faderift | [open] and when i wake up you'll be here

WHO: Clarisse
WHAT: Arrival + some quarantine stuff
WHEN: Now, ig
WHERE: Ferelden somewhere + the Gallows
NOTES: n/a

Arrival

Weird dreams are a near nightly thing for demigods, so Clarisse doesn't bat an eye when she finds herself waiting for the elevator at the top of the Empire State Building in her basketball uniform, other than to wonder what kind of weird symbolism it is and hope that it's not going to interfere with her midterms. Even when the doors open and she steps in and lands on nothing but empty air, she manages not to scream. It all happens too fast, anyway.

Clarisse only has time to think, oh shit, and then she hits the dirt hard. The breath gets punched out of her chest and she wheezes pitifully, wondering since when her dreams are realistic enough to hurt. She rolls onto her back, wipes at the dirt on her chin, and finds herself staring up at something she can't comprehend, much less identify. The air looks... torn open, and through the jagged green split, she can see patches of concrete and red rocks.

The view is interrupted by something moving—something humanoid but elongated, with a grin that spreads too far in each direction. That's comprehendible. She's not sure what she's looking at, specifically, but she knows bad news when she sees it. Clarisse pushes off the ground at a run, angling herself away from the whatever-the-fuck-that-thing-is and trying to put some distance between her and it.

Quarantine - Dining Hall

At least the food here looks... pretty normal. She should be thankful for that.

Clarisse is in the dining hall, sitting straight backed and uncomfortable and pushing a piece of beef (probably?) around with a fork. She looks a little bit miserable, but what else is new? Push, push, push. The fork never seems to actually make it to her mouth.

Finally, she can't stand it anymore, and says to whoever's nearby: "Is there a place around here I can make an offering?"

Quarantine - Training Yard

Maybe she'd been slacking off on training a little bit, before she'd fallen out of the fucking sky, but that's over. If anything, the practice gives Clarisse a sense of familiarity, even while she's stuck in a place that's the complete opposite. She knows the moves. She's done them almost every day, for years. Doesn't matter where she is.

For anyone who happens to walk by and see her, it's clear that Clarisse is no beginner with the spear. She handles it with practiced ease, and it seems like she'd have no problem showing anybody else what it's like to be on the other end of Maimer's barbed tip. But when she does notice somebody watching, Clarisse only gives them a terse nod.

"You waiting for the space?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"It's not about the food." She's sure the food is fine. She hopes it is, anyway, because sending up an offering of something less than fine is a good way to get turned into a shrub or a snail or something.

"I don't want to trade," she continues. "I just want to burn a piece before I eat the rest. As an offering to the gods where I'm from." The last three words leave a bitter taste in her mouth, but she tries making sure her face doesn't show it.

"Oh. Right."

A Rifter. Giving big dad-who-doesn't-know-what-to-do-with-this-information-and-situation, Darras looks one way, and then the other. Unfortunately there's no one around with the sort of authority or knowledge to help.

"Not the chapel," he says, thinking aloud. "I don't know how many devoted Andrastians we've got, but if we have any, they wouldn't be too keen on that. We're between Seneschals at the moment so you might get away with burning something in here, but--nah," he decides, "not very sacred. Courtyard, maybe? Outside seems good. Or maybe that's just tradition here. Inside or outside is better where, ah, you're from?"

This, at least, she's got a definitive answer for. "Outside." Like, she could do this anywhere, but... smoke.

Okay, so, courtyard it is. Clarisse stands, holding her plate in one hand, mumbles "Thanks," and turns to go. Then she pauses and turns back. "What's a Seneschal? And do you have a lighter?"

Shit, this is turning into a real annoyance. She'll either need to give up on ritual sacrifice or she'll need to figure out a better way to do this. Another time, when she isn't already hungry.

Darras again looks down at the bowls he's holding, both of which are not very heavy. A lighter what?

"A Seneschal's a steward. Runs the operational bits of an outfit, makes sure everyone's got what they need, keeps track of supplies and stores, that sort of thing. It's a stupid word," he admits, candidly. "Pretty sure it's Orlesian. Riftwatch had one and I think he cracked--then we had another, and I think his blood was too rich to mingle with us for too long. Or that's the impression I got, at least. You're needing something to start your fire with?"

--Hazarding a guess. He sets the bowls down on the table and jerks his head toward the door. "We'll grab a tinderbox on the way out."

It is a stupid word, but Clarisse is more concerned with the fact that they apparently just don't have one anymore? It sounds like the kind of job that somebody should be doing. Not her, obviously. But some other sad sack.

"Right," she says. A tinderbox, okay. Basically an ancient lighter. (When did those get invented, anyway? The 1800s?) She glances down at the two bowls now sitting on the table and adds, "Won't they get cold? Or stolen, or spit in." Those wouldn't be sitting out for two seconds back at camp without getting fucked with somehow.

"Cold, maybe. Stolen--did you see the vat they were serving this very free food out of? If someone's got to steal bowls off of the table, that means they're either blind or too stupid to help themselves, and they're welcome to it. As to the spitting, there's always a chance, especially if you've done something to anger someone."

He looks her up-and-down, as if he might assess how great a trouble she might have already found herself in.

"Have you?"

She doesn't look like the kind of girl who's opposed to getting into trouble. And the way Clarisse glances up at the ceiling before she shrugs is very much not the gesture of a totally innocent person.

"Little bit, maybe."

She's pissed a couple people off. Started a fight in the market. Not been the friendliest. The basics, you know.

"Ri-ight." He laughs, first--can't help that, it's funny--but then, familiar with that look (and being that person), and, thus, sympathetic, Darras is quick to give an honest assessment of options.

"Then, in that case, I say leave the bowl and get a fresh one when you've returned. Unless it was the cook that you angered--a little bit or a lot--in which case, you might be out of luck to not be eating some spit. I haven't got many rules, but not angering cooks is one of 'em, and one you might want to take on while you're here."

For however long that is, which he leaves implied, not said. Nothing anyone's got to be reminded of.

"I know better than to piss off the people who make my food," Clarisse says, a little bit offended by the implication. This isn't her first time getting transplanted from her normal life into a much less normal one (though at least the first time she'd still been in the same universe) and she knows there have to be some limits. Like food. Food should always be safe.

"Besides," she adds, "I need to bring mine with me anyway." You know, for the ritual sacrifice.

[open] and when i wake up you'll be here

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