allthisshitisweird | Test Drive Meme!

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Test Drive Meme!

No, Seriously, You're Never Getting Out Of Here

Maybe the Inquisition sent you, maybe you came seeking the Inquisition. Maybe you fell out of a rift into this world last week and are still just trying to find your feet. However it happened, early fall finds you in the Hinterlands. Tucked between Ferelden's massive Lake Calenhad and the icy Frostback Mountains, the Hinterlands are a hilly region covered in patchy forests and small farms trying to eke out a living between the boulders. Though somewhat remote, the area is rich with game and minerals and home to Redcliffe, a bustling town on a busy trade route.

Lately the Hinterlands have also been full of mages and templars and rifts, all threatening to turn once-peaceful countryside into a dangerous warzone. The Inquisition has set up several camps and sent personnel to try to restore order to the region, unwilling to let it slip into chaos. There's a lot to be done, some of it straightforward killing bad things, some of it weird and nebulous morale-building.

NOTE: We will not have an App Help/Enable Me meme this month, but anyone who has questions about OC concepts or AU adaptations is welcome to ask for assistance on the Mod Contact page.

1. WHERE THE SUN COMES UP ABOUT TEN IN THE MORNING

QUESTS COME AND GO BUT BEARS ARE ETERNAL: You have turned the wrong corner, forded the wrong stream, crested the wrong hill, entered the wrong cave. Maybe you are far from camp. Maybe you are in camp. Whatever has happened, wherever you are: you are being chased by bears. Did you provoke the bears? Are they huge? Babies? Fade-touched? Mage-controlled? What are they chasing you away from? What are they chasing you into? What do you plan to make out of their hide if you kill them? What do you think they'll craft out of your hide if they kill you?

2. THEY MOVED DOWN SOUTH OF REDCLIFFE

NICE PLACE FOR A SPOT OF CAMPING: If there were an inn, which there's not, there wouldn't be room for you in it. Traveling with the Inquisition means carrying your own bedrolls, putting up your own tents, and sleeping alongside whoever you've been told to share with--no matter how much you hate them or how loud they snore. If you really can't stand it, the alternative is sleeping outside. On the ground. With the bears.

3. AND THEY LAUGHED AND SANG A NEW SONG

Hey, there's a big, crazy light in the sky that craps out demons! Let's worship it!: Not everyone thinks the Breach was a bad thing. In the southeastern mountains, a burgeoning cult has taken up residence in Winterwatch Tower to wait patiently for the Maker to reach through the tears in the veil and gather the faithful to his bosom. They're a little kooky, maybe, but harmless, and they're happy enough to share their wine and lager with travelers in the area. The demon-spewing rift behind the Tower, on the other hand... Too bad the Herald didn't close that thing before she bit it. Watch your step.

4. NO ONE EVER KNEW THERE WAS LYRIUM IN THEM MOUNTAINS

TROUBLE IN THE DEEP: The Carta is everywhere, but it's here in force, occupying dwarven ruins in a chasm behind a waterfall. Inquisition forces have already cleared most of the smugglers out of the hold, but there's still a vault to break into, bodies to loot, and old texts to search through for anything worth adding to the Inquisition's growing archives. Also: darkspawn. Sorry.

5. AND THE SUN GOES DOWN ABOUT THREE IN THE DAY

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE: hunt game, kill demons, gather herbs, track bandits, haggle over the price of armor, fall off a deceptively tall rock, get lost circling the same hill ten times trying to find a way up to the weird glowing skull on a stick you can see is up there, climb trees or abandoned towers, rummage around in empty homes, run from a dragon, cry over how cute that fennec fox you just shot was, set up camp and chat around the fire, knock yourself out (figuratively, or even literally if that's more your speed)-- the Hinterlands are your ~~Frostback Mountain~~ oyster.

Threaded | Flat

1. [For the largest and most significant parts of his life, he's been a noble - noble meaning balls and political manuvering, recognition of powers and reinforcing that you are the most terrible thing to be seen or experienced. Noble now forced to a silent, watchful position just barely out of reach of bloodthirsty things that he can't say he is unfamiliar with. Mist made monsters such as these, and certainly, while they are not Rift-touched, Fade-touched - whatever touched - they are not unfamiliar. Giant, heaving creatures with frothing mouths rimmed in white, unnatural protrusions to make anyone uncomfortable. And he is...uneasy, though, unlike an Orlesian drenched in Ferelden contradictory points, he is there, observing, watching, reduced to relying on what he was before due to the lack of all else that made him once Emperor of all, if only for a short while, if only - ]

[He silently sucks on his teeth, taking care to not protrude any lip, nor put an important hair out of place beyond it. He only wishes to study, pale blue eyes so light, they were almost white.]

