faderift | open | i just can't drop this feeling underneath my feet

Entry tags:

open | i just can't drop this feeling underneath my feet

WHO: Margaery Tyrell & open!
WHAT: Another rifter's arrival, jittery in a library, & getting lost in Hightown.
WHEN: Arrival, quarantine, and the first week after her quarantine is over.
WHERE: The Brecilian Forest, Gallows, Hightown.
NOTES:N/A.

I. ARRIVAL.

The impossible heat of the wildfire isn't what Margaery feels last. No, it's the heavy dread that's worked itself into her veins, overtaking the inches of her hands and feet, emphasizing the rapid beating of her heart that pounds in her eardrums as she sees a glimpse of the future - her grandmother, alone, with nothing but the ashes of their family name trailing her like a cloud. Between that and the fierce, helpless anger that follows, Margaery can barely register anything else but the rumble of their doom, hands tight around Loras' arms before -

Bright green. The color explodes in her vision and it's the last thing her mind processes before she's suddenly falling, a sensation rudely interrupted by the sound of disturbed leaves, snapped branches, and rocks and dirt sent tumbling down uneven slopes. Shock settles into the corners of her senses, somewhat dulling the pain of her scrapes and bruises, although nothing seems to detract from the ache of her hand, the same green glowing up at her like a cursed brand through the paper she clutches. Above her, the sky ...glimmers? Seemingly ripped apart with the same garish hue.

She's always been quick on her feet, but this time, it's the terrifying sound of a inhumane screech that gets her to snap out of her daze, to push the pressing questions out of her mind and stumble to her feet. Distantly, she thinks she can hear the sounds of other voices, probably far closer than she can tell, but terror has her back in its grip and it's all she can do to back away from the fear demons closing in on her -

Seven hells.

II. LIBRARY

She's not exactly alone, but the thought of being limited to where she might go makes Margaery far more restless than she should be. She wakes early every morning, and wonders if it's simply her lifelong habits too stubbornly ingrained in her body, or fear of the unknown lurking in the back of her mind at all times. A probable mix of both, she muses, as she finds her feet taking her to the main library this morning.

The early hour allows her to slink through the aisles without garnering much attention, if at all. It's eerily quiet, almost oppressive in a way that Margaery has grown to appreciate these past few weeks - tangible silences that she can feel bearing down on her existence feel so grounding. Mostly because her own mind is never quiet these days, stretched apart from death and despair and grief, and the deceptively simple pain of homesickness that winds around her heart like a vine. Emptiness follows, too, for a home no longer present.

But she puts too much faith in what she hears, made evident in the next moment as she goes from turning a corner without watching where she's going, and ends up walking right into a solid source of warmth that is most evidently not a shelf. A good thing, perhaps, as the collision still makes her wince where her bruised ribs emanate their disapproval.

"Forgive me," she gasps, instinctively in a whisper. "I'm so terribly sorry. Are you alright?"

III. HIGHTOWN

The sky darkens above her as Margaery fights the urge to bite her lip - determined not to show any signs of uncertainty - and keeps following the path she's on. To others, her footsteps appear to be sure, undoubtedly hurried from the important appointment she must get to.

In reality, she is terribly lost.

Although the thought of stopping and asking a kindly-looking stranger crosses her mind, the last thing she wants to do is alert anyone in this strange place that she's alone, without anyone who'd inquire after her absence too seriously. No, she'll find her way on her own - even if that hope is faltering in her heart as she recognizes the same row of stalls she's passed an eternity ago. She's going in circles.

The crystal weighs around her neck, heavier and heavier as her exhaustion begins to make way for hunger. Her pride, the traitorous thing, is shrinking as she thinks she notices some men eyeing her with interest. She's done her best not to utilize the crystal so far, preferring to keep to herself instead of reaching out as she should.

Margaery takes a deep breath and shuts away her ego into a neat little box.

"I fear I may be lost in Hightown. Would anyone be able to help me?"

IV. WILDCARD

[ please let me know if you'd like a customized starter! chignon or pm works c: ]

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The voice that comes over the crystal sounds almost what by this time Margaery may have identified as Orlesian, though not quite — it is a woman's voice, pleasant and well modulated.

“I am in Hightown, presently, mademoiselle. I have a few errands yet to run, but if you would identify for me what you see nearest you I will collect you.”

If she sounds more resigned than warm, it is not unfriendly.

Margaery's stomach tugs at another low rumble and she takes a deep breath, letting composure straighten her back and tilt her head back up as she walks. Her determination to keep moving is rewarded when she spots a landmark that could certainly serve as a better mark than these endless grand, white buildings.

