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

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?"

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"Is that what people usually do? Hide it?"

Maybe she will do that, but unless gloves are a common accessory around here it won't do anything to draw attention away from her hands. Even so, it might help with how the soft green glow through her skin makes her feel uneasy. "It's not... bad, right?"

The anchor, that is. Abby hasn't heard any negative press... yet.

Is it bad?

Ellis isn't the person to say either way, not really. He is aware enough to understand how much he doesn't know, to recognize that his kneejerk affirmative is rooted in knowing it had caused Wysteria pain as it grew stronger. And he wants to take care here, in differentiating between truth and—

Well, even Ellis has heard what the Chantry thinks of shards and Rifters.

"I can't rightly say whether or not it's bad. I don't know much of them beyond that two Rifters can close the tears if they work in tandem. Anything beyond that, you'll want to ask the Provost," Ellis advises. "Or Wysteria de Foncé."

A thing Ellis has mastered: saying Wysteria's married name in one smooth breath.

"There's reasons Rifters hide it, when dealing with people outside of Riftwatch. People can be wary of shardbearers, just as they are of mages."

"But we're helping them."

It feels very cut and dry to Abby. It isn't like FEDRA, or even the WLF back home: groups who told themselves they were doing what was best because it let them pull everybody around them into line. They're closing rifts, to keep demons out, and stopping Corypheus from taking control. She doesn't understand what there is to be wary about.

Unless they don't understand. Unless they have pre-conceived notions about Riftwatch, and the people who work within their ranks. Food for thought, and not something she likes the taste of.

"I guess I should be thankful that I don't know how to use magic? Never thought I'd say something like that out loud."

They're talking of mages and Rifters, but Ellis thinks of Wardens, a flash of grim amusement coming and going.

What sort of help they've been given has never kept people from suspicion and hatred, not in Ellis' experience. Wardens, or mages, or Rifters, people are wary of them. Maybe it's not unfounded, but it's not shifted by what they're able to provide now. Ellis looks away from Abby, following the rhythmic rise and fall of a hammer onto heated metal for a long moment, before he finds an answer for her.

"Most here, outside of Riftwatch, consider that a kind of magic," he tells her, nodding downwards as he lifts one hand again in demonstration. "Maybe it is. I don't know myself."

He does not include the Inquisition. Maybe there are people within the Inquisition who take a different view, but there's no reason to lead Abby to believe an organization bound so closely to the Divine and the Chantry will split hairs over something so unexplained.

"Kirkwall has a history. A bad one. They've grown used to Riftwatch, but people have long memories. They remember when they've been harmed."

Abby makes a non-committal noise in response, attention flickering toward her own anchor. It's strange, but when she touches it, she can feel a pulse in there. A low hum, of energy. She doesn't like to do that if she can help it. It doesn't feel like it's truly part of her.

"... Right." Maybe it is more like FEDRA than she initially thought, but– that makes sense. Abby has a surface level reading, of all of this. She'll learn more the longer she's here. She wishes she could leave, as soon as possible.

"S'pose Riftwatch wants us to keep our heads down and in line, then."

"Aye, in a sense."

Riftwatch is never entirely respectable. Ellis has struggled with that. The disorder always strikes him as liability, and it is hard to simply take it in stride.

But Abby means something specific, and Ellis feels the need to be clear about what's expected of them.

"There's a need to be careful of how we present ourselves in Kirkwall, and beyond. Riftwatch is an oddity, and we're here on the good graces of the Viscount. But if you mean how we operate in the field, it's on our own judgement. It's not as rigid an outfit as you might imagine."

It's a new dynamic for Abby to have to contend with. Isaac didn't bother with presentation, back in Seattle. There were only two sides, in the war back home, and either you were with the WLF or you were against them. All trespassers shot on sight. Abby upheld that reputation for years without thinking much of it.

... All that's changed is that there's enough people around for there to be more than two sides to the story.

"Okay." She can work with that. It'll be good, too, to not be closely watched. "Though I can't promise I'm any good at diplomacy. Does that kind of work come up often?"

"Aye, but it needn't involve you," Ellis answers. "We've a number of people suited for the work to be diplomatic. You know your strengths, and you'll be relied upon for them."

It's an easy guess as to what Ellis is relied upon for, armor aside. If he's ever charged with diplomatic anything, it's of a particular kind, and never the sort found in a Orlesian manor.

Looking away from her, Ellis crosses his arms, studies the smiths for a long moment before he continues, "You needn't worry. All that matters is that you can be trusted to act in the best interest of the mission. The rest tends to work itself out."

There are possibly people who would have different definitions of what was more important. But this is what matters to Ellis: that the people he goes into the field with can be trusted to do what is needed.

That does ease a couple of her concerns. Abby chews the information over, her arms folded loosely across herself. Her gaze travels toward the smiths, and together they watch them work in silence, for a beat or two.

"I–" she starts, still staring, her mouth open for a moment before she decides to commit, pushing ahead. "I came here from war, and it wasn't good for me."

I don't want to go back to that. She doesn't know how to say that much. Abby feels like she's already let a little too much slip as it is, and she presses her teeth together at the back of her mouth until everything aches, just to keep everything else inside.

That admission brings Ellis' gaze back to her, scrutiny sharpening momentarily before he nods.

"I see."

Would this war be better for her? Ellis can't say. War doesn't vary. It's all violence and ugliness. And Riftwatch is in the thick of it, more so now than it had been before Tevinter had swept south into the Free Marches.

"You've control over what's asked of you," he says, slow and even. "If you'd rather, all you need do is ride out to close rifts."

Abby ignores his gaze, staring resolutely out across the courtyard instead. A muscle is tense in her cheek. It's not entirely the same as what was back home– the concept of Corypheus as a sole enemy is leagues different from a murderous, many-patroned cult– but it's close enough to set her loosely on edge.

"Okay." She has to concede; it's a good compromise. Maybe something she should look into. "I'll... think about it."

She feels exposed, all of a sudden, a touch of embarrassment wearing on her resolute expression. "Thanks," she adds, suddenly, because he didn't have to come up with a solution for her, but did anyway.

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

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