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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.
Diana of Themyscira/Wonder Woman | DC Comic (post crisis-pre52)
There is something to be said about being blind for the odd month or two that puts the idea of being powerless into perspective. To this world, Diana is only powerless in so far as she can not shoot ice or fire from her fingertips. She is still very strong, though now she finds she gets tired more quickly than she used to. She is still far more durable than the average human, but where normal blades would not have been a major concern for her normally, suddenly they've become an actual threat. None of this actually stops her or slows her down enormously. She's fought with limitations before, this isn't any different. But they are certainly different limitations.
So. If you find yourself near the training grounds, you will see a tall, muscular woman, wearing not a stitch of armor except for a pair of large silver bracelets that hug her forearms like manacles. She's testing the heft of a sword, but pauses to offer you a smile when she notices she's not alone.
"Oh, hello," she says, easily and pleasantly, "Would you care to spar?"
2.Has flooding got you down? Dial 1-800-Superhero now!
This is familiar. This is the only time that Diana truly feels how limited her powers are. Flight used to come so effortlessly to her. Now, 20 hours after the floods had caught her at the Crossroads unawares, she can feel the drag of energy expended like she's never felt in relief efforts before. She has a little more. There is always a little more. She can't effortlessly lift walls or fly long distances anymore, but as long as she hears voices, she will move towards them.
2b. Services suspended due to inclement weather.
Well. She needed the rest anyway. It probably would have been much nicer to have her rest at the Inquisition camp where there was a fire and blankets and even a little food, but the roof of a washed out house works just as well. Diana is a woman of great will, raised by women known for their resolve. Still, when one's body decides one is done moving for the next few hours, there's only so much arguing one can do before they must concede to the truth.
Falling several feet from the air into cold, debris filled water also makes for a very strong case of conceding to the truth at speed. There is very little she can do now except wait for the water to recede and a little of her strength to come back or for someone to find her.
3. Choose Your Own Adventure.
Diana is curious, though reserved in her new arrival. She has done this before, been the stranger from a different land and she's not the young woman she was when she first did this. She is more cautious, more ready to hold back and observe before interacting. Politics, especially the politics of Man's World, has taught her much. But she is still entierly herself, immediately present and warm. The way she carries herself, easy and regal with an underlying power, does not quite fit the plain clothes she wears, the ever present bracelets catching the soft glow of tavern light as she listens to the bard sing or glinting in the sun of the Hinterlands.
[small caveat for the canon familiar, i haven't read all of the crisiseses because i love myself and life is short. my apologies for any contrary information. Diana is from the end of Ruka's first run (post-neckbreak) 4 the curious.]
1
"To spar?" Wren smoothes her face back into a mask of polite neutrality, adjusts the strap of a gauntlet. "Ah,"
She’s tempted. It's a rare opportunity to train against someone with whom she shares both size and a center of mass. Rather more common are challenges by the cocky, unarmored, and mildly insane. Wren would accord the latter to Diana and make some polite excuse, were it not for the mark of her hand.
A Rifter. Of course. They're all mad,
"Perhaps with blunted edges," Calmly. A short gesture to her own armor. "And a moment — if you'll grant — to level the odds."
Quicker to have off with it, than to try and piece together a set to fit her partner. It's not that she completely underestimates the woman: Diana's musculature, her manner, they both speak to an evident experience.
It's just that. Like. Who the fuck swordfights with bare skin?
no subject
"At your leave," she says, feeling almost cheerful. It helps that the woman could easily be mistaken for a Themysciran herself. She stretches, while the woman strips off her armor, loosening up muscles that normally did not require so much care, offering her name as she does: "I'm Diana."
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Wren returns. There's no point to adding the Ser; half the Rifters don't understand it, the other half have gotten their information of a tediously radical welcoming crew.
"Are you recently arrived, Madame?"
A faint lilt to the words, almost French. She stows the last of it, shakes her stiff limbs through their motions; arms bared and ropy with scar. Some time in the past five years, they've started to wear on her, these little accumulated hurts: Things lock where they shouldn't, slow her longer than they used to. All the old aches remembered.