"There is a beautiful large tree, fenced in," After a moment of hesitation, "I'm so terribly sorry to inconvenience you-" My lady, at the tip of her tongue but never spoken. And she knows that her ending was abrupt, her tonality indicative of more left to say, but she keeps it, letting the silence stretch to speak for her.

A sound cuts through the demonic screeching that, much like demonic screeching, is unlike anything Margaery may have heard before. The modern day equivalent is the crack of electricity as more strange green light enters the scene in the form of a thick arc of green lightning. It slams into the demon looming closest to her, instantly forking away to snap the second. It's probably extremely good luck that Margaery herself is not caught.

There's a laugh. Kind of a cackle. The source is a man, a stranger, dressed in armor—dark leather, silver—with a gauntlet currently charged with that same green light at the centre of its palm, sparking crackles of electricity leaping around it.

One of the demons spins around to the source of that laughter, its spider limbs twitching from the onslaught, sliding on over with a scream. Tony, for his part, wheels backwards, gauntlet aimed, seeming to draw the monster away from the lady, and glancing up towards the rift splitting the sky.

"We're closing her up!" he yells, ostensibly to more of those voices Margaery can hear through the trees.

Until quite recently, Hightown was the only part of Kirkwall that Petrana frequented; to the denizens of this finest and most privileged part of the city, she is a familiar face. A known quantity. Madame de Cedoux is not upon first glance a terribly intimidating woman — as she approaches Margaery, in pale blue velvet with hat and gloves to match, she is delicate and fair, half a foot shorter and a good deal blonder, wearing no jewels but a jet locket at her throat.

But she sweeps past the lingering young men with an amiable, “To find you out! Do remember me to your mother, Master Urqhart,” and if there might be a sullen cast to one or two faces they return her pleasantries as they slope off, losing interest in entertainment that may have a higher cost than they care to pay after all.

She takes Margaery in with a glance, and a sigh, and says, “Mlle Tyrell,” dredging the name up from the recently arrived, “while I commend you on your desire to acclimate, Hightown is a great long distance from the Gallows and you very new to both Thedas and to Kirkwall. I must ask that you not return here without escort until you are better prepared.”

It is a sternly maternal demeanor she has, for all that at a glance they do not look so very far apart in age.

“I cannot insist. I am not a figure of authority over you. But there may not always be an agent to hand who can spare you a harsher lesson than mine.”

So, this is... strange. But he had wanted to see it. Fair enough; he deserves whatever he gets out of this. An innocent looking human woman, and demons.

Well, he knows how to deal with one of those things.

Fenris is an elf, dressed in black armor meant to be imposing, but not concealing-- gaps of black leather and metal reveal strange rivulets of bright white weaving over his skin. Most importantly, though, he carries a sword nearly as long as him, and he swings it with confidence and skill. A demon has a chunk missing from it. Then another.

"Hurry up, then!" He's speaking to Tony. The woman from the rift remains in his sympathies for at least the next five minutes.

Adrasteia would agree, it's strange. The poor Rifter woman looks terrified and if it weren't for the demons she'd be rushing in to try and check her for injuries but. Well.

There are demons. And an open tear in the Fade, which Adrasteia has no qualms about being nearby to, apparently. She sweeps out with her hand and lightning strikes several demons at once; another gesture and the woman trying to hide from them is engulfed in a protective magical bubble that will take damage before any of it reaches her.

Another set of lightning bolts from the sky and she has enough power to bring out her own big sword. Not as big as Fenris', mind, but a spirit blade is big enough compared to the size of the elven mage. Time to swipe more chunks out of demons.

It hasn't occurred to her that Fenris didn't know she was a mage until exactly this point in time.

He'd briefly, instinctively, reached out to her shoulder to steady her, but drops his hand once it's clear she won't fall.

"I'm fine," he says quickly, not so hushed as she is, then, "are you okay?"

The gaze he casts over her is two-fold: both to look for injury (especially in the wake that wince), and to place her as an unfamiliar face. New, maybe; he's sure he hasn't seen her before.

Later, on their way back to safety, Margaery will cautiously observe Tony Stark from where she follows and determine that no, he's not also a demon. In this moment though, with his command of green lightning and that careless laughter in the face of obvious danger, adrenaline makes it impossible for her not to believe that she's somehow witnessing a battle between two monsters to lay claim on her soul.

