TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

TEST DRIVE: ORLAIS EDITION

I. EVERYBEAR I GO

Believe it or not, there are bears in Orlais, too. Stuffed ones posed in noble salons casting intimidating shadows as lords tell unlikely stories about how they bravely stared the great beast in the eye before they slayed it with a single shot. One comtesse keeps bears as pets in large pens on her estate, much to the distress of her nearest neighbors. But most common are the dancing bear acts found on street corners here and there. Perhaps there is some sort of special bear communication network that has passed on a message, because it seems like the presence of the Inquisition has inspired these bears to finally make a break for it out of servitude, and that is how you find yourself being chased by a bear in a belled hat down a narrow cobbled alley lined with street vendors.

II. OUI OUI MON AMI

The Inquisition's efforts are currently focused on Orlais, where a civil war is raging and intelligence indicates Corypheus seeks to eliminate Empress Celene, while the oppressed elven population's discontent threatens to bubble over into a second rebellion. The Inquisition's activities here are mostly political and designed to gather influence and information: endeavoring to make a good impression at the ball of an influential comtesse with ties to the Council of Heralds, or assisting with the reconstruction of the alienage district destroyed by fire. There are rowdy soldiers in taverns to eavesdrop on, and restless crowds listening to streetcorner speakers preach Celene's virtues, or Gaspard's, or lament the end of the world.

But honestly, who cares about any of that? Halamshiral also offers great high-end shopping. Priorities. Gowns, tunics, fur-trimmed cloaks, sleeves slashed and puffed with layers of bright-colored satin. Tall boots with gold spurs to clink as you walk. Veils, lace-trimmed smallclothes, perfumes, necklaces worth your weight in gold. If you have the coin, the shopkeeps have time for you. The slightest whiff of poverty will leave them cold toward you. They might even pretend not to see you, but hey: they work on commission.

Even among decadence and finery, there are signs of unrest. In an out-of-the-way village square, little Orlesian children gather to throw thick gold coins in a gilt fountain, with whispered wishes and giggles. All at once, a thief pushes his way into their circle, breaking the idyllic scene. He leaps into the fountain and grabs a handful of coin. Thin, dirty, ragged, hollow-eyed and, under the hood of his cloak, elven, he scans the now-screaming children -- and then takes off running.

“Stop him!” howls one precious Orlesian cherub, her rosy cheeks streaked with tears. “That dirty knife-ear took my money!”

Kids are just the cutest.

III. SKYHOLD

Skyhold is where people who don't like fun accents and life being a constant masquerade hang around repairing walls, filling out paperwork, and, on rare occasions, engaging in elaborate, color-coded team snowball fights.

That last occasion? Totally over. Now the Inquisition will see you work, work, work, work, work. Working to save Thedas is not all fun and games, and there are plenty of things to keep you busy in Skyhold. See that roof over there? It has a hole in it. Climb up, someone suggests, and fix it. See that hole over there, in the wall? Some drunk from the tavern fell through it yesterday, and it needs repairs. See that floor over there? It’s dirty. And here’s a mop.

If these tasks seem too menial and demeaning, perhaps you’d like to head up to the library and reshelve some books. Perhaps you’d like to meet a special friend there? The stacks are warm and cozy, and at least a little out of the way. Secret spaces are at a premium. But be careful: you aren’t the only one in Skyhold, no matter how many people shipped out to Orlais.

If warm ovens are more your style than warm books, try the kitchens. They could always use a helping hand - especially because one of the baby griffons has made its way down there. A sharp-beaked competition for your plans to pilfer snacks, but you’ll prevail, right? The griffon loves chicken, and the taste of your blood. Get her outside before she gets too comfortable.

Or just feed the dogs, you dirty Fereldan.

IV. WILDCARD

Thedas is a big place. Do something else in it. Maybe in the Hinterlands.

Comments

[southernson]

Favor.

Later.

It brought back echoes of the battlefront, like after-images of light and shadow burned into the insides of his eyelids. A quickened pulse, remembered adrenaline. His lips compressed in a suppressed smile at the memory, and he inhaled quietly. "To each man his own! I far prefer to employ the manners of leverage which don't require I sweat."

He purred the half-truth and his hand dropped from his face back to his side.

So sweet, to change his tune!

Only moments ago the stranger insisted that only the unwise and unwary might be crushed. "I don't mind unfair," chirped Lucarius, beaming, "As long as I'm the one with the upper hand. Tell me, when will your work here be finished? For the day, I mean, not... in its entirety. If I were you I'd enlist a team of some sort; otherwise I fear you might be at it for a decade."

His dark eyes assessed the long wall, the height and thickness of it, and added (only a little dryly), "Or two."

[goodforsaken]

Oh no, my friend, it was the same tune! Maybe just lowered an octave, or whatever was the metaphorical equivalent of by this point Lucarius had distinguished himself as interesting, and therefore Lex would be slightly more 'damn shame, that', if his head had been squished like a grape or something. He considered his work, which was progressing at a reasonable pace despite how people kept interrupting him in other threads (...no they didn't). "Once I'm obliged to work by torchlight, more or less."

Unexceptional brute labour wasn't going to earn him enough goodwill to make that worth it. Anyway, because how Thedosians tell him escaped management at the moment, maybe that met uhhhhhhh about two hours, yes? Sure! What an arbitrary designation.

The observation on the wall, meanwhile, was--well, deeply accurate; Lex let his eyeline follow Lucarius and chuckled, again high-pitched and a little awkward, but carrying it well. "I'm not a mason. Once all the loose stones are out I hope they take the trouble to put a team on it." Pretending, of course, that at the time of their actual handshaking the detail had been included that Lex's hands wore the kind of wear and tear ascribed typically to craftsmen, not combatants.

He tilted his head over renewed tiny hammer taps, its angle avian. "Why? If you're looking for a tour diplomatic immunity will get you much more interesting places than I can."

(Lex didn't think that was why.)

[southernson]

"How grueling!" Gasped Lucarius, faux-breathless with sympathetic indignation at the plight of a fellow upperclassmen. The wickedly good-humored glint in his eyes gave him away, as did the way his serious expression, the soft 'o' his mouth had formed, seemed all liquid around the edges. As if it might fade and lapse into laughter should the weight of Lex's attention linger on it too heavily.

And then he did laugh, low and soft sound, as unobtrusive as a big cat's contented purr. "Wring out enough benefit of them to be worth the callouses! And good luck to your work; I'm not at all envious of it. And-- whyever would I desire a tour? Gambling with my life for the risk of more of this old ruin to fall on me? No, no..."

He cleared his throat, canted his hip. Crossed his arms, picturesque as a painting. "Less... diplomatic immunity. More... wine-fueled rhetoric and discourse. No strings attached, and I'm happy to supply the wine."