allthisshitisweird | TEST DRIVE MEME!

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TEST DRIVE MEME!

TEST DRIVE MEME

Maybe you’ve been around for a while, or maybe you’re new to the Inquisition. Maybe you’re new to Thedas, having recently fallen from a tear in reality and been collected by uniformed rescuers. Whoever you are, you’ve been sent to Kirkwall, to an outpost where many of the Inquisition’s members and allies work on some of the biggest mysteries and problems the organization must solve if it’d like to keep the world from ending, where “ending” means “falling under the power of an ancient powerful corrupted being who wants everyone to bow to him as a god.”

And just to be clear, it would like that. It would like that a lot.

I. THE GALLOWS: The Gallows is an island fortress in Kirkwall’s harbor. It’s been home to, in order: Tevinter slaves, a Circle of Magi, a lot of creepy red lyrium, and now the Inquisition, which has occupied the fortress with the provisional Viscount’s blessing. There are walls that still need rebuilding and corners that still need dusting, but for the most part the Inquisition has gotten down to business. There’s space in the stone-floored courtyards to train or spar; or, if your skills don’t lie in the realm of hitting things, there’s a large library and several offices supporting the Inquisition’s areas of research and diplomatic efforts. If you don’t know what to do with yourself, then by all means, ask; someone will definitely be able to put you to work.

II. KIRKWALL: A quick row across the harbor will take you to Kirkwall proper. The city is built into the cliffs, from exclusive and wealthy Hightown at the top to impoverished Darktown in the abandoned mining tunnels below. In the middle is Lowtown, home to taverns, merchants, and plenty of trouble to keep anyone looking for it happy. You’re welcome to spend your free time and your money here—but try not to annoy the locals too much, please, in case their welcome runs out. It’d be a shame to have to pack again so soon after arriving.

III. QUESTING: Barely had time to make yourself at home, did you, before you were sent away from Kirkwall again—but this time on a mission. There’s a rift outside of Markham, pouring demons into the fields, and the Inquisition has been asked to lend a hand. Maybe literally. If you have an anchor embedded in your palm, you’re needed to close the damn thing. If not, maybe you’re here to fight demons or guard against bandits on the road, or to gather samples and take notes on the rift’s location once its closed, or to speak to Markham’s nobility afterwards to make sure that they fully appreciate the Inquisition’s efforts. Regardless, it’s a long trip, so we hope you like campfire cooking and sharing a tent.

IV. SENDING CRYSTAL: Joining the Inquisition gets you access to the very latest in barely-understood magical communication devices—namely, a crystal, small enough to wear around your neck, that will allow you to communicate verbally with anyone else who has one. Or everyone else who has one. Say hello.

V. WILDCARD: The whole of Thedas is yours to explore, from coast to uncharted wilderness. Choose your own adventure!

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I. KIRKWALL - THE GALLOWS

Inside the Inquisition's expansive library housed within the Kirkwall Gallows, Magister Atticus Vedici examines the runed shackles that have been fastened securely around his wrists and ankles. He can feel the eyes of others lingering on him in combined curiosity and dread, but that's a sensation he's grown accustomed to since his capture and imprisonment by the Inquisition. In a series of slow, deliberate movements, he flexes his wrists and fingers to give himself an idea of just how much give is in the heavy chains. The verdict: not much.

"If you expect me to work," he begins, the timbre of his voice naturally light and a bit raspy, "I'll need more slack than this." He fixes his attention on whomever it is who has been tasked with keeping an eye on him while he carries out his research work for the Inquisition.

"Don't talk to them," comes a voice low in timbre but somehow still managing to whine, "you don't have to talk to them."
Chained beside Atticus is a ludicrously well-dressed young man in his early twenties, who would no doubt be the absolute picture of perfection if he weren't all scuffed up and grass-stained from being seized by the brutish Inquisition.

Edited 2017-07-14 22:26 (UTC)

"Enough to hang by?"