[He will never be used to magick, ahem, magic acting in such a way - so limited, reduced to only some having access. It contradicts all of Ivalice, it contradicts and delights him in silence, forced to mental notetaking.]

2. [He doesn't care. It's what must be done, come hell or high water, and he's seen both. He can endure it even if from under the lids of his eyes he's staring at the other occupant of the tent with a thinly laced desire to find some other use for his makeshift pillow, wrapped from the bits of cloth the Inquisition has seen fit to grant him since making his presence known, willingly or not.]

[He keeps mostly to his own, his space organized, controlled, so much unlike his private space in Archades he wants to laugh - but it is not unfamiliar despite what his ubringing prefers to imply. Survival is essential, and this is the purest essence of it.]

3. [To him it's not unique, worshiping false gods happens every day, it formed a rather large and powerful cornerstone of his life. It's not wonder he doesn't believe anymore, but is quite capable of going through the motions, and the locals and their...dedication to such things is not beyond him. People seem to need, maybe crave, the desire to believe in something beyond themselves, some...grander purpose. He himself is not above it - hunting through the pages in his youth for some reason as to why man pursued the ends he did. It makes the act of pretending with them, learning of their ways with a silent, perhaps carefully controlled, and yes, arrogant assumption of something else, that much easier.]

[Vayne can play 'Orlais' even here, and when the food is honest, and the people moreso, perhaps there is the greatest irony of all.[

4. [As it stands he is someone who is an unknown, he knows better than to assume he can take charge - he is a Rifter, dangerous, potentially, a monster, possibly. But he has no problems reaching out and, quick as a whip, directing the idle bits of conversation about what to do next, into areas where things would make more sense - tactics he is used to, items which may be more interesting (but he's more terrible than the rest, he finds it all fascinating).]

[It's a bad habit but he enjoys it. The monsters here are also...unsurprising. They have always been. Mist before made monster and even altered the landscape to suit its needs, whatever it deigned to grasp onto. You simply became used to it - physics be damned, really. Logic sometimes as well, and with the Occurians? You may as well been asking for a sandwich laced in something to make you forget.]

[But it was a damn good sandwich.]

5. [throw things at me? idk, Vayne is a nerd so nerd in the library, with military shiz, politics, bars, whatever. He's also a consummate liar, intent on control but yet he doesn't have much to lose - this isn't Ivalice. His job is done as far as he is concerned which also leaves him in an uncomfortable spot as to how he should present himself - he is used to presenting what he has to in order to achieve certain ends. Well spoken, articulate, he has engaged in self destructive and self dismissive behaviors to put forth, slowly but surely, his younger brother as a future ruler rather than himself despite being labeled as a ruthless asshole. Vayne is a fantastic mix of what the fuck.]

Edited 2015-11-01 07:13 (UTC)

So he wasn't part of the Inquisition. Not yet. For now, he was simply a wandering Dalish elf.

Or, rather, a running Dalish elf. An elf moving very fast for the weight of the axe strapped across his back. He didn't even know why he was running, but- Oh right. Some asshole mage had tried to throw ice at him, and had nearly succeeded in nailing him to the ground with a glyph. But there was a camp in the distance, near a lake, or at least something that seemed to think itself a lake, though it was more like a series of puddles. So he started to climb up the stone outcropping rather than finding a way around to a trail that would lead him up to the little collection of tents with a lot less effort.

"'Scuse me! Mages happening! Assistance please!" he shouted as he dodged past some woman in Inquisition armor that stared after him looking more than a little baffled, and mostly sure that that had actually been a hallucination, a noisy blur of red and green. She almost called after him, until she heard the clamoring of the apostates that were, in fact, in pursuit of that blur. One loud blaring of the nearby warhorn later, and anyone who had a bone to pick with these men would know there to head.

So while swords were drawn against the apostates, one slightly breathless elf leaned himself against a boulder, picking a knife from his belt and starting to scrape at the metal poking out of the stone. Unrefined iron? Good find.

Edited (what typo there is no typo shhh) 2015-11-01 07:25 (UTC)

[The camping place was perfect. Dry, high ground, good view all around it to avoid ambushes. Too bad it was already occupied by someone.

A very shaggy, bearded and long-haired man sat near a small fire he had built, a simple bedroll nearby. Tattered black robes with feathered shoulders and a staff next to him was a telltale sign that it was yet another apostate.

He doesn't seem willing to fight or cause trouble, however, looking so weary and tired that it was a miracle he was even sitting up straight. Dark circles were almost like bruising under his sunken-in and very vibrantly blue eyes with vague specks of honey.

