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

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. ❱

[elegiaque]

Despair demon, ( she says, as if that's just a thing that people say to one another briefly while focused on more important things (like dealing with them). then, ) Give me your hand,

( and the quick gesture she makes with the one that had a moment ago launched magic over her head indicates which she means, mostly by dint of it bearing the same dull green glow as brienne's own—but for all the unusually princessy diction for being on a boat with a sword, she lacks the manners to wait for brienne to do it and clasps the bigger woman's hand with her small, cold, determined grip—

both hands raised toward the tear in the sky still belching demons, and there's a real sense of collision when light rips between anchor-shards and rift. )

Hold it, ( shouted, over the roar and the water and the sounds of fighting. ) The closer it gets to closed, the weaker they get too—

[servility]

❰ despair demon, those are the words brienne is fairly certain she's just heard, yet this woman is moving straight past 'demon' as if she's reporting some mildly unusual weather.

it leaves brienne on no better footing than she started, so she really has no other choice but to thrust out her hand as requested and her trust along with it. and the woman takes it in stride, seizing her hand and aiming it skyward toward what appears to be a tear in the blue between clouds - which brienne is now unceremoniously squinting at, because what in the seven hells-

the thought is interrupted by light all but firing from brienne's palm, leaving her with the distinct urge to retract her palm for sharp examination, but she holds it steady as requested (demanded, really), stealing a glance off toward the 'despair demons' all the while. ❱

And if they reach the boat? ❰ as important as this beam of light seems to be, it's very much emitting from her sword-hand. she can swing oathkeeper about with her left one but it certainly won't be as effective.

all of which assumes these things can be wounded by a blade. what's valyrian steel to a demon? ❱

[elegiaque]

They aren't trying to reach the boat, ( grimly matter of fact, reluctant to hold to the rift and leave not so much the demon murder as the preventing demons from murdering her part to anyone else but seeing, for the meantime, no immediate alternative— ) they can kill us from there.

( so,

that's comforting. )

The thing in our hands is connected to the rifts. We can close them. Do your level best not to die first. If you have to let go to duck or stab something, feel free,

( but they are, irritatingly, mostly relying on the rest of the party and new arrivals to keep demons off them while they're locked to the rift. )

[servility]

❰ oh. comforting indeed. brienne's certainly-... not at all reassured, but fortunately that doesn't much change how she handles the situation at hand. which largely consists of 'continue to aim her hand at the rift', for lack of any reasonable alternative. ❱

I'd like to think I'm difficult to kill, ❰ she offers a bit dryly, hunkering down somewhat into the floor of the boat to at least present a smaller target.

after a few more seconds, she thinks to ask a bit more urgently: ❱ How long does it take?

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. ❱

[justice_is_blond]

Normally the armor I get people out of is leathers.

[It's delivered with a wink before he's moving behind her to try to find the named buckles.]

Few of them have had quite the stature you've got, though. You've got to meet Aveline someday, when she's no longer busy with Kirkwall. Then again, Kirkwall's always on the verge of something going wrong, so that may never be.

[He finds one and works it open before moving to the other and undoing it as well. Once they're done he steps back and wipes his wet hands on his also wet robes. It's been a wet sort of day.]

There you are. Hopefully.

[servility]

❰ (to be fair, these are leathers. they're just a bit thicker and more structured than the leathers one might typically expect, a gift from someone with the funds and connections to have such a thing crafted.)

the wink earns a dry chuckle-breath, and she's certainly noting the name 'aveline', though it isn't ringing any bells to brienne so far. 'kirkwall' is - the woman in the rowboat mentioned kirkwall as the nearest town, though the semantics thereof (and how it relates, positionally, to winterfell and the rest of westeros) are still a bit hazy.

one thing at a time, though. for now, he's gotten the chestpiece unhooked from the one on her back, and she's pulling it off to set it on an unoccupied patch of stairs. ❱

You have my gratitude, ❰ she says, meeting his eyes a moment to ensure her sincerity comes across (in case the relief permeating her tone isn't enough), then: ❱ You're the second to mention 'Kirkwall'. Am I to assume we're no longer in Westeros? ❰ or rather, that she's no longer in westeros.

after a moment, she glances down to eye the tunic-like padding she's still wearing, then opts to shed that layer too. there's a normal daily-wear tunic underneath, one last layer before her smallclothes, and at least this one is thin enough to dry at a decent speed. ❱

[justice_is_blond]

As I've no idea what Westeros is, I'd assume we're not.

