RIFTER ARRIVAL, Bloomingtide 9:45

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters, rescuers, and anyone else
WHAT: New arrivals are collected and transported to Kirkwall
WHEN: Mid-Bloomingtide, 9:45
WHERE: The Amaranthine Ocean, near Denerim, and Kirkwall
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.

I. ARRIVAL

You were asleep—whether deeply or fitfully, falling unconscious for the last time in a pool of blood or just resting your eyes for a moment—and then you were not. And wherever you were was not, anymore, replaced by nothing but the sensation of falling into endless, bottomless nothing. If this were still a dream, you would wake before you hit the ground. You can't die in a dream, they say. In some worlds.

In this world, bathed in the light of a flare of too-bright green light, you plunge into water—or, more accurately, you are suddenly in water, but there's no splash. It's as if you were always there. But you're alive, and the sun above is bright enough to orient you toward the surface, if you can swim. (If you can't, someone will be with you shortly.) And once you can take a breath and a moment to evaluate your condition, it will be apparent that you're unharmed, except for the narrow splinter of light that now glows out of the palm of your left hand. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions.

A ship is anchored only a short swim away, and a boat is already being lowered to the water. The sky is bright blue, with scattered, fluffy clouds; the water around you is equally blue, with gentle foot-high swells, scattered with any buoyant belongings that may have arrived with you. Those that don't float and aren't in your hands already are on the sandbar beneath you—not too far to dive for, if you need them right away, but waiting a moment might be best. Because between you and those belongings is something bright green, obscured by the waves, and around you, a number of skeletal figures in tattered, sopping-wet cloaks are rising up above the water.

The bad news is that these figures would like to murder you with ice. The good news is that, in the process of flinging freezing energy at you, they may create floes and paths of solid ice large enough to support your weight. The even better news is that you aren't alone: the rowboats from the ship, quickly approaching, are full of people—humans, or at least humanoid—who are armed and armored, ready to intervene on your behalf, pull you into the boat, and supply you with a sword if you need one. At least a couple of them seem to know what they're doing. They've been waiting for you.

II. RECOVERY

Once the rift is sealed and the last of the demons dispatched, there's time to breathe, to fish your stuff out of the ocean, and to retreat to the ship. Your first nights in Thedas will be spent sailing—but your rescuers brought plenty of food and clothes in various sizes, and the sailing is smooth all the way back to Kirkwall.

III. KIRKWALL

Kirkwall sits perched on, below, and within the black cliffs surrounding a harbor. The Gallows sit in the center of that harbor, on a rocky island occupied almost entirely by a massive fortress. Despite everyone's best efforts at removing statues of slaves and depressing murals, planting more greenery in the stone courtyards and gardens, and removing unnecessary bars, it still has the lingering aura of a prison, or a place where something terrible has happened, or both.

Still, it's home for at least the next few weeks, because new rifters are quarantined in the Gallows on arrival. They're given rooms with everyone else and permitted to wander the grounds freely, but not to leave the island fortress to explore the city. It's for their own safety, someone will explain—there are social mores they may not understand yet, people who would like to kidnap or kill them who they must learn to be wary of, writing that may or may not be unfamiliar and a thousand places to get lost—as well as everyone else's, but as long as no one exhibits any signs of contagious disease or a propensity for murdering civilians, it won't last very long.

In the meantime, they'll be gathered together or taken aside frequently for talks on a number of issues considered vital to their success, or at least their basic survival, from a quick overview of Thedosian geography, to an explanation of the war against Corypheus and this organization's place in it, to a breakdown of the local currency. The newest rifters have arrived in the middle of an upheaval: there's a new Divine in charge of the Chantry, Thedas' major religion, and the organization that's currently housing them is in the process of separating itself from the Inquisition. It's okay to be confused.

There is also a seemingly endless list of don'ts. Don't touch red lyrium. Don't touch lyrium at all. Don't approach darkspawn unprepared. Don't put anything covered with odd black film anywhere near your orifices. Don't deal with demons. Don't use magic in the streets unless absolutely necessary, or else the locals might panic. Don't mouth off to nobles. Don't wander too far for too long, if you insist on wandering at all, or the anchor in your hand will become unbearable. Don't forget that you're guests—frightening ones—and making a good impression now may make all the difference in the future, when the war is over and someone has to decide what to do with this collection of Fade-touched strangers.

