partially open.

[charmoffensive]

WHO: Loxley, Richard Dickerson, and Riftwatch.
WHAT: A rift opens and only good people emerge. Some demon battle, followed by rifter corralling.
WHEN: A convenient time of your choosing during Harvestmere.
WHERE: The Wounded Coast
NOTES: Open to agreed upon participants! We have two takers, we can probably take a couple more, especially shard bearers!

On reports of the Veil's weakening somewhere along the Wounded Coast, it might be tempting to let this one go, especially today, fitful rain and winds coming in off the ocean. Let bandits and wild animals and demons sort out their own disputes.

Unfortunately, it's also a common and useful route that winds directly into Kirkwall.

So.

Green light, flashing brightly, with the same fits and starts of lightning. The rift, a large, floating seam of queasy green light that churns in place like smoke, can be found pulsing above a narrow band of rocky shore, with grey waves tossing themselves up onto it before pulling backwards. The ground beneath the rift, in patches, shows signs of odd corruption in the form of bubbling ichor, and the occasional burst of green lightning touches its fingers between the rift and the ground.

The dying wail of a terror demon, collapsing, pierces the white noise that is the driving rain on the rock and water. The rift pulses again, preparing itself for a second wave of demons.

From the perspective of the Riftwatch members bracing for the next assault, they see two shades seem to climb up and out of the ground where green lightning had struck, big clawed hand over big clawed hand. Hooded, faceless beings with great big claws that splinter beach grit beneath them as they rise to their full height, wearing robes and tatty leather armor over twisted grey muscle. Black fog trails beneath them as they slide strangely, pivoting for signs of life.

And two more figures appear, with less ominous silhouettes, and less obvious intent.

What Richard Dickerson and Loxley experience is plunging into sleep as if falling down a tunnel, and then never landing, only appearing upon the rocky, rain-swept shore, the sound of crashing waves in their ears and the growls and shrieks of monsters nearby. For Loxley, he appears half submerged in surf and takes his time to struggle out of it with great disorientation, hindered as the next wave in crashes over his shoulders.

He shouts something protesting and inarticulate, boots sliding in sand and waterlogged grit as he struggles to his feet.