i'll face my fears even if it damn kills me

[armd]

WHO: Abby & OPEN
WHAT: Coming through the rift. Making a real splash
WHEN: Both arrival and within the first week of her quarantine
WHERE: Kirkwall (specifically The Waking Sea); The Gallows
NOTES: Swear words galore, mentions of past injuries

arrival.

Tonight Abby's lucid enough to realise she's in her usual nightmare but not enough to stop it from happening, which is both depressing and boring. The hallway is endless even though she knows that it isn't, and she walks down it with her gun in her hands and her heart in her throat. The alarm is so loud she can barely think over the top of it.

The door at the end doesn't reveal a body on the floor. Abby, familiar with the routine, screams like she's seen one anyway even as she takes a step through and falls forward, out into empty, white space. She's still processing the shift when she hits the churning waves of The Waking Sea with an extra yelp, spun around underneath the tide until she barely knows which way is up.

If you're down at the shore you've got the absolute privilege of seeing her dredge up from the water like a drowned rat, shivering and bewildered.

She hasn't even noticed the rage demon looming up behind her as she staggers up onto shore. Still trying to get her bearings. Still half-convinced she's dreaming.

quarantine; week one.

The Gallows are like something out of a book she's read, Gothic and strange and thrilling. The buildings inside of it draw her eye; the Smithy, in particular, where Abby can be found watching curiously as workers hammer out hot metal and shape it into tools, and weapons. She's feeling the uselessness of her 'gun' but she's kept it anyway, perhaps out of habit, strapped to the side of her leg. It's just to feel something, okay, any measure of normalcy in a world where she's found herself kept in a fortress and wearing some kind of loose, cloth shirt and plain trousers held together by drawstring rather than zipper, so. Don't point it out.

The apothecary reminds her of The Once and Future King, comfortably smoky, sweet-smelling, and filled to the fucking brim with little bottles of... stuff, and things. Abby's most intrigued by the potions, though ultimately belligerent with the shop owner when she finds out she can't just. Y'know, have it.

Yeah yeah she's heard about the 'economy'. She doesn't have enough coin for the bottle she's interested in, but that shouldn't matter because-

"I'm supposed to be going out and fighting for you, but you're not going to give me any first aid? What the fuck do I do if something cuts me down out there? Slap a leaf on it?"

Comments

quarantine, smithy.

[broodypants]

A rarity, for Fenris to go about without his armor. In this case, it's being beaten straight on the blacksmith's anvil. As a result, Fenris' markings are clearly visible through his leathers.

Embarrassing, but necessary, and a relief not to have to pay with stolen coin.

He notices the woman as she approaches. Clearly a formidable warrior, she earns a respectful nod. "You are waiting on something?"

[armd]

"Looking." Not the first elf she's seen, but Abby's gaze lingers on him for a moment longer than it usually would before she turns her attention back to the smith. It's totally the glowing tattoos, they don't do him any favours.

"... You use a lot of swords here."

She's caught between impressed and exasperated.

[broodypants]

It would be an odd comment, anywhere else, any time or place. But Riftwatch as an organization is so utterly filled with strange, strange people, Fenris is unfazed. Her odd accent, her odd comment, just seem tame compared to albino elves and dwarven Chantry sisters.

"It is a war," Fenris says with a shrug. "You disapprove?"

apothecary.

[hornswoggle]

"I'd recommend getting friendly with our resident healers," John cuts in smoothly, one hand coming down on the counter. His smile skips from Abby to the disgruntled shop keep, whose whiskers twitch in unimpressed acknowledgement. "Though I've heard certain leaves can be useful in a pinch."

In spite of everything, all that is presently weighing on him, John's manner is still easy, tone light and friendly. The strain of missing partners and impending fiascos on the war front don't reach the surface, or influence his expression.

"Can I be of assistance?" is a question split between both shop keep and Abby, though his eyes have flicked down to her hands, then back up to her face, attention on her rather than the shop owner.

[armd]

Abby knows what he's looking for and tightens her right hand into a fist on top of the counter to make it easier for him, pointedly ignoring the way the green glow shows through the undersides of her tendons. She doesn't like being reminded that it's there, fizzing away in the center of her palm.

The shop owner is looking too. Abby hands them back the potion with little grace, busying their hands abruptly.

"Yeah. You could tell me who works in medical around here." Why the fuck does everybody in this place talk like a Scar. "Same group that treated me when I came in?"

[hornswoggle]

"Yes, I would assume so."

One hand dips into the pocket of his coat, fishing out a little pouch. He tips his head towards the shopkeep, nodding slightly.

