TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[wakegregup]

He takes it for a yes, smoothes his shoulders into something a little more relaxed — and at once more puffed up. His movements unwind, begin to take up more of the free space as he begins picking through the dresser.

"Orlesian. Would he even know?" An idle joke, a peace offering; she sounds Ferelden. Hating Orlais may be the one thing Ferelden and Nevarra actually have in common. "No, if it were food poisoning, we'd all be down with it."

He's still watching her from the corner of his eyes, does a silent mental calculus of whether she's really committed to the act... or perhaps not actually looking to shove the nearest valuables up her sleeves.

"Flasks, bottles; something alcoholic he might have kept back for his own." A gesture to the closet, an eyebrow lifted expectantly. Are you helping, then? "Or bath oils. Salts, maybe."

He'd expect different signs of a contact poison, but Maker knows what a drunk will try to shove in his mouth.

[poleaxe]

It doesn't occur to Ioane that she would have the authority to force someone out of a room that isn't hers, largely because she's never had, you know, a room that was hers. Which is to say the peace offering works splendidly. She grins-- lopsided and toothy-- and walks over to the dresser. She stops before she opens the thing.

"They know you're searching his room?" It's not an entirely idle question. "Not really in the mood to get fingered for stealing today." She says it while making a motion that-- pending the advent of jazz-- will some day be called 'jazz hands'.

[wakegregup]

It's not as though he'd tell her, if they didn't, but:

"Yes." He declines to mention his own suspicions. "One of the mages has an eye on him while I'm here."

Pretentious fucks.

"Are you new of the position?" A case opened, contents skimmed — it'd be useful, perhaps, if he spoke the language. But not knowing Orlesian is half of what allows him to be here right now. "I thought Rebeka was on this wing."

Not that he's particularly aggrieved. Rebeka's sharp tongue was notorious.

[poleaxe]

Ioane can't quite keep herself from scoffing under her breath. Poor, dumb Rebeka. "She hasn't been feeling well," since I blacked her eye. Why dish it out if you can't take it? 'It' being a few blows. It's Rebeka's own fault for running her mouth. "I'm new, yeah. Ioane."

Haven been given permission, in some capacity, to snoop through Waters' things, Ioane sets right to it. If she were a fancy Orlesian lush, where would she hide her drink? Well, why would she need to hide it? Fancy people don't need to hide shit. Not unless it was shameful, or dangerous, or embarrassing. Which means it ought to go someplace no one would find by accident. Drawers and mattresses are right out. In his personal belongings? No, his page likely pokes through that. It's got to be someplace secret.

Paging through the closet, Ioane looks for signs of use. Something that's been touched that shouldn't have been touched. The interior isn't very dusty, but there's signs of use near the bottom, and that's-

"Do you want to open the secret compartment in the closet?" She asks, tone wry. "Because I don't."

[wakegregup]

"Greigor." He’s still fiddling with a useless fold of fabric when her words pull him up sharp.

Someone more charitable, less of a prick, might go: Wow, nice work Ioane, good reasoning. You sure figured that one out quick — Instead,

"You’re kidding me." The words are flat. He’s quite certain she’s not kidding him, but it’d be nice to pretend. Greig peers over (under) her shoulder, hissing a quiet string of Nevarran expletives. Opening this thing is objectively a terrible idea. A trap is unlikely, given Skyhold’s age, but whatever’s inside could be as damaging to know of.

Risk and reward, of course. If Waters takes a turn for the worse, bad news for Greig’s little reputation about the castle. If he improves?

"I’ve got it." He stoops low, prodding to search for the mechanism. "If flames shoot out, you can say it was my idea."

Not exactly an act of bravery. Even if this goes poorly, he wouldn't mind taking the credit for being clever enough to spot it.

[poleaxe]

Ioane isn't thinking about credit or prestige so much as the gnawing concern that Waters is going to be pissed when he finds out. Who will the lout prefer to blame, the elf or the Fereldan? Ioane guesses the elf, given that he's also foreign, and also also an ass.

She'd defend him, maybe try to speak up for him, if he was less of a prick. Her personal code of honor dictates that all people worth defending ought to be defended.

But he's not, so she lets him fiddle with the secret compartment. "Shooting flames?" she says with a roll of her eyes. "Like he'd risk his silks."

[wakegregup]

"You never know," There it is. Click. "Saw a drawing out of Halamshiral. Dress covered in —"

Candles, he doesn’t quite have time to finish, because then the back of the wall is sliding onto itself. The hollow beyond is dim; Greig steps away, waits a moment for his eyes to adjust.

"Can you check the door’s closed?" The one out to the hallway, where anyone might stumble in. He doesn’t really say it like he’s asking. "Thank you."

[poleaxe]

Ioane does as she's told, which, really, she ought to get an award for. It's not like this guy is really her superior. She doesn't have to. But as far as she's concerned, she's doing a really brilliant job fitting in and laying low, she's only gotten into about five fights since she got here last month, and only one of them was when she was taken on as a maid a week ago. And Rebeka was asking for it. So it's not really her fault.

Anyway, she closes the door.

"It's all locked," Ioane says. Unable to keep back her curiosity, she tiptoes back to where Grieg is crouched to look over his shoulder. "What's in it?"