His companions don't help the notion either, not when Margaery's only ever seen the Mountain wield a sword near the size the warrior-demon carries, and the female- incredible sorcery, efficient and brutal, and not just in striking the fear demons down. Any hope for Margaery to run and hide somewhere else is shattered by the bubble she's encapsulated in: gentle, but too unexpectedly strange to seem protective at the moment.

So she watches, keeping herself huddled on the floor and out of the way, instinctively flinching when there's a demon limb or two that spins towards her direction. But her initial wave of fear fades slow as she's not in immediate jeopardy, so pain re-introduces itself to her everywhere else - first with the superficial scrapes and cuts on her skin, all the way to the tender ache in her side that throbs as she attempts to stand to her feet.

If she's going to be a new plaything for these demons of whatever circle of hell she's in, she'll at least face them on her feet, trying to look as menacing as she can while she's covered in dirt and leaves.

The day has been long, and Margaery finds herself quietly yearning for familiar comforts - sweet cakes from home, fresh fruit plucked off the trees of her home, a long hot bath filled with oils and fragrances to keep her skin soft and supple - but the sight of her rescuer, a petite beauty in blue, chasing off the loitering crowd makes her bite back a genuine smile. She's reminded of big dogs slinking off with their tails between their legs in shame, properly chastised by a kitten.

And so it becomes her turn, although she bears it with far more gratitude, as there is kindness still, underlying the formal delivery of this sound advice. "You are not wrong to say so." She does not feel the need to explain herself, as the outcome has already been determined, but what she can do, is offer a small smile with, "I promise I will be mindful of my wanderings next time, and secure an escort or a suitable method to find my way back."

Her smile grows, until it's interrupted by the growling of her stomach, rude and impatient now that it's been waiting to dine for hours - a life of food constantly within reach is not quite the easiest foundation when it comes to acclimating to Riftwatch, as it turns out. Margaery looks appropriately rueful, placing a hand over it as if to silence it somehow. "My apologies. The market stalls were so terribly fascinating, I kept putting off coming back.

"I'm fine," comes easily, immediately. There's a genuine smile to back up her claims though, as her neck makes the tilt to look up at this stranger who's expressed his kindness already in more ways than one.

"I didn't realize anyone else would be here at this hour and felt no need to watch where I was going." she says by way of explanation, noting his gaze.

"I'm- Margaery," It's still strange, to have to introduce herself, to realize how much she took for granted when she would roam anywhere and expect to be recognized. But there's freedom, too. Choice. The lack of expectation for what she will accomplish. "I just rift- I rifted?" Her brows furrow in search of a more graceful phrase, before she gives up in the next two seconds. "I arrived just about two weeks ago."

"Then watch my back, Cool Whip!"

Tony's raised gauntlet fires a wall of glimmering green energy just as the nearest fear demon brings its multiple spider legs down in slicing arcs, only to meet warding resistance, shoving it backwards. He moves, then, launching himself in a tactical diagonal path that'll put Fenris in its line of sight as opposed to himself, jumping aside where the ground begins to bubble and roil with black ichor.

He spins, raising his hand to the rift, summoning another bolt of lightning—but different, this time, a sustained and crackling rope of energy that writhes between where it connects with his raised hand and the tear in the sky. From it, there's a pulse of light, hitting all demons and causing them to shudder as raw Fade energy seems to drain them of their own vitality.

It'll only be when the last one is struck down by magic or by blade that the rift snaps closed with a thunderous crack, an odd altitude-y pressure in the air before that too dissipates.

The woman they have saved has spirit, and that in itself is truly admirable. The other elf has magic, which will need to be discussed at a later time. The human is... himself, invariably.

Demons slashed, rift closed, Fenris offers a gauntleted hand to help this small human woman steady herself.

"You are safe," then, a bit more flatly, "for now."

'Cool Whip' Adrasteia whispers as she swipes the spirit blade through another demon as if repeating to herself the strange things that come out of Provost Stark's mouth has yet granted her insight into their reason or meaning.

Feeling assured that her magical bubble will hold, Adrasteia is nearly directly underneath the rift when it shuts, protecting her eyes from the eerie green light with her left palm turned outward. Once it's shut, she shakes her fingers as if they've fallen asleep, and then uses her right hand and her teeth to pull a glove on over the newly minted small green shard in her palm. Mission accomplished, in more ways than one.

"Everyone intact?" She sends a wry smile to the back of Fenris' head. "When you say it like that it sounds like we're the ones about to put her in harm's way." Which is semi-accurate but still. Could be worded better.

"Welcome to Thedas, dear," is directed at Margaery. "Sorry about the demons."

Edited 2021-05-19 05:27 (UTC)

"Not a scratch," Nikolai promises. "Though I don't know that I can say that same for Gentivi."