In his lap was a very pregnant brown tabby cat, purring loudly under his gentle touch.

Things had not exactly been easy after Anders was chased away from the rebel mages, disappearing into obscurity. AKA the Hinterlands.]

o1. Bears. Why did it have to be fucking bears?

All things considered, it wasn't giant spiders, so it could always be worse. Still, bears were no laughing matter when the Inquisition's Nevarran Princess was nowhere in sight. This is what Skinner got for trying to take a fucking shortcut.

She slid her daggers back into the sheathes at her back. Well, so far they hadn't noticed her as she made her way along the river. If she stayed quiet and no asshole showed up to make more sound and get their attention, her place downstream was pretty safe... so far, taking one careful step through the water at a time.

Of course, then the wind had to go and change direction on her. Of. Fucking. Course.

o3. Look, if Skinner took umbrage with every weird-ass cult the Chargers ran across, she'd never stop killing people.

Now, she did like killing people, and it was deeply important to love your job. That's how the adage went, right? Love your job and you'll never work a day in your life, but she liked the wine they had more.

Besides there were way too many here for her to handle on her own, let alone the rift shitting demons out back. She'd tell an Inquisition scout when she found one what was here and leave it at that. For now, when they all gave their little dead-brained "Praise the Maker!" she was perfectly happy to join in before sipping at her mug. She made sure there were a good number of cultists between her and where the rift was, it'd be fine. Tear through some of them first if it got all wiggly and give her enough time to get the hell out of dodge.

o4 Looting bodies, the gift that keeps on giving. Wait, no, that was poisoning your enemies.

Skinner had just finished slitting throats to make sure every one of the smuggling fuckers were well and dead and was now going through pockets, caches, anything that looked even slightly valuable. Some to sell later - thank you emerald necklace, someone will happily fork over a couple coins for you - others more of the sentimental variety.

Skinner found a dusty tome on one of the end tables. Worn with age, it let out a very sad sound when she opened it as carefully as possible. She knew how to handle delicate books, thank you very much.

She couldn't read the language the writing was in, but she recognized some of the art and let out a low whistle, eyes quickly scanning the waterstained pages.

"Think Dalish will like this." She said to her coworker of the moment, deciding to keep it for that very reason. It was important to give your friends nice things.

Contrary to some inane snark leveled in her general direction, Madame de Fer appears to be just as comfortable setting up her own tent in the camp as she is in freezing a pack of wolves. She might have a reputation for being pampered, but that's only because she's cultivated such a notion. Knowing the truth about herself and what she's capable of is yet another way to unsettle her enemies, and they are legion. Such things happen when one plays the game, and Vivienne has made a life of doing so.

She doesn't keep all her opinions to herself, however. The Lady of Iron has many and does not hesitate to share them when it suits her. How the tents should be arranged for maximum efficiency and safety, who should share said tents, how she feels about the fools worshiping the hole in the sky, the selfishness of the rebel mages, the need for Templars to remember their duty. She finds the skulls on pikes in high places particularly abhorrent. Leaving defenseless innocents behind to such a fate.

Once the group is settled in for the long night, Vivienne's thoughts turn to the ransacked Circles. The Herald had promised to find the books stolen from Circle libraries, though with her now dead, such recovery seemed quite impossible. Unless, of course, she can recruit another soul or two to investigate the thefts for her. Why do something that you can convince someone else to do for you?

It's past midnight, but Josephine doesn't look like she has noticed. She is still bent over a traveling-desk, writing letters by candlelight. The peculiar thing is that she never seems to pause to consider how something should be worded, or correct herself, or throw a page away to start anew. Every first draft seems to say exactly what she wants it to say.

But someone should remind her to eat and sleep.

scenario 1:

Hmmm...

[Surely, there are worse situations to be in than treed, by bears, alone, in an unfamiliar patch of woods, with one's musketoon mysteriously refusing to fire. Surely, there must be. The fact that, as he crouches in the forked trunk of this tree, Stephanivien cannot actually think of a worse situation to be in is irrelevant.]

Perhaps if I-- [He mutters to himself before taking a wrench from his pocket and readjusting the barrel alignment for the thousandth time since waking up. But confident that this time, THIS time it'll work (as there's no rightful reason for it not to, really...), he sights along the barrel, aims for the bear's eyes, squeezes the trigger--]

BLAM

[--and promptly falls backwards out of the tree from the surprise and shock of a rather explosive malfunction.]

[Ah yes. Being chased by bears again after having injured oneself falling out of a tree--this would be the worse situation.]

