faderift | Into the DANGER ZONE

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Into the DANGER ZONE

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!

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Her guide was eager and his steps quick; Galadriel followed at his heels, insofar as she was able while the world rocked dizzily beneath her feet. The whistle of an arrow was familiar enough that it grounded her, somewhat, but to what end? She stared at the shade before them and was still unarmed. The arrow had staggered the creature in their path. It drew itself up but made no move to pull the arrow from its neck, if it recognized it at all, and Galadriel considered her ring.

If she continued to use power, she would shortly be unable to stand, a consequence that helped no one. She did not know how many of these creatures there were, or why they were so difficult for her to dispatch, and to continue to use the ring was a dire risk.

"A blade, if you have one," Galadriel called to the archer on the rocks above her.

He was already notching another arrow as she spoke, letting it fly as she finished her sentence. It embedded itself into the demon next to the first (as it was nearly impossible to miss, from this range, thankfully enough.)

He stumbled backwards, half sliding down the rubble, half falling down it, until he skidded to a stop just in front of Galadriel, his back to her as he drew another arrow.

"Dagger - Sheath on the quiver," He said, his voice tight and quick as he drew the bow back, the demon launching itself down towards them.

His instructions were clear and Galadriel did not hesitate to draw the blade from his back. Her skill was not in swords, nor daggers, but she would not be helpless and unarmed. With this, at least, she could be of assistance.

The archer was quick and his shots landed sharply against the creature's hide. For as strange as these things were, little more than bone and thin-stretched hide atop it, they did not frighten her. The shade moved with speed, its arms stretched high, the sharpness of its claws all but glittering in the light.

Galadriel lunged beneath the arc of its arms, the short blade gripped tightly in her unmarked hand. Up close, these creatures were no more pleasant than afar; it stank of violence and death, to be near it was to feel how it weakened the living. She drove the blade into its chest as her anger rose. As unsteady as she was, this was a familiar rage and it gave her focus.

"Lómë heca!"

The command was steely and the creature shrieked as the blade in her hand carried her will. Were she uninjured, it would have burst into flame, scattered as ashes on the wind, but the searing force of her power refused her command. She twisted the dagger as it flailed. There was a snap of bone and hide as she pushed it higher and, as it swiped its claws across her shoulders, she tore the blade free.

It sagged, stunned by the assault and still smoldering from the wound in its chest. She had no doubt the archer would end it before it recovered.

She took the blade, and Gavin thought she might as well have been made of lightning - streaking forward as her golden hair took up the light, arcing behind her as she struck. The language was like nothing he ever heard, but he could feel the power behind it, the hair raising on the back of his neck.

The creature staggered, and Gavin thought for sure it must be dead - only finally shaking off his reverie when he realised that - in fact - it wasn't, and he forced himself to draw another arrow, draw, and fire - somehow managing to have it hit the creature square in the smouldering wound that Galadriel had left.

With a stomach curdling scream the creature broke apart into green wisps of fade, destroyed.

His heart restarted, thumping painfully and he had no idea if it was from fear, or awe, or both. "Who are you?" He finally managed to ask aloud.

Galadriel turned, twisted at the waist and looked back at him. It was a challenge to catch her breath, and her weakness was shored up by little more than the rigid force of righteous fury, but she remained remarkably unaffected by combat. Indeed, despite the damage to her white gown, the fabric refused to wick any of the blood that gradually rose across her shoulders. For all it's flailing, the demon hadn't managed to clip a single strand of her hair.

She was perplexed as his question registered and it showed across her face. While he didn't look like any elf she'd ever met, surely he knew? She had dwelt in the mortal realm since the first rising of dawn. He was Morquendi, certainly, but--was she so far from home?

"Im Galadriel, Rhîn o Lórien. Sindarin na' hennio?"

It wasn't quite as musical as what she'd shouted, and these words lacked the force of her power, but the language was still flowing and easy. If he did not understand then she was very far from home, farther than she could truly comprehend.

The language was beautiful - her voice like a deep river current - but the words was completely unintelligible to him. He shook his head sadly, trying to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry," He replied, with a weight that made it all too clear that he meant it. "But I don't understand." It didn't sound anything like Dalish, or any other language he heard, and even though these words lacked the raw power behind the ones he'd heard before, it was still obviously the same language.

Carefully, cautiously, he stepped forward - his skin feeling like it might shiver and fall off, either from fear, or awe, or both. Slowly he put his hand out, low, the palm up, the thumb out. An offering.

"We shouldn't stay here. Come with me?"

He had no idea what she was, but getting her away from the rift... Whatever, or whoever, she might be, it seemed a prudent idea.