Between them, a thick hardbound copy is propped at an odd angle on the floor. Nikolai's hand releases Margaery's elbow after a minor, comforting squeeze. He straightens, swipes a palm down his tunic, before stepping back to bend and reclaim the dropped volume.

"We can call it all forgiven if you'll swear the pages were creased before I ever lifted it from the shelf."

Not that Nikolai has the sense Riftwatch's library is so attentively cared for. His brief sightings of the Archivist haven't left much impression, and there's been some—

Oddities, maybe, is the word. But Nikolai is also gathering that Riftwatch is near nothing but oddities, so it shouldn't be so unexpected.

Laura's spent much of the last year becoming acquainted with the city: with the Guard on patrol, exploring on her own, and--as of late--doing what she can to defend those who need assistance. There are too many people who lurk in shadows waiting to do harm. She can, at least, do so with the intent to do something good.

This afternoon starts as exploration, wandering through the scents and sights of Hightown's markets. (The stalls selling spices are her favourites, though there are a few with trinkets made of metal and glass that fascinate her equally. The fact that they have no apparent use is part of their appeal.) From the corner of one eye, she notices another girl among the crowds, one of the new people in the Gallows. And then, later, she notices her again. And perhaps once more, recognizing the scent of her twisting up with all the smells in the air.

When she hears the other girl, it's no longer an exploratory mission. The objective has shifted from consider spending coin on something to assist someone who cannot help herself.

"I can help you," she says, her words tinged with a slight accent, as she approaches. It doesn't occur to her to make her own crystal visible as she approaches or mention that she, too, belongs to Riftwatch. She recognizes the other girl, her age or a few years older, and is used to being recognized herself. Bright green eyes in a serious face framed by black hair and black clothes, someone who skulks and lurks as frequently as anything else--Laura might be a familiar face from the Gallows, or she might not be. "Where are you going?"

The crack above their heads makes Margaery slip as she flinches, and she winds up taking Fenris' hand instinctively to regain her footing - only to remove her hand swiftly with an distrustful stare once she's stable enough to stand on her own. Luckily, the shock still charging her system keeps her from doing something too embarrassing - like attempting to run away on this slippery surface and giving herself more injuries - and the woman's voice cuts in like a splash of kindness, giving Margaery just enough hope to think she might not actually be in danger - demonic and powerful as they initially seemed, the ones who remain aren't actively turning their magic on her. If anything, their expressions almost seem expectant.

The ache in her hand pulsates, drawing her attention to it once more. It takes her a moment or two to respond, but the bewilderment on her expression is already speaking volumes. Her eyes wander from the faint wry smile on the woman's face, to the impassive face crowned by shocking white hair. And the last one, the one who melded the sky shut. Her eyes focus on his gauntlet, and then drop with a shuddering sigh, shoulders curving in with the effort.

"Thedas? Am I... am I not in the seven hells?"

Edited 2021-05-20 16:46 (UTC)

Her initial smile is small but mighty in its relief, and easily transitions into an agreeable laugh. "Something tells me Gentivi would be more grateful that his volumes are being read enough for creased pages. But perhaps I'm presuming too much."

She requests for a closer look at the tome he's just picked up ("May I?") and hefts it in her hands; it's considerably lighter than the holy books she'd devoured in her last days, and if she remembers correctly, far more entertaining and self-aware in its tone and message.

"Are you also someone who believes in the goodness of humanity, ser?" she asks, gently rubbing out the more obvious folds in a few pages before closing it to ensure proper recovery. The thought of religion sticks in her thoughts even more painfully than the dull ache of her hand, her ribs; at least this branch of conversation will feel safer.

Helpless is not a feeling Margaery Tyrell appreciates. And while freedom is appreciated, being anchored to a lack of knowledge that forces her to walk on baseless confidence is somehow equally frustrating as being trapped in a fortress for quarantine.

Her fingers curl around her crystal as she exhales, soft and slow, already resolving to figure out where she may be able to purchase a map of the city to study. She doesn't know how long she needs to expect to wait for a response, but it's definitely not in the form of someone standing before her, as if summoned.

She's seen this girl before. Her recognition, and the level of cleanliness to her black clothes, makes Margaery cautiously optimistic in answering. "I just want to go back to the Gallows, my lady." After a tentative smile, "You're a part of Riftwatch too, aren't you?"

She won't mention how she recognizes Laura, because mentioning having seen her claws during some of the meal times doesn't feel quite like a great conversation starter. "My name is Margaery. Would it be alright if I asked for yours?"

