TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

WHEN SKYHOLD'S GONE THEY'LL BEAR ON

HINTERLANDS ARE FOREVER

How’s the weather, Inquisition? Terrible. Heavy rainfall pelts the plains and the mountains, four straight days of it! Dark clouds block out the sun. It may begin to feel like there’s no end to the storms in sight. When darkness falls, cold evening temperatures turn that rain frigid. Your boots, your socks, they’re soaked through. Everyone smells like wet wool.

And as if all that weren’t enough: the increased rainfall loosens patches of mud and shale, causing mudslides.

---

1. We’re not in Orzammar anymore…

A recent group of dwarven traders bearing fine crafts and goods were inbound for Skyhold, ready to flood the markets with their wares. Instead, they got flooded out.

Yes, word has reached the Inquisition that the traders have been unfortunately detained by the weather and they are now in need of a rescue. Dare you venture out into the lashing rain and sliding mud to rescue the traders?

If you do so dare, you’ll find some of the traders to be exceedingly grateful for your efforts, ready to bestow handsome rewards on you, O Brave Soul -- just as soon as you’ve escorted them safely back to Skyhold. Or you might find a cluster of more disagreeable traders, grumpy at the water in their boots and the loss of their goods. Some of those goods might still be rescuable, if you want to wade out into a mud field to retrieve a fallen chest, or tug an errant terrified donkey back onto what’s passing for dry road these days.

As you carry these treasures back to their masters, or back to Skyhold, you might consider helping yourself to a sampling of the wares on your way back. After all, your reward might not be adequate, and you are risking your life for these ungrateful sons of mothers. Just don’t get caught. These traders don’t look kindly on thieves, and frayed tempers snap easily.

Feel free to get stuck on your way to the rescue, too. Weather out the storm with a fellow do-gooder. These days, the rescuers might need rescuing just as much.

2. Are you mad? That’s twelve year old scotch!

In Skyhold and the surrounding tent towns, what with the confusion and the panic and the scramble for high ground, market stalls are left unattended and wares are ripe for the taking. For some, temptation proves to be too much. Where there’s disaster, there’s often looting! A few vendors defend their own wares, and those that can’t make desperate entreaties for assistance. Bandits! Thieves!

Are you a brave and hale friend to the Inquisition and to good honest trade, ready to defend the wares of the waterlogged merchants? Or maybe your sticky fingers spot a tempting treasure too great to ignore. If they didn’t want it stolen, they should have taken it with them! Watch out for that Qunari metalsmith with the mean right hook. He’s not to be trifled with, and his blow will leave you toothless in the mud.

3. I gotta go, Julia, we got bears.

The rainfall has disturbed more than the mud. Bears, resting in their caves, have found their caves to be too damp for their liking, and they’ve taken to the open air to vent their spleens. Some people say that the bears are as frightened as you are, but when you’re faced with a six hundred pound beast with huge pointy teeth, their innocence is a little harder to keep in perspective.

The tents surrounding greater Skyhold are especially worried by rogue bears. Make a stand against them, or else help evacuate a threatened campsite. Mudwrestling a bear is a great way to impress the ladies, or the gentlemen… but no one will blame you for beating a hasty retreat.

4. We got 12 skins of water, 56 ales, two vodkas, four whiskeys, six bottles of wine, tequila, hazelnut paste, cheese, bread, eggs, bananas, apples, bacon, steaks, pancakes, dry grain, milk, sweet tomato sauce, half a pudding, half-ounce Sour Wine, 3 1/2 grams Grand Inquisitor Kush, one ounce of 'shrooms, 15 ecstasy potions, a smutty woodcut, a bat…

TIME TO HUNKER DOWN. In the tavern, the barkeep is handing out free spiced wine to anyone who takes refuge behind her door. The din of conversation and lutesong makes a fine lullabye for the careworn traveler, and you might find yourself inadvertently dropping off to sleep. Or maybe someone’s fallen asleep on you.

Who can blame the slumberers, finally safe and warm and dry? In the tavern, the fires have been built up to ward off the chill and the damp, but relaxation is a little more difficult these days. You really have to elbow your way in there to get close to that warmth. Once you get close enough, you’ll find that the hearths are taken up with dozens and dozens of wet socks and wetter boots, steaming gently as they dry. Be disgusted if you want, or else peel off your own and go barefoot while you wait.

Hey! What’s going on over there? Someone’s taking one of your socks! Stop, thief!

If you can’t make it to the tavern, you might find yourself holed up somewhere a little more unlikely. The limited space within Skyhold means there aren’t a lot of free rooms. That door you shoulder open in desperation might have an owner already. Intrusions aren’t always unwelcome, but beware of what -- or who! -- you might find.

