You pushed me this far, now I'm pushing you the rest of the way [open]

[wearyallalone]

WHO: Gela, Vanya, TBD
WHAT: They’re home and everything is fine.
WHEN: Now
WHERE: The ferry (to start)
NOTES: Descriptions of the aftermath of mistreatment and malnourishment, probable trauma responses. (More warnings to be added later if needed.)

The Vanya Orlov who is currently confronting the ferryman is notably thinner and much dirtier than the one currently inside the Gallows. His clothes are unidentifiable, whatever they once looked like lost in filth and disrepair; the jut of his shoulders and hips is evident beneath them. An ill-kempt beard obscures his jaw line. He has no weapons or armor, and the remains of his boots are doing almost nothing to keep his feet dry at this point. Gela is behind him and listing to one side; she’s just as dirty, as pinched in the face as he is, matted hair hanging limply over her shoulders, down her back. She’s used a strip of skirt fabric to keep it back from her face.

Whatever else the pair of them has lost, Vanya seems to well and truly lost his temper. It’s unlikely anyone in Riftwatch has ever heard him raise his voice before, and it’s a bit raw when he does now.

“If we had a sending crystal, I would have called for help weeks ago, do either of us look like we were out on a planned mission?” For all he’s undernourished, he’s still got his height and decades of martial training; posture can at least partly make up for the sorry picture he knows he makes otherwise. “If you would contact Commander Flint or Captain Rowntree, I think they would be exceedingly interested in what we have to say. It’s a matter of life and death, and it’s urgent, and I am not trying to invade anything while unarmed and nearly barefoot, for the love of the Maker.”

“Please,” Gela adds, tired, imploring. She’s too exhausted to actually cry but the wobbling lower lip and fine tremor in her hands is certainly selling it, threatening some sort of imminent meltdown. “You won’t come to any trouble, we’ll explain everything to them when we arrive but we need to get there now.”

[Open to anyone not actively suspected of being a demon who could be sent out to deal with the disturbance.]

Comments

[portalling]

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” said offhand to Florent with a flash of real gratitude in it. There’ll be a time to worry about trying to carve out a better impression with the elf, but that isn’t today’s priority. And he’s turning back to Gela, sorting through the questions he wants to ask her, and— instead winds up staring as she glugs down the entire pitcher of water.

Well. That makes sense.

Strange waits for her to finish, her gasping breath after the pitcher’s empty. He clears his throat.

“I don’t hear any fluid in your lungs. I don’t think you’re ill as such. You mostly seem physically weak, which is nothing some food and water and rest won’t fix. I’m sorry to ask, Gela, but: is there anything else pressing we might need to know? Anything about the tower? Or any unseen hurts you’ve suffered, concussions or such? Otherwise,” Strange shoots Florent another look, trying to make this more collaborative than commanding,

“I think our plan should just be to get her some food, some clean clothes, and a hot bath. I can help get a hold of whichever.”