faderift | There's a story in my veins, with scars on every page

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There's a story in my veins, with scars on every page

WHO: Ellie & OPEN
WHAT: Rifting in less-than-gracefully, a rogue explosion or two, & initial trouble accomplished
WHEN: Arrival and during the first week after.
WHERE: The Hinterlands, The Gallows
NOTES: So much swearing holy shit.

[Arrival.]

The worst part about lucid dreaming is when shit gets a little too real. Especially when it's not the usual kind of horrible. So when Ellie goes from another nightmare about things hunting her in an endless horrible sewer to being sucked into the water, hurtling down through the rain-soaked Seattle depths, she tries to tell herself that she can breathe underwater. She opens her mouth and tries, and the foul water fills her throat-

And she launches out, along with a gush of Seattle sewer water, hits a hillside and goes tumbling.

... and it's steep enough that she keeps going.

Ellie coughs, chokes, tries to scream, and unleashes a garbled stream of hacking, choking profanity.

Maybe you're the unlucky person on the trail she happens to literally bowl into (and possibly take out).

Or maybe you're the one who finds her screaming back into the face of a despair demon, soaked in foul-smelling sewer water, having just hurled a piece of rock shaped suspiciously like a revolver into its face.

She absolutely just called the demon a motherfucker.

[Gallows; Quarantine Times]

A bath, a few square meals and a bit of explanation later, Ellie seems far less... feral. She's dressed in local clothing, a tunic, pants and boots, and has stopped acting like a cat, roaming the stairways in the towers and popping up unexpectedly in places people didn't see her enter.

She shows up near the top of one of the towers, tucked into a window, looking down at the courtyard below.

"... so I heard there were actual griffons roosting up here. Is it true?"

[ooc; HMU if you want a custom starter!]

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No place in Kirkwall is immune to the thick, muggy humidity that's blanketed the city, but it's a little better on the ramparts. The air is wet and heavy around them, promising a storm, and Derrica's hair is curling up where it's escaped the hold of her braid. She'd had her shawl pulled up over hair initially, but it's fallen back over her shoulders in short order, drapes along her shoulders and pools by her elbows where she's leaned them on the stone.

"The ferry will take you to land just...there," she's saying, pointing out over the water towards the Kirkwall docks for Ellie's benefit. "We have business sometimes, guarding the warehouses or helping to load or unload goods if the city asks it of us, but sometimes we're petitioned for odder things."

Odder than closing rips in the sky. Derrica clearly regards that as somewhere within the baseline of normalcy.

"One time we were asked to find the Viscount's cousin's lost nug."

Even humid and muggy with the wind off the sea, it can't compare with New Amsterdam. Ellie can feel the storm in the air; it makes all her old injuries ache, pushing at something inside of her that has nothing to do with magic. Just those primal things that make little, vulnerable humans want to hide and wait out the fury.

Most everyone in the Gallows are helpful and Derrica's no exception. When she asked about eventually getting off this island, she seemed happy enough to show Ellie, all the better to help her parse it.

Thunder rolls around them, stuttering and breaking, but the storm is still far enough off. It seems surreal, looking at the city in the distance. But it's the first thing Ellie wants to explore.

"Lost nug?" she asks, reaching up to catch a few locks of her hair and pull it back from her eyes. It's almost long enough to tie back neatly, but not quite.

She knows what that means in her world, but something about the way Derrica says it makes her think it's, uh. Something different.

The tone is enough of a prompt to divert Derrica from a description of the search to an explanation of the creature in question. She straightens slightly, weaves the braided tassel at the corner of her shawl between her fingers.

"They're..."

Derrica trails off, makes a little face trying to come up with a description.

"Hairless," she settles on, which seems the most important aspect. "They're harmless, and some people think they're sweet."

Jury's out on whether or not Derrica numbers among that camp.

"I heard in Orzammar they have nug races, but Kirkwall's nobility thinks they're too refined for that."

It takes a second for the penny to drop, for Ellie to realize that it must be an animal of some kind. She wrinkles her nose, caught between laughing and curiosity, because anything that has Derrica making a face like that has to be beyond explanation.

"So, undignified, hairless, not a lot of teeth."

Ellie flashes her a half-smile. "Are they pets or something?"

"They can be. I think the Prov—Thranduil has one or two. Or they're his wife's."

A minor stumble, forgetting that Thranduil is no longer the Provost. But rather than detour into the extremely tall retired Provost and his fearsome wife, Derrica returns to recount—

"I heard the Viscount's cousin put huge velvet ribbons on each one of hers to tell them apart. It's all a little ridiculous, but nobles are given to displays like that."

There's a little unspoken You'll see embedded in that description.

