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allthisshitisweird2017-02-25 07:19 pm
faderifting) wrote in allthisshitisweird2017-02-25 07:19 pm
Entry tags:
TEST DRIVE MEME!
I ROLL TO SEDUCE THE BEAR
Tucked between the massive Lake Calenhad and the icy Frostback Mountains in Ferelden’s chilly, hilly south, the Hinterlands are a region covered in patchy forests, small farms, and a bustling fishing village called Redcliffe. The region was recently the frontline of a war between mages and Templars, but the Inquisition’s military presence has restored order and is now focused on helping the locals and influx of refugees rebuild their lives. Whether you’re a recent recruit or a hardened veteran, a Fereldan local or someone who recently fell out of a rift from another world, you may be asked to go lend a hand.
I. FLOODS
A burst of unseasonably warm weather (in no way inspired by real life events) is initially greeted with relief, gloves discarded and scarves unwrapped—but followed within the week by severe flooding across the region. Maybe you’re sent out to help debris from a road or collect the bodies of those swept away. Or maybe you’re less lucky and instead there when the waters come, shepherding refugees to higher ground, or caught riding in the flow on a dislodged roof or log. Maybe there’s a bear on the roof with you.
II. TREASURE HUNTS
Given the lack of banks and lockboxes, when the people here have something they value, they often hide it—under the ground, in a tree, behind a waterfall. So here you are, with a sketch of some landmarks found on a body, trying to find… something. If you find it, it might be useful: weapons, runes, a stash of supplies. Or it might be someone’s box of racy letters and a request to deliver them to a now-married woman who will slap you on delivery.
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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"Inquisition’s got three advisors at the top-top," He motions one hand over the other. "And we’re somewhere down here."
One hands droops dismally, waving like a windblown leaf towards the floor.
"Of course that's just the way it goes, ain't it? Ferelden’s got a queen — that’s where we are. Ferelden." Close towards the border, really, but if Orlais wants to duke it out for this frozen shitheap, he wishes them only the best of luck dying in the snow. "And if you spit you’ll hit a lord of this swamp or that."
That’s generalizing. Probably some Fereldens are also lords of bogs, or soggy, rain-filled ditches. It’s a diverse nation.
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That hurt to say. He almost said 'peasants' but he is anything but a peasant, so this was a less painful manner to put it. He is becoming less confidant about this man talking to him. Because he's not getting the answers he wants.
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He hums a little to himself, glances up. It’s close as he’ll come to a swoon. He's seen the drawings; lady's a dream of a scowl.
"Then the Nightingale," Probably the only Orlesian he won't insult. He likes to keep his skin. "And some Templar Marcher."
Tovias glances aside with a small shrug.
"Could walk out right now and no one'd stop you, I reckon. But it's a long walk, and they'll feed those that stick around."
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"So, the leaders of this place aren't even here? How do they maintain control?"
France was different. He had gone all over in order to ensure the King's control. But here they were in this sort of citadel and no one around to lead them? It was absurd. It was also the chance for him to maybe find a place.
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Hands returned to his pockets, he leans back against the wall in a practiced slouch.
"Figure having an army hanging around up here makes Orlais and Ferelden plenty nervous. But neither of them's in position to kick up fuss."
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It's how he keeps them in check and in line.
"Are they so weak? Obviously, this place is quite well protected, given it's location. But a determined army can only be stalled so long."
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Tovias makes a small, dismissive sound, and throws a glance over his shoulder. No one in earshot. Good.
"Ferelden's barely a damn country. Blight ripped through ten years ago. Orlais? Heard they settled their little civil war, but we all know how long that's gonna last."
Because, you know, fuck Orlais. He has more detailed opinions to offer, on the feasibility of elven rights, on what pressures would have pushed Celene towards such an offer. On the weakness that you signal when you have to call in the Inquisition to settle a turf dispute — on whether either side might have been so desperate as to orchestrate the subsequent attacks.
But it's easier if people don't think you think much. That's why it takes him until now to wind back around to:
"You carrying around some kind of title, then?"
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But don't underestimate him. He's logging the information so that he has it for later use. It's one of the reasons why he's still alive.
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A belated introduction. Best start with the fake names early, keep it consistent. It's a common enough name in the Anderfels, mouthful though it is.
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Because well, it could go either way from the Cardinal's perspective. For the man himself, he's been in positions far too recognisable to be in the habit of using his name. In fact, he is used to his name inspiring fear and obedience.
"Cardinal Richelieu."
Which is the title he's willing to share.
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Cardinal, so evidently of importance to someone — but whether that someone's his mother or whoever he's been meeting with merchants for, that remains to be seen.
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Which he figures is fair enough.
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"Then welcome to the Inquisition, Cardinal." He pushes off the wall, offers a hand up to clasp. "Hope you find what you're looking for."
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Oh, he has learned a great many things already. He doesn't need to find anything when others give him information so freely. He looks down at the proffered hand. And bows his head slightly. Hand-shaking is not only beneath a Cardinal, but a First Minister as well.
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"I’ve got to see a man about a horse," As in: Figuring out how to even ride one. He’s only seen them pulling carts, to say nothing of the weirder shit they’re keeping in the stables — and if he ever has to get out of this place in a hurry, he's going to need to know. "But you take care now."
no subject