Into the DANGER ZONE

[faderifting]

WHO: All Rifters + the 7 natives who signed up
WHAT: Searching the ruins of Haven for survivors, an Inquisition crew finds something strange. And demons. It's kind of scary that the demons aren't the strange thing.
WHEN: Third week of Harvestmere, 9:41
WHERE: Haven
NOTES: We've broken rifters and rescuers (or "rescuers") into two groups. This log has an arrival comment for each group--you can start smaller subthreads beneath those rather than try to have an eight- or nine-person log, just incorporate surrounding chaos/fighting--and a third top-level set for the whole group's journey back to Skyhold

You were asleep-- deeply or fitfully, for the last time or just resting your eyes for a moment-- and then you were not. And wherever you were was not, anymore, replaced by nothing but the sensation of falling, tumbling into endless, bottomless nothing. If this were still a dream, you would wake before you hit the ground. You can't die in a dream, they say. In some worlds.

But there's no waking here, just a flare of green-white light and a jarring impact, barely softened by snow that lies a foot deep with an icy crust that cracks beneath the force of your landing. The wind is biting cold, the sun is bright, and you are not alone. Others thud to the ground nearby, as bewildered as you, and others run up who look no less confused for having their feet beneath them.

You are also not as you were: in the palm of your left hand there glows a narrow splinter of light the same sickly green as whatever brought you here. It aches, a bone-deep pain that gnaws even through all the distractions. Like that you're being attacked by monsters, some tall, spindly stick-things with too many eyes, some hunched and hooded with no eyes at all.

Welcome to Thedas!

Comments

[apostasia]

"Much as everything else in this place does," he said, blandly, whatever amusement he'd derived from his own circumstances (and the reasons for same) having since faded. "If you're quite done."

She acted out of obligation, that much was plain - he had no interest in expressing some false gratitude for something that was as obviously no desire of hers as it was no wish of his.

[fleurdesel]

If she were a petty woman she'd-

No. No she wouldn't. Contractual obligations. Her hands dropped away and she stepped back without another word. He wasn't worth the breath it would take to speak them. There were other wounded (some equally troublesome, she'd learn) and a long walk to mind. Should he yet be in pain- it wouldn't matter. She'd seen to the worst of it. He could endure the rest on his own.

She walked away.