"I've always been partial to Isaac, though I think he's relocated to the Research offices officially," John continues, easy as the shopkeeper returns Abby's selection to the counter, turns to select a few bottles from the shelves behind her. "But we've a good amount of healers. There's even one who isn't a mage, if you'd rather. Ask for Sidony. She's very capable."

Is this a Rifter familiar with magic, or a Rifter liable to flinch away from mages? The answer will likely present itself fairly quickly.

apothecary;

[sparklequeen]

Since her time helping Adrasteia with a few things, Glimmer has found it necessary to stop by the Apothecary a time or two. Mostly to pick a few things up or drop a few things off in the effort to help keep the people of the Gallows supplied with all the necessaries for mending their hurts. She's in the midst of picking up a carefully packed box of flasks meant for potions when Abby makes her remark and Glimmer has to smile.

"Something like that," she says with a warm smile. Her arrival in Thedas has turned her hair from pink into a more natural auburn shade, but she still wears her diadem with its single precious stone out of habit more than anything else. It's comforting, too.

"Here, I can buy it for you if you like?" She sets the box to one side and begins to fish for the coin purse at her belt.

[armd]

You know when you want to complain about something but you're not actually expecting anything out of it? You just wanted to be a bitch for five seconds? Yeah. Abby blanches slightly at the sight of Glimmer, because she looks– well, important. Fuck. It's the diadem set neatly on top of her soft hair that tips her off, how well-kept she looks.

It now seems profoundly stupid to try and talk her out of buying it after Abby's been caught giving the shop keep a hard time over it.

"... I've got most of it," she admits, gruff, embarrassed. Trying hard to not to look it, "If you're sure."

[sparklequeen]

"Of course. We have to help each other out, right?" She raises her hand and waggles her fingers, a gleam of green in her palm. She's assuming Abby is a Rifter--mostly because of the response to the apothecary.

"It's not a big deal. I've been here a little while. It.. takes some getting used to." She offers over a few coins along with a smile.

"I'm Glimmer."

quarantine; smithy

[molineux]

It's impossible not to notice someone so... tall, even as Margaery's stepping out from an adjacent quarters and into direct sunlight (one of her many visits to cultivate friendships and glean gossip while she slowly but surely begins to learn how to sharpen her dagger on her own). For a split second, she thinks - Lady Brienne? - and immediately shuts down the nostalgia that's dragged such a ridiculous notion up to the surface.

Still, she's paused long enough to be noticeable; when their eyes meet, her smile is already in place, with ready words gently dislodging the silence between them.

"It's incredible, isn't it? How such artistry can be created from metal and fire?"

[armd]

She is also noticeable due to what she's wearing. Abby is starting to get used to the odd fashion sense around here, but she's never seen so many people decked to what she considers the nines, all of them in beautifully patterned, flowing dresses and skirts and tunics and trousers. It's hard not to stare sometimes when she passes people in the street. It's like being in a movie.

Abby's been caught staring, this time. She glances away abruptly as the woman approaches her, reaching up to knead at her neck with her anchorless hand for comfort.

"I'm not sure the artistry matters." Not if you're going to take it, and kill somebody with it.

[molineux]

My brother would've disagreed with you. It's on the tip of the tongue but never comes, as Margaery opts to broaden her smile instead. As someone who's been trained to spot the smallest details in a court setting, this stranger's discomfort might as well be a beacon shining directly into her eyes.

"Spoken like someone who may know far more about warfare than I do."

She reaches into the space between them to offer the hand that glows green, freed from her usual array of coverups for once. It's still not her favored brand of greeting, but - she gets the feeling that curtsying will make this individual feel more uncomfortable.

"I'm Margaery. It hasn't been long since I arrived here myself, so if you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask."

apothecary

[venenifer]

"You may find more luck with that at the infirmary."

A smallish man appears beside her, holding a basket of tinctures for which he steps forward to pay, though he looks over his shoulder at the newcomer and glances her over.
A Rifter.

"What first aid do you need?"

[armd]

"A kit," Abby answers, watching him right back. Her gaze travels over the basket tucked into the crook of his arm, its contents. She has no idea what the Thedas equivalent of a first aid kit is.

At least the shop owner seems relieved that her attention has redirected.

"I fought... things, when I first arrived." Demons, apparently. How the tables have turned. If Lev were here, he'd be laughing. "I can't go outside without something for emergencies."

[venenifer]

"Wise."

