allthisshitisweird | TEST DRIVE MEME!

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TEST DRIVE MEME!

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.

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[ he doesn't return the smile--it's unlikely that his mouth remembers how to form one--but he does dip his chin briefly, polite in turn. he returns his attention to the apple as he finishes cutting it, head tilting faintly to allow himself to better listen to thranduil. .. ah. yes. given the other elves this stranger has come across, abelas himself must be something of an incongruity. he's not like the dalish, not like the so-called city elves. ]

Originally? I cannot say. [ slaves don't have homes. he has no idea who his parents were or where they'd come from or if they'd been slaves themselves. ] I once lived where I was kept. [ he flicks the juice of the apple off the blade, then sets it down beside himself. ] Then I lived where I could. Now, I am from where I am needed.. which may be the Inquisition, as it so happens. [ given the wolf's dilemma. given his need for servants that can understand what must be done.. and who'd known him once.

he pauses, then glances back up, amber eyes cautious, but otherwise unreadable. ] I am old. .. Very old. And there are precious few of us left. [ the implication being, of course, that he doesn't trust anyone just yet with the location of the others. it's not the whole truth by far--his biggest concern must always be the well--but it isn't a lie, either. ]

Are you unlettered? [ he's found a surprising number of the dalish to be, and that their language is spoken only is wasteful, in his opinion. the elvhen had known how to read- how quickly their children's children had lost it? but he speaks with no judgement, only curiosity.

his tone stays light, he tempers his excitement easily. finally, here are the kin he has been told were long-dead. but even his highs are not so high, anymore, and leashed without thought. he is simply too old, and too in-control of himself. he watches abelas' hands, and crosses his legs, still leaning against the wall. ]

My son is nearing his thousandth birthday. I still think of him as young, when most Men would look at him, match their history to his birth, and find their ancestors still scratching in the dirt while he was still teething. Age is a matter of comparison.

I can read and write. [ it's a question that might have insulted him, were circumstances not what they were. but in this changed world, where his life and his people are considered myths, is it any surprise that someone would wonder? no one outside the temple but the wolf remembers that abelas had once stood at mythal's side, trusted and relied upon. she'd seen to it that he'd been properly educated, building upon what he'd picked up under his master's nose.

he gives him a sidelong glance, hesitating, watching thranduil's face as if for signs of a lie. he is like abelas's people, then. he needs to ask solas about him. but.. in the meantime, there are some things that he can speak of.

for a few moments, he's quiet, finishing off the apple and licking juice off the pad of his thumb. at last, he hums out a musing noise. ] I'll say, then, that I too would consider your son rather young.. by standards I once kept, at least. [ that's telling enough, he supposes. ] How long have you been here?

[ what a careful dance this is, both of them balanced on the edge of hope- for cooperation, for cautious optimism. oh, he thinks they'll feel one another out for weeks yet, but this- this is the start. ]

My son's behavior never helped the matter. [ his gaze lingers on abelas' hands, his fingers and tongue, or where they had been, a moment of staring into space. ] Half a year, if the pattern of my years to yours holds true.

[ it had been snowing when he had arrived. it would start again soon- oh, the mountains had snow, but the encampment was mostly clear. he shifts to stand on his own feet again, and looks out over the valley. ]

A blink in time. If offered the chance to return today, I would not take it. There is so much left to do.

[ half a year. certainly long enough to have formed friendships, to have goals for what he wants to accomplish here. long enough for solas to know to what extent he can be trusted, and with what, and whether he'll reach out to him if--when--the time comes.

so much to do, he says, and that's.. curious. abelas makes no sign that he finds it so, though, instead picking his knife back up and beginning to carefully clean it. ] .. And what is it that you would do here? This is not your home. These are not your people. What obligation do you feel to them?

[ it's not meant to sound accusing, though abelas has never been particularly skilled at asking things gently. he hasn't had reason to in.. thousands of years now.

he jerks his chin toward the people below, gaze tracking one of the dalish briefly, then flicking away and up once more. ] They're proud, considering. [ considering how little they know. considering how unintentionally offensive they are. considering the fact that they're all children. ]

We are kin. [ in a tone that makes it clear he will hear no disagreement. but yes, they are elves, and that means something beyond all the worlds crossed and the mistakes made. they are elves. that is all he needs. he turns from the snow to the courtyard. he thinks it is cyril near the tavern, speaking with another of the ashara clan. his sight is pitiful for an elf, but cyril's hair stands out from a distance, and thranduil watches the two of them go inside. ]

What would I do? I would have no elven child go hungry, or cold. [ he would have them all safe, and he will do what he needs to, short of kinslaying or any of the other forbidden things. now, he holds himself a little straighter, wearing his clothes as he would his far-fancier robes. ] What would you do? [ his hands, clasped before him, bear a great many rings. ]

Humility would have broken them. They are surviving, if little else.

