faderift | Keep a gold chain on my neck

WHO: Character(s)
WHAT: A ghost falls out of a rift, only he's alive now, so that's... something?
WHEN: Justinian
WHERE: Around Kirkwall, mostly in the Gallows during Rifter quarantine
NOTES: If you knew Erik before? I'm sorry, he doesn't remember you.

1. Rock the boat like a one-eyed pirate :: once the rift has closed (arrival in the nearby mountains)

Erik had held his own fighting with the others against the demons and solitary wraith that followed him through the rift, once he demanded that one of Riftwatch's rescuers go ahead and toss him a sword. Pretty impressive, perhaps, considering what he's wearing, down to the leather sandals, wouldn't be considered all that great of a gear for fighting in.

Now, the monsters are gone and he's been given the spiel, his eyebrows working higher and higher as the state of Thedas, of Riftwatch, and his (hopeful) position therein are explained to him. When he's done asking some fairly general questions -- How long has all this been going on? Years? Fuck. And how long will it take to get to Riftwatch? -- he takes a deep breath and asks a fairly strange one:

"What do the people here think happens to your soul when you die?"

Judging by his expression, he is honestly curious. Or trying to start shit, right out the gate.

It can be hard to tell.

2. Rick James, I get glitter on my eyelids :: quarantine in the Gallows

Here's the thing: Erik can't even be too pissed at the insistence on a quarantine.

First? Because he was dead. For a hot minute. No body remained. His consciousness, or soul, or whatever you want to call it, existed solely in an afterlife that consisted of more or less one (large) room occasionally on fire. Aware of the world of those that were living in a way that could not be easily explained in many ways other than by pointing at him and going ghost.

Ancestor.

And that was no longer true. Erik was now alive, in possession of a body that required food, water, sleep. A body that itched to train. A body that looked and felt as familiar as the body he died in, and so, it was his body. Many scars and all.

Secondly, he was grateful for the time to go ahead and try to figure out just what in the whole fuck was going on here.

He's around at every meal, in the communal eating space. You do not come in possession of his musculature by skipping meals... plus it's been a while since he's had the opportunity to, yanno, eat. He sits alone at first but then picks up his plate and sits down next to someone else.

"So what is it you do here?"

He can also be stumbled upon in the kitchen, opening containers of spices and taking sniffs of the contents before peering at the labels. "Man, what kinda names are these?"

In the library he picks out ten books at random and then cracks them all open on a back table, spread out. He doesn't read them so much as he flips through them, taking note of illustrations and lists and any notes written in the margins.

Is it sunny out? Or at least not actively storming? He's in the training yard for a few hours at least, working up a shirtless sweat with a shortsword and putting his scars on easy display. If he catches anyone staring Erik shoots a grin. "Wanna spar? Won't bite."

Another encounter of note is in the griffon roost, which Erik wanders into, clearly unsure. A thousand percent a kid from the hood in over his head. Horses are one thing, but big fucking bird-cats?

His response is a murmured "Now what in the whole fuck, man?!"

[ Two notes:

1. If you would like to opt out of interacting with Erik, please click here.

2. I will match your format!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Ellie is found in the griffon roost. She's not short, but she gives off the impression of being small anyway, given how narrow she is. Sharp joints, sharp eyes, careful hands. Lots of scars, though not nearly as many as him.

Erik is another stranger, and though she's heard whispers that he was here before and has since forgotten, and left after she arrived, her own memories of him are glimpses.

She watches him curiously as he climbs into the aerie, a look of wonder and possible overload on his face. The griffons austerely look down on him from their perches and nests, ruffling wings. (Austere before one of them belches, loudly.)

At the moment she's sitting atop a griffon on the ground floor, astride the creature's withers. Her hands are buried up to the elbows in its neck feathers, clearing out impacted fluff. The griffon is apparently enjoying the hell out of the attention, eyes closed luxuriously.

She's about to say something about most new people not having the balls to come up and visit the griffons on their own, but catching his mutter, she chokes on a laugh instead.

"-yeah, I thought the same thing."

Erik focuses his eyes briefly on Ellie, takes in a deep breath, and immediately regrets that. Birds stink, first and foremost, and these are, he's decided, mostly birds with some cat swagger.