5. Lots of fish… and lots of weather.

WILDCARD. Whatever you do, just remember: there’s a lot of rain, you’re very wet, and if you’re feeling amorous, keep in mind that everyone smells like wet wool. We cannot stress this enough.

Comments

petrana de cedoux | rifter, original character

[ipseite]

crystals

( there is some strain in the voice that comes over the crystals; a woman's, almost orlesian and slightly too loud - )

This is a - communication? Crystal? For the Inquisition? My companion tells me he has rescued me.

( despite the wet weather, her tone manages to be drier than the western approach. )

But he has been grievously injured in the doing, and the waters are rising - we are trapped in a cave. The - rift? The rift that I came through, he says - it is still outside, but not ... open. Thank you, I would like to know what to do next.

tavern

( eventually, the answer to that question is: get warm and dry. petrana peels off as many layers as she can without becoming indecent to dry the sturdy outer layers of her traveling dress by the fire, her stockings, her garters, her boots. she sits damply nearby them in her shift and a blanket, untangling her hair with a borrowed comb and trying to decide what to do next. besides, apparently, "go with the inquisition".

she's been called a lot of things. "rifter" is a new one. )

crystals

[justice_is_blond]

Can the person you're with give you any directions for finding you? I'm a healer, I can see to his injuries, but rising water doesn't give me enough to work with for your location.

[ipseite]

I saw a keep's ruin - I should estimate it an hour's walk hence, toward the north. If it has a name, he says he doesn't know it.

( her answer comes promptly; anders can likely hear the rush of rain, the labored breath of her companion behind her. )

I have kept him warm and as dry as I might.

[justice_is_blond]

[There are hushed voices for a few moments, Anders asking after closed rifts near keeps, before he replies again.]

Watch the sky, if you can. If the guess I'm being given is right, you're about a half-hour away by griffon, but I'm going to need something motion or reflected light, to show me where this cave is. I'm on the way there, hopefully.

[ipseite]

( by griffon, he says -

everything is strange. she isn't sure she isn't still in shock. what's one more peculiar thing of seven or fifteen? )

You won't soon miss us, sir. I will see to it.

( you'd never know she'd just this hour tumbled from another world, so steady as she sounds. when anders comes near enough, he will indeed see: an enchantment worked upon the cave's mouth, the veins of iron ore glowing ethereally blue, the light hard to mistake for a natural phenomenon when it pulses in time with a heartbeat. )

Diwaniya | Geneforge | Rifter

[sans_harmony]

Tavern

A Shaper does not accept charity. A Shaper who's still about sixty percent sure that he's dead right now should have refused the offer of shelter, too--but if there's one thing Diwaniya knows, it's rain, and the myriad ways in which it can fuck you up when it pelts down hard enough.

His clothes are waterproofed enough to withstand a dunk in a peat bog, and he's not about to take them off in front of these peasants, but neither is he about to stand out in the storm just to be contrarian. If this is a magical last-second stay of execution, he isn't stupid enough to throw it away just yet.

Although if he does persist in zonking the fuck out against the shoulder of the nearest possibly-armed stranger, he may wind up having to fight again after all. He will cross that bridge once you wake him up. (He's snoring. It will be difficult.)

Wildcard

Diwaniya likes to think he understands crystals. He's worked with thousands of them over the course of his career, of all different colors and patterns and magical properties and levels of luminescence. And all things considered, he thinks he's had weirder bits of shrapnel than this embedded in him before--until the thing crackles with green lightning, and he lets out a loud, inadvertent and embarrassingly high-pitched yelp in the middle of the crowded pub.

Fascinated and slightly horrified at the same time, he's now trying to pull the thing out of his palm. Why this may not be a good idea, he has not the faintest clue.

[justice_is_blond]

[...she's as good as his word, clearly. Anders has never seen metal glowing like that and he's quick to guide the griffon down. Buggie stays outside, happy to be munching on a rabbit he brought just for this purpose, as Anders comes in.

The woman gets a nod before he's approaching the scout and getting to work.]

I'm seeing to him, but it seems safe to assume you've questions.

[She spoke of coming through the rift, after all. Anders' hands are glowing as he works, most of his attention on the injuries but he knows how to multitask.]

I'm Anders, by the way.

[A name might help her with everything that's likely unfamiliar.]

tavern; pardon the rust

[aforethought]

[ it's pissing wet out — not that it's much better indoors, not with all these damp bodies stacked about and shaking like dogs.

she's been scouting the fireplaces for an easy mark to bribe or threaten away, and she's about given up when she finally spots her: pretty and fine-boned and about as out of place as it gets here in flooded shitsville.

most importantly, she's carved out a spot.

probably more trouble than it's worth to try and shift her. but damn, the lady doesn't take up much space. room enough for two, right? ]

Anyone try and make off with those yet?