This may hurt tomorrow. Still worth it.
Short swords from the rack, dulled so as to sting and not slice. Still, when she offers one, it's hilt-first, head ducking briefly in her own small acknowledgment.
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"Please, just Diana." She's hidden her tiara away for now, neither Ambassador nor Princess in this distant land. "I am. Not quite two weeks, I believe. And you?" There's no green glow from the woman's bare hand to match Diana's, but the soft, almost familiar accent is one she's heard around Skyhold. "Are you Orlesian?"
The word is carefully spoken, both with the care of a stranger and the delicacy of a diplomat. She grasps the short sword like a warrior, with a soft thanks, stepping towards the ring to familiarize herself with the feel of the new weapon and allow Coupe time for any other warm up.
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Wren agrees. Two weeks —
A strange transition, she might say, or, This all must be terribly difficult.
She might say it, were she speaking to another, were she speaking from another's tongue. Such sentiments would only ring false of her own. She’s never been skilled with the lie of inaction. Grief is something that you carry, bury, else burn for fuel. What sympathy she can offer lies in opportunity: To throw oneself forward into a task, to keep moving.
"I am late of Val Royeaux." Orlesian. Not enough, by some measure, but three decades of the city have smoothed her border accent. "Sent with the turn of the year to assist the Inquisition’s forces."
Ostensibly a goodwill measure. An addition, rueful,
(Less casual than it's shaped to appear,)
"Maker knows we need any help we can get."
A few cursory swings, to test the weight of the blade, to adjust her stance to something more slippery. Her pace shifts as she enters the ring, eyes flinted with appraisal.
It’ll do.
no subject
In the ring, Diana falls into a ready stance, as easy as breathing. If Coupe had thought she had Diana's full attention before, what she has now is Diana's absolute focus; grey eyes bright and watchful. The cheerful calm that Diana gave off didn't shift at all. Even as an adult, a spar has not lost the feel of a game for Diana.
LET'S TRY THAT AGAIN instead of randomly hitting enter
She paces the edge of the Circle, gauging Diana's demeanour. The woman's as easy in her intent as a mabari, happily wagging its tail on the march to battle. Wren knows her own expression empty, dour,
How strange to remember the steps of this new-old dance, with her limbs vulnerable, with no advantage in the reach. So often of late she has been an implacable, metal thing, with speed less of the essence.
(A pang of guilt endemic to Chantry girls: That her dedication's been slacking.)
When she moves in it's first a feint, slipping out into an explosive flurry of blows; an attempt to keep Diana occupied that she might close the distance between them. The opening she leaves is fake, but there's a half moment after it — half a moment only — that's all too real, a chance to slash in at her unprotected side.
no subject
She sees the opening, the half a moment, and takes it without hesitation. But instead of the blade, it's her hand, palm flat against Coupe's side. The force applied, careful and precise, would normally be more than enough to knock someone across the courtyard. Here, Diana suspects it will be at most half that. Still better than striking anyone with any weapon, dulled or not, until she understands the full breadth of her limitations.
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Wren staggers, thrown off her motion, the pain sudden and lancing —
(Fifteen years ago, a vashoth man, furious to find her with his friends’ blood still on her hands,)
— A choked breath out, no air in her lungs, blade thrown up on defensive reflex. That old silent assessment, her ribs,
(More than seven feet, a true ox, before Arnault buried the axe in his back,)
— No — nothing snapped from place, she thinks, but if they aren't fractured then fuck are they ever bruised. She can feel the muscles spasm, doesn’t have the breath to curse. The tendons of her neck jerk and tense as she smothers down the hurt, lips curling into a snarl.
Instinct only. She’s never been one to lose herself in the blood of it; her head’s still about her. She’s still in for this.
(Just how damn strong is she?)
Her tactics need shift. Getting close enough to go for a grapple is no longer going to be an option. Wren toes the edges of the ring, wary of any potential pursuit, acutely conscious she is being humoured here. Giving up would be far too rational an option.
The next time she dives forward, it’s dirtier: The sword a distraction to low kicks and other petty motions, an attempt to lead Diana forward, to goad at any holes in her guard.