Evidently, someone finds them both more useful than that. More’s the pity. It’s tough to sound dry when you’re rapidly sweating your way through plate armor, but she tries.

( Oh my god how she tries. In this institution. )

Peculiar, to walk armed through a library once more; peculiar, only in that should be at all. It’s been a while. She can’t think it does much for anyone’s morale, to lead them through in chains.

"Consider it a compliment that they think you so capable," A short gesture to Atticus’ companion. One of you, at least. "If you would prefer silence, of course, the Gallows do not lack. Solitude does wonders for the soul."

"Enough to hang by?"

Her threat to Benedict doesn't seem to touch him at all. He gives the young man a brief look, then turns his attention back to Wren.

"Well I defer to your expertise in that regard, Madam Templar," he replies, and gives her a smile like glass; clear and emotionless. He doesn't look offended, or rattled, or even smug; it's possible he knows he's only untouchable for now, at least by her. Atticus lifts up the shackles and holds them close to his throat, pressing the chain against his skin. "What do you think?"

Edited 2017-07-15 19:17 (UTC)

Benedict is a spoiled brat, but he's not an idiot. Southern Templars have a reputation, and he's not about to go out of his way to irritate one, though that doesn't mean he has to be friendly to her either. As best he can, he folds his arms and sulks, looking between Atticus and Wren as he hopes for the former to verbally tear the latter to shreds.

"Ser," She corrects, almost upon reflex —

Something crawls up her spine at his smile, snaking its way on so many spindly legs, a grotesque little centipede of memory. Of impulse: Give me a reason.

How fruitless it ever is to rise to bait. How bloody tempting. But distaste cannot be indulged, it won't do anything here. The Inquisition needs intelligence. It needs research, and influence, and the appearance of small victories. It cannot afford to insist someone else do it, like a child shirking an unpleasant chore.

"I've faith in Northern ingenuity," The colour suits you, but might it not be brought in a size? "If you require books, they will be brought,"

(By someone not politely banned from fetching her own,)

"Paper, ink. If you've questions, best to have out with them now." If most of her attention remains on Atticus, Benedict is at least spared a moment's stare. It doesn't pay to underestimate the Imperium, however... itself. "I cannot say how chatty my relief shall be."

If they are, they damn well better know what they're doing. Bad enough they've two enemy combatants in the middle of their research hub, that any small slip with these might invite five years of slow rot upon them all.

The Gallows is not in Venatori hands. Not now. But how quickly vermin find the cracks.

How fruitless it ever is to rise to bait. How bloody tempting. But distaste cannot be indulged, it won't do anything here.

Yet it was satisfying to see her brought so close to doing so anyway. Atticus's smile widens an unsettling fraction.

"The books I most require you will no doubt be unable to fetch for me, as they will never be allowed beyond Tevinter's borders." Slowly, he lifts his hands so that Wren can see what he intends to do--not to escape his binds, but to pick up a quill and sheet of parchment from the rudimentary work table set in front of them. He dips it in the inkwell, then takes some time to write down a number of titles, pausing occasionally as though to wrack his brain for additional information.

Eventually, he straightens up and walks as far as the chains will allow him, to offer the list out to Wren. "For now, this should do the trick."

"I want to send a letter," Benedict cuts in, still in full-sulk, but as long as demands are being received, "I've already written it. I want it sent. To my family." Who will, Maker willing, pay whatever pithy ransom the Inquisition demands and have him transported safely back to Minrathous, with or without Atticus.

Edited 2017-07-16 23:38 (UTC)

"Do you," To Benedict, still watching his companion's hands, "Have out with it and I will see what I can do."

Probably jack-shit. But she wouldn't mind laying eyes on the thing before passing it off to whichever agent of the advisors will handle officially ignoring the request. In all likelihood, this won't be the last time that she's asked to one of these shifts; better by far if there's some understanding of those she need watch.