"You need not apologize," Galadriel answered. She would have shaken her head, had her disorientation been less. As it was, simply looking down at his hand was a challenge. His lack of understanding was...deeply troubling to her, but it was no fault of his. She placed her hand in his, though the dagger remained in her other, and the fabric of her sleeve pooled around his wrist. The fabric was soft, warm, gossamer, and utterly uncanny.

"I am Galadriel, Lady of Lórien," she repeated and cast a look around them. The battle was progressing swiftly, there were many competent warriors here, but retreat was still her best option. "Please, lead the way. I am unsteady but I shall follow."

He trusted the others to finish off the demons, but he wasn't a front range fighter. His best chance of helping was to get back and out of the thick of it, and that also seemed the best plan for the Lady, demon or no.

Her hand certainly didn't feel demonic, warm in his as he clasped his fingers around hers - firm but gentle, as if he was gripping porcelain.

"I won't let you fall," He promised, blushing slightly with the vehemence of his promise, the strange soft fabric grazing his wrist as he gently pulled, leading her away from the rift and back toward the rocks - to the left, and behind where the main fight lay. A clear line of sight for his bow, but the demons would have to risk much more treacherous ground to get at them.

His assurance was firm, as was his grip, and Galadriel had no doubt that he would keep his promise. They moved from the field of battle to a rise littered with large rocks. It was not an unassailable vantage point, but it was far enough from the thick of battle that they were unlikely to be overwhelmed, if they were noticed at all.

"Tell me, what is your name?"

As soon as they were up there, and Gavin was relatively assured that he wasn't about to Die and neither was she, he swung his bow out and notched an arrow - using his time to pick his targets much more carefully than he had been in the thick of things.

"Gavin, your--" He faltered, there. Your Worship? Your grace? She had called herself a Lady, which implied something similar to nobility (or, indeed, god-hood, though nothing in her name resembled any of the gods he was familiar with). Unfortunately, he had no idea what title he was supposed to be using, so after fumbling it, he merely ended with: "Lady."

Your Lady. Good job, there, Gavin.

"Ah - of clan Ashara. Or, well, the Inquisition, now, I suppose."

"Gavín?" The question was amused, perhaps too amused for the nature of the situation, but there was no mocking in her smile. The way she said his name wasn't nearly how he'd pronounced it, though all the letters were still there. She waited a moment and simply nodded.

She marked his name and his clan, but she knew neither. He was a skilled archer and the battle progressed quickly. The creatures were terrible and twisted, new to her but not entirely unlike the things she'd seen before. None escaped and, for that if nothing else, Galadriel was gladdened. As she waited, her disorientation settled into a sense of disquiet. It was not gone but it did not plague her as it had.

"What are these things?" she asked as she watched another fall, a terrible shriek resounding from the cage of its ribs.

It was the oddest way he had ever heard his name said and - and the most incredibly beautiful. He blinked at her, and then quickly swallowed. "N-no, just Gavin," he said, his own name now sounding incredibly vulgar to his own ears. He winced.

At her question he let another arrow fly, and drew a fresh one.

"Demons. From the- from the fade."

He looked up at her, brows furrowing. "Do you really-- how would you not know that?"

"Demons?" she asked reflexively, as though he'd named them rabbits or something equally odd. She cast a glance back at the last remnants of the shades and saw nothing that would merit the title Demon, but the question wasn't one she expected an answer for.

"I have never seen one," Galadriel said, as easily as he'd given his answer. She turned her attention back on him, confused but no longer dazed. "Where is the Fade? Are we upon its borders?"

She was not so stable that she could sense darkness at a distance. If she remained this weak, they would need to retreat before another company of the creatures appeared.

Doubt flickered across his face, and a real kind of fear set in. She was obviously a mage. How could she not know about the Fade...?

"I-- We're always near the Fade," He said, as if unsure himself. "The demons live there, like spirits, and--" But he cut off, really feeling out of his depth. "I'm not who you should be talking to about it. I'm not a mage, I don't know enough-- Where are you from?" He finally asks, bewildered, though the question is posed almost more to himself than to her.

"Lothlorien, it lies north-west of Rauros on the Anduin," Galadriel said and, despite her answer, his bewildered expression maintained. It was uncommon for elves to be unaware of Lórien, but not unheard of. To be baffled, even with that description, however, was a rare thing.

"I come from Middle-earth," she hazarded gently. If she were truly afar, in lands so distant that the elves knew neither Lothlorien nor the Anduin, perhaps they would know the wastes that bordered Gondor and the Sea of Rhun. "West of the black land and the fortress of the Dark Lord?"

