faderift | [SEMI-OPEN]

Amos doesn't dream much, tending not to really remember the strange, surreal landscapes his mind conjures. After Ilus, he's happy to to sleep with an empty mind. But there it is, the color blue-- death-- and the color green...

If he were the right kind of Earther, the type that's supposed to be in space, green would represent life. It doesn't. It's just a color, and Amos follows it through a landscape that becomes clearer and clearer until he wakes up.

He doesn't wake up on the Roci. That's the first thing. He smells salt, and the rest of kind of a memory. Fresh air unpolluted by modern toxins, unrecycled, unfiltered. He's on a postcard of a beach.

Fucking weird.

And then the screaming starts, and Amos reaches for a gun that isn't there, ducking cover behind a rock. A horrific alien creature-- too many legs, too many eyes, scuttering over the beach with a gnashing open maw-- wanders out of jagged green wormhole.

"What," Amos whispers to himself, "the fuck."

Holden dreams too much, when he bothers sleeping.

His brain can't goddamn shut down after everything that happens in their days -- but he can't blame recent tragedies on his insomnia. Sleep's never come to him easily, not even on the farm when the nights stretched long and quiet, rustling in the wind the only sound for miles. Night anywhere else seems noisy after that, city noises or station noises or the machinery powering their vessel.

But too often, even after he manages to nod off, it's Eros, or it's Ilus, or it's the thing from Ganymede, or it's the Ring, it's blue glowing fireflies and

tonight is different.

For one thing, he wakes up with -- sand shifting beneath him as he levers upright, the unfamiliar tang of brine in the air (clean air, the kind you can't help taking deep breaths of after any time in space), and

fucking alien abominations.

Because, of course.

He scrambles backwards, spots Amos and sprints for him as yet another what the fuck is that crawls out of the -- portal? Jesus.

Pitched so as to hopefully not get their attention. "Amos! Are you okay?"

The arrow which punches viciously into the sand perilously close to them can't possibly help anyone's sense of security. It does, however, cause the nearest multi-limbed, hungry mouth agape creature to hiss and briefly skitter in some other direction.

From a dozen - perhaps two dozen - paces away, a voice cheerfully calls out: "Sorry! So sorry! I'll aim lower this next time!"

The voice belongs to a sea wind whipped young woman, her bright blue skirts all a-flutter, red cheeked and in evident good spirits despite the chaos whose margins she inhabits. There is a small pile of equipment, a round shield, and barely pinned down papers threatening to be carried away by the wind at her feet, and she is and haphazardly waving her next arrow in greeting.

"You see, Mr. Ellis!" This is called to neither of them as she lowers the arrow, struggling to nock it in such a way which suggests that she is at best a beginner archer and that it might be prudent not to be anywhere near where she means to shoot next. "I told you we might have help."

Maybe, at some point, Ellis should resign himself to the possibility of something very human dropping out of a rift and spoiling the trajectory of his swing. Lucky for Amos, the shock passes quickly enough for Ellis to mark him in time to stagger a step back. The mace passes over Amos' head, close enough that the whistle of it is probably audible even over the cacophony of the rift and the screeching announcement of the demons creaking upright.

"Aim away from them, Wysteria!" is the very first thing out of Ellis' mouth in return. Neither of them are wearing armor. Both of them look justifiably shell-shocked. No one needs to add an arrow wound to the mix.

It's hard to tell which of them to address. Ellis has never seen two of anything non-threatening come out of a rift, but it's a pair of humans, so as he squares up again—

"Get back," he instructs, as clearly as he's able while the rift vomits out a scattering of wisps overhead. "We'll need one of you in a minute."

As soon as nothing with teeth is directly in the mix.

And then he almost gets his head knocked in half. Nearly dying always fills Amos with a certain kind of energy, like every nerve is on fire, move, move, move.

"Fuck that."

He lunges at the nearest alien, hands on its eyeless head, attempting to break the things vaguely human-looking neck. It's a bit stronger than he was expecting, and the skin is hot to the touch, but its head is moving with his effort. He's pretty sure he's got this.

As if this didn't feel enough like a weird fucking fever dream already.

He's turning back to find the source of the arrow -- and that mace -- and finding people as improbably dressed as they are armed. Who don't even seem surprised at the 1) hole in the sky, 2) his and Amos's presence, or 3) the weirdass aliens.

"What do you need?"

He's taking a couple of steps back towards Ellis, when he hears --

"Fuck. Amos, fall back!" Never mind, he's gotta head back towards the aliens to get back his crewmate. "That is an order!"

Edited 2020-10-20 02:29 (UTC)

From her remove of two (let's be honest; it's closer to three) dozen paces, the erratic back and forth of running figures and aborted mace swings and lunging after demons while shades pulse out of the rift overhead looks more like a Lowtown pantomime than reality.