Doesn't make them any less fantastical, but he knows how to make that work with what he already knows.

"Sometimes I'd see... I dunno, illuminated manuscripts or what the fuck ever, from the middle ages, and they got all these creatures in the margin and I'd figure people were just real damned bored or didn't know how to draw and then, now, I see, with my own damned two eyes..." He gestures broadly at the roosting creatures. "Fucking fairytales."

He nods his chin upwards in Ellie's direction in greeting. "I'mma guess they ain't got these wherever you're from either, yeah?"

Ellie's smile grows as he talks, looking like she wants to laugh Yep, birds and cats both have a strong smell. It's helped somewhat by open air constantly blowing through the aerie, but it's still gross. Ellie prefer it strongly to the smell of rot.

Fucking fairytales. She doesn't know much about illuminated manuscripts, or anything from the middle ages, but he talks like a Rifter, and that answers a lot of questions.

Ellie shakes her head at his good catch.

"Nope, no fairytales where I'm from." She sits up on the back of the griffon to get a better look. She's dressed in local clothing, a tunic and breeches, hair tied back, her arms bare in the summery heat. She has lots of scars, and a half-sleeve tattoo runs down her right forearm.

"We've got our own shit, but nothing like these," she confirms, throwing a leg over the griffon's back and sliding off.

"Seeing them's nothing next to flying on them, though."

"Yeah? I ain't done much riding before." He thinks about it a little; it'll either be too terrifying to continue, or too exhilarating to put down. Erik doubts there will be any room for an in-between reaction to getting to ride anything as physically impressive as a griffon.

(Barring dragons, but he's pretty sure that his ass does not belong anywhere near to riding a dragon just yet. Baby steps.)

He's still got on the pants he arrived in. No shirt. Hot enough to go without and it's not like he's sparring right this second. "I'm Erik." A nod, as she slides off the griffon's back. "Somebody 'round here give lessons, or something?"

Ellie nods at him, eyes lingering on the scars -- it's all curious, nothing spicy about it. It's like she knows there's a story there and that she's already mentally working her way around to asking, but not quite yet.

"Ellie," she answers, then shrugs her shoulders.

"You're looking at her. It's my job to take care of the griffons and the stables, so yeah, I could teach you if you want."

As she rubs the griffon's neck, it gives what sounds like a deep, raspy, rumbling growl. It's actually a purr, sort of.

"They're not like horses, though. You can't just jump on one and expect it to listen."

"I don't even know the first fucking thing about horses, but I'm pretty sure that jumping on 'em and expecting 'em to listen is just about the first way you find yourself on your ass in the dirt." Anything that could survive on its own in the wilderness, left to its own devices? Worthy of consideration and respect, in his eyes.

So does Ellie, for that matter. Came here however long ago and figured out enough shit to get in charge of the entire griffon roost operation? "Got further to fall off'a one of these."

"Depends on the horse," Ellie admits. "And the training. But yeah, if you jump on a warhorse that doesn't trust you, you're actively fucked."

Ellie shrugs a little, not quite hiding her smile.

"But if a griffon lets you ride them, they won't let you fall either. Not if they can help it." Ellie sleeks her fingers along the griffon's feathers with a thoughtful smile. "These guys are tough as hell, too. Artie's taken arrows and spells and shit right along with me. He just keeps on trucking."

Her admiration for the griffons is stark, and the one she's stroking puffs himself up at the praise, clearly understanding that he's being talked up.

"They have to bond with a person before they'll let you ride them alone."

Erik watches the griffon, Artie, puff up with pride and... oh.

Oh, it is a cat with wings. Plus like a flying hunter's prey drive, he's willing to bet, and while Erik is a city kid through and through -- it takes a few hours to get from Oakland to anything like a working farm -- he understands that at least.

He looks upon the beasts in the aerie with greater appreciation. "How does bonding with them work? Like, grooming and feeding 'em and whatever 'til they decide you're cool?"

"You pretty much nailed it," Ellie says, lifting her shoulders, shooting him a half-smile.

"First you earn their trust, and then you show them you're willing to take care of them and get all the itchy places they can't, and you learn each other. Get to be friends."

Ellie strokes her fingertip along the griffon's beak.

"It does help that they're really cool."

Keep a gold chain on my neck

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