5. Close enough to the crossroads to run for the relative safety of the settlement and the inquisition soldiers guarding it if need be, far enough away to avoid catching the attention of anyone who might not want a dalish elf (and a mage, though her staff was simple, old and beaten enough to more resemble a walking stick) in their midst, Chaya had set up a stall.

It wasn't much of a stall, a cloth laid on the ground and covered in odds and ends. Some of them were little wood and bone sculptures and beads that she'd clearly made herself - she was carving a piece of wood even as she tended her little stall. Others, less so. There were a few books, covering somewhat esoteric topics and only slightly stained with blood. Unlabelled potions. Scraps of cloth that were presumably clothes at one point. Cheap jewellery.

...It was fairly obvious that at least some of her wares had come from the bodies of rebel mages and templars.

Edited 2015-11-01 17:08 (UTC)

{ 1 }
[ Dagna is not having trouble with a bear. She's got this. Oh sure, you might hear the angry growls of a bear up ahead, or the high-pitched voice of a woman warning it to stay back, but that doesn't mean she can't handle this. As you approach a large outcropping of rocks that curve around, blocking the scene from view, you hear a FWOOSH sound like something's caught fire quickly. And from the roars of the bear? Yeah, it's clear what caught fire.

Coming around the rocks will reveal a dwarf holding up a flat stone with a rune on it. The bear is gone; just a black outline of a bear imprinted on the rocks and the burning grass is the only indication that shit just went down.

Lowering the stone, she sees she's not alone. ]

Oh, hello! The bear was being a sourpuss, I'm afraid.

{ 4 }
[ The ruins of Valammar can feel creepy, especially with darkspawn roaming around, but there's humming coming from one room, Dagna seated on the ground before a bookcase, flipping through old dwarven texts. When she hears someone enter, she looks up with a grin. ]

Isn't this amazing? Can you get me a cart? I have to take all these back to Skyhold!

3. Okay, the glowing shit in his hand still hadn't gotten much easier to handle, because it was still creepy as hell. Being sucked into a backwards-ass fantasy land? Also creepy as hell. Falling out of some sky rift time/space portal where monsters come out of? Creepy. as. hell.

But if these people see his hand and want to give him a ton of booze and praise him like a god, well, Church is pretty okay with that. Less so with the monster-portal not far out from the tower, but, look, he doesn't necessarily see it as his job to do anything about it. Sure, he's not going to just stay with these people; they're clearly crazy and going to get eaten. But he doesn't see any harm in getting rained with food and praise and wine and attention.

Damn it feels good to be important.

5. Anytime Church tries to explain something about where he comes from, he has to backtrack many, many steps just to explain the basics.

Like space. Other planets. The idea of aliens. They all think he's the crazy one. 'Fade-touched' or 'addle-minded' or even 'strange spirit', which at least doesn't mean crazy, just like...a ghost from another dimension? If he had his weapons and his armor he could at least prove some of the stuff he says, but noooo, crazy demon-portal had to shit him out without those things. Awesome. At least the old base teleporters only made your armor turn black. It also hurt like hell but they didn't take him to someplace straight out of one of Simmons' roleplaying games.

Right now, he's making a show, unintentionally, emphatically motioning with his hands and arms, to a group of curious onlookers. Trying to explain guns. "It was gunpowder first but then we went to more advanced routes. Faster ways of loading and reloading and firing to get more bullets out faster. More bullet per bullets. And sometimes we fire lasers. Uhhhh, kind of like light that's magnified by a billion so it can hurt people? No, not like magic. It isn't magic. Oh my god if one more person suggests shooting magic out of a gun, I'm gonna shoot them out a fucking cannon. I will invent cannons and shoot you out of one. Do you guys have cannons? Do you even have gunpowder? How am I supposed to shoot anything?!"

It's probably better he doesn't take up any of the offered bows and arrows, given his historically bad shot, but nobody needs to know that.

2. She prefers to spend her time outside around the campfire up until she's too tired to stay awake. The surface fascinates her, and there are still times when something surprises or confuses her. The fire crackles bright, the stars glint through the clouds overhead in the sky once the sun has set, even the nip in the evening air is...nice, in a way. It's nothing she ever cared to articulate to members of her previous alliance, but now she feels a little freer to enjoy the little things.

She even doesn't mind sharing a tent. She's slept in much worse places in much worse situations.

4. There is a conflict of interests here that Rachette is not a fan of. Maybe she was brought for this reason, that she was once Carta--not too long ago, in fact--so she might know how they operate. How to fight them. But it's no easy thing, to fight against those who were almost like family.

They could be a slimy bunch, but plenty of dwarves ended up with the Carta for having no other reasonable choice. At the end of the day, she was treated better than she ever was down in the magma-heated halls of Orzammar. She had even tried to stay her hand, at first, trying to convince them that the Inquisition was a pretty good gig, that they would be welcomed if they laid down their arms--

Two guesses how that went. At the end of this day, she still uses her blades for deadly accuracy and is left to help with the aftermath. Quietly.

