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allthisshitisweird2017-06-24 10:54 pm
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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!

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!
Atticus Vedici, a Venatori magister | Dragon Age OC
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.
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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.
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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."
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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.
(ooc: prob the last tag from me in this particular thread)
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.
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"See that it goes quickly," he says, with an air of demand, "they'll see that this is taken care of."
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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.
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"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?
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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.
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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."
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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."
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"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.
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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.
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