And don't forget, when you are allowed to leave, that the last boat back to the Gallows is at midnight.

Comments

Steve Rogers | OTA ( endgame spoilersish? they already put it in a trailer tho 8| )

[murrika]

I. ARRIVAL;

[ minutes ago, steve was dozing off in the back of the Quinjet, while Sam did the piloting, Wanda and Vision were quietly talking (worrying over his wounds), and Natasha was hovering over them like a mother hen. there's a radio monitoring news and intelligence channels, but nothing really to do until they touch down in Wakanda. Best he get some rest in now, to be ready for what's sure to be a difficult fight in their future. he wakes up falling.

and shortly after, splashing.

there isn't much time the think about was the jet hit and when did i get a new suit and how is my shield floating around with a pile of junk in it, i thought tony took that, when steve pushes up from the surface, because there's a metal freaking hammer crashing down nearly on top of his face a second later, steve jerking to the side to avoid being dunked back under by it. part of him thinks he must still be dreaming (crashing into frigid waters, yeah, seems like a dream he has a lot), but the Inquisition ship and the launchers full of people making their way over to him can't be out of his own head. almost no part of this makes any sense whatsoever, but that's not exactly a new situation for steve either. especially not with the monster things floating up out of the water, starting to shoot ice around. defend first, questions after, steve decides, as he ducks underneath a ray of ice, hand yanking at the leather strap under his (bearded) chin, tugging his suit helmet free.

once one of the launchers floats close enough, steve's lifting up the shield, tipping it over to drop all the junk that was sitting in the concave dish of it inside (to be exact: a pair of Tony Stark's sunglasses, a vinyl record labeled Greatest Wakandan Battle Chants vs Bing Crosby, an in-flight barf bag, a straight razor, stuffed plushes of Wanda and The Vision with little magnets in their hands, and now, his helmet). ] I'll be back for those. You guys should keep your distance.

[ right back under he goes, and after a second, there will be a loud thud of his boots hitting the side of the dingy, shoving it about twenty feet back towards the ship it came from, narrowly avoiding another spray of ice. a moment after, the hammer that'd sunken down to the sand bar comes launching back up from the depths, smacking square into the ass of one of the floating demons. ]

II. FIATO + RECOVERY;

[ for the duration of the fight, Steve kept his questions about what the actual frickity frack is going on to himself, only really going far enough to occasionally call out a name - Sam, Natasha, and because the hammer is here, Thor (and if there were, perhaps, one there to respond to that last one, he'd have said hammer tossed his direction with a quick 'just borrowing it'). once he learned the ice paths could support his weight, steve was hauling himself onto them, jumping from one to the next, throwing his shield to knock the demons out of the air, or grabbing at tattered rags to drag them back under, taking them out underneath the waves, where the ice spells were less likely to hit the... medieval looking coast guard that's hanging around up top.

not that feeling water all around him grow icy and solid was a terribly fun experience, giving him maybe a couple flashes of another time and another place that had him shiver in a way that has nothing to do with temperature, but hey, shit happens. get it together, rogers.

once the demons are handled, and the huge green whatever in the sky has been removed by whatever means the coast guard managed, steve's swimming back towards the ship, helping others up the ladder on the side before crawling up himself, finally getting a good look at their rescuers once he's on deck, sopping wet and ragged. ]

I take it you aren't Wakandan. [ pretty sure Wakanda has better ships. but if not them, who and why? ]

III. KIRKWALL;

[ it's all a blur of information as steve makes his way into the Gallows, trying to take in everything sensory and still keep his mind to what's being said as far as the dos and don'ts of this whole set up. and, you know, world. it's a confusing orientation, but steve pays rapt attention, at one point raising a hand in question. ]

What was the difference between red and normal lyrium?