But if there's one thing Chette is good at (and she is good at several things), it's looting. She has a negligible eye for dwarven treasures, but she is still willing to dig through pockets for coin, for weapons, armors. If anything else interesting shows up, she doesn't mind nabbing that, too.

Other things she became good at down in the depths: fighting darkspawn. She's far from a member of the Legion of the Dead, but so long as it's no horde, she feels confident enough to take some on.

1. He'd thought things seemed a little quiet. At first Anders had chalked it up to the patrols he'd been avoiding - some of them seemed fixated on killing nearly everything that moved and skinning it - but he'd been wrong.

So wrong.

He's got three massive bears on his tail and he's running, because bears, which means he's not entirely watching where he's going like he should be and he nearly runs someone over.

"Bears!" His shout is breathless - he's been on the run for quite some time, but most of that hasn't actually been running - and while he needs to be careful when there's so much activity in the area, Anders isn't quite so far gone that he's going to drop his own troubles on someone else, quite literally. "Run!"

If the person has time to really observe the mage that's just almost trampled them, they'll see someone haggard-looking, with threadbare robes, carrying a (deliberately) nondescript staff. They'll also, if they're watching, see him cast ice between oncoming bears and their targets, because slowing them down might be a good idea here.

--

5. "I don't suppose you've seen any royal elfroot in the area?" The speaker looks exhausted, is exhausted. He should probably leave the Hinterlands soon as by the day it's getting more and more busy. Anders had come here for a short break while he gathered royal and regular elfroot and generally resupplied, but there's been templars and a short but terrifying run-in with a dragon up north. Break is the opposite of what he's found, along with a few of the more difficult-to-find herbs. At least he has elfroot aplenty.

"I've crystal grace I could trade for it." Theoretically, he doesn't look too threatening. His brown robes are threadbare, his face shows the difficulty of these last couple of years, and his staff is on his back, not in his hand. In reality, he's got company that's very close to the surface anymore, and Anders knows full well how deadly he can be. He's been deadly, on this path.

5. A Templar in a bind.

Kirkwall had been a place of chaos, and the Hinterlands were proving even moreso. The Knight-Lieutenant had been charged with leading a task force in Ferelden to hunt down and capture apostates fleeing the massacre back home in the Free Marches, but everything had gone hideously wrong. His troops were deviating from his orders, indulging in more lyrium than they needed, cutting down mages after they'd surrendered; Harimann found he had lost control, and there were no superior officers to step in and bring the men to heel.

Frantic and exhausted from spending nights with one eye open and days in the constant heat of battle or threat of more, both from abominations and from his own men, Cade was on the verge of defecting.

Edited 2015-11-02 00:43 (UTC)

2.
[It's been an exhausting day, and it's time for a break. Of course, someone else mentioned the need for stopping, otherwise, Kain would be likely to carry on all day. He's weary, but not so bad off. Of course, he'll be doing his best to keep to himself and stay away from the main group around the campfire. He spends his time seeing to his weapon and dragoon helm, making sure they're in good shape. Every so often, though, he pauses to glance at the weird glowing green light in his left hand. He tries to be subtle about this, but the whole matter bothers him.]

[Always on the fringes, Kain is still open to be approached anyway. He's kept to himself this whole trip after all, so it's probably about time to get to know him.]

4.
[Exploring the ruins seems straightforward enough. At first, it's even a little dull, going through old tomes from this unfamiliar world. There's nothing so far that will help him figure out his situation, not to mention the others who are similarly from other worlds. But he really shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. Kain is just about to suggest moving to the next chamber when there's a sound of something in the near distance...]

What are those?

[Kain shouts the question and readies his spear as the darkspawn suddenly attack.]

2. No. There was absolutely no way he could do this without smothering his tent mate with their own bedroll, it was absolutely impossible. In fact, he'd take the bears any day...okay maybe not, but still.

First, and perhaps most importantly he was spoiled, used to sleeping alone...well not in that sense, he was used to having his own space while he slept and he was not very graceful in sharing that space. Other people had...habits. Much like his tent mate, and those habits could have been anything from writing or reading by the light of a candle to chewing their nails and spitting them across the tent, habits had a tendency to keep Leondris awake...or as he preferred to be called, Leon (the name wasn't his idea, it seemed everyone from his neck of the woods had been blessed or cursed with flowery names like Marlowe, Sebastian, or Johane...that was the Free Marches for you).