[ he looks to abelas, to his clever little knife, his hand searching in his own pocket before he pulls out a small folding knife, inlaid with mother of pearl. this he offers, security against his question. ]

May I see that?

Kin. [ he turns the word over on his tongue, mouth twisting into a thoughtful, distant frown. it's a strange world that thranduil comes from, he thinks, if he considers the elves of thedas--and presumably abelas himself--his kin. is that how it is in his home? .. are they kind to one another, he wonders? he wants to ask, but he also fears to. he's not certain he wants to know. he doesn't want to be reminded any more strongly of how things were before the veil, or how things might have been.

the question makes him lift a hand, tapping the elegant markings on his face. ] I have my duties. They have always been enough for me. [ he's mythal's-- and to a lesser degree, solas's. not because he was bought, not because he's a slave bound to their service, but because he'd offered it to mythal and been accepted. because he's offered it in turn to the wolf, because solas needs him.

he watches as thranduil pulls the small knife from his pocket and sets it down, amber glance lifting. he swipes the cloth over the blade one last time, then flips it around, offering it out handle-first. ] It was a gift, [ he admits a little grudgingly, still hesitant to talk about himself. ] One of the first I ever received.

[ he takes it, sets to looking at the make of the blade, the quality of the steel. he is delighted to find it well made. there was something here. the elvhen are not a story, and they might be restored. everything could be put to rights; theirs is not an impossible task. he holds the proof in his hand. ]

Duties to Mythal,[ he says, yes, he recognizes the vallaslin, still turning the knife over in his hand. he is no smith, but his wife taught him some things. enough to keep him busy now. ] She makes requests of you still?

[ before him stands a font of knowledge, correct knowlege, untwisted by a thousand years of mortal curiosity. anyone with any sense would be eager.

neatly, he wipes the prints from the blade before returning it as it was offered, handle first. ] The one who gave it to you chose well. It is well made- but I suppose you know that, after all these years.

My orders were never meant to expire. [ it's not really an answer to thranduil's question, but the other elf likely hadn't expected one, either, given abelas's caution.

he takes the blade back gratefully, sliding it back into its sheath with a lingering brush of his fingers over the hilt. ] I have had cause to use it more than once, and for more than the peeling of a piece of fruit. [ he's a mage, yes, but after so many years, he's adept with several weapons. he still keeps the little blade on his person at all times, though.

he nods toward the folding blade still resting against the stone where thranduil had placed it, glance flicking from it back up to the other elf. ] --From your home?

From my wife. [ he does not reach for it- it can rest there, or abelas can play with it, all as he likes. he doesn't seem the sort to chuck it over the walls (for all that thranduil would likely dive after it) which means he's acquired the bare minimum of thranduil approval points to unlock the acknowledgement that he was married. is, still, in the laws of the sindar, even if she is far from here. ]

Used in the process of following orders from Mythal? [ he sees no larger sword, no staff- but he needs no focus point to work his craft, and galadriel had been met with disaster when she had tried, so that is no indication of anything. ]

Please. Examine it if you would like- 'tis only courtesy, after I asked the same of you. [ he has so little from home, here, and wishes he might offer-- a book, perhaps. something more real. ]

[ he pauses uncertainly for a few moments, well-aware of how precious things are from people or places that are no longer around. not that thranduil's home is gone the way abelas's people and culture are, but the other elf can't return right now, either, so it's as good as lost to him. still, after a moment, he lifts it, flicking the blade open with a practiced twist of his wrist and taking a few moments to look it over with a critical, interested eye. if it's typical of work from the other elf's homeland, then it's certainly different from what elvhenan had produced. it's.. interesting, though.

the question earns an affirmative noise. ] .. From time to time.

[ he flicks the blade shut again, then offers it back out on his palm, expression sober-- apparently his default expression. ]

At first, largely to protect my own life. [ he remains silent for a few moments, clearly wrestling with what he wants to say and whether or not he should actually say it. at last, though, he speaks back up, voice taking on a gruff note. ] I came to Mythal's service from.. difficult circumstances. Her claim and her mark were not always enough to protect me at times.

[ he takes it, fingers brushing abelas' palm for a moment before he returns it to his pocket. metal rusts, fabric falls apart within a few centuries, wood ages and cracks. nothing lasts. it's abnormal to be so attached to an object that will cease being useful soon, and yet-

well, it's far too small to have much use beyond peeling apples, or cutting the occasional stray thread, as opposed to abelas' knife. ]

I have been told they are marks of devotion, and less so... [ he's choosing his words carefully, slipping back into thinking in sindarin and speaking in common. he decides, finally. ] a signal, a-- sigil. Would you have taken them, if not for the sometimes-protection they offered?

