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]

"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."