faderift | III. SEMI-CLOSED.

Entry tags:

III. SEMI-CLOSED.

WHO: Alistair; Gavin; Hercules Hansen; Malcolm Reynolds; Martel; Sabine
WHAT: When a small team go out to close a rift on the frozen river, Sabine catches an errant ~~pain laser~~ shard.
WHEN: Now's good?
WHERE: Emprise du Lion
NOTES: Demon violence, and a rude elf.

It's the first time Sabine's seen one of these things up close without immediately running away.

The rift twists several feet in the air, an unsettling green-tinged distortion, and tongues of brighter emerald magic touches the thickly frozen surface of the river. Occasionally, these touches seem to strike the ice with the force of a lightning strike, demons erupting out of nowhere, shrieking and maddened and twisted by the overwhelming sensory input of the waking world.

In the background, a snoufleur pays no attention.

It's hard to walk, let alone fight. The three shades that remain seem to glide along the craggy ice with ease, and the heated run off from the rage demon in the midst of it all makes slush out of the ice in the paths it cuts, steaming pillowing off its molten hide like smoke. Leather scrapes ice as Sabine skids to her knees, aiming her arrow towards the rage demon, and firing. She is dressed more for battle than cold weather, her nose and the tips of her long ears pink, her fingers bare as they nimbly take another feathered end of an arrow from her quiver, lining it up again.

They're winning, slowly. Two disintegrated demons mark the spot they perished on the ice, and the shriek of another conveys imminent death.

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He don't much like the green thing in his hand on a good day. Likes it a whole lot less when there's a damn tear in the air spitt'n out demons and other strange bullshit. But a fight's a fight and that's one thing him and Jayne can handle well 'nuf. Slow go'n though, with how more demons keep wander'n about. Popp'n up where they ain't wanted.

Mal gives another barked order and Jayne rushes the nearest shade, he tries to steady himself against the ice with the butt of his spear before hiking it up, bracing his legs against the slush, and hurling it point first at the second. Rage demons burn, he wants that damn spear back, he's not gonna toss it at that damn thing.

On the other side of the ice - the sickly green glowing rift between them - is the other elf - tucked in under a tree, one eye squinting as he lined up his next shot. Breathe in, breathe out -

The arrow released in the pause between breaths, streaking out from his high ground toward the Rage demon. Before it had even slammed into its back, he was already drawing the next arrow.

Herc's gritting his teeth as he rounds on a fear demon, Striker Eureka twisting in his hand as he strikes delivers a brutal downward strike, before slamming the viciously textured surface of his shield into the demon, before Max is tearing into it the way mabari love to do.

"Hey, come on now," he goads the demons, battering the hilt of his sword against his shield to make a bit of a racket, stir 'em up, bring him his way. "You don't want to mess with that lot. Come here, mate."

His sword isn't the best against rage demons, but the fire runes in it are going to keep it from being damaged, and the shield'll do him some favours there, as well, but he's not going to leave a man alone with a blob of fire in that kinda proximity.

Despite having a marked preference for Herc over Mal on principle, Martel does find some space in the back of his mind (whatever's not currently taken up trying to disrupt the rift, sword in one hand and the other lit up in what he will absolutely never accept referring to as a pain laser) to repeat mate in silent incredulity. His mouth doesn't form the word, set in a thin line of concentration as his connection is severed and he spins abruptly out of the demon's path, agile and almost elegant in how he brings his sword around, just -

'Mate'.

Martel gives himself up for a hopeless snob. The man is a Grey Warden, an Order he finds fascinating since he's heard of them; he can call the demon whatever he damned well likes.

On the other side of the rift, Alistair is currently losing his footing—agile, elegant, those sound made-up, please spell and define—on his way to head off a shade that's peeling off in Gavin's general direction. But he falls like someone who's used to falling, who's gotten good at it: his feet slip out from under him with little warning, but his knees have barely touched the ice before he's grabbing his sword back up off the ice and walking his way out of the kneel.

The shade's not heading for Gavin, not really, not yet; it's just closer than Alistair likes things to get to ranged fighters, and when he's caught up to it he unceremoniously hits it in its vaguely face-like thing with his shield. There's a ripple of white light. Not enough to destroy the thing at once, but enough to at least make the polite suggestion that it should stop existing soon, please.

Sabine's arrow buries in the molten flesh of the rage demon, and there are three more thuds of arrows landing in quick succession, one after the other in an unintentional rhythm, from her bow and Gavin's. Perhaps it's already weakened by the cold, but the rage demon's reign of terror is slowed to a halt, half-melted down into the ice and reaching a clawed, twisted hand back to rake over where the arrow bolts stick like porcupine spines, splintering wood without regard to injury or pain.

The rift suddenly convulses under Martel's manipulation, a wave of sickly green light that seems to slam into the demons only, the rage demon giving a guttural howl when it fumbles over its own effort to grow itself back to full height, power dwindling.

Getting to her feet, Sabine grins once, before moving; her steps are light on the ice, managing not to slip so much as to tumble as she goes to find a better angle to cover Martel's back. Everyone is busy, and it might take another glance to notice the sudden, snake-quick dart of green light that shoots out from the rift in the air, slamming into the elf like a lightning strike.