This is all he says for a moment, but then the elf gives a little sigh, glancing about the apothecary, making eye contact with its proprietor, and seeming to making up his mind on the spot.

"You're with Riftwatch? Come with me. I'll put one together for you."

quarantine, smithy;

[heirring]

"—And it is very important, no vital that the pieces lay flush, like so, within the housing. Yes, I know it is fine work and I appreciate that this is the fifth time I have asked that you recast it, but it really is quite necessary for the balance to be precise."

A young blonde woman is standing at the far end of the smithy, the slightly shrill quality and racehorse pace of her voice so remarkably piercing that it remains easily parsed despite the constantly and unrelenting ting-ting-TANG! of hammer falls, the snarl of quenched iron, and the gasp of the bellows.

She is dressed in bright blue skirts and is very clean in an otherwise smudged, smeared, and sweating environment; her victim, some muscle bound brawler time, seems utterly dwarfed and dazed by the unrelenting battery of her commentary. He seems to be just in the verge of formulating some objection when, mid-sentence, she looks up from the prototype in her hands and happens by chance to lock eyes with the other woman across the length of the smithy.

Any veteran of Riftwatch, upon being targeted by Wysteria de Foncé's attention, would take this opportunity to hastily retreat with the hope that be fast enough to evade her. But new arrivals are as speckled fawns curled up in the Spring long grass: vulnerable.

Wysteria shoves the little complicated little contraption in her hands back into the abused blacksmith's possession with a cheerful, "I look forward to seeing it done properly this time, Mister Carter," and then like an arrow shot from a bow she cuts across the smithy toward her target.

"Good afternoon!" She cries before she has enough halved the distance. "You're the new Rifter, are you not? I believe I saw your ferry arrive."

[armd]

Abby isn't watching her initially, she's just– losing herself in the rhythmic smack of hammer on anvil, thinking things through. It might have become meditative had her attention not gone straight to the woman in the blue skirts the moment she started talking. She sticks out like a sore thumb in the sea of muted greys and browns and blacks of the smithy.

... Ha. Somebody is getting told off. It's vaguely reminiscent of the stadium, and hearing squad leaders go off on their teammates in public; Abby smirks and drops her head, glancing away across the lane. Really she's just turning her ear toward the trouble, so she can eavesdrop a little better.

And then she jumps, when the person in question suddenly calls out to her.

There's a comical moment of 'who, me?' when Abby's gaze darts around in response but she's the only person standing out this way. It has to be her. Um, fuck, is this the welcoming party–

"Yeah," she says, clearly taken aback, "I– got here yesterday."

[heirring]

In four strides, Wysteria is on her. And like a lioness sinks her teeth into the jugular of any beast it means to bring down, Wysteria immediately lays a guiding hand (with an anchor shard glowing in it) on her new companion's forearm.

She is still smiling, all in high spirits as she says, "Yes, I thought so! Wonderful. Let's step out of the heat here so we may converse without shouting, yes? This way, if you pleas miss."

That hand firmly makes to guide her around. And lest her victim take this moment to raise any form of protest—

Wysteria continues to talk.

"It is such a pleasure to meet you. I enjoy welcoming all the new Rifters to the Gallows. I have a survey that I would very much like you to fill out, but that can be done at your leisure. I will have a copy put in your box in the dining hall. Have you been assigned one yet? A mail cubby. We are all in disarray at present what with the business near Hasmal, but not to worry. All will settle in a few days. I will see to it myself that you don't fall through any administrative cracks if necessary."

smithy / no apologies for shamelessly doubletapping

[heorte]

Passing Abby, Ellis looks her over quickly. The green embedded in her palm catches his gaze, though it doesn't stall him on his way to the heavy wooden bench along the low side wall where Ellis lets the large bundle he's holding clank onto the surface of the table.

One of the smiths slants an eye at Ellis, then straightens from her work to cross over to him, upend the bag to examine the wreckage that comes clanging out.

"Tantervale, Nydia," Ellis says, by way of explanation. For the armor, and likely why he himself looks more or less worse for wear, still moving stiffly and careful in accommodation of injury. Nydia sighs, lifting the crumpled breastplate and turning it towards the light as if that will make the damage any more palatable.

"We'll salvage what we can, but you might have to replace a few pieces," is her assessment. "Don't bother waiting around."

It's clearly the expected verdict, based on Ellis' nod of assent. This time, when he turns to pass, he shakes his head at Abby.