Ellie notes the small stumble, it's something she'll remember, even if she's not gonna dig in and ask any questions that might be personal, not yet. Something definitely changed recently though, and she can't help the smile that creeps across her face.

People have room to be a little ridiculous here, apparently.

"Rich people," Ellie agrees with a snort. While she didn't run into anyone of privilege back in her own world, in New Amsterdam the people with all the money and power were something else.

"I guess if you have nothing better to do..."

"Nobles usually don't."

Which is unfair, maybe, but it bears out across Derrica's experience.

She shifts, bracelets jangling softly as she straightens and turns to lean a hip against the stone instead of leaning her weight onto her elbows. If it begins to rain, they might have to go inside. Derrica wouldn't mind, but she can't predict what Ellie would prefer.

"What do you want to see when you're able?" she asks, tone gently inviting. "I know it must be overwhelming to be in a whole new place like this."

Place not quite the right word to encompass the situation, but Derrica still struggles to get her head around what it must be for Rifters to crash land in Thedas.

Ellie laughs under her breath, nodding -- it's striking, how people are the same even in vastly different worlds. From what she knows, anyway. But she grows quiet at Derrica's question, tilting her head to one side, staring out at the sea, and Kirkwall beyond, giving in serious thought.

"Kirkwall to start," she says thoughtfully. It sounds to her so much like the Zones, especially Lowtown. It reminds her of the side of Boston she would sneak over on rooftops. If Derrica had asked her several months ago, she'd have left that answer there. But she's in a different place now, and some part of her is hungry again, in ways she's been afraid to be.

"But I keep hearing about places like Orlais, and Orzammar. The Brecilian Forest and the Deep Roads and the Wounded Coast. There's this... book, in the library-"

She spreads her fingers, indicating something large. "It has drawings of ruins underground."

Ellie stops with a pang, thinking of Nate, and how much he'd love to explore a place like that, to uncover all the secrets of what was. She pushes it away.

"I dunno. Just everything."

There's something painful there. Derrica recognizes the familiarity of stopping short before putting too much pressure on some painful thing. Derrica has tripped to a halt herself, knows what it sounds like to divert away towards safer conversation.

But she doesn't ask, takes a moment to cinch the slipping folds of her shawl a little more securely around her shoulders before she replies.

"The Wounded Coast is not so far," Derrica says, thoughtful. "We could go someday, when you've seen enough of Kirkwall to satisfy."

A beat, then with a little smile, "Or when it gets too hot to stand in the Gallows and in the city. There's a stretch of coastline where the current is calm and it's safe enough to swim. If you like."

Careful around if you can.

So many of the people here, even if they aren't Rifters, fully understand the meanings of those pauses. It means a lot to Ellie not to have to explain, to have people just let it be without demanding. It makes her a little sad too, because she knows what it takes to develop that kind of understanding.

Ellie smiles, something quieter and tired, but it touches her eyes, warms them.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I'd like to see the beach, get in a real swim." To go somewhere just to drink in the beauty.

Rain starts, just spitting at them, but enough to herald the start of the storm. Ellie glances up at the sky, then motions toward Derrica.

"Should get inside before we get soaked."

"I don't mind the rain so much," Derrica tells her, though she straightens up off the stone wall at the sweep of Ellie's hand. "I was a sailor before I came here."

An occupation which had necessitated some level of acceptance of the fact that a person is just going to be somewhat damp most of the time.

"But if we go in, we might catch Mrs. Fitcher's card game before the table is full."

That too is a searching question, Derrica's eyes on Ellie's face. Is she inclined to spend her time in a crowd?

"Makes sense, then. Why you suggested swimming."

Ellie gives her a smile- one of those fleeting little things that are no less sincere for it, though they're a lot more subdued than the rest of what makes Ellie up as a person.

She appreciates the silent understanding more, and instead of brushing it off, she takes a moment to think. It'll be loud and a lot, with little chance to be anonymous. But she's hungry for the company, and Derrica will be there to take the edges off.

"Sure," she decides, perking up. "You play poker here, or something else?"

"Wicked Grace, most nights," Derrica tells her, falling into step beside Ellie. "We can watch them for a few hands, if you like."

Some nights that's all Derrica does, when she's in the Gallows and not inclined to spend the night in her room. It's just as good as playing, really. Riftwatch is a lot of things, not all of them overwhelmingly positive, but it's members are always entertaining. Derrica has rarely been bored here.

She nearly reaches to link arms with Ellie, but the movement amounts to just a flutter of hands as the present catches up with ingrained habit, all of which Derrica covers by busying herself rearranging the folds of her shawl before saying, "It's just as interesting to watch them. No one takes it too seriously."