After a short pause, her crystal brings a reply, a masculine voice with an accent not native to Kirkwall: "Has someone fetched you yet, or are you still in need of assistance?" For all it's a bit formal, the voice is warm enough it doesn't feel like the owner is particularly hoping to be told he's not needed.

Tony doesn't immediately race to join the huddle, standing in place and watching them converge as he starts fidgeting with the fastenings of his gauntlet, such as it is. More of a contraption, with silver loops around the wrist, copper wiring run through leather. He tugs it free, and the little glimmer of green light, a match of Margaery's own—and now, it seems, Adrasteia's—remaining nested in his palm.

He's watching the Warden, mainly, expression somewhat inscrutable all of a sudden, before his focus snaps back to Margaery around when hers wanders to him. At her question, he says, raised voice cutting through like a clap of authority, "Why, you fall from heaven?"

And steps on over to join them, boots crunching through forest floor. Without the rift hovering in the air and casting shades of queasy green around, or throwing fits of lightning, or scorching the earth into liquid black, the forest setting is nearly normal. Maybe even in a minute, bird song will start filtering back in.

"You've been transported from your world into this one," he says, words coming quick but precise, accent probably strange and broad to Margaery's ear. "It's a little more complicated than that, definitely not as easy as an afterlife, but I can see how the demons would make that confusing. I'm Tony."

A look up and down of her clocks her as another renfaire, which is less exciting for him personally, but he'll take the win in predicting her arrival.

Fenris positions himself safely away from Adastreia, and looks down upon the new arrival. She seems to be taking things about as well as one can be expected. His is presence still required? He has no shard, and he's thankful for it. The glow of his markings is quickly fading.

"Fenris," he adds, for himself, "have you need of further aid, I will provide it."

Yes, yes, he'll carry the princess.

"I'm Adrasteia." She puts a hand on her chest. "I'm sure you'll have questions, even if few come to mind at the moment, but you are very much alive." Whether or not the poor woman was before she got here, apparently. Adrasteia could mentally kick herself for not asking someone what is usually conveyed to new arrivals through tears in the fade, but she's not going to ask the Provost in this moment, that much is certain.

"What's your name?"

It's still strange, to hear a voice emanating from a crystal clear as day, but at least Margaery knows that her distress call worked.

"I'm unfortunately still in need of assistance, good ser," she says, apologetic even as this man somehow makes himself sound terribly trustworthy by the quality of his voice alone. Ironically, it's what makes her hurriedly add, "But I'm sure I could make do with some directions so you don't have to come fetch me? I wouldn't want to burden you when I know you must have better things to do."

The man has a way of speaking that's almost whiplike in its speed, and he seems to exude the most obvious amount of confident authority as he spearheads the conversation with an explanation that would almost seem laughably simple if she weren't the one receiving it.

Tony, she repeats to herself, sealing his name with the memory of his face illuminated by green, the echo of his laughter. Fenris is next, with his brusque speaking manner and gigantic sword, white hair, fading lines and - now that she's looking at him clearly, pointed ears. She pulls her eyes away from them just in time to meet Adrasteia's eyes at her introduction. The warmest of them all, down to her gestures.

Alive. Margaery's not sure what to feel, although it's obvious to her that there's a heavy knot of something sitting on her chest that's going to have to be unraveled later. She's suddenly aware of the presence of tears in her eyes and quickly wipes them away before offering a smile.

"I'm Margaery," The forest is so quiet now in comparison, she takes another nervous glance around. "Are we safe now?"

Hmm. Glittery princess tears, probable near-death or, you know, actual-death experience being left behind. The corner of Tony's mouth twitches like the subtle pulse of empathy that inspires is an internal irritation.

"Yeah," he says. "Nothing here's gonna try to hurt you, anyway."

Nothing still standing. Around them, pieces of demon are melting into viscous puddles, cleaved in places by giant swords, roasted by lightning. The air still smells a little electrified. "We're taking you back with us. We're maybe a day out from the city of Kirkwall, homebase for Riftwatch, an organisation that seals up transdimensional rifts, kills the demons that come out of them, rescues the people that do too, like you. And me." He lifts his hand, lets the green shard there sparkle.

He tips a look back at Adrasteia. "You can share a saddle with our new friend, here. Unless you wanna stop off somewhere, do the other hand too," is a nod to her newly acquired shard. If there's annoyance, even anger, it's not present in his voice, but there is something a little tense in his expression.

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open | i just can't drop this feeling underneath my feet

iii. hightown.

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i. arrival.

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ii. library.

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