She notices it, naturally. The sound she makes is more like the wind is knocked out of her as she goes crashing to the ice, her bow knocked from her hand and spinning and skidding off away from her.

Edited (edit typooos) 2016-02-21 05:13 (UTC)

He was distracted by the shade - crawling towards him as he notched another arrow - the first slamming into place, a little too close to Alistair, and he tried to take his time with the second -

But it flew wide.

Because as he aimed, his eyes shifted past the Shade and caught the motion of an elf, collapsing to the ground--

"Sabine!" He was jumping - well, falling, really - out of his sniping place and tumbling through the snow toward her.

Spiked boots. He'd need spiked boots next time he fought on the ice. He cracked out another order to Jayne and hauled ass to the downed shade, cutting at it's throat with his shortsword while he retrieves his spear that jutted comically from it's side. What might be it's side.

He'd hit the damn thing, that was what mattered.

As per his order Jayne doubled back on the field, heading to offer cover to the tiny elves and their pointy arrows. They lose their ranged fighters it'll be a a lot more difficult. Given room and time, Mal snapped his hand into the air and tried that weird pull push bullshit with his pain lazer.

His.

Whatever the shit it was. Felt fit to melt, but it connected to the crackling rift to take up the line lost when Ser Fuckstick (Martel, he'd learned, and he really hadn't cared) spun away.

"Make yourself useful," he urges Max, and the dog almost seems to nod, charging off to Sabine (headbutting a demon - helpfully - in Herc's direction as he goes) and snatching up her bow with his teeth. The plus sides: she has her bow back. The downside: it's covered in mabari drool and maybe some demon gore.
Max whines at Sabine and Gavin, attempting to be helpful, or concerned (or both) before he bounds off to help Alistair suggesting that Shade goes away. The mabari's own suggestions come in the form of very expressive bites.

Herc's just about managed to finish off his demon, and another, and he's just waiting for something else to happen and come at him, as he circles about Mal. Give the man a chance to focus on closing the rift, and then they can see to making sure Sabine's all right.

The sight of the arcing light from the rift and Sabine's muffled thump of a cry nearly break Martel's concentration a second time, a hesitation as he raises a hand - that he wants to go to her first is as plain as the moment when he realises there's no fucking point if this rift doesn't close and she gets eaten by a goddamned demon. There are two other people here to look to her who he can elbow out of his way when this is done, and his jaw sets; Ser Fuckstick back in action, using his sword as something on which to brace himself as the effort takes a toll.

If absolutely nothing else about this situation is good, Sabine's trouble and Gavin's quick rush to help her keeps Alistair from giving anyone a hard time about how close they might or might not have come to hitting him with any arrows. He jerks his head around to look but only catches a glimpse before the instinct telling him to make sure no one he likes has died is pushed aside by the training telling him to keep fighting now and count bodies later.

That glimpse is still long enough for the shade to get a swipe in while his shield is down, but then there's Max. Good dog. The shade isn't actually down when Alistair turns away from it, but it's close enough to it for him to have faith in the mabari to finish the job while he moves between Martel and the shrinking remains of the rage demon. Hercules has Mal. Gavin has Sabine. Alistair takes another second to make sure everyone is in fact alive, like he couldn't before, and then focuses on beating the demon back, far enough away that when Alistair burst with white light--not sure about holy, but smite is pretty accurate--Martel and his weird Rifter whateverness aren't caught in the blast radius.

Disoriented, Sabine lifts her head to peer up at the mabari holding her bow in its mouth, and she struggles up onto her knees to take it just as much out of reflex as anything else. The sound of demons snarling, and in some cases exploding, all seem a little like background noise as she looks down at where her free hand is clawed over her arm.

Whatever she's hiding beneath her palm twinges enough for her to bare her teeth, kneeling on the ice, rather than engaging in other logical activities like standing. Her eyes snap open, taking in the sight of the Dalish archer running for her.

It's then that she lifts her hand. The leather of her sleeve is neatly sliced, almost singed, and the meagre glimmer of green light peeks through where it shines out from somewhere middle on her forearm, close to her wrist.

She flinches, head ducking as the rift continues to convulse under onslaughts, making the ice ripple with green and black in a wide circle around it. Every part of her has forgotten her new found instinct to join in the battle and fight monsters, and the desire to run, instead, is overwhelming. Caught in the middle of these two urges, she clumsily scrabbles to get up, feet sliding on the ice, all the while trying to keep a grip on her arm.

Which also mean she can't quite forego any helping hands, even if she wants to, as receptive to assistance as a forest predator with its leg caught in a trap.

Reach through and pull, the Lady'd said. He reaches and a part of him actually knows how that feels-

It hurts.

It hurts a lot but that must mean it's work'n. Line a green shine crackling, connecting his hand to the damn rift float'n in the middle of the sky. Reach through and pull it back on itself. Like-

Turn'n a pocket inside out.

But with a creepy magic hand. Right. Reach and pull. Reach and pull. He reaches- the band of light connect'n his hand to that mess snaps and spits like a damn snake- and he pulls.