[ hello petrana. have a sodden native, gesturing to your garters (and maneuvering herself beside the hearth in the process). ]

[ipseite]

( in the absence of a true healer, petrana has done a serviceable job - staunched the flow of blood with an improvised tourniquet of the man's own torn shirt tied tight around his thigh, partially cauterised the wound with...well, it isn't clear what with, but "magic was involved" seems like a safe guess, under the circumstances.

the woman in question is nothing remarkable to look at, standing five feet and bedraggled in her sodden traveling dress, a mess of water and dust and blood. steady enough that it seems unlikely any of it is hers - or hard to tell, at least. perhaps she's too focused to have even noticed. the introduction momentarily seems to take her aback -

how long has it been since she had to tell someone who she was? what a peculiar thing to think. )

Petrana. My name is- Petrana.

( just that, for now, she decides. )

Where are we, please?

Tavern

[sans_harmony]

Yes, there is a dramatically-hooded figure brooding in a dark corner of the tavern. Go figure. (Inasmuch as he actually can have an entire corner to himself, anyway; the effect is somewhat lessened by the elderly peasant woman squished against his one side and the two grubby children squabbling shrilly over an apple on his other.)

His eyes are just visible somewhere in the depths of his cowl, fixed so intently on the shard in her hand that he's almost forgotten to breathe. It's the only thing besides the rain that's recognizable about this place at all, smoothing over his nerves like a rogue creation drawn to a Shaper's side.

To anyone else's observation, the way his gaze follows her hand as she combs her hair in her underthings must look untoward, but he couldn't be more oblivious to the potential implications as he gets up and resettles himself as close to her as he can get, making his own shard visible as he does. "How did that happen to you?" Brusque, all business, without ceremony or formal address. It's how he rolls.

blows dust off enthusiastically

[ipseite]

( all of five feet without her boots on and only a little thing, the amount of space she has to not take up is probably more to do with the anchor-shard lodged in her hand than how much she needs - or perhaps, some deference to her obvious breeding. a mixture of both, depending on the person, but as this one seems unconcerned with either - )

Only looked, ( with a tilt as if she's bringing melys into her confidence, her tone dry and light. ) He was frowned upon most severely.

( not by herself. not that petrana is not prepared to shove her dagger into someone's hand for trying. )

[ipseite]

So this is happening.

Of the benefits to her marriage, the most chief among them has been that this doesn't happen to her; she is not accustomed to strange men feeling quite so comfortable demanding her time or her attention, pushing themselves into the space near her. They have, typically, a healthy wariness of de Lamorraine's territorial nature and bad habit of solving all flammable problems with flames - more than enough to carve out a bubble of peace for his wife, who regards Diwaniya now with no small wariness of her own.

"I am told it was the rift," she says, after a pause long enough to be considered awkward. "That I came in a rift, and that it leaves on me its mark."

[justice_is_blond]

Petrana. We're in the Hinterlands, a region of Ferelden, which is basically the country of mud and dogs and songs about mud and dogs.

[He gives her a glance and a small smile to show he's joking in between carefully undoing the tourniquet and mending the man's wounds the rest of the way.]

This region is specifically known for large bears wandering around and being nuisances, but thankfully the griffon knows how to sound an alarm if one comes tumbling out at us.

[There's also currently a dragon somewhere in the area, but no one needs that worry lurking in their minds.]

You did well, I should note. You helped him hold out. Thank you.

[aforethought]

[ her lip curls into the edge of a grin, distracted. she's already busy about shucking off her coat. ]

Reckon he was right petrified. Serves him. Too much trouble out here without anyone starting something.

[ she recognizes a few that might try, were it another day, were petrana any less herself. whoever the fuck that is, other than inquisition or going to be soon —

(it's always the hands. anyone ever catch this shit in their foot? elbow?)

— but petrana is, and these floods are near to a truce as anyone gets. there's no such thing as honour among thieves. there are wet boots. ]

Melys,

[ she offers, because you've got to start somewhere. names are a lot less intimate when you've already seen someone's stockings. ]

[ipseite]

He came very admirably to my aid, and was injured in the doing - it is the very least I might have done.

( well, already she doesn't sound Orlesian, all that thoughtfulness and gratitude. She studies what he's doing, head tilted, curious - a different practise than she's used to, but recognisable.

What she says, though, is, )

I had rather find a dog than a bear.

[ipseite]

Petrana.

( To look at her, to hear her speak, it is a name that at some stage must have come attached to a title - but there's no pause where she might have given it, no awkwardness in its lack. Petrana de Lamorraine, Petrana de Cedoux, the Duc's witch, a princesse of nothing -

just Petra, even. Just Petra, tired and waiting for her hair to dry as well as her clothing. )

Are you - is it your village, here? I heard it called Redcliffe?

