CLOSED: Drakonis Rifter Arrival

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters & Solas
WHAT: Arrivals and returns
WHEN: Drakonis 20
WHERE: The Dales
NOTES: This log is slightly backdated and closed to new rifters and Solas. However, it is safe to assume that everyone (a) survives and (b) is led by Solas to Skyhold by Drakonis 25, so you're free to make new logs and begin playing at Skyhold when you're ready to do so.

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 cold dirt and long grass. When your breath returns and the light's after-image fades from your eyes you will find yourself beneath a canopy of trees, illuminated deep green by moonlight in the distance and brighter green by the crystalline tear in reality hanging suspended above you.

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. Surrounding you and the rift through which you arrived is a circle of six ghostly, humanoid figures, shifting colors in the dark like iridescent gems and throwing fire, ice, and bursts of physical force at whomever catches their attention.

Luckily, you are not on your own. Around you others are rising from the ground, equally confused, with the same green lights flaring from their hands. And not far is a lone figure, coming to help.

Comments

[singularwill]

"No? Interesting. Then you will miss much, I'm afraid. The Fade is a marvellous sight to behold."

Thranduil lay his hand down, an something shimmered across it, a magic, and Solas somehow managed to keep his face impassive, as the scars, and the shard was revealed.

But it was the magic that intrigued him, rather than the scars. He said nothing about either.

He placed his other hand upon the elf's, and it began to glow - the bright green of the rift, first, and then pale blue of healing magic. Once he was done, he released his hand. "No pardon required. That should keep its power in check, for now. And the pain at bay. If it requires further attention, you need only ask."

[rowancrowned]

He inspected his hand, front and back, and found it to his satisfaction, the glamour shivering into place once more. Thranduil appreciated Solas' politeness, and spoke as he returned his hand to his glove. For some odd reason, it was colder here, despite the level of the snow not seeming quite as high as that in his lands, nor the wind any sharper.

"You have my thanks. You are a healer? This affliction- what is it, and why does it possess power?"

For his knowledge, and for protection of his son, also wounded so.

[singularwill]

"I am a Mage, and have studied some of the healing magics, yes," Solas said, pulling his own clothes back into place before facing the elf.

"But I would not go so far as to call myself a healer. This particular - affliction, as you call it - is no ordinary disease, or magic. It is part of an object known only as the Anchor, the only key able to control the Rifts. Or to close the Breach. It is - an ancient thing, brought into this world by an evil known now only by Corypheus. The Anchor- is not evil in itself, as far as I believe, but it was powerful. Whole, only a bearer of immense power could wield it. It slowly ate at the woman who bore it, until finally, drawing upon it to close the breach, it slew her."

He paused, then, the gravity of the story stripping his pleasant manner and leaving someone far older, far more tired, in its place. Then that vision was gone, and Solas offered a sympathetic smile.

"I could not say, how powerful it is, in its current form. Other than that I had thought it destroyed, so obviously it is more powerful than I had originally imagined."

[rowancrowned]

He had patience, a virtue tended and nurtured through his life. Utterly necessary, especially when dealing with mortals. Compartmentalize, organize, address the worst problem first and then work backwards.

“That,” he said, gesturing with a nod of his head. “That is the breach? What I have in my hand is able to affect that rend?”

It was a rip in being, it sang with a horrible song—yet Thranduil had fallen from Arda here. “Why do you call it ‘magic’, kinsmen? We are elves—that word is for superstitious Men who do not understand how Arts work.”

[singularwill]

Solas glanced up at the green tear across the sky, and nodded.

"Yes. That is the breach. Though attempting to affect it, at this moment, is far more likely to kill you than it is to actually turn its purpose. The Herald died in the attempt. We must learn better."

He paused, a solemn look on his face, but when Thranduil asked about magic, an amused flicker pulled at his lips. Thankfully, the amusement didn't reach his voice - it was the same calm, even tone that it had been before.

"I call it magic because that is what it is, friend. I use the Fade to bend reality to my will. It is not - as perhaps you are thinking - trickery, or deceit. It is magic, pure and simple. Though yes - there are many superstitions surrounding it, mostly from ignorant men who would rather destroy what they fear than come to understand it. But I use the word for what it is."

[rowancrowned]

He tucked his hand into the sleeve of his outer robe, and nodded once. “I—have no intention to test my ability to return to Mandos.”

Nor could he leave Legolas behind.

Solas’ placidness, his modulated tone drew a brow rise from him. “Yes, it is Will. I do the same with my own. I do not call it sleight of hand. In Arda-“ might as well get used to saying that. “- magic is the word used by Men who think what we do to be—divine. Who do not understand what we do is as breathing. ‘Tis odd to hear it referred to with a superstitious term. But I suspect I have much to learn. Ai, I am too old for this.”

A humored shake of his head. “But I must.”

[singularwill]

There was something in the back of Solas' eyes - a flicker of light, of interest - but it was kept carefully from his face, which only held the same genial smile as before.

"Interesting. Men here believe magic to be a curse, for the most part. To be hated, and feared. I doubt anyone would even think to call me divine."

The smile spread a little, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"In times like this age ends up mattering little, I'm afraid. But I will be happy to assist, with any learning or knowledge you require."

[rowancrowned]

"My soul has not yet burned too hot to overwhelm my body." Not yet- and not for a long while. While of the First Age, he had not risen to the heights of his power at the time. He was in little danger of exhausting himself here. Thranduil tilted his head to the right, and set about picking some of the little details he could take as an inclination of Solas' age.

When the other elf had smiled, and his eyes had crinkled, there were lines at his eyes, much like Thranduil's own, laugh lines too- but no elf ever wore their age cleanly, unless they had seen treelight and glowed from it.

"Tell me, cousin," warmly, again acknowledging Solas as kin, as welcome, as family and elven and afforded the same protections because of that. "How old are you?"

[singularwill]

Solas noted the phrasing - without even blinking, or his expression shifting, but he took note of it, and he would think on it further, later. For the moment, however, he simply laughed at the question.

"Too old to admit my age in polite company," He said, the humour flashing in his eyes. "And old enough to be constantly reminded of the folly of my youth. But come. Once you are prepared, we should make for Skyhold as quickly as possible."