She takes the list, a cursory scan of titles. Passing recognition of a few, but if she's read none, neither do they look to be anything terribly controversial —

(As though there's much point to monitoring that. Any knowledge a Magister might carry with them is more dangerous than what the Inquisition's library may supply.)

"There is a saying, yes?" She signals a passing librarian, who shoots her and the prisoners almost equally dirty looks as the list's handed off, "When we do not get what we want, we often gain what we need. I've faith your researches will find a way,"

Else enjoy a bit of slack.

"Please, do not let me tarry you." She lifts her brows faintly to the workspace.

He holds onto the list just a moment longer when she reaches out to take it, and tries to catch her eye again. "My thanks," he says softly, then lets go of the list.

Without another word of protest, he returns to the work table and methodically begins the process of assessing what books are currently at his disposal, and what tedious research he can complete for the Inquisition until more materials arrive. Whether Benedict forks over his letter or not is beyond the purview of things Atticus cares about. He places a pair of spectacles low on the bridge of his nose and gets to work.

From beneath their research materials Benedict quickly withdraws a letter, folded in half and already addressed in his frilly handwriting.
"See that it goes quickly," he says, with an air of demand, "they'll see that this is taken care of."

"No, of course, you don't have to," says Vandelin agreeably, leaning against a bookshelf because he has learned nothing. "But things will get so much more comfortable for you if you do. Maybe--although I make no promises--even to the point of loosening those chains."

That sort of thing's got to be a reward for good behavior, doesn't it? Not a show of good faith. Vandelin doubts he's got the authority to do anything with the chains one way or another, in any case. He's only been tapped for guard duty because he'd mentioned that he spoke some rusty Tevene, and that's more of a party trick than a necessity for communicating with the prisoners.

That sterling offer earns Vandelin a peculiar near-smile from Atticus, but his blue eyes remain very cold. He lowers his hands and looks back at Benedict, his expression one of mild shock. "Did you hear that, Benedict?" he asks, well aware that, chained up as they both are, neither of them have any choice but to listen to the words their captors share with them. "If we behave ourselves, the Inquisition might choose not to tether us to our workstations like common plow horses."

"Some nerve a knife-ear has, speaking to us like that," Benedict grumbles, furrowing his brow and eyeing Vandelin with heavy disdain. "As if you'd have the power to adjust them anyway. Be useful or run along."

For all the attention Vandelin pays this statement, Benedict may as well have remained silent. He keeps his gaze fixed on Atticus, his expression pleasant, mild, entirely neutral.

"Exactly," he says, as if beatifically praising an apprentice who's answered a difficult question. "You catch on quick, Magister. Now that we're all on the same page here, why not start putting in the effort to earn yourself some freedom? I'm told that's how you all do things in Tevinter. We like to make our prisoners feel at home."

How many slaves did you have, Magister? How many of them looked like me?

"...Be useful or run along."

How that stupid boy managed to reach adulthood without someone sewing his mouth shut is a mystery Atticus still has yet to unravel. Tranquility is an abomination, but perhaps in certain cases... well. He closes his eyes. "Shut up, Benedict."

Whether the boy listens or not is irrelevant; he can either mind the counsel of his betters, or he can struggle along in his present imprisonment on his own. Atticus won't waste energy defending a liability.

"Enchanter," he begins lightly and turns his attention back on Vandelin, "perhaps one day when this is all over, you will be fortunate enough to visit the fine city of Minrathous, and enjoy its hospitality for yourself. I expect you'll find the experience to be an illuminating one." Possibly he can glean something of what Vandelin is thinking just through reading the young mage's facial expression; or possibly he recognizes something in the unflappable, neutral smile Vandelin wears in response to a petty barb.

Atticus isn't sympathetic; he doesn't understand sympathy. But he admires anything--even demons and darkspawn--capable of leveraging the limited tools of its environment in order to gain the edge against an opponent. Admiring an enemy, in his opinion, is always preferable to underestimating one.

