OPEN: turn off the lights and I'll glow

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters & characters in Emprise du Lion
WHAT: More people falling on ice than usual, this time with demons, templars, and bonus nighttime
WHEN: Guardian 23
WHERE: Emprise du Lion
NOTES: This month, the arrival log is open to all.

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 onto freezing stone or ice that is twice as cold and just as hard. When your breath returns and the light's after-image fades from your eyes you will find yourself beneath a dark sky, a full moon straining to be seen through intermittent clouds, and a second moon low on the horizon. Its light reflects off snow to add an eerie ambient glow to the darkness, made stranger by the sickly green tint added by the fluttery menacing shape of the rift hanging in mid-air. Be careful getting up: you are at the edge of a cliff, what was once a waterfall now frozen solid in a massive curling sheet of icicles. The drop to the bottom is several stories, surely a deadly fall even without the huge humps and spikes of ice and snow that litter the ground where splash and spray were petrified.

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 the fact 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. Some are entirely different but perhaps more monstrous for it: men and women in heavy, gleaming armor, all of them with chunks of red crystal protruding out in a way you soon realize indicates it is actually growing out of their skin. Their eyes are a dull red, hollow and empty, and they attack with a single-minded determination.

Luckily, you are not on your own. Around you others are waking up, equally confused, with the same green lights flaring from their hands. There is stuff scattered about, like the contents of someone's life exploded through the rift with them: a picnic table and benches upended, metal camp furniture flung about, clothes and utensils, bits of wood and canvas and mattress littering the ground. Even better, you are not far from a path leading toward an Inquisition camp, and noise travels far in this terrain, echoing up canyons and off cliffsides, carried by the chill night wind. Help is on its way; just last until it arrives.

Comments

[thelastking]

The other sword he acquired was dented, brittle and prone to break soon. He managed to snatch that blade off of a hurlock who succumbed to a gruesome fate earlier. This new blade he found seemed unspoiled by damage but the silver blade was coated in blackened blood. Clearly this sword belonged to one of the Inquisition's allies, a fallen brethren.

Aragorn narrowly avoided getting cleaved by some axe-wielding fiend and slid across the ice towards the fallen sword. He snatched it up by its clean hilt and swiped at a few genlocks who attacked with axes and spears. Hastily the ranger made his way back to the archer with a small legion of angry darkspawns giving chase.

"Finally, a proper sword." Aragorn said as he whirled around to stab a hurlock through the gut. He quickly backed away once the blood spewed forth.

[middle_of_calibrating]

"Fantastic. I'm almost out of arrows." He says it in such a chipper voice, but it's clear that Garris is being sarcastically enthusiastic. And there still wasn't any sign of anyone being done with their own messes to come as back-up.

It's at that time that Garris pulls something from his belt. "Hope you're good at retreating as you are retrieving swords. I'd rather not try to face this head on with only a dagger." That being said he chucks the spherical item at one of the hurlocks and immediately the area blasts into a cloud of black smoke. Grabbing onto the man's arm he gives it a push to get him moving before taking out into a run back towards the other troops.

[thelastking]

Once the black smoke billowed forth, Aragorn knew what this was. They needed to retreat. With a force this large marching towards them, neither he or the archer could possibly hope to survive. There was just too many darkspawns.

The slight shove was all Aragorn needed to prompt him into a sprint. He followed the archer not by sight but by sound. He could hear him slinking about within the smoke while the monsters shuffled about aimlessly. Aragorn kept up with the man and followed him away from the chaos.

[middle_of_calibrating]

They were at the very edge of the smoke cloud so it wasn't long before it was easier to see each other. With the wind it wouldn't be long before the cloud dispursed, but by then the two of them should have had a decent heads start.

"You got a name? Calling you 'hey you' or 'rifter' isn't going to help much," he calls back over his shoulder, loud even for the man to hear him, but hopefully not enough to attract the Darkspawn. Not that it mattered too much since up ahead he could hear some of their troops shouting. Whether it was because they were fighting or simply searching would yet to be seen.

[thelastking]

The question made Aragorn pause.

Just how should he answer this man? For years, Aragorn lived in fear of the Great Eye of Sauron and donned so many different aliases since birth. To the Elves of Middle-Earth, he was Estel. To the menfolk of Gondor, he was Thorongil. To the Shirelings and the men of Bree, he was either Longshanks or simply Strider. To the future he has yet to claim, this man was Elessar Telcontar the High King of Gondor and Arnor. Aragorn debated even answering the archer at all as they fled from the Darkspawns. However, in the end Aragorn figured he might as well answer him.

"Aragorn." He answered loud enough to be heard over roar of the Darkspawns. There's no need for aliases here. At least not yet.

[middle_of_calibrating]

Judging by how long it was taking for an answer he was getting ready to just be calling the man 'Riffraff' or some other sort of name. Thankfully he wasn't going to need to do that, raising a brow when Aragorn finally answered.

"Garris," he calls back, briefly looking over his shoulder as he does so, before focusing on his running. He's got no issues giving out his own name.

[thelastking]

Aragorn acknowledged that it took him far too long to state his name but he didn't want to explain his hesitance. Instead, he simply said the following. "I had many names over the long years but Aragorn is indeed my true name." He stated with a bare hint of warmth in his tone. So used to being called 'Estel' and 'Strider', Aragorn felt a tad glad to just don his true name rather than just another alias.

"Where are you from, Garris?" He asked suddenly once the two of them managed to outrun their pursuers. The darkspawned had turned back a few moments ago to rejoin the rest of their legion. Aragorn guessed their thirst for bloodshed wasn't strong enough to will them any further when there's dozen of other men to slay.

"Do you know of this land?"

Funny, I'm watching 2 Towers right now.

[middle_of_calibrating]

"You just came through a portal and thrown into another world. Honestly you can call yourself whatever suits you," he says, a little breathless, slowing down a bit to a walk now that nothing was hot on their tail. He takes a moment to talk to one of the other men, explaining the situation before turning back to Aragorn.

"No, place you would know of, but I'm from a place called the Free Marches. A land north of here. As for here... we're in Emprise du Lion. As you can see it's a frozen place of hell momentarily."