"I'll pick it up if I can watch," Ellie promises, and turns, ready to accompany Derrica back inside.

She catches the movement, the involuntary reach, and catches herself, a sort of stutter of movement, a jumpy pull-back before she can stop herself. They mutually pull away.

For Ellie, it's years and years of conditioning to avoid being grabbed, to dodge sudden movements. It takes a second for it to sink in, what happened- and her ears feel hot.

"Fuck. Sorry."

"I'm sorry," Derrica counters, sincere over the words. "It's—it's a habit. I've been trying to work on it."

To change, or at least, temper the urge to reach out to people, but changing a lifelong habit has proven difficult.

Part of her still instinctively wants to reach out, even to just put a hand on Ellie's shoulder to punctuate the sentiment. It's the way Derrica knows to comfort people, but she tamps the urge down to nothingness. Ellie had flinched away so hard though, enough to ward off the urge even as Derrica's expression shifts to apology.

"I promise not to do it again," is sincere too. Ellie doesn't need to explain her reaction. Derrica doesn't need to know what prompted it to know that she doesn't want to see her recoil like that again.

It's a hard, awful lump in the back of Ellie's throat to see how sad Derrica's eyes are, to realize just how concerned she is.

In truth, Ellie's starved for touch, for tenderness, but it's not something she has ever known how to ask for. Like Derrica's habit of touch, Ellie has practiced telling herself that she doesn't need it. There are very few people who have offered. In the world before this, touching someone came at a steep cost, and was often more painful than it was worth, and before that...

"Shit," Ellie mumbles, shaking her head. She doesn't want to shut her down, and she feels stupid for her reaction. She doesn't want anyone walking on eggshells around her.

"It's okay, it's just 'cause it surprised me. You can do it, just make sure I see it coming."

For a moment, Derrica studies Ellie's expression. Maybe trying to assess whether Ellie's sincere, or if she's offering for Derrica's sake more than her own. It's hard to get a clear read on her, but maybe—

Derrica hitches her shawl up a little higher on her shoulders, worried little crease in her brow softening as she comes to a decision. (Asking first, that's the rule Derrica's settled upon.)

"Okay," she says quietly. "If you're sure."

As she speaks, she draws the ends of the shawl together and tucks them into the belt cinched around her waist. Just for something to do with her hands, keeping them in sight as they talk.

"I can be very obvious, I promise," comes with a little nudging kind of humor, as Derrica steps ahead of Ellie to pull open the heavy tower door. "You'll see me coming from miles off."

Torn between the sincerity of how much Derrica wants to do this right, and annoyed with how fragile it makes Ellie feel, she gives a small snort under her breath. Trying to make light of it as she follows her back, she reaches for the door to hold it open so Derrica can go first.

"Super obvious," she answers, trying to sound playful, a curl of a smile and a warmth in her eyes.

"If you surprise me I'll just punch you, how about it?"

... she would not, but she's awkward as fuck and doesn't know how to not be weird. Stop being weird, Ellie.

To Ellie's credit, the suggestion does register as a joke. Derrica channels the impulse to reach back to shove Ellie into folding her arms over her chest, spinning on the landing to look back with a smile.

"If you promise to punch my arm, and not my face, then we have a deal."

Not that a healer really has to worry so much about such things. But it feels like the right thing to say, nitpicking over terms to keep the awkward worry ebbing out of Ellie's expression.

Ellie beams back, letting the door fall shut behind them, mirroring the way she's crossed her arms over her chest, and lifting her eyebrows. The smile reaches her eyes, relaxes her.

"Deal. Face-punching is reserved for if you're being a huge dick."

Which she doubts, but.

"You can get away with a little dickishness, though. I'll let it slide."

"That's generous," Derrica returns, smile coloring the words. "My arms will thank you in the future, I'm sure."

It feels like some sort of success, seeing the way Ellie's smile loosens every part of her. Ellie carried some kind of apprehension with her, something tense and withholding, and Derrica doesn't know where it came from or who put that onto her shoulders, but even a moment where it eases brightens Derrica's expression in return.

"You can decide whether or not it counts as dickishness to beat you at Wicked Grace after you've gotten the hang of the game."

Ellie gives her a grin back, reaching up to lightly put a hand to the wall as they head down the stairs. Likewise, she likes seeing Derrica loosen up. She's used to putting people on edge, moreso as she's gotten older. Used to feeling invisibly marked.

"You might regret bragging before you taught me how to play," Ellie says breezily, tilting her head as they head down together.

"But let's find out."

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There's a story in my veins, with scars on every page

but also: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/09/a2/44/09a244e034a375051b8293e89f9cefe3.jpg

YES

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let's put a bow on this to make room for exciting orzammar adventures

/thumbsup