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

[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'.

[inkindled]

What--not mages, even? Even Rifters seem to come here knowing that one.

[More incredulous than disgusted or dismissive. Matthias puts his hand harder on the barrel to give himself more grounding, which gives him strength enough to look back at her.

Better. He still looks green, under the skin, but: also a little better. The chance to talk about magic helps ground him, too. A little lift in his shoulders, a measure more pride in his voice.]

I'm a mage, for starters. Means a great many things, in Thedas, but the primary thing it means is, a mage can do magic. Magic is everywhere, s' like the air and the water and everything--natural, like. And a mage is born being able to use it--shape it, really--the way others can't. Have you got anything like it, that you know of?

[servility]

The Red Woman, ❰ she says, half in answer and half in realization, herself. they may not have mages in the sense in which he speaks, but she has certainly witnessed a form of magic firsthand. ❱

She speaks in prophecy from god. She sets a hundred swords aflame with a few spoken words. She brought a man back from the dead. ❰ a beat, and then in an incrementally tighter tone. ❱ She binds form to shadow to kill men from afar.

❰ good men. men that brienne swore to protect. ❱

Is that your sort of 'mage'?

[inkindled]

[Cool name, is what Matthias thinks, first. Only--]

Not prophecies--that'd be for heretics and the people that'd be called heretics only they've somehow gotten the Chantry to approve of 'em--and not back from the dead, precisely, um...

[Starting to pick up from context clues that the Red Woman might not be on the side of the Goodies, Matthias screws up his face, working out how to respond.]

I mean, s' what you do with it, innit. There's awful mages. Vints. Corypheus. Sure. But there's awful people who haven't got magic too, they go around killing men and setting villages on fire and butchering everyone in sight. And mages aren't all pacifists or anything, right, 'cause we've not been allowed to be. Mostly we've been locked up and downtrodden and all and it wasn't until recently that we were able to get anywhere with our cause of basic freedoms and things. We've been fighting a war for ages. Sort of at a standstill now. And I fought in it, of course, but me, I'm not going to be binding shadows into forms to kill anyone. The sword thing sounds brilliant. Wish I could do that. We-ell-- [thoughtfully, he's got to admit] --I can do fire, at least. Sort of my specialty.

Whats this Red Woman called, when she's at home? That's never her name. More of a title.

[servility]

❰ the picture he paints of magedom earns far more sympathy than she ever expected to have for a user of magic. her general faith in the balance of justice wants her to believe that if mages were locked up, they were so for a reason - but she's seen far too much by now to be quite so naive.

so the tension in her voice has faded to something a bit more like resignation, bu the time she says: ❱ Melisandre. ❰ and she doubts the woman even has a home - she's drifted from place to place for as long as brienne has known of her - but that's hardly a point worth making. ❱

I was told we're to close the rifts. No one mentioned a war.