[ his mouth twists into an immediate frown, expression darkening. ] .. Mythal's are not the first I've worn, but hers was the only claim I chose.

[ his fingers lift again, brushing one of the branches that mark his cheekbone, and his expression eases once more. ]

The vallaslin do not mean what the Dalish think they mean. [ he glances away, easing down and letting his legs dangle against the stone wall, crossing his ankles neatly. ] When I first came to Mythal's service, I took her mark willingly, but it wasn't an act of devotion at the time. It's different now.

I did not think they came off. [ he attempts to soothe abelas' mood with casual irreverence, idly toying with his rings, grounding himself with the branching patterns. ] Though perhaps I assumed too steady of a hand of my Dalish friends. The patterns are intricate.

[ the difference between being willing and being devoted. devotion to a being that was never supposed to have slipped away, affection for her even now, enduring. an idiot could read between the lines. not too much too quickly, he reminds himself. that might spoil all of it.

instead, he focuses on another aspect of abelas' looks, one hopefully less tangled in history and duties. ]

It is pleasing to see another elf with proper hair. [ or. close to it. at least there's something, even if the sides are shorne. ]

They're not meant to. They could be.. changed, though. [ slaves had changed hands, after all, bought and sold in markets or private auctions. abelas had been lucky, if one can call him that, in that he'd never had to endure that kind of public spectacle. at least, not that he can remember-- perhaps he'd been too young at the time. ] Ink and a little magic. I never knew the trick of it. [ imagine how much easier his life might have been had he some idea how to change them, obscure them. but then, perhaps he would have died on the street instead of being taken in by mythal.

the comment earns a puzzled glance, startled despite himself, and he reaches to touch his braid. ]

.. I'm uncertain what that means. [ he's never given much thought to his hair beyond trimming the ends when it gets too long and shaving the sides when they start to grow in. ]

Edited 2016-09-26 18:22 (UTC)

[ his fingers brush against the ends of his hair in a mirror image of abelas; he smiles. ] Forgive me, I know it to be a difference between our peoples. To the Eldar, it would be odd to cut one's hair, a sign of a grave injury or illness. It is... painful. And so many of the elven here wear it short, unadorned. Perhaps it is not the same to the elvhen, but at least your hair is not so-- startling.

[ he runs his fingers through it, and then nearly adjusts it to fall again down his back rather than other his shoulders. ]

The only other elvhen I have met [ what, solas had called himself that, thranduil can too. ] has shorne himself entirely. It was very disconcerting when I met him.

[ he gives him a slightly alarmed look-- somewhat startling on his typically-solemn or scowling features. he glances from thranduil's face to his hair, then back again. ] .. How is it not unmanageable if you never cut it? [ some sort of magic? it's not as if he'd never seen the upper class using magic for things like cosmetic changes. he hadn't expected something so similar from another world entirely, though.

the mention of a shorn head--presumably in the inquisition--distracts him, though. he smooths his palm over the side of his head briefly, then hums out a thoughtful noise. ]

You mean Solas. He's.. different. Not like the others, at least. [ no, not like them at all.. but he'll reveal himself in his own time. when he has strength enough. when he must. ]

[ he can't hold back a smile at the abrupt change from a placid expression to alarm, a quirk of his lips belying amusement. ] It stops growing at some point. Settles, if you will.

[ wanna touch it, abelas?

he thinks of luthien, briefly. but she had been special, in a way none of them would ever be again. hair that long might be more of a difficulty than a delight, if the person gifted with it was required to fight, or do anything other than lounge and sing.

he watches abelas' hands, and how the branching patterns of his vallaslin extend beyond his forehead, wrap about his temple. ] You have met him?

Ah. [ well, that's convenient, and answers the question neatly. he can hardly imagine his hair being actually painful to cut. thranduil's home becomes stranger by the moment, it seems-- as thedas must seem to thranduil. (as thedas is to abelas, in fact, each time he wakes.) ] .. I only wear my hair this way out of habit, now. I feel as if it would take too much of my time, if I had your length. [ it's simply a difference in priorities, he supposes. thranduil's hair is important to him, as it apparently is to other elves of his world. of course he'd take care of it. abelas thinks nothing of his own, beyond not shaming mythal or his fellow sentinels in his appearance.

the question earns a short shake of his head. ] I've seen him. I haven't been here long, but I didn't survive this long by being unobservant. [ a beat. ] He's studied the rifts. He may have answers I seek. I'll introduce myself to him at some point, if he doesn't seek me out first. [ guilt twists inside him at the lie, but only briefly. it's a necessary one, and if the wolf takes thranduil into his confidence, abelas will apologize later for his deception. ]

It is... [ again, struggling for words, fingers hesitating, caught between the small gestures he makes when he speaks. this isn't nearly as taboo as it might be, if abelas were not so easily swept into the same social category as an elfling who needed to be made aware of efforts ]. a social activity. One might comb with one's patrol-mates, to better understand one another.

