This is somehow all his fault.

"Well," says the boy in the center of the pentacle. "You may as well start with telling me everything that's happened. Who's mess did you step in while I was away?"

[cyclic]

John's already scowling at Bartimaeus's answer (both the actual words and the possibly muffled words), because that's standard, sort of — the loss of essence. It just shouldn't be this dramatic. He keeps scowling because of the visuals, which are somehow worse than any of the demon's intentional efforts to be frightful and disgusting. And when all that's left is the boy, sweaty and ill and hugging his knees, John finds that he abruptly prefers the melting chameleon.

You'd think the miserable reptile would've been the better parallel, but it's the sickly boy that reminds him of the dying frog.

"I didn't step in anyone's mess," he answers, distracted. He's thinking. "I stepped into a car."

There's a pensive beat as he sifts through the conversation. The follow-up is familiar; less wondering, more commanding. "You asked where I've been since the incident at the mansion. Why?"

[reshapes]

"Because," says the boy, all but rolling his eyes. "That was obviously when I remember seeing you last. Honestly Nathaniel, you'd think that much would have been obvious from the start. Catch up, won't you?"

Nevermind that it had taken him a solid fifteen minutes of bickering with a certain smart mouthed would-be revolutionary to figure out the same. Details, details.

"Now, far be it for me to speculate - after all, I'm only a fourth level djinni with centuries of experience when it comes to being dragged against my will from one world to the next -, but I can say that time displacement isn't usually a factor. Which leads me - again, only literally an expert - to believe that something has gone very wrong indeed."

With his chin tucked against his knobby knees, the boy fixes Nathaniel with a suspicious look. He says, "Seeing as you were the last person with your hand in the metaphorical cookie jar, you'll have to forgive me for assuming that you're the one who broke it around your fat wrist."