He can't exactly keep his balance - skidding across the ice as he races toward her, arms out as he slams into the ground and gets up again to approach a little more cautiously.

He sees the green light but barely registers it - too immediately concerned as he reaches out to help her up, planting his feet to give them both support.

"Sabine, are you hurt?" He asks, his voice too loud over the sound of the battle, even as the rift crackles hotly with green light.

"Come on," Herc murmurs, and he's not sure who or what he's talking to. The rift, hoping it'll close. Gavin, hoping he gets to Sabine quick smart and that she's all right, or maybe Max. Maybe he's just talking to himself, flame enveloping Striker Eureka's blade as he lays into a terror. Feints might not be all that necessary fighting a demon, rather than another warrior with a sword, but damn if he doesn't find it effective, the mislead and the quick re-direction of energy to clatter his sword into the thing. They're exchanging blow pretty evenly, him and this demon, but the focus is still on him, and that's not so bad.

Max, meanwhile, is loping back towards Sabine as well, lurking as a secondary guardian. Good - except Herc just took a hard strike across his face, slashing across his brow.

"How's closing that thing going?" he calls out, to Mal and Martel both. Doesn't need to let them know its urgent, they aren't stupid, but he'd like to get an idea of how many more demons they might need to deal with spawning up outta the ground, seemed like, as he blinks away the sting of blood from his eyes.

Martel doesn't give him an answer - but the tonal shift of the connection from shard to rift speaks for itself to those who have a bit of practise, now, at this business of closing the fucking things. It bursts loud and sudden into nothing and he staggers backward, dropping his hand into the grip of the other and gritting his teeth where he might have sworn.

A moment later he spins on his heel and marches toward Sabine, brushing Gavin aside not roughly but without so much as a by your leave to see her uninjured for himself.

Or not, as the case may be. A shard. He does swear, this time, under his breath.

The sudden quiet is disconcerting, like a plunge underwater—it's Alistair's first rift, and for a moment gaping at the clear, empty air where the tear had been supersedes all other concerns, like checking that Hercules doesn't still need assistance or worrying about Sabine's thrashing and growing audience.

Just for a moment.

A glance around confirms the demons are as dead and gone as they ought to be. Sabine needs a closer look, and he treads and slips his way across the ice until he's near enough to catch a glimpse of green light from her wrist.

"Maker's breath," he contributes usefully. He doesn't come closer than he is, which is still a few yards away, out of both courtesy and helplessness. He doesn't want to crowd her. He isn't sure what he could do other than crowd her.

Sabine is a handful, not quite struggling against Gavin so much as just being a difficult quality to manage as she tries to get her balance under her, whacking him in the face with a thick red braid at least once and then twisting away once she's fairly sure she can stand, still undecided about whether she should give in to instinct and flee.

Instead-- "Non," she replies, nearly at a snarl, but then the lake is silent.

No more demon shrieks, or that strange hum and throb and whine of the tear in reality, green light gone. She looks towards where the rift used to be, eyes big, and then down at her arm, reluctantly pulling her hand away to see that flicker of green light through the slice taken out of her sleeve. Still there.

Alistair's useful contribution gets a sharp glance, remembering herself, and Sabine immediately claps a hand back over her wrist, mouth pinched tight. "Mon tabarnak j'vais te décalisser la yeule calice," is a savage, rapid-fire stream of Orlesian, and she stamps a boot heel down against the ice in a fit. She looks up at Martel, and complains; "It fucking stings."

Telling everyone not to tell anyone seems like not the way to go.

He stumbles backward as he's wrenched away, and doesn't try again. Instead, he carefully extracts a red hair from between his lips, and brushes it off into the snow.

"At least the rift is closed?" He points out, just as helpful as Alistair, because to be fair he knows nothing about the shards beyond the fact that they weren't fatal, and despite the cursed Orlesian that he didn't understand, she seems otherwise unharmed.

He thinks.

(He is not a doctor.)

Last bastard of a demon down, courtesy of a bit of help from Max and a final strike with his blade. He's quick to turn towards Sabine and the people gathering around her. Angry, Orlesian - well, she's alive and feisty, at least.

"Do you need a medic?" Herc asks as he moves towards all the rest, blood still helping stinging his eye and forcing him to keep it closed. Only a small gash, really, but it's the location that's the real pain. He's not all the way over to them, hasn't seen the shard, and people standing about not doing much but looking aghast isn't clearing much of this up for him. He's never seen someone get hit by a shard for that matter, either.

Jayne, well. Jayne does what Jayne does- runs around to clear the field, make sure what all's down stays down. Were there people with armor and things to pick over, Mal'd start that up to but everyone's huddl'n up over li'l miss archer and he don't see much reason to not walk over his own self. Mal ambles, peers at her arm, at her, and promptly offers the only appropriate help a non healer can give.

He unhooks a flask from his belt and offers it over. "Makes it hurt less."

All good bog whiskey tends to make everything hurt less.

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III. SEMI-CLOSED.

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can Alistair also call the demon whatever he damned well likes, can he call it Pookie

don't make the demons angry alistair

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hi guys sorry guys

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