[He steps back to give her room to continue changing, choosing to lean against a tree and keep her company.]

Kirkwall is the city-state we're headed to. It's our group's base of operations.

[Anders jerks a thumb back in the direction of where they'd helped fish everyone out.]

We want to stop those tears that keep spilling demons into our world. There's more to it, but that's about a thousand years of history and even people who love history don't want to wade through that much all at once.

[He's smiling as he says it, but there's a serious note to his tone.]

Very long story short, there's an evil force in this world pulling people like you into our world as demons spill out, and that force would like to kill and rule all life in our world. Perhaps at the same time. I'm not entirely certain of the order of that.

pardon the wait

[servility]

So that's what those were, then. ❰ she'll need a bit to wrap her head around everything he's telling her, but at least this part is understandable enough right now, assuming a given willingness to put aside the formerly-clear distinction between myth and reality. ❱ Demons. I suppose that makes as much sense as anything.

❰ as much sense as being dragged through a rift into another world, which is undeniably what seems to have occurred. ❱

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. ❱

[inkindled]

What? [And then, nearly immediately,] Oh.

[The green is suffused briefly with a flush of color as embarrassment overtakes illness. He does look a wreck, and he looks a wreck in front of someone who might be pretty cool.

And a rifter. That's something as well. Joining up with the Inquisition has put Matthias into direct interaction with their number. He's still uncertain as to what to make of them, half-certain they're spirits. Only they don't seem like spirits, do they. He's not got a lot of direct experience, but as he's heard it, spirits don't go about offering advice--not good advice, anyways, and if they do, it's got to be rotten somewhere beneath--

Anyways. He pushes himself to all fours, first, braced against the deck of the ship--and then to his feet, using the barrel as leverage. There's that immediate pitch and sway that makes his stomach heave, but Matthias steels himself, tries to fix the rail opposite as his horizon.]

And how fast does that work? Only I've got nothing left, in me, so--s'ppose it doesn't actually matter until I next try eating again. [He grimaces a little, leans a little harder against the barrel to keep his feet. His stomach turns over, and he wrestles down the feeling, tries to keep his wits about him. There's more important things to talk about, like--] That's a load of armor you've got. Nicer'n anything the Inquisition is going to hand out. Should keep it about you or you might find yourself rumbled for it.

[Well.]

Someone might try, anyways. Most're all talk, in the Gallows.

[servility]

❰ for what it's worth, brienne is hardly spirit-like. she's about as solid as they come, a trait she's been reminded of fairly regularly (and rudely) throughout her life. though at this point, she's hardly aware that there's a difference between them at all - that he might see her as some sort of otherworldly thing when she so clearly feels like a human being sitting before him, wet and exhausted.

the warning is appreciated - brienne wouldn't likely leave her armor unattended in an unfamiliar location regardless, but it does well in letting her know the sort of place she's sailing into. that last bit has her brow knitting slightly. 'most are all talk, in the gallows' - it's entirely true, in brienne's experience, and only a moment belated does she realize that may very well be the name of a place rather than simply the contents of it.

which isn't reassuring. she can safely say there are very few reasons convincing enough to send her voluntarily to a place known as 'the gallows'.

still, this is an opportunity to understand a bit more about her situation, and she's not going to pass it up. ❱

These 'Gallows' are in Kirkwall? ❰ she heard the name 'kirkwall' a bit earlier, when someone nearby asked about their destination. as for his question, he seems to have moved on from it for now, so she'll give it a few minutes to see if it helps before bringing the conversation back around to any further advice. ❱

[inkindled]

Yeah. In Kirkwall. It's where we're based these days. The Inquisition, I mean. Before, they were in Skyhold, in the mountains. Then the whole of it moved--dunno why, really, I wasn't there for that bit, I was in the field--

[It's not a brag, too matter-of-fact for that. But it is something Matthias is proud of, so that might come across a bit. He edges out onto the deck proper a few steps further, careful to keep a light touch on the barrel for an anchor point. The rail of the ship is his horizon. He tries to keep his eyes on it--only it feels unnatural, doesn't it, carrying on a conversation without looking at who you're speaking to.]

