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

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."

[murrika]

The elf starts to stumble, and Steve very nearly leaves one hand on the cabinet in favor of reaching out to steady him, but Sorrel seems to stay stable enough and we avoid shattering his offer any further with Steve being extra as fuck.

"Sorry to hear that, whichever one it comes out to." Understaffed or overstaffed with lazies. It's maybe been a while since Steve was Sorrel's height and scrawny composition, but he'll never forget that feeling of looking up to someone a lot bigger taking over something you weren't able to handle by yourself. There there, buddy. Despite being as huge as he is, there's a warmth in his smile and friendliness in his tone. "Good eye. I've only been in town a couple days. I'm Steve."

He'd offer to shake, but keeps both hands on the cabinet instead, eyes following Sorrel's gesture up the stairs as he hoists the thing up a bit to avoid catching the bottom of it on the steps. Suffice to say, no, he doesn't mind.

"I'm not the greatest judge on this, but this thing looks kinda antique. What is it, if you don't mind me asking?"