[ not that he plans to go touching either, but sometimes you just don't have the luxury of choice, so he'd rather know what to expect if it turns out something lyrium needs to be moved and he's maybe the least likely to get screwed up by it. there's a Thor here, but not like the Thor he knows, and no Hulk. That leaves Steve for Least Likely To Die From Volatile Chemical Interaction.

later, find him in the baths, washing the sea water out of his hair and his suit, lying it out to dry as he tries to pull on one of the Inquisition uniforms, or at least something less star-spangled. the suit he was in probably would've passed slightly better, but it was also threadbare and coming apart in places. he doesn't mind the upgrade, but it doesn't lend to quiet integration well. that said, he's never been to a ren faire, and why do these clothes have so many goddamn laces? steve manages to get his pants on alright, but it's the doublet he's stuck on later, half because his shoulders are a ridiculous ratio to his waist, the sleeves too tight around them, and the other because he's not sure what the front and back is, or what's supposed to tie where. he won't ask for help, because steve's committed to being able to dress his damn self, but it's pretty clear he could use it.

once clothed and ready to go exploring around the Gallows, looking much more like he fits in, Steve heads immediately towards the projects or division leaders offices, intent to get acquainted with how this place runs, what each sector is responsible for, and where he's meant to fit in. maybe he's still trying to process this place, this global threat, this whole multiversal insanity, as real but he can do that and get intel at the same time. multitasking. or coping. or something. walking into a new office, he'll observe any workers or researching or whatnot going on for a moment or so, before approaching the person that seems to be in charge. ]

Hi. Steve Rogers - I'm new. [ a hand extending to shake, in greeting (the non-glowing one) ] Mind if I ask a few questions?

III. Baths

[overharrowed]

[Julius is tall and fair, on the lithe side. While he isn't built like a fighter, with a towel around his waist a few battle scars are apparent, with a serious scar on his left shoulder the most prominent (and likely the newest, for all it's healed). The clothes he retrieves are neatly folded robes, which Steve may or may not yet have the context to recognize as those of a mage.

He glances over, taking in both the struggle and the anchor shard. It's not much of a jump to:]

New arrival, then?

[His Ferelden accent probably reads English; his tone is amused but not unkind.]

[murrika]

[ despite pretty clearly having the body and build of a soldier, there aren't any real or bold scars on steve's body - most things healed too well to leave one. anything remaining likely predated his serum. julius' collection goes unnoticed for the first several moments, as it seems steve's somewhere in the middle of realizing he's put his arm through a laced seam between panels rather than a sleeve hole.

he's extracting it as his head raises to meet the person who speaks up nearby, flashing an only slightly sheepish half-smile for the comment. ]

That obvious, huh?

[ he can normally dress himself like a grown ass adult, he promises. as for the robes, his eyes glances to them, but it doesn't bring up "mage" so much as it does "monk" for him right now. ]

[overharrowed]

[Julius' smile grows a little.]

One learns what to look for. Do you want help, or shall I leave you your dignity and gamely pretend I saw nothing?

[It's a genuine offer. For all he doesn't have a rifter's exact experience, he knows what it's like to be thrown headfirst into a situation without preparation, and he remembers the bruises to his pride that resulted.]

II. Recovery

[utulien_aure]

I hope that is not so much of a disappointment.

[One of his rescuers, a dark-haired archer, turns to examine Steve as he climbs aboard.]

Sadly, customized rescues can be a bother to arrange and I am not sure the Inquisition has the funds for it at the moment. Or ever, truthfully.

[The archer's tone is flippant, but his sharp, too-bright eyes tell a different story as they take in Steve and the other newcomers. Captain Rogers isn't the only one with bad memories of ice-ridden waters.]

When you've caught your breath, there are spare clothes and bedding below deck. You should at least consider taking advantage of the former.

[murrika]

Doubt anyone's disappointed when they get rescued from drowning at sea.

[ steve tells the man with a lofted brow and a half-smile. he's grateful, really, that was never a question. ]

Just looking to judge how far off target we fell.

[ wakanda is where he was headed, not so much the ocean floor, but here we are, and he's glad they avoided wherever those skeletal things would've been happy to put them. ]

Thanks. I'll do that. [ but before he goes, this is kind of important - ] Do you know what the closest nation is?

[utulien_aure]

I wasn't amused when it happened to me, [Fingon confesses with a short laugh] but in my defense I was not so well-attired for the swim, either.

[Things that are inconvenient to swim for your life in: court robes weighted down in gold embroidery and worth a small fortune. Don't do it, Steve. Bring interesting things like helmets instead.