Ah, there. The arrow is nocked properly now. Wysteria's prompt about drawing once it is, only—

"Well where should I aim now?" she shouts. "They keep running toward everything! Pardon, sir! If you would please put that down, I will happily fire upon it."

For the record: it's tricky to size up the benefits and pitfalls of asking Wysteria to just aim at the nearest demon and hope for the best. Better or worse to have to yank an arrow out of one of these men before the ride back to Kirkwall?

The name at least registers, for all the good that's going to do. (And may be less than relevant if the demon bites his head off.)

Presently, Ellis is leaving the target choice to Wysteria's best judgement as he joins Holden in chasing after Amos. Ellis has the only weapon, it's the responsible thing to do.

"Get away from it's mouth!"

Is this helpful advice?

The word order clangs like a church bell, and Amos stops what he's doing. In the process, spindly long fingers reach out to snare him. In the aftermath, spindly long fingers aren't much compared to several kilos of muscle, but the blood that spirts forth from the alien scalds him, hot and thick and disgusting.

Still, he makes his way back from the alien, grabbing Holden in the process. Neither of them have weapons of any kind. He's not letting the Cap get fucked over on his account.

(The other guy can deal with it.)

Behind him, he hears the sound of snapping teeth.

His plan: drag Amos away from the aliens.

What happens: Amos drags him away from the aliens.

At least they're going in the right direction now.

"Come on!" he says, and pulls Amos so they move faster, because he doesn't want to find out if those teeth are as sharp as they look. He doesn't love the idea of potentially leaving Ellis alone in close combat, but getting Amos to relative safety comes first. He can double back (agAIN) after that.

Good enough, the young lady with the bow must decide, for a moment later the lethally abbreviated whistle of an arrow murderously pierces the air right before it... murderously pierces the sand at the feet of the slathering demon lunging after the two new arricals. From her distant position, Wysteria curses with distinctly unladylike poise in frustration.

In answer, another series of whispering shades belch free of the tear in the sky.

It's fine.

On the sliding scale of "successful Riftwatch encounters" this is landing square in the middle. No injuries, two Rifters, but it's still early.

With Holden and Amos retreating, Ellis is free to turn his attention back to the threat at hand. The wisps don't register, it's the demon that Ellis focuses on. He winds up and makes a serious attempt to finish what Amos started: the mace slams solidly into it's face. When Ellis leaps back, the demon's jaw is hanging at an angle, oozing ichor and gurgling in fury.

The plan is: get this fucking thing on the ground and crush it into the sand. In the time it takes him to do that, he assumes Wysteria will have directed these two Rifters into position to close the rift overhead.

Possibly too much faith to be placing in his comrades, but still.

Amos ducks behind another, larger rock, because no way is he going straight toward the lady who can't fucking aim. He points at her on the high ledge. "Stop fucking shooting!"

Somebody's gonna lose an eye out here.

He actually trips because of that second arrow, instinct to avoid the projectile headed towards them throwing him off his beat. It's only a stumble, luckily, so he's not landing on his goddamn face in the middle of a battle.

He chances a look backwards from the rock, just to be sure Ellis seems to have the situation in hand, then up, at the pulsing sky.

We'll need one of you in a minute, the man had said. For what, he has no idea, but so far these people seem to be trying to help. Stray arrows notwithstanding.

"Just hold off until we get there!"

Is the suggestion to Wysteria, and then he's going to be moving to sprint over to her. (And hopefully not get shot in the process.)

"Well then run faster, or it may catch you and I won't be held responsible!" is the prim retort that carries the distance, though she is evidently perfectly amenable to casting the bow down into the pale of equipment near her feet regardless. If they don't want her help, then they may be relieved of it.

Anyway, there's other work to be done. Bending, Wysteria fetches up the circular shield from the sand and hops down from her ledge. By the time they reach her, she is quite ready to thrust the shield into the hands of whichever of the two Rifters gets to her first with a brisk, "Hello there, pleased to make your acquaintance. We'll need to make our way to that glowing tear there, so if you would please lead the way. Once within range,"—this all explained at a clip as she attempts to turn whatever momentum they've gathered by sheer force of personality and a certain willingness to plunge into the fray unarmed and unprotected if they don't follow—"We will hold up our anchors like so and see to closing it. Come along now, gentlemen."

Meanwhile, Ellis has gained some ground with the demon. The first blow was followed up with enough force that the demon's jaw has torn completely off. What's left is outraged gurgles, spewing and drooling black as sinew and tongue dangles. It feels like the tipping point, like a few good blows will settle the score.

But of course, the wisps—

The crackle of lightening and resulting snap isn't debilitating. But it does leave a scorch across one shoulder, sear black at the center of his breastplate as the rest of the blasts zip uselessly over his head and past him. Ellis staggers a few steps back, cursing at the outraged roar of the demon splatters bile across the sand.

"Wysteria!" he shouts, hoping she's marshaling the rifters.