[ and now maybe it makes sense why it bothers him that solas is shorn. how are they to have any meaningful friendship if they can't have this very shared elven experience? thranduil laces his fingers together, raises a brow. ]

He seems set in his ways. If he is in Skyhold, he is in the rotunda, eating, or sleeping. [ which he knows for reasons, most being that he can see solas go about his day from where thranduil sits in the library. ] What, exactly, are your questions?

[ he's not sure, in that case, how it differs from any other social activity-- but he suspects he couldn't understand unless he was from that culture. ] .. I suppose my people simply used magic in the same way. Mages might spend years or decades crafting or casting a single spell. [ he says it as if he isn't a mage himself, but it's different for him. he's never had time for that sort of frivolous thing, and since discovering his magic, it's been used primarily to help him survive and to protect mythal and her secrets.. and his fellow sentinels.

he hesitates, then shakes his head. ] We have no closer tradition. [ a beat, then a little dubiously: ] Though perhaps lovers enjoy such things with one another. [ grooming one another and the like. in his days on the streets, he'd heard stranger requests, after all.

he grunts thoughtfully at the response, giving the other elf a sideways glance. ] Not social, then. [ well.. not social in the way some are, at least. in his memories, the wolf was always willing to speak to those that knew how to listen.

he twists the end of his braid between his fingers, mouth twitching into a small frown again. ] I wish to know as much as I can discover about the.. creature that opened the Breach, and how it was done. I wish to keep further rifts from opening, and end this crisis that I might return to my sleep. [ a beat, then he sighs quietly. ] And perhaps I might be of some use, given my age and experience. I suppose we shall see.

[ he considers abelas for a heavy moment. he is wholly the sort of person thranduil wants around, the sort of elf he wants by his side. the sort of ally he wants to cultivate- and hopefully befriend as well. ]

If you would permit an offering of cultural exchange, I offer myself in friendship. [ a raised hand, fingertips brushing gently over his heart; an inclined head. ] And firmly without the connotation of... lovers. [ that's a twitch of a smile. ] Rest assured I have no designs on your... innocence.

[ another lil smile for him, please, abelas. that startled look is becoming. ]

Social enough. Fiercely clever. He can be bribed away from his books as one would bribe an elfling. He is... busy. [ not that that's stopped thranduil from raining down folded animals bearing notes on him when he begins to despair of endless books on trade policy and ferelden skirmishes. ] Perhaps-- do not repeat the elfling bit.

[ the look he gives thranduil is startled for a moment, then slightly odd, until he finally seems to realize that the blond is joking. ] I haven't much innocence left to desire, even were you so inclined. [ he's also not in the habit of allowing strangers to touch him, even when it's innocent. still.. how lonely it must be, to be here essentially alone, surrounded by well-meaning, ignorant children. he supposes it wouldn't hurt to make himself a little more approachable.. at least for a fellow--if foreign--elf.

at last, he nods, short and decisive. ] If you wish it. .. Preferably not while I'm in full armour.

[ it seems too militaristic for an act that thranduil says is social.

at last--at last!--the faintest, barest hint of humour flickers across the amber eyes, and is gone again. ] Ah.. yes. Somehow, I doubt he'd appreciate such a comment. [ though he can well imagine the look on his face if he did share it. ] I shall hope that he'll make a little time for me, then.

I am far from inclined. [ best make this simple and neat now, before misunderstandings are risked. ] I am wed, and my people do not stray. Ever.

[ he misses her with a longing that could not be made greater even across words. and it is viciously leashed, bound by duty- always duty, always the reminder that he has many, many miles to go before he will see her again.

it has no place here. even less, without his son. ]

I wish it. And- I must ask, for hospitality's sake- you have other clothing with you?

[ well, that expression is its own reward. he's glad to know it can be done. ] He will.

[ abelas is... unique. solas will see that. ]

.. Would that my own did not. [ he hadn't been concerned, truly, but it's good to hear anyway. not that he normally cares what others do behind closed doors, but abelas himself isn't inclined and hasn't been inclined in many centuries, and would prefer to keep anyone from thinking otherwise.

the question makes him jerk his head toward the mountain range. ] I have a pack with a change of clothing and supplies, which I stowed and warded before I descended from the mountains. [ he's not entirely certain he can see himself staying in skyhold or the camp, but he doesn't intend to go far. at least, not so long as he's needed. ]

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rowancrowned - 2016-09-30 03:06 (UTC) - Expand

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