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There is not artistry in the fighting Diana has learned and lived. There is grace, certainly, and she moves with it, easy and fluid, but what Coupe thinks of as petty is every spar Diana has ever fought. It feels dishonorable to pull her punches so she doesn't, meeting kick for kick and jab and sword swing, the force of each kept carefully in check. This is a dance she's familiar with, sinking back into her calm, even as the blade of Coupe's sword clangs loudly off the silver bracelets as Diana blocks a slash with them.
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Diana’s clearly built of something else. Something different, inhuman (not the first Rifter to wear one such a guise, not the last). Her blows hammer out with a force still restrained, and all that Wren can think over and over is:
Thank fuck for magebane. Thank fuck that if they ever need to, they still own a way to put these people down.
May it never come to that. Wren is not so paranoid that she'll look past gentle intentions, nor so impractical as to ignore the woman’s potential. We can use this. We need to use this.
So they spar. She lasts longer than she ought to, perhaps, longer than is wise. Wren isn’t in the habit of bowing to injury, not for something so minor as this. So she lasts.
Not forever.
In the end, she’s too slow to meet a parry, feels her step slip. She knows she’s falling before there’s any time to correct the course. Her roll halts midway through its course, torn open by a splintering pain from her side and —
Yes. There go the ribs now. Now she knows for certain. Wren’s face drains white as she clamps a bracing hand to her side. A long pause before she rises to her knees, moves shakily to find her feet.
"Well-fought," She grits it — not sore at the loss, only. Well. Very literally. "I must. Concede."
When's the last time she's said that without steel at her throat?
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"You fight beautifully, sister," Diana says with all the formal solemnity a princess can possess, offering Coupe her hand, "You honor me."
She does not ask the woman if she can stand. To concede defeat, to fight so long with such an injury. Diana knows better than to ask this sort of warrior if she needs assistance, but the offer is there: Silent and steady.
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Wren trains with the others, of course; Inquisition recruits, and mercenary forces, and even the scattered remains of their Order. It’s different now. There’s no love in the bond, so little trust she can extend.
Sister. A pang for Val Royeaux, leagues and years distant.
"My thanks," Wren manages, takes the hand. She may be proud, but she’s not stupid. Humility has already been served today. There’s nothing to prove by falling on her ass again and puncturing something important. "You — do. Likewise."
A huff of effort as they rise, a weary glance aside to her armor. She’ll need to ensure that's seen to. There are few here willing to abscond with a templar’s mail, but they're here all the same. One of the scouts can look to it; she'll wave someone down.
"Where did you — ah — learn?"
The healers’ tents are blessedly not far.
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"My sisters taught me," Diana says, weighing her words as she helps Coupe across the way to the healers' tent. She takes her cues from the older woman as to how much help is permissible, but she doesn't stray very far, "I was raised in a place... a bit like a convent. The women who raised me taught me to fight."
There was precious little way to describe the Themyscira of her childhood, beautiful jewel set over the teaming roiling evil below they had been tasked with guarding. That Themyscira didn't exist anymore, hadn't for years now, but the wound still ached now and again.
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(It doesn't occur to her that the other woman might be editing to suit.)
"The Chantry — the same." The retired Brothers taught combat more often, a gender imbalance as old as the Order. But there had been Sisters, Mothers aplenty. "Fifteen on."
Late, beside all those given as children to the ranks. That doesn't matter. The Chantry had as much a hand in shaping her as her blood.
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She hasn't told this story to anyone, not for years. There were always so many other stories to tell, when there weren't battles to fight. There were others to tell the story, in their own way. All of her sisters, her Mother. Gone now. Dead or spirited away by the gods. Her heart aches, so
"Our makers sent my people, my sisters, to the island, to guard against the evils that lay in it's depths, to ensure they could never reach the world beyond. We trained and lived in service to that, in penance." Difficult to explain in penance for what, to explain the weight of the silver bracelets around her wrists that served both as protection and reminder of a past far more complicated than the story would have one think. "I was the first child born there."