"They won't hold up your request for mine," is meant as polite reassurance. As new as she must be, he wouldn't blame her for bristling with the assumption that Ellis has breezed into crowd her requests to the back burner.

good cuz it's what i want

[armd]

Abby notices the hurt in his approach, the way that he walks but it's reassuring to her, if only because it means nobody will look sideways at her for her odd tread even as she instinctively tries to hide it. She's got her weight balanced on both legs even though her hurt one throbs, dull and frustrated with her negligence. Long sleeves hide the rest of what's healing. The dark stitches on her cheek are the only indication of the fight she was in before she came here.

"I'm just watching," she supplies, and shrugs, her attention drifting slowly from the smith and to him. Her gaze sweeps his appearance. She's taller, but only just.

"What happened to your armour?"

The word 'Tantervale' means nothing to her, even though she recognises it. It was crammed into a talk she received upon arrival, she thinks.

perfect because i got one more in the trebuchet

[heorte]

Had she not asked, Ellis might have assumed Abby had come in from Tantervale herself. They've mostly managed to keep Rifters from being seriously injured upon arrival, and it wouldn't have struck him as strange to see the mark on her cheek and consider she may well have been at work in the countryside like the rest of them.

But the question—

Ellis looks away from her, back to the bustle of the forge.

"Got in the way of a falling building," Ellis says, testing out the lightness of the description. Putting some distance between the severity of the event and himself is old habit, something to fall back on now that so many in Riftwatch are inclined to ask after him. "The armor did it's job."

The difference between a great deal of badly broken bones and his present state.

"Have you only just arrived?"

arrival.

[justashotaway]

One of Laura's early discoveries, when she escaped Nevarra for good, was the beauty of the ocean. It is large, and dangerous, and always different - endlessly watchable, whether at noon or midnight. She prefers to sit among the parapets, or on rooftops, or anywhere else suitably high up, in order to look out at the waves, as a general rule. Today, though, having found herself too restless to sit still, she's gone down to the shore to walk alongside them. (This can be enjoyable, or it can be frustrating, dependent on the mood of the water. So far, it has been pleasant, the tide drawn back enough that some of the little creatures that live in the sand can be seen.)

That first splash, of a person hitting the water out where the tide crashes in, doesn't register as anything important. Fish jump out of the water sometimes, then fall back in; this is somewhat louder but similarly irrelevant. The next sounds, though - more graceless splashing - are more relevant for the fact that there's movement at the corner of Laura's eye. She turns sharply, finding a woman staggering out of the surf.

In a moment, it's clear what's happening: a person, a fiery shadow behind, and the crackling green of a rift. The smell of brine is shot through with smokiness, all char and no meat, and the rifter doesn't know it.

Two claws, the insubstantial silver-blue of a ghost, appear from each of Laura's fists as she runs toward the pair. "Get back!"

[armd]

Abby's kicking feet find the ocean floor and she shoves herself to a surface that is closer than she's realised. She surfaces awkwardly, staggering, struggling with the sudden weight and cling of her clothes and her brand-new surroundings. There's a low hum of energy in the air and she shouts with wordless confusion when she realises her hand is burning, bright green, crackling with electricity that matches that hum–

Suddenly: somebody yelling back at her, and Abby turns on her heel to notice what's behind her for the first time. She shrieks as the demon collides with her, swiping with clawed hands. All she can think to do is punch it right back, ignoring the burn in her knuckles when the anchor collides with it, the shot of adrenaline pulling her focus solely onto the fight.

She doesn't have her pack. Abby can feel her handgun strapped to her leg but she's missing everything else. Doesn't matter. She works with what she has, and she's made it through tight situations with less.

apothecary.

[tender]

"You ask me to put a bandage on it," chimes Derrica, turning from across the shop. There is a worn satchel in her hands. A muffled clink of glassware comes as she shifts it, working the strap carefully over one shoulder.

She looks tired. But still, she smiles a little as she draws up beside Abby at the counter.

"Are you newly arrived?"

A question that might explain a few things. Derrica doesn't recognize her, but she does recognize the green gleam of her palm. It wouldn't be a newly arrived Rifter's fault if everything from her stipend to explanations had been delayed in the midst of all the disasters bearing down on them.

[armd]

"What gave it away," Abby mutters, noting the gaze as it drops immediately to her palm. It shouldn't make her so uncomfortable. She bore the WLF patch on her jacket for years, and that was as distinctive as any green glow in the middle of her palm... except that she could rip the patch off, whenever she wanted, and immediately be anonymous again. The most she can do here is... wear a glove??

She shoves her hand into her pocket.

"You work in the infirmary?" It's good, to be in with that crowd. Abby strives to be a little nicer, working to relax her jaw.