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

sand dan glokta | the first law (rifter)

[clicktap]

a. WEIRD GLOWING SKULL

It's human. He thinks. There’s been little opportunity to study those others, but the size fits. The absent horns fit. The odd, spiraling carvings, less so.

Glokta leans himself against the skull, free hand tugging carefully at the crystal rammed through it. The pillar wobbles dangerously, and he gives up with a curse. No way to do it without sending them both the damn mountain.

He shifts heavily onto his cane, braces himself against the oncoming wave of pain. This little outing's been hardly worth the price of admission. A glower down the short slope back to camp reminds him that the worst is yet to come.

“Who made you?” He demands. The dead man doesn’t answer. Recalcitrant fuck.

-

b. PAPERWORK

Glokta’s never been a man for books, but here even a basic grasp of letters and accounts seems a skill in demand.

He’s set up shop in the town’s second inn. The crude sign out front can’t disguise its origins, converted from an abandoned home by unscrupulous neighbors. The Inquisition’s business here has seen a thriving industry in warm food and drafty accommodations, even as winter strips the fields bare. How much rat is passed off as rabbit, now? How much cat? Sometimes it pays not to chew.

So he sits, and he drinks, and he makes it known that the Inquisition is offering his services. It’s tedious — mercenaries checking their pay, and peasants wanting messages drafted. Always some inane prattle about births, and deaths, and the sustaining power of faith. But there’s meat in there too: Passes blocked, soil gone bad, a suspicious new Orlesian dress.

Gossip. It’s a web, then a window. And if sifting through it all gives him a pounding headache then at least it’s kept him busy. If you must be a monster, be a useful one.

“Yes, yes, have a seat.” He gestures impatiently, without looking up.

-

c. PLAIN GOLD RING

There’s a wedding in the square.

A robed woman — doubtless some form of acolyte — beams before the couple, hands raised in blessing. The pair stare into each other’s eyes with the undisguised self-interest of youth. Around them, houses crumble and the woods strain with war. But in that moment, there’s only them. The scene radiates benevolence, hope. Vapidity.

Glokta turns away, rubbing his gums.

He’s not two steps before a shriek rings out. The little crowd falls back as the groom sputters, choking, clutching at the knife buried in his gut. Blackness seeps across his fine shirt, his pained gasps steaming on the chill air. A wiry young girl kicks and bites, desperately trying to throw off the hands suddenly grabbing for her. The bride won't stop screaming.