But there's no kind response to the past few remarks either, are there? Well. Here goes nothing.]

Further off than you could have imagined, I'm sorry to say. The nearest nation, as such, is called Ferelden- to the south of here. We'll be heading west when we return, to the city-state of Kirkwall.

[He gives a small, humorless smile.]

If you recognize those names now, you might be the first to come through a Rift to do so. I certainly didn't.

iii. offices

[chainlightning]

[ Merrill is not exactly who anyone expects to be in the offices as someone In Charge. She's not, technically, in charge - but she is an assistant leader, and so here she is, trying to explain the possible significance of owls in Elven art to someone. If Steve eavesdrops for a bit before he speaks, he'll get to hear about how owls are the sacred animal of Falon'Din, god of death and fortune - but that it is also a messenger of Andruil the Huntress. ]

What? Oh-

[ She turns on one bare foot, abandoning the conversation; the person she was speaking with edges away to hurriedly flip through a book. ]

Hi! I'm Merrill! Not at all, happy to help- why are you holding your hand out like that?

[murrika]

[ what merrill's going on about does seem pretty interesting, even if steve has no freaking clue about any of it. if he weren't so focused on the whole preventing everyone and a half from dying spanned over two universes, he might ask more questions about that than just the inquisition function, but, here we are.

with him and his hand stretched out in empty air. oh. ]

Oh, that's— not a thing you do here, is it? [ a w k . just gonna stuff that hand right back into a- nope, doesn't have pockets on high fantasy medieval pants. uh. hook thumb into belt then, yeah, sounds good. cool. moving on. ] Don't worry about it.

[ ahem. ]

Elven artefacts, right? How'd that work into the Corypheus fight?

[chainlightning]

It might be a thing humans do? [ Merrill offers it helpfully, like she's trying to make Steve feel better - which, in all honesty, she is.

But he asks about her work and she smiles, gesturing with one arm at the room around them. ]

Quite a bit, as it turns out! Ancient elven artifacts are being sought by Corypheus - eluvians especially, as they're both mirrors and doors. You can walk through an eluvian here and be on the other side of Thedas out a second eluvian, if you know which one to look for. But many eluvians have been lost, and not a lot of people kept track of where elven ruins might be. That's where we come in.

[ 'We' is currently Merrill, Steve, the person Merrill had been talking to - who is now muttering about owls - and a dwarf who is trying to fix a desk, but at least Merrill sounds enthusiastic. ]

II - Recovery

[thorndergod]

[He's also wet, wringing out his cape and pushing his hair back as he hears the confused crew member try to figure out what Wakandan is. As it's likely just a Rifter thing, Thor comes over and plops his hand on the very small man's shoulder.]

It is all right. I am certain you have things to do on the boat.

[He looks at the other man, then, and not for the first time. He'd seen the way the man fought. He'd also heard the man yelling, and he's fairly certain he'd misheard because he's never seen this Rifter before.]

It is very likely no one here is Wakandan, unless another one of the Rifters here is. That is you, a Rifter. A new arrival, pulled from another world to this one.

[murrika]

[ the man approaches, and steve has to double-take, seeing the key points that generally mean Thor to him - huge, blond hair, beard, hammer - but not quite right, is it? and beyond that, he's talking to him like a complete stranger, so it can't be Thor, right? it's only been a few years since he'd seen him, all that much couldn't have changed. ]

Uh huh.

[ rifter. new arrival in this world. right, yeah, okay, he's gonna need a better explanation than that, but first he needs to figure this thor thing out. ]

Nice hammer. [ which is maybe somewhat pointed, the very similar hammer left on the ship deck next to steve's boots. ] Thanks for the timely rescue. I'm Steve Rogers.

[ he holds his hand out to offer a shake, waiting to see if there's any recognition there. ]

[thorndergod]

[His gaze drops down to the hammer on the deck before he beams back up at the newcomer.]

And yours as well. I am Thor.

[With no recognition at all he takes Steve's hand and gives it a firm shake.]

Welcome to Thedas. The South is not what one could hope, but it is where we are. And at least we are now done with those specific demons and now we have more to help.

