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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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[ It'll do. ]
The thread I've got's not strong enough for stitches — [ Maker, but he's big, isn't he? Doesn't move like most shem at least, always stomping to fill up the most space possible. Cerise takes advantage of it to stretch out her own motions, extending casually into the space. ] — And I'm all out of prophet's laurel, of course.
[ Primarily because there's no way in sin she might afford it. ]
Are you the new surgeon, then, sir?
[ He hardly looks it. She doesn't even know if Skyhold's been promised one any time soon. But you don't out and out ask someone, so why are you been fiddling with vaginas, exactly? ]
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his failure to question it or object does not mean he didn't notice. it means he expects her to remember his recognition, and that he gave it to her regardless, as he sets about portioning her requests. it isn't a generous amount, but he perhaps does not have so much of it himself, either; she can be glad of what she gets, as she might well have had none of it. )
Healer, ( he says, as he works. thread for stitches, is it. well, she's in luck; gervais has never believed in being limited to only magical solutions. ) A, ah, a healer. My, ah, my experience.
My experience is relevant.
( to midwifery. )
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Not so dull, is he? It's the words, really, and the size. Makes him out different. But a gift's far better than lying, however scanty the portions; it's less likely to get her an earful later. She isn’t stupid, she knows this thing in her hand, it’s given her a new kind of leeway. She’d have to fuck up pretty bad before they tossed her out.
That doesn’t mean she’s looking for a lecture.
She considers making a joke about relevant experience, and thinks better of it. Cerise settles, perching on the edge of the table as he works. If they’re going to be honest about things, then she’s definitely going to sit down a spell. ]
You know, it’s not so bad here. [ A small offering: Healer means a lot of things, a lot of places. But here, it mostly means mage. ] People get used to it.
[ She doesn’t know much about magic. Doesn’t much care to. But she does know the past few years have been weird as shit for everyone. Probably weirder if you live your whole life in — well, he sounds Orlesian, and who knows where they live. Other than in Orlais. Some nice little room somewhere, is the point. ]
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( it's harder to tell, to pick out the dryness in the words that he stumbles over; that doesn't mean it isn't there. just that it's mostly in the slant of his mouth and the way he glances up from what he's doing. all of these things people are newly becoming used to.
the axe will fall again, though. sooner or later. we've all done terrible things is only a balm on some wounds until one side has won, and gets to write the rest of history--
he ties off the prophet's laurel, sets aside a bit of catgut. holds his hands out, empty, with a gesture towards the one that glows. )
It, ah, it aches?
( speaking of mages, and healers, and the things people get used to. )
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She watches him a moment, wary behind an exaggerated casualness. But he’s done her a favour already, has bought himself a little trust — and more to the point: she’s no chicken.
Cerise pushes up a sleeve, presents the mark into his hands. ]
A little. [ But not so bad, now. A deep, spiny bruise, where there’d once been burn; the terror she might lose an arm. It’s been worth it. ] They say it’s better if you stick around the others.
[ She throws him a look, at that. Most of the others so far are roundly insane. Possibly demons. It’s too easy of a lie if you want to keep everyone penned together, in easy sight. ]
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( which is so mild, but she takes his point, right. or rather: he took hers. and her hand, while he's at it; his are much larger, with staff-calluses and peculiar stains from ink and arcane potions both, but gentle. he is a deliberate man, and the things he does are done with great care - he soothes the mark with magic, a deft whisper of a thing, and holds her hand for no longer than it takes to achieve. )
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Thanks. [ She rubs at the palm, flexes her fingers. Cerise marvels silently a moment, recollects. ] Um.
[ Locals, he says. Like some noble and a dying Dalish girl are any more reasonable. But he knows of them, and if anyone she knows is going to know — ]
You don't think they're, you know. You don't figure it means anything, right? That we've got these, same as them?
[ is the crazy part contagious, help ]