For days it's been like this and his only option was to either leave or be driven mad by insomnia to the point where he lobbed one of his hidden knives down his nightly companions throat. That would be messy, it would also raise questions.

Nothing for it other than to escape the confines of his shared tent and find a comfortable bit of earth for himself and his bedroll. If he turned his head just so to the north then he could see Redcliffe Village silhouetted by the moonlight. It might be beautiful in this light, romantic even from a certain point of view, but he couldn't help casting a mutinous glare in its direction. No room his his Tantervale arse.

3. Sleep might have been impossible, but finding action and weird happenings in the Hinterlands was often a resounding success, at least Leon thought so as he and his traveling companion approached Winterwatch Tower. Personally he had nothing against them, do whatever makes you happy that was his motto. Of course his motto had dug him into a few holes in the past given his propensity to disregard duty in favor of playing the field...he liked to keep his options open and he liked being able to do whatever he wanted. Not exactly a common idea in the Free Marches, he wasn't all that certain about elsewhere.

Traditionally if you weren't the heir or the spare, then you were a potential rival and sent off elsewhere to be of some use and out of the way. This applied most specifically to affluent households and royalty. Generally it was off to the Chantry to become a religious fanatic and of his younger siblings Leon had no intention of being herded off like a chattled beast to live a life of fanaticism. Winterwatch Tower reminded him of this...at least the crazy fanaticism to a thing in the sky they hadn't a clue about. Not that he wasn't willing to sit in their little tavern and partake of whatever ale they offered with whomever decided to join him on this little expedition, which was basically mapping out the area and pinpointing the immediate dangers. His hunting and tracking skill were particularly useful for this.

"Bit bammy aren't they?" He remarked as his eyes scanned the area around him, his voice was low, discreet, not trying to be heard, but he really couldn't help himself. They were a bit crazy.

5: Checking out the rifts

Most people know to steer clear of the rifts. Anything that has demons pouring out of it is bad news, right? But anyone skirting one of the fade rifts near the refugee camp will realize that there's someone there, standing around and watching the rift like it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen. If that wasn't odd enough, her appearance certainly would be. Not everyone recognized an Avvar when they saw one, but at least they would recognize there was something very foreign about the woman, wearing armor that had been painted on, long blond hair tied up in multiple braids.

And there was a staff in her hand, one that looked dangerous even without magic. This was proved as the rift buzzed with energy and threw out a shade. The Avvar woman bursts into a grin, and spins the staff in her hand. "Again!" Was her battle cry, as she rushed at the demon. She wielded the staff as much as a polearm as a weapon of magic, slashing at the shade, while casting a fireball at it.

Once the monster was defeated, she laughed, long and loud. "Excellent! And I thought the lowlands would be boring." Then she paused, glancing up at the rift, and her face grew solemn. "But this is still a mystery...What do you think?"

Maybe she's talking to you? There certainly doesn't look like there's anyone else around.

Edited (what is html) 2015-11-05 07:24 (UTC)

2.

It was strange, being with people other than Runa, again. Stranger still that none of them were Avvar - grumbling about the cold as they folded up into their bedrolls, pulling close to the fire. It wasn't that Nadja didn't get cold so much as that she didn't mind it. She was acclimatized to it. And the fur that licked at her throat kept her from the worst of it, anyway. She sat on her own bedroll, sleep far away, gazing up at the sky. The stars, at least, were still the same. She could rely on those, wherever they were.

She didn't realise she was humming - a quiet song, oddly hopeful, and one that no mortal would recognize. Happier times lay inside it, an unknown future of a better world. A completeness that lay just beyond the edge of the horizon. She closed her eyes as the hum turned into a song, the words completely incomprehensible, but seemed to touch the soul anyway.

It was the thread of despair in the song that turned it awry.

The loss, that betrayed the Hope.

{2}

Camping in the open is nothing new to him. Though he prefers having a roof over his head, Dismas can deal with it. Silently he sat outside on a log, watching the flames of the campfire dance around and move. Behind him was his tent that he shared with the others. It was a bit cramped for his liking, but it would do for the moment.

Truthfully he thought these people would have more in the way of supplies, but beggars can't be choosers.

His ears twitched with each crackle and movement beyond the camp. Years of banditry had honed his senses for anything out of the ordinary, whether that be bears, or something else. It also helped that he had set up alarms around the camp, strings of bells that could go off at a moment's notice.

A lifetime of crime had taught him many of the benifits of cynical preparedness.

{4}

Ah, yes, the Carta, a group of smugglers, rapists, murderers and thieves. People that he is well accustomed to. Dealings with the group in the past left some very sour tastes on his tongue, of course. But the money that working with them was often worth the jobs and risks that those jobs brought.