III. Project Leaders Offices?

[writteninblood]

Sorrel is not, when Steve finds him at least, in his office. Whether Steve is just coming from said office, a sparsely-furnished and densely-cluttered space, or on his way there, he'll actually come across Sorrel on the stairwell. Whether or not he recognizes him for his station is moot; he's struggling mightily with a person-sized box. It's wooden, somewhat polished, and if stood on one end might resemble a cabinet or dresser of some kind, with a hinged door that opens. Someone has carefully wrapped several lengths of chain-reinforced belt around its middle to prevent exactly such an occurance. It looks....vaguely cursed, and very heavy. Sorrel is attempting to wedge it around a corner, with limited success.

And cursing in elven, as he does so; it's best not to translate. You'd think he'd have people to help with this kind of thing, but...

cool with me!!

[murrika]

Steve's just leaving the office, as he'd just gotten a rundown of Felandaris and what they do from Merrill, but he's still passing what looks more like an animated wardrobe than a maybe cursed thing being carried by a person.

"That's not—" And right when it's about to tip over and go topping back down the stairs, Steve lurches forward, easily gripping the cabinet thing and lifting it up from the ground a few feet, high enough to peer around it, "normal or safe."

Hey, little elf dude, sup. Problems?

"Hi."

[writteninblood]

"...It's..."

And then the weight lifts away from his hands and Sorrel very nearly falls over, at the sudden change in balance. What in the void?

"It's, uh... normal enough. We're understaffed. Or overstaffed by lazy gits, one of the two," Sorrel tells him, struggling now under the purely-metaphorical weight of attempting to regain his dignity, rather than any real, physical weight, "Hello. You're uh... new? Thank you."

There is a pause. Steve remains intimidatingly tall and frightening, even for a shemlen. It's just awkward enough a silence that Sorrel feels compelled to break it, motioning upwards, the direction he was attempting to shove the damned thing, "Do you mind? I might be having a bit of trouble, on my own."

brienne of tarth | game of thrones -- (warning for spoilers through 8.03!)

[servility]

█ I (ARRIVAL)

❰ it all happens so fast.

one moment, she's fighting for her very life against the unstoppable tide of wights driving her closer and closer to the wall at her back. the next, brilliant green dragonfire all but blinds her - it's not the blue it should've been, and perhaps that should've been an indication that she's dreaming but brienne doesn't quite pick up on it, parrying blindly at the wights through the green.

then she hits the water, and she's exhaled half of the breath from her lungs before instinct reminds her to hold it as she orients herself and makes to paddle for the surface. oathkeeper's been jarred from her grip, and she's only at the surface for a gulp of breath before plunging back under, eyes squinting through the murky water to spot the silhouette of her blade against the green glow as it sinks deeper into the surf.

she's nearly reached the blade by the time brienne notices the first of the figures. her first thought is 'more wights' and that's bad enough - her eyes flick from oathkeeper to the nearest figures, trying to keep sight of both of them despite the prevailing glow that appeared in her dream-state as dragonfire. and gods, she's exhausted (she's been fighting for what feels like ages), but she manages finally to wrap her hand around the hilt of her blade and maneuver back for the surface.

these aren't wights, she realizes. they're cloaked and formless, not skeletal and rotting - a fact that she's only made aware of as they rise up around her, entirely too close for comfort. by now her vision swims even more intensely than she does, lungs crying for oxygen, limbs crying for rest... but an errant spike of ice (from the robed figures? are they agents of the night king after all?) narrowly grazes her thigh, and brienne wastes no time in planting her feet on it and all but jumping the rest of the way to the surface.

as she gasps for much-needed breath, her eyes lock on the nearest rowboat and she begins to swim almost blindly in that direction. ❱ Here - ❰ she calls, in case they haven't yet spotted her. ❱

█ II (RECOVERY)

❰ though a number of others still hover around the rowboats as personal effects are fished from the sea, brienne has settled somewhere more out-of-the-way and begun to peel off her armor piece by piece. it's taking a bit longer than she'd like - even if she weren't exhausted sore from head to toe, brienne has (as much as she hates to admit it) gotten a bit used to having a squire to help her reach the fastenings. not to mention the general waterlogged quality of all of it.