She so obviously was completely lost that a great sadness washed over him then, pulling his lips and brows down into an expression of hopeless sympathy. "I... I'm sorry, but I've never heard of any of those places. Or any creature known as the Dark Lord. You're in the Hinterlands, my lady, in the Kingdom of Ferelden, in Thedas. I- I wish I could tell you I've ever heard of your homeland, but I--"

But I'm not sure it even exists.

He swallowed and looked back toward the rift, pointing at it.

"That- where you came from. That leads to the Fade, to the other world beside ours. When you dream, that is where you are. It's not-- mortals can't go there, except in dreams." He turned back to her, looking nervous. "Are you sure you aren't--- are you sure you aren't a spirit...?"

His pity was so sincere and complete that Galadriel could not find it in her to refuse him. That he had never heard of the Dark Lord was a blessing, but the names he provided were as unfamiliar to her as her lands to him. For a moment, Galadriel was worried and, admittedly, felt a pang of fear. To be so distant from her lands, from where she was needed...she couldn't conceive of it, not truly.

He tried to explain, about the land of dreams, and though she followed his gestures she was distracted. If she had not been, perhaps, she would have reconsidered her words before she answered him.

"I am neither mortal nor do I dream," Galadriel replied and sounded distant as she stared at the rift. Her mind moved to his last question, so laced with nervousness and gentle suggestion that it gave her pause. She looked back at him and regretted how she'd let her attention wander; he had saved her life, he deserved better than half her regard.

"I have always had a body," she said gently and confidently, as though that was the sort of thing one assured others of. "I have known those who did not, but I am not from their lands."

"No, it seems I am simply very far from home, but to what end? That I do not know."

Gavin paled as she spoke, his ears drooping. I am neither mortal, nor do I dream. He had no idea what that meant. Or rather, he did, all too keenly, and suddenly felt very, very small.

The always having a body part was, at least, comforting. He hoped.

"I wish I could tell you," Gavin offered, his voice quiet. "But I - I've never seen anyone like you, or heard of them, save perhaps in legends."

Or you know. Religious dogma. But you couldn't exactly come out and ask someone if they were a god.

Galadriel's frown was mild, but disconcerted. He was elven. True, the elves of Aman were a rarity of sorts, and if this land was really so far that they knew neither the dark lord nor the shadowed lands, they would not have met any of the Noldor. To have heard of them in legend was not...unimaginable, but it was not likely.

This was terribly confusing, both for herself and for him.

At once she realized she had put a question to him, one she had not intended to, and her expression softened with apology.

"I am sorry," Galadriel said. "I did not expect you to know why I am here, you have already told me more than I expected. Thank you."

She paused, then, and weighed the value in questioning him further. He had done her a great service, and the battle had ended, but she did not know if the danger had truly passed. If it had not, she could be wasting precious time. If it had...she greatly desired answers and, unfortunately, he was the only person she could ask at the moment.

"How do you not know another elf? Are you not an elf, also? Did you not say you are of the clan Ashara?"

"Ah - yes, I'm one of the People," He said, flushing slightly that she would even have to ask, but then again - how many elves were like her. "But I... I'm very mortal, I'm afraid. As are the rest of my people. They tell stories that the Ancient Elves were immortal, but I always assumed that was just- well. Stories." The flush deepened slightly, and he turned his attention out around them, as if half hoping that a demon would appear and stop him from feeling very suddenly lesser.

"I thought for a moment you were Mythal," He admitted, feeling absolutely ridiculous. "Come out of the Fade to... to help us. With Corypheus, and the sky."

Mythal?

His admission seemed to discomfort him, though Galadriel had no idea why. It was troubling that he was mortal, yes, but the fact that he had never met an immortal elf...that concerned her. That the immortality of the elves was unknown to him except in legend, that was something she would have to investigate.

Not now, however. She was disoriented, their company had just been in mortal peril, and she would trouble him no more with questions.

"I know not the darkness you face, but if it is within my power to aid you, I will see it done." She pressed her hand over her heart and, for a moment, hazarded a bow to him. "You have helped save my life today and I thank you, Gavín of Ashara. I am in your debt."

That made him flush for an entirely different reason, his ears turning bright red. Thanking him, of all people--

"No! No, no, you owe me no debt, none. I -- I am most honoured - truly humbled - that is- It's my job, I'm supposed to-" The words just kind of tumbled out onto each other, jumbling together, making it worse as he went. Finally, as red as a tomato, he just put a hand over his mouth to stop himself, and looked away. "I -- Follow me, I think you should come talk to a few people."

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Into the DANGER ZONE

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Mouse over for Elvish translations.

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