The archery lady is talking a lot, and that sounds like- Amos immediately moves behind the Cap. This is his problem. He can take as much room behind the shield as he wants; Amos isn't sure he'll need it. These fuckers have lightening, not guns.

You know, still painful, but not likely to cause liver failure or fatal blood loss or depressurization.

Jeez, they're in 1g, aren't they? Good thing Naomi isn't here.

A bit of a tell, but he looks to Holden, not the lady-- Wysteria, apparently, and if that doesn't come from the same place as Clarissa Melpomene Mao-- when he asks: "What now?"

That's sure a shield now shoved into his hands. There is absolutely no way he doesn't look like an ass carrying this, not least because of his inexpert hold on it.

But that's the least of their problems right now. Wysteria (and the, you know, lightning-throwing things) doesn't make it easy to pause a moment to think, even just the space of a breath — but he does, sets his jaw, then nods to Amos.

"I don't have any better ideas."

Back to the rip in the sky it is.

As it would do little good to spend time examining Ellis' current predicament, Wysteria doesn't bother dividing her attention in his direction. She merely gives the gentleman with the shield an encouraging shove that serves to propel them collectively toward the crackling rift. She talks all the while as they hustle into range, dodging and weaving various hair raising crackles of energy, more or less along the lines of:

"There really is very little technique to it. It's more a question of range, at which point your anchor will begin to react naturally to the presence of the Rift. The important thing is to maintain concentration and to not allow yourself to be thrown out of range by anything. If the connection is broken it will take much longer to close, although with the three of us I don't anticipate any trouble whatsoever—Now!"

She raises her left hand over the leading edge of the shield, and now that they are near to the hair raising pulse of the tear the sympathetic gash in her palm answers with a crack of sound and a howl of atmosphere or the surrounding shades as the otherworldly seam begins to be yanked forcibly shut.

In the midst of all the controlled chaos of Wysteria, Holden and Amos making their return, Ellis is corralling the chaos of an exceptionally angry demon and the wisps zooming in aggravating circles overhead at increasing speed.

The demon, at least, seems to be losing steam. A limb has joined the jaw in the sand. As the concussive burst of pressure that accompanies contact from rift to shard booms overhead, Ellis ducks another spurt of lightening to commence with driving the demon back into position beneath the rift.

Now is not the time to bother Holden with the very prescient fact that he hasn't got a clue what Wysteria Cassiopeia Tseng is fucking talking about. Whatever. Follow Holden's lead. He can certainly do that.

Amos takes the stance of a man ready for a fight, weight centered low, hands up in fists, and moves forward into the fray. His hands still feel the burn of alien blood, but that just moves him further, taking another jab, following Ellis' movements, trying to scare or punch these creatures into tight quarters, near the green smudge in existence.

At this point, Holden's just very used to following people around while they're spouting off weird, cryptic babble. Thanks, protoMiller. For his part, he does his best to protect them while they make their way to the Rift, which largely means trying to keep the shield between the three of them and any threats that get too close. He catches maybe one word in five that Wysteria's saying, but that's good enough, probably.

And he finds she's right — once they're close enough, he mimics her motion of raising his hand, feels the pull through

something he hadn't paid attention to earlier, being honest. There'd been a dull pain in his hand he'd attributed to a wound, something to check on when things quiet down. Instead of blood, there's a burst of light, and the Rift starts to seal a little faster.

The crack of the second anchor's interaction with the rift is a real, palpable thing. It sends a ripple through the fleeting shades and wisps circling the gash in the sky and has the mangled demon turning toward the three of them where they're huddled behind the span of Wysteria's circular shield.

"Arm up, if you please sir," is her sharpish demand of the larger of the two Rifters (the other one takes direction very well; how nice), though some of the sunny veneer has been stripped from it - the closing of a rift sends bizarre, pulsing sensation of not quite lain coursing through her fingers and up the length of her arm—

At a point, the demon starts dissolving. The wheezing snarls don't abate, but the pull of the rift catches at it and the solid mass begins coming apart.

This is apparently commonplace enough for Ellis to turn from it to Amos to catch at his wrist, encouraging it upwards before he notes the bare palm.

"Where—?"

Another half-beat of inspection would lead him to the glow on Amos' elbow, but he's probably already unknowingly pushing his luck.

Amos lifts his hand, even though it doesn't glow. He feels something, though, like the echo of a bone fracture, the memory of dull pain, in his elbow. Amos raises his arm a little higher, and the green glow reaches forward into an arc of light, anchoring (oh, he gets it now) him to the glowing green smear in the air.

Amos decides he fucking hates this, and is going to try to avoid ever doing it again. Holy shit, is this how Holden felt with the whole... everything? He doesn't wanna think about it.

Yet, the rift begins to weaken, growing slowly smaller.

[SEMI-OPEN]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

[yakety sax muffled in the background]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)