( Look, she knows this is shit small-talk, but she's trying. )

tavern

[puravida]

Vida wastes a good five minutes or so debating the appropriate way to handle this situation — what would Andraste do? Certainly, it'd be charitable to let him sleep.

It'd also make it hard to finish these sketches. She needs that arm.

Deliberately, carefully, Vida sets the little stub of charcoal aside and tries to unwedge her shoulder. It's a delicate process, not helped when someone bumps against her from the other side.

She'd shoved out with the impact, dislodging Diwa's head (success) and sending it crashing out in the perilous direction of the floor (whoops).

Is it too late to pretend that wasn't her?

[sans_harmony]

Oh, but there's nothing a Shaper doesn't feel comfortable demanding. Diwaniya would gladly and proudly die to defend that right--had, in fact, been seconds away from doing exactly that, and is still utterly baffled as to how and why it didn't happen. (The awkwardness of her silence registers only dimly, if at all. There are Things Of Importance to be discussed, at his pleasure.)

"Told by whom? These...rifts can't be common knowledge. I've never seen anything of the sort, I'm sure." And if he doesn't know something, clearly nobody does. He's not calling you a liar, good madam; he's just...

...who even knows. He's trying not to be too visible in his floundering.

[aforethought]

[ a puff of air. melys glances back over. orlesian? kind of sounds it, not that she's heard many lately outside the puppet shows. ]

Couldn’t pay me to live in this dump.

[ that is precisely what she’s being paid to do ]

Beats the mountains at least. Inquisition drag you out to Skyhold yet? That's a treat. Frostbite's just what you need on top of a war.

[justice_is_blond]

[It's definitely a sentiment he can appreciate, though it's not entirely surprising. Few people are heartless enough to ignore someone who had just helped them.]

I would too. Though generally the Maker doesn't ask what I might want. There.

[The scout is in travelling shape, but they have a slight issue - Buggie can't carry three people.]

How do you feel about a walk in the rain, Petrana? It's not too far to the settlement, and this way our man here can have a ride back rather than having to tax himself further.

[ipseite]

"I have arrived this day," she says, gathering her patience about herself like a shawl; for a woman sitting by a fire in her undergarments, she holds herself with all the only somewhat bruised dignity of a queen holding court. The refuge of glossy composure, when all is uncertain - and it's his uncertainty that makes her entertain his questions at all. Weariness wishes he were someone else's problem, sense tells her there are any number of people who she could fob him off onto, but familiarity says: he is lost, too.

If he weren't, he'd know the answer. She's given to understand it is quite, quite common knowledge in these strange parts.

"I know only what I have been told, sir, and it is that such rifts are a plague upon the land."

[ipseite]

I've come only today.

( What a spectacular introduction to Ferelden it has been, truly. Damp, cold and full of demons and bears - but for a woman who has been, in her own words, only today dragged from her own world and into a strange one in the midst of some war she can't yet fathom, she doesn't...she sounds rather less concerned about it than she might. In better spirits than one would expect. Some of her steadiness, to be sure, is only shock - but not all.

She wills herself to wish she were home, and her heart empties. Why not be here? )

I suppose to go wherever it is that rifters go.

[aforethought]

Well shit.

[ that — finally — gives her pause. it isn't the facts (well, not so much) but the blitheness behind them. melys drags the hair from her eyes, and it doesn't take a gaze sharp as petrana's to see the gears turning behind them. ]

Welcome to the Hinterlands. Used to be worse, believe it or not. You got, uh, questions or anything — I can,

[ she trails off, drawn briefly awkward; posture gawkier somehow, younger, without that brass to back it.

it's been near a year since she last spoke with one of these. can't for the life of her remember where anyone landed on the demon question. maybe that doesn't matter. you have to deal with people, even when they aren't. ]

Don't mind giving it a go.

[ nothing's free, information least of all. but one way or another, rifters head to the inquisition; if she's read the letters half-right, then that means they're now heading north.

wouldn't hurt to have friends there again. ]

[sans_harmony]

Well, someone has to answer for it, obviously. This unthinkable affront to the dignity of a Shaper cannot possibly be allowed with impunity. Do you want rebels? Because that's how you get rebels.

But Diwaniya has been having a hell of a month, because rebels, and hasn't slept in the better part of a week, and when he does wake up just in time to land squarely on his bony ass, he doesn't have it in him to throw a proper tantrum.

He gets up, dusting off his wet robes with as affected an air of calm as he can manage. Did that just happen? Of course it didn't. Who saw that? Nobody. He shoots Vida as formidable a glower as he can muster up, for good measure, whether she's the culprit or not, but her sketches mercifully distract him before he can ask. He tilts his head to study them, as nonchalantly as if he owns the book himself.

"What are those?" Yes. Good plan. Shift the subject before anyone can mention that he just completely wiped out.

[ipseite