open.

[propulsion]

WHO: Research, bruisers, and adventurers
WHAT: A small adventure out to go close a rift.
WHEN: Now
WHERE: Outside Kirkwall
NOTES: Research division members who are interested in rift study, anyone with shards to help close the rift itself, and people with combat ability to help fend off demons are all equally welcome! The below text is a general overview of the couple of days spent, so tag in whatever you like.

The journey out is straight forward. Half the time on roads, even, although recent snowfall makes path-finding guesswork. Today, snow is coming down only in sparse flurries, flakes that wander casually from sky to sea, and the landscape—these plains that roll out from the Vimmark foothills and into the ocean—is blanketed white from past blizzards.

The horses do the hard work, snow and mud churning under hoof, heads bobbing with the motion of labour and steam gusting from flaring nostrils. Tony goes and takes point, perched in place and bundled into furs, gloves, good boots, and trying to cancel out the glare of the sun off all the bright ice with a pair of sunglasses. There's a brief stop at a V.A.N.E, posted only an hour out from Kirkwall's limits, a construction of stone and metal that looks like a city clocktower, if you are familiar with such things. Dials of iron and finer metals take the place of timepieces, reading something less predictable than time, and on top, a more literal vane is pointed south-west, trembling.

He uses a key to open a panel in the stone, checks a few things, slams it shut with the side of his fist. "Party's not far out," he announces, tugging a glove back on. "Couple klicks, you know," a gesture back at the vane, "that way. So if you need to take a pee break, now's the moment. No? Just me?"

And then, onwards.

The rift itself has a demon problem, but at first, only the one. A hooded figure is kneeling in the snow, tattered cloth over a skeletal form that seems to snag in wind that isn't there. The rift itself is hanging some fifteen feet up in the air, almost difficult to see beneath the bright winter sun, but then cracks of green energy leap from the swirling distortion, and where it strikes the ground, snow melts, bubbles with something black and viscous, like hot tar.

As they near, the kneeling figure stands. No, rises is a better word, drawing itself up until the ragged ends of its robe hover off the ground by several inches. When it turns, the hood flutters back to reveal the unnaturally larged, fanged mouth yawning wide within. Its large, deathly grey hands move, summoning up the magic of bitter, cold despair.

But eventually, it'll do what demons do: die. From there, the matter of closing the rift is delayed by the matter of studying it. To anyone who has yet to go out on such an excursion, Tony demonstrates—copper rods with runic inscriptions, staked into the ground in a loose circle around the rift. These read back to a handheld device (called, "not by me," Tony clarifies, a thaumoscope), which uses dials and pointers to translate this information into numerical data, written down into a leather-bound book which Tony will shove into someone's hands to help take down dictation.

A couple of times, the rift convulses, spits out wisps and shades, but hopefully nothing anyone can't handle before it's finally closed.

By now, it's late, and rather than struggle back to Kirkwall through darkness and an increasing intensity of snowfall, there's a village closer to the coast that will see them through the evening. Miraculously, a tavern is still open, and soon taken over by a party of Riftwatch agents. There's a roaring fire, glass in the windows, cuts of roast meat and stewed root vegetables, a cauldron of mulled wine, a grey-haired woman who's pretty handy with a fiddle, and at least one round of free tankards of ale after its explained to the locals what they were doing out there.

So, as a blizzard closes in, be merry, or lurk in the corner, or retire early into one of the upstairs rooms which you'll inevitably have to share with someone.

The rough conditions last until midday the next day, so enjoy, too, a crowded breakfast of variable levels of hungover, depending on your choices last night, and a few hours to simply sit and wait and worry about the rising levels of snow outside. Eventually, the winter storm lets up, and its back to Kirkwall, weary horses trudging through knee-deep, powdery ice.

Comments

[propulsion]

"It's got you on a technicality, yeah. But I take my holiday music ironic if I'm on the west coast. I prefer to winter where it's, uh, not."

Tony tips a look to the nearest window, where the inner light of the tavern reflect the fast flurries outside. He wrinkles his nose, drains his ale, leans to refill it from the pitcher on the table.

"Jazz, if east coast," he adds. "Nat King Cole, you know. God the music sucks here. How long have you been back? Long enough to get maudlin around the merriest night of the year?"

[youwonscience]

She tilts her tankard (flagon? she should definitely learn the difference) in acknowledgement of the question while she does some quick mental math. "Almost a year," she lands on. "I came in Guardian, so this is my first maudlin holiday season this time. I was here three years my first time, though, so I think I should get some grandfathered-in maudlin points."

She's not entirely certain whether it's better or worse, now, that she's relatively certain Delphine and her sisters aren't back home wondering where she'd gone to. Their Cosima hadn't gone anywhere.

"What about you? Dreaming of a not-at-all white Christmas?"