TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

Surprise, Beartch

Bet You Thought Etc.

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.

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.

I. DRAGONS

There is a dragon in the Hinterlands. Everyone knows this. It's difficult not to notice when a dragon flies overhead with a mouth full of screaming sheep (alas, the poor dead sheep) or scorches your fishing boat and makes you swim for it (alas, the poor soaked fishermen). But she's only rarely sighted, and her lair is as of yet unknown, if "yet" is defined as "the moment before this exact moment, right now." Because you've found her. She is, at this very moment, screeching so loud it rattles the cliff sides that are trapping you in her territory and raining fire down over the only clear path of escape. She and her two dozen children don't care if you only wanted some elfroot and spindleweed. They also don't care if you have a sword. You look way more delicious and less woolly than a sheep.

II. CROSSROADS

In the year since the Inquisition's formation, the Crossroads have changed. Most of the refugees from the Mage/Templar War have moved on--if not back home, to new places--and there's been some progress rebuilding the homes and fortresses ruined by the war. Very few people are still living in caves. But rather than quieting down, the Crossroads have begun to bustle. Between the Inquisition's locally stationed forces and the increasing number of travelers and merchants now that the roads are safer, there's enough business to support a tavern with a few rooms for rent, and the Crossroads are becoming a trading post in their own right rather than a dot of houses on the path to Redcliffe--a great place to stop for a drink, to buy basic weaponry, or to unload all of the bear skins you've collected.

III. BEARS

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?

IV. CRYSTALS

Members and trusted agents of the Inquisition are given access to one of the Inquisition's stores of ancient, mysterious sending crystals, allowing them to communicate instantaneously by voice. It's magic. And a magical excuse to ask everyone what their favorite constellation is in the middle of the night.

Or to call for help because you've been treed by bears.

Either way.

V. MISCELLANEOUS

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.

Comments

Noelle Lefebvre | Dragon Age OC | Native

[legerdemainist]

II. When Inn Rome

"Oh, this hearth is so much more comfortable to rest before than a campfire and the beds surely much softer than tree roots and rocks to sleep upon," exposits a slight elven girl over her mug to whoever is nearby in the tavern and paying her even the slightest bit of attention. "I think I shall from now on only be attending such tasks for the Inquisition that take me along roads littered with such places of creature comforts."

She flutters her lashes rapidly, with possibly sincere and certainly patronizing concern. "Oh, that is, of course, not meant to insult those who care for such things and would prefer to live among the beasts of the wilds. There is something noble in such simplicity, I think. But such a life is not for me, I am afraid.

"I am too enamored of my dry feet, my clean clothes, my blessed drink--" She gives a smile to the barman, and then opens her mouth wide in surprise at the sudden thought that has hit her. "--and my games! Has anyone a deck of cards?! I should very much like to strike up a competition! That rather sounds fun, doesn't it?"


IV. My Deepest Apoolgies

Simply, suddenly, a bright, young, Orlesian voice pipes up over your crystal:

"A curiosity, if you will permit it. Tell me true, friends... In your heart of hearts, what do you believe is best in life?"

a hundred years later

[redinside]

Let us now imagine, if you will, that this particular man is permitted to go places and do things that involve interacting with other people, unchained, without any guard hanging right over his shoulder like a nervous gargoyle. While we're at it, imagine the barkeep has either risen above popular opinion or remained ignorant of it, and thus served him a pint of stout so strong you could stand a fork in it. A more naïve person might indulge some illusion of freedom, mitigated only by the presence of Inquisition Templars, who glance his way now and then even as they carry on amongst themselves.

While this girl carries on amongst herself, as it were, he scrubs a hand across his pale forehead, over one eye, down his stubbled cheek, looking tired. (He always looks tired.) And when no one else answers her, he does, more or less conversationally:

"Maker's balls... do you ever stop talking?"

[legerdemainist]

A hint of something less than congenial passes over her expression, though what it is exactly and whether it comes from his rudeness, his Templarness, or him in particular is hard to say, because in an instant it's gone. Most people would have missed it completely. Noelle's smile is bright and guileless, perhaps even a little teasing.

"Only when I am sleeping," she answers cheekily. "And even then, I am told, it is not so certain a thing as for most. Now, shall I take that as a no on your having any cards upon you?"

[redinside]

That flicker of distaste slides across his awareness and falls away like rain on waxed cloth. He'd wager the number of times he's gotten that look, and worse, would be higher than her age.

"No cards," he repeats, once he's gulped down a mouthful of ale. "No dice, either. Just the clothes on my back and the mud on my boots." Heh heh. After pausing to swallow the foam a second time, he turns a bloodshot look her way. "I've never heard of an agent picking through her commander's orders till she finds something she likes. That how they do it in Orlais?"

As if commander's orders are a sodding menu. Sodding Orlesians.

[legerdemainist]

"In Orlais, they do many things differently, ser," is her answer, smile still in place. "But here and there, one thing is common... I am no one's to be ordered about however they please."

Noelle has a sip from her own drink and, mouth still hovering at the the rim of the cup, looks up at him through her lashes and asks, "Are you?"

[redinside]

"Ask them," he says, looking a little wry, and cants his head toward the little group of Templars over yonder. This is a mild violation of their unspoken agreement to ignore each other until it's time to be off, but if it entertains a pretty girl—or even if it doesn't—who cares.

Then, a slow creak of leather, a slow lean, and the distance between Samson and said pretty girl shrinks conspiratorially. His voice is like gravel under a boot. "Don't actually. You wouldn't like that one, he's got a stick up his arse so long you can see it from here."

One of the younger Templars does seem a bit frownier than the others.

[legerdemainist]

Noelle's first instinct is to pull back, but her pride demands she refuse it. Instead, she tilts her head slightly and attempts to look unaffected as she suggests, "Perhaps it is actually a mage's staff, and its being lodged there is why he was so angry as to put that armor on in the first place."

Her lips purse briefly then. "But you are no mage, ser. So how is it that a man with such accoutrements and unfortunate state to his backside is your keeper?"

[redinside]

To be fair to Ser Frowns-a-lot over yonder, Samson wouldn't want to babysit himself either, he thinks. Poor kid.

Speaking of poor kids, Noelle might wish she followed her instincts: there's an unusual scent about this man, like meat or milk on the verge, when you can't quite tell whether or not it's gone off. More of an impression of a scent, really, tickling at some reptilian part of the brain. Luckily, it isn't long before he settles back into his own space, his mouth gone crooked in low-key amusement.

"I'm no mage, am I? How d'you know?"