Of course this wasn't going to be a pleasant reunion, he has a new employer now. A new purpose in his wretched life. Of course most of them have been cleared out by now, and any remaining would probably rather run than stick around, it would either be deal with the Inquisition, or deal with the darkspawn.

At least the Inquisition you can strike a deal with.

Quietly Dismas went off to start looting corpses and digging up anything he could find, perhaps even pocketing some of it for himself. With any luck he could get a bit of an...early payday. That is, so long as no one rats him out.

Edited 2015-11-06 09:06 (UTC)

2

He refused to sleep outdoors. Too much sky. Too many little glittery, far too far away lights up in it. Had no right to be that way. Down right unnatural. No wonder holes had gone ripping into it. That entirely too large mess of space was simply asking for trouble. No, no outdoors for him.

Which, to his mind, made his current plan entirely reasonable. That plan being holding a pillow up over the head of his newest tent mate, debating whether to simply give in and smother the snoring lout. He'd be doing a service to the Inquisition, surely. It was important for the troops to be well rested.

He'd have to act soon, though. There was always the chance the tent partner may wake up to Bernard looming over him and that would be an awkward conversation. One that would lead to even less sleep for him, in all likelihood.

3

"So, end of the world is it?"

Bernard's tone was faint with what would be disbelief if he could muster up the interest to invest that much of an opinion in the goings on. The main point was, after weeks of bears and ground and sky, there was wine. Not the stout stuff he'd find in a proper drinking establishment of Orzammar, but alcohol and therefore quite enough to endear these loons to him until he managed to sober back up.

"Sou- sounds messy, that. Suppose they've considered a service? To cart all their belongings off to the not so faithful among their relatives. Once the whole," he waved one hand vaguely around his head, "sky business is settled?"

5

[Wildcard, hit him up anywhere]

Edited 2015-11-08 01:01 (UTC)

5.

It would figure that they would have to pass through the Hinterlands on the way back from Therinfal Redoubt. They seem like an endless maze of land sometimes, often Étienne wondered what prompted Emperor Florian to ever decide he wanted to own it. The De Belleroses were staunch supporters of Empress Celene's hard-won peace if only for the trade and economics of it, but privately Étienne agreed with what he was certain was their other reasoning: Ferelden, as a whole, was best left to Fereldens.

With stragglers of danger still left behind in the wild green hills and mountains, there was certainly some work that could be done by their small contingent, and Étienne was assigned to be the one to find and make contact with the Inquisition's main forces in the area. Something about him being the civil and difficult to ruffle sort.

Maybe you're wearing the Inquisition's heraldry, maybe not and you just look like you might know a bit about the area. Either way Étienne approaches cautiously, his voice even and slightly accented that gives away his Orlesian heritage even if the overly-pretentious long name has yet to come into play.

"Pardon me, by chance would you know where the nearest Inquisition camp is?"

Josephine been told that visiting this... cult, for lack of a better term (and it may have been an accurate term, though she would never use it, at least in front of the faithful) would be safe, as long as she avoided the rift. There were potentially allies to be found here, and without the Herald as the face of the Inquisition, there were few she trusted to start such talks more than herself.

And so here she was, sitting inside the tavern with one hand on a drink and another rubbing her temple. These people were extremely uncooperative-demanding proof that the Herald had control over the rifts, which was clearly something Josephine would be unable to prove. No amount of persuasion or promise for support of their own brand of religion seemed to be getting through to them despite her best efforts. At least she had company, though-Cassandra and Cullen would have never allowed her to come here alone, even if Leliana would have had enough faith in her to see it done on her own.

1 | Bears

[bears are a great deal heavier than people, so it doesn't go that far, the mass of dense brown fur and guarded muscle. the animal practically frisbees through the air, sprawl of tree-trunk limbs slicing the air with blunt claws. however, it tumbles to a halt perhaps fifteen feet away at most, leaving marcel standing there, wincing, touching the set of three chunks, each quarter-sized, missing from his right arm. he doesn't bleed hard, but even the sluggish expenditure is more than he'd like out here. there are only so many inquisitors at camp, and he imagines that volunteering for bloodlet gets old enough on his regular schedule.

to his surprise, the bear picks up again. the growl rumbles through its big-boned body, with something peculiarly like hatred. marcel has fought any number of animals in the past; he can see there's something wrong with this one, merely from the way it's holding itself. the way that it does not make the instinct-level decision to turn and run into the trees.

he hears footfalls, and puts out an authoritative hand, palm-open.] Hold up. [it's automatic for him, even if he's only been in this strange world for a month yet and there is an infinite number of residents more knowledgeable about the particular of demented ursines. his head is lowered, dark eyes curiously lambent in the late afternoon light.] This animal isn't right.