thank the gods it's made of leather rather than iron, or she would've drowned quicker than she could've gotten out of it.

anyone with nothing better to do might come across a distinctly waterlogged brienne on (what she deemed as) a largely unused set of stairs, pauldrons and belts spread out on the steps behind and beside her. she's scowling faintly as one hand fumbles around for a buckle just under her shoulder blade that holds the torso panels together.

lend a soggy knight a hand? ❱

█ III (KIRKWALL)

❰ since i largely have no idea what i'm doing, consider this a fre-for-all in kirkwall. brienne is doing what she can to learn about the place, tidy herself up, get the lay of the gallows, etc. she seems a bit wary of the place (what with how obviously its former purpose centered around some form of intimidation and imprisonment), but has yet to voice any concerns.

if you toss me a starter (whether your character approaches brienne or is just doing something in the general vicinity that i can fling brienne at) then i'll roll with whatever you've got! c: ❱

[elegiaque]

( they're all going to fucking freeze to death before they even see if any of these new rifters are actually useful.

or, maybe not, but it might well be a near thing to gwenaëlle's eye, the bow upon her back almost more trouble than its worth to loose arrows from against despair demons when it will add to the ice that they like so fucking much. instead, when brienne comes into view, she lifts her left hand and the ugly green glow that matches that brienne has received flares, suddenly, loosing something less defined than an arrow and, by the way it collides with the demon behind her, harder hitting.

then she throws a rope. )

Try not to drown, ( she calls, tight and bright, ) I don't know that I can pull you out.

( help her, yes. but gwenaëlle is a foot shorter and slight for her size; she's not going to impress anyone with her ability to lift brienne of tarth. )

[servility]

❰ at first, it almost seems as though the woman in the boat is attacking. with magic no less, the likes of which brienne has seen only from the red woman melisandre (and even then, never so immediate). she sucks in a breath with intent to dive out of the way, but the magic swings barely wide and strikes something else instead - a hooded figure, much closer than brienne realized any of them have gotten.

the next-closest isn't far off by any means, so when the rope sails out in front of her, brienne wastes no time in sheathing oathkeeper at her waist and taking firm hold of the rope to drag herself in no uncertain terms toward and then into the rowboat.

she flops onto the floor of the boat with nothing resembling grace, though she does manage to do so without rocking the boat too terribly much, so at least there's that. hopefully it makes up for the few seconds she takes to catch her breath on the floor before righting herself and drawing her sword again. ❱

What are they? ❰ tone wary, voice rough from swallowing entirely too much seawater. her eyes track the nearest figure, finally able to get a clear look at the hideous grinning mouth visible underneath the hood. these are no wights, for certain, and brienne has no doubt that they're entirely worse. ❱

II

[justice_is_blond]

[There is quite the mess on the steps, and Anders' gaze lingers on that for a few moments before he looks at the owner of all of the gear. It takes a few more moments yet for his tired brain to clue in to what's going on.]

Oh. Oh! Are you, could you use a hand?

[He's been healing and fighting demons, but he's not so exhausted that he can't help someone out of armor. Though there is one problem still.]

I'm not exactly knowledgeable about getting someone out of their armor like this, so you'll have to tell me what to do.

[servility]

❰ apologies for the mess - brienne has every intention of cleaning it up once she's finished, but for now it dries better with room to air out.

as for anders, there have been enough folks wandering by that, in her prevailing fatigue, she doesn't properly notice him until he speaks. then her eyes lift to assess the man in question, an 'is this a shady individual?' sort of once-over, and she nods once. ❱

The top buckles, ❰ she says, swiveling enough to present the side of her back to him, the fingertips of one hand on a leather strap with the aforementioned buckle just past her reach. the bottom such buckle is already unfastened, as is the bottom buckle on the other side. ❱ This and the one on the other side. ❰ those are the only two fastenings that still hold the armor in place. ❱

recovery

[inkindled]

[The best way to get over nausea is laying on a floor, stomach down, preferably against a cold surface. This is a fact taught to Matthias long ago, and he's employing it now, tucked away between a line of water barrels and the ship's rail.