It's a strange choice. The Gallows're where the Templars were, before, and where they used to keep the mages as well. Kirkwall's Circle. And before that, it was a fortress, and there were all these statues, of slaves, and things. Feels--I dunno. Sometimes it feels good, being there. Like we took it back and made it something different. Sometimes it feels wrong. Like it should have been burnt up.

[His stomach gives a little lurch then, and Matthias shifts his gaze quickly, and obviously, back toward the rail opposite. He keeps staring there, with great concentration, willing away the sick with his mouth clamped tightly shut. Means he's got to take his breath through his nose--which he does, short sharp breaths.]

[servility]

❰ it's not terribly unnatural to brienne, the lack of eye contact. many a conversation has been had while traveling on foot or on horseback, walking in the same direction and paying attention to the road ahead. in a sense, this isn't terribly different. sailing in the same direction, conversing along the way.

but as much as he's trying to be helpful, there are too many gaps in her understanding. too many of the things he's saying are unfamiliar for brienne to get the full picture.

where to start? ❱

I'm not familiar with 'templars' or 'mages'.

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. ❱

[swordproof]

[ Six doesn't do much to hide, even in the middle of the Gallows; at this point, most people know her from her comings and goings, from her training and her prayers. There's no point attempting to disguise herself. She is Six, the strange Rifter with a God no one knows and powers that reappeared - that is more than enough for most to begin to avoid her, even if they aren't strict Andrastians.

Her smile, at least, is friendly enough, watching Brienne with a nod. ]

I have been here longer than a year, now. My name is Six. [ Said with the feeling that she is used to people questioning the strangeness of it. ] I am happy to help, if you need it.

[servility]

❰ that may be enough for most to avoid her, but brienne has heard no such rumors and wouldn't put stock in them if she had. she's hardly religious herself, and she's already had a taste of the prejudice many here in the gallows seem to feel toward those who've come through the rifts.

six - that's what she calls herself, in a tone that preempts the majority of brienne's thoughts on the matter almost before she's able to have them. 'six' it is, then. in return: ❱

Brienne of Tarth. ❰ force of habit, really. it's not as if 'tarth' is meant to mean anything to this woman. ❱ I'm not sure what help I might need, to be honest. I'm still telling myself this isn't a dream. ❰ her prevailing fatigue hasn't helped matters - between the fight at winterfell and the subsequent dream of fighting at winterfell, she spent much of her first day or so here in a bit of an exhausted haze. ❱

[swordproof]

[ At least there is something familiar to be found in this woman; she has met few who match her in height and strength and it's almost reassuring to see someone that is so like herself. Six had been absent of it in her own world and not given much of the same here in Thedas; she feels like a singularity who has found some kind of pair, a match. Perhaps this lady knight would enjoy a spar.

Head tilted, she pauses, watching for a moment. She will not quest what 'Tarth' might be - a Rifter's world must be different from her own and from Thedas, at least in some way, and it will likely be a place or a region she could never hope to recognise.

At least this is something she can offer support with. ]

It will feel that way, at least for a little while. The people here are most accommodating, kind and supportive of those brought through the Rifts. I can imagine that you will soon make friends who will guide you.

[servility]

❰ brienne isn't sure what to make of the similarity, to be honest. of addressing someone too different to be genuinely familiar but too like her to truly be a stranger. either more similarities or more discrepancies will certainly appear the longer they converse. brienne's not entirely positive which she'd prefer.

despite herself, the 'i can imagine you'll soon make friends' has her exhaling something like dry humor, the corner of her lips twitching slightly. ❱ I'm hardly one to be sought out for friendship. ❰ but... ❱ Allies, perhaps... If there are any to be found in a place called 'The Gallows'.

❰ which there very well might be! it's just... not a terribly reassuring name. ❱