2 | Inn (chronologically earlier)

To the Inquisition, [he says.

marcel is only one man among the dozens in the inn, and he is promptly concealed in a forest of raised arms, tankards, glasses. it's exhausting work, tilling fields and carting cabbages under threat of demons and blight and the possibility of supernatural eviction, but however terrible, however gruesome life has been, all those present know that it would be worse without the inquisition. as such, there's no hesitation. someone shouts for our heroes to stand for their thanks. even without that special identification, however, it's not hard to pick out the ones to whom all of the others turn to like flowers to the fucking sun.

three drunken toasts later, marcel slides up, a friendly hunter finally sighting down his weapon of choice: conversation.] Looks like you could use another one. [there's something under the coarse and commonplace fabric of his sleeve. a glint of metal, segmented, like no set of bracers ought to be. if you listen real closely, under the thump and hubbub of inn, it ticks.]

2.

The sun was setting, so Nerva sat close to the fire to make sure she had good light - sideways so that the flames lit the pages of the book in her lap. Her little bottle of ink trembled and threatened to spill as she dipped her quill into it, but she either did not care, did not notice, or trusted that it would not defy her. A passerby would be forgiven to think that she was deep in study - the concentrated look, the furrow of her brow. But if they leaned over her shoulder, they would see instead a very carefully rendered design of a mask emerging on the page.

3.

They were absolutely mad. The fact that Nerva had been sent here to check on them, since they were so close to a rift, was enough to make her want to shove the majority of them through it. It wasn't that it was just blasphemy (which it was, but such a large portion of the world was blasphemy that it was hard to care about individual instances), it was that it was blasphemy toward the breach. That was not mere idiocy, that was lunacy, and a potentially dangerous one. So though she hated her posting, she was very willing to accept it. Someone had to keep the lunatics from getting too close to the rift. Especially if any of them happened to be rebel mages, Maker help them.

So anyone that wanted to get to the rift at the back of the castle had to get through her - as had any Demon that came out of it. She was more than prepared to take care of both.

Even if her fellow Inquisition members weren't taking this posting nearly seriously enough.

5. Give me whatever prompt you like and I'll run with it~

Edited 2015-11-18 14:25 (UTC)

5. Party at the tavern

There are some evenings the tavern is a subdued place. There may be laughter, and gaming, and music in the background, but on those evenings, it could hardly be described as rowdy.

This was not one of those nights. A small contingent of patrons had made themselves particularly noisy, cheering and clapping in response to songs that were in turn bawdy and gruesome, and occasionally both at once. The minstrel who led the songs could be found standing on a bench near the wall, playing through the interludes on an Antivan fiddle and stomping her foot to the rhythm while she sang. Her voice was strong enough to fill the space:

Hail the Queen of the Eastern Seas!
Blade as sharp as a Winter's breeze
Mourn the men who were turned to wrecks
Seeking treasure below her decks!

There was a Brother of the Chant
Desperately, he swore "I can't!"
Said Isabela, with a grin:
"Don't you know lying is a sin?"

The tune continued on in that vein, a proud tribute to the insatiable lust of the Champion's companion. When the song was finished, Flavia welcomed the audience's applause with a flourishing bow, before holding one hand to her forehead and extending the other for someone to help her down from the bench.

Edited 2015-11-18 20:02 (UTC)

1

He runs.

He runs without looking back, nearly tripping over his own two feet but never stopping, never daring to look back over his shoulder. Sharp rocks press against the soles of his bare feet, branches whip across his face as he flies by, but Sam takes no heed of any of it.

He can't remember how he'd gotten here. None of this looks familiar - not that much does, these days - and more to the point, he can't figure out where the others might have gone. Normally that itself would have been cause enough for panic. The last he can remember, he'd been curled up on the shores of the Anduin beside Frodo, cold and exhausted and grateful to be out of the blasted boat at last. Merry and Pippin were nearby, already asleep, and he'd been vaguely aware of Strider and the other Big Folk talking quietly a few yards away as he drifted off to sleep himself.

Now, it's daylight, and he's alone, and the river is nowhere in sight. Frodo is gone, along with the rest.

And it doesn't matter, because this is more important right now, and he has to keep running.

Behind him, the bear roars, the sound splitting the air and - he swears - shaking the earth itself. Sam shakes as well, turning a blind corner and crying out himself as he does. He just hopes he doesn't crash into - well, anything.

Threaded | Flat

Vayne C. Solidor | Rifted | FFXII

Salem Lavellan | Dragon Age Native | 1 but also 5? Bears can be added.

'Karl' (Anders) | DA | 2