It's unfair that getting to this rift has required a bloody ship. This is the thought that Matthias has circled back to, time and time again, usually after he'd finished vomiting over the side. As he lays very still, he finds himself growing more accustomed to the pitch and sway of the deck. It could be nearly peaceful, with the sea hissing away, slapping up against the sides of the ship--and by the Maker, would Matthias like to smack the ship himself, for daring to exist, to torment him. He thinks bitterly of doing so, but decides that lifting his hand would be too much effort, and if anyone saw him, he would look like a total tit. Not that he looks like anything more, laid down all green-gilled behind ruddy barrels.

It's as he's laying there, indulging in a moment of pity, that he hears some new sound, beyond the creaking of ropes and smacking of waves and his own heartbeat. The sound is somewhat familiar, so it catches at his ear. He listens very hard for it, and there it comes again, and quite quickly, too. Cautiously, he peers between the barrels, trying to find the source of the noise, and spots the tall woman seated on the steps closeby. She is surrounded by a mass of--

In a low voice, mostly to himself, he murmurs--]

Bloody shit.

[First of all, the person with the armor is extremely tall. Secondly, it's fine leather armor. He can spot that, even from here--not very well, so with some effort, Matthias makes himself sit up in order to see proper. He can feel how round his eyes have gotten, but what's to be done about that--and his hair is a sweaty overlong tumble, and his skin looks like damp paper with a tinge of green showing through beneath. He's left off his own leather armor as he didn't want to sick all over it, only now he feels vastly underdressed, in just a shirt and trousers and a quilted jacket against the chill. To see the armor better, he leans around the side of the barrels.

Brienne might see him as a very peculiar and low-seated gargoyle. Or just as a sweaty scrawny kid goggling at her. Or perhaps both.

[servility]

❰ between her prevailing fatigue and the sheer quantity of new information roiling about in her head, brienne doesn't quite process the murmured curse as having anything whatsoever to do with her.

but then a face ducks into her periphery, peering at her around a cluster of barrels, and she lifts her sharp gaze to meet his by reflex. it's immediately apparent, however, that he's just a boy. a mess of one, scruffy and all but green in hue, and her gaze softens to something a bit more knowing as she drops it back down to her lap. ❱

Watch the horizon, ❰ she offers, almost casually. ❱ Remind yourself that it doesn't move. ❰ a trick that she herself was taught as a child. it's much easier to keep from feeling sick if you don't feel like the entire sea and sky are swaying around you, and reorienting yourself based on the horizon rather than the ship underfoot is the simplest way to remedy that.

all the while, she's finally getting her fingertips on one of the offending buckles along her back, working it a bit to try to unfasten it. ❱

kirkwall

[swordproof]

[ It is not difficult for a warrior to notice another, especially when there are newcomers to Kirkwall. Six is learning that herself; she stands out, standing as tall as she does, pushing above six foot even without her full plate armour, bulky and too thick looking for an average woman. It might make her feel out of place and uncomfortable, were she someone else - but it does not. She has learned to accept herself, even with the bristle of her own pain coming hand in hand with it.

Spotting Brienne is easy enough and she only hesitates for a moment before she steps over. She's in her full armour now, her greatsword strapped to her back and her hair tied in its bun, her gaze set before she offers a low, careful bow. A proper knight, almost, in heart if not in name. ]

Greetings. I have not seen you in the Gallows before.

[ Her own hand sparks with a familiar anchor shard. ]

[servility]

❰ if six had hesitated even a few moments longer, brienne most certainly would've spotted her. a tall woman in armor, a certain sort of familiar if not quite a kindred spirit. (brienne doesn't presume herself kindred to anyone, really. she isn't sure that's a fate she'd wish upon them.) but instead, brienne only notices six once she's stepping toward her, and she scarcely has time to straighten up properly before the woman drops into a bow.

the bow is returned, of course - then she straightens again, one hand loosely clasping the other behind her back. ❱

I arrived three days past, Ser. ❰ though this would certainly be the only other woman-knight brienne has met, 'ser' seems to fit and she'll offer it until corrected otherwise. ❱ Through a rift out at sea. ❰ 'rift' is definitely not a term she's yet accustomed to (at least in this context), but you wouldn't guess it by the flow of her words. all the while, she's regarding six with a carefully-tempered sort of intrigue. ❱