They ventured out, in that first month, only a few hundred yards onto the Ice. People were going to die – Findekáno knew it, Nolofinwë knew it, the host now dug in on the shores of Araman knew it very well. But no one has died yet, and in a way it paralyzed them, waiting for it. They inched along the sheer ice faces and rolled logs across to test where it can bear the weight and were painstakingly, excruciatingly, careful. 

Climbing the ice was not in fact particularly difficult – not as difficult as Findekáno had imagined it, certainly. They had broken down the wagons into thick ice picks. You lit a fire at the bottom of a cliff and left the ice picks in it, to absorb the heat, so later they would slide like butter into their positions on the cliff. You stood there and held them, heat eating its way through your mittens and hand, and waited for the ice to freeze again around your new addition. And then you climbed down, grabbed another, climbed up, did it again. They were testing the best pick shapes and the best distances; the cliffs on the lip of Araman were studded with climbing holds, and with climbers.

“At this rate -” Findekáno said to his father -

“It would take us ten Years,” his father said grimly. “We won’t proceed at this rate, we learn more every day.”

On the one hand, this isn't the worst-case scenario. On the other, it's bizarre enough to not even have made the list of possible outcomes. The direction of down changed, but so did the geography. Upward in open air, downward next to an icebound cliff face, there really should have been some detectable change in between. The pilot sends a command and the sphere starts slowing down, but too slowly. It deforms and tears, gushing out the contents and leaving her drenched in warm but rapidly freezing water and sprawled in full view of anyone who happens to be looking.

And that's when someone comes crashing out of the sky.

Well, not crashing. More like oozing out of the sky, like she'd been inside a very large raindrop that had burst, and the descent is slow enough that a few thousand people have crowded onto the ridge to watch and a few dozen (he notices who they are, he should commend them later) have run over to try to help.

He hurries towards them.

Regardless of the method of exiting the sky, being in this sky in the first place is the main problem.

A look shows that yes, this really is some place entirely different, unless someone went to the trouble to transplant a location's worth of spirits. And none of these people are practitioners. The people who just saw someone ooze out of the sky. Brilliant. She stands, a bit shakily, and takes the mask off. Time to breathe air, apparently.

"Where am I?"

She doesn't speak Quenya. Inconvenient. Is she Avari? Did she get here from Endorë? Doesn't seem likely, and hardly makes it easier to talk to her, and also where would they have learned to do that?

"You're going to freeze," he says forcefully, and projects the image that'll communicate that. "Come get inside and undressed and then we'll learn languages."

Freezing isn't actually a risk, but you don't demonstrate magic in front of non-practitioners. Not if they might not know too much yet.

Not that this man is a typical non-practitioner. "What was that? Telepathy?" Hopefully it works both ways. She follows him inside.

Being soaked in cold water can kill you within an hour, there've been some close calls. Undress, he thinks anxiously, keep the lampstones near you for heat, I'll get as many blankets as I can and then we'll fill this tent with people to keep it warm.

Undressed in a tent full of people. Great. If this is how they heat places, they're almost as unprepared as if they had been the ones appearing out of nowhere.

And it is a lot less unconfortable when not actively freezing. She starts removing clothes, much less anxious than he is.  I don't suppose you can hear me? (If there's a trick to this, the answer's no. Maybe there isn't one.)

Oh, so she does talk. Yes, I can hear you. 

"How," no, how are you doing this?

It's an important question. Maybe he's already been brought into the fold by someone else and knows enough that it's safe to warm up more directly.

Everyone can do this. She's worrying about whether it's safe to tell him something - what? Who is she?

I've never met someone who can do this. Amber has no idea he heard anything she didn't italicize. Where are we?

"Araman," he says grimly. Not a safe place. I take it you did not mean to land here.

No. I don't even know what went wrong to bring me here.

Then I suppose you are one step behind us; I can identify precisely what I did wrong, though it's a long list. He calls something through the door, and four or five more people file in to press around the room and warm it.

You're not here by choice either?

 We'd planned on leaving.

That cliff... you're trying to leave that way?

Grief, anger, bitterness - We had boats.

I mean, that direction instead of the opposite one? If it's this place that's dangerous.

It's a bit complicated. We need to get to the other side, so we have to take the ice path. We're still learning how to do it safely, and won't leave until it's safer. But we can't go back.

Can I ask what you're getting away from?

Long story.

I'll take that as  a no.

My name's Amber, by the way, I don't think I said.

Findekáno. You hadn't. Where are you from?