Benedict has taken another deep breath to no doubt cast another zinger at Vandelin, but the rebuke from Atticus immediately sucks the wind from his sails. He scowls, glaring fervidly at his mentor and then back at the elf, no doubt plotting all kinds of horrible things that he'll definitely do to both of them once his parents bail him out and he's back in Tevinter and can just hire an army of magi to firebomb the city from Sundermount.

There's something disconcertingly disarming about having someone in this miserable city finally, finally address him by his rightfully-earned title--all the more so when it comes that quickly on the heels of a casually-flung racial slur. Even with the other mages here, it's been 'Mister' or 'Serah' from the start, as if they can't recognize an enchanter at a glance from the colors and patterns of rank on his robes.

The fashions of Hasmal's Circle had always been a bit more Tevinter-inspired than the others, situated on the border as they were, and so perhaps there is something fitting about a magister being the only one to acknowledge his position--but no. To say so would be to give both Atticus and the human Inquisition mages the benefit of the doubt, and Vandelin doesn't make a habit of doing that for anyone.

"Oh, I have no doubt it would," he says, the flicker of appreciation fading from his eyes and leaving them a touch harder than before. "I've heard so many stories. I've always thought I might like to see the ancient bells in the Vivazzi Plaza myself. And what is it they say about the Proving Arena? 'A green jewel in a city of stone?' It's just that you can't be too careful with the travel arrangements. Everyone I know who's experienced your 'hospitality' had a hell of a time getting away from it. You seem to love the elven people so much you just can't bear to let us go. Of course I'm flattered, don't think I'm not, but--I don't have the time to get caught up in sightseeing. You understand."

Edited 2017-07-17 08:13 (UTC)

"...You seem to love the elven people so much you just can't bear to let us go. Of course I'm flattered, don't think I'm not, but--I don't have the time to get caught up in sightseeing. You understand."

There's a crack in the wall there.

Atticus smiles. He doesn't argue or cajole. He dips his head once in a manner that is almost gracious, and accepts what he hears, both spoken and unspoken. "I understand, Enchanter. You're right to be cautious, of course. And this," he adds, spreading his hands to either side as far as he is able, given the shackles that bind his wrists, "is hardly the time for such discussion."

Behind him, he can almost feel the impotent rage emanating from Benedict like a contained brush fire. If the boy could set his robes alight from indignation alone, it's likely that he would have by now. Atticus turns back to his spoilt brat of an apprentice, fixing him with a piercing stare just long enough to convey to him that he'd better cool his heels if he knows what's good for him. Then he gestures at the work table. "Instead of spewing profanity at our jailers, perhaps it would be a better use of your time to set out our research supplies. We have work to do."

Benedict narrows his eyes, his arms remaining crossed and his posture slumped. There was a time he'd have obeyed Atticus without any trouble, but that time is over.
"Oh do we," he grumbles, "yet would our work not be much more easily done if we didn't have jailers in the first place? Atticus??"
Normally he'd preface the man's name with Master or Magister or some other honorific, but no such title is deserved anymore as far as he's concerned.

Atticus remains still and stone-faced just long enough to give Benedict time to consider, reconsider, and then regret those words. He drops his eyes to the chain connecting one shackled wrist to the other, examining it thoughtfully. Then he carefully gathers it up into one hand so that it won't swing freely and do unnecessary damage to his charge's face.

That's about all the warning Benedict gets before Atticus backhands him across the face with enough force to send him sprawling, and possibly to draw blood.

Though Benedict may be slightly concerned by the shift in Atticus' demeanor, he has no reason to think anyone would ever have cause-- or the gall-- to strike him. For this reason he doesn't even think to cringe before it happens, and the blow hits him full force with a strangled yelp, jolting him to the end of his own chain. It's too short for him to go far, but he gets a nice abrasion on his wrist from the shackle, and he claps his free hand to the struck side of his face, looking at Atticus in horror.

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TEST DRIVE MEME!

Atticus Vedici, a Venatori magister | Dragon Age OC

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(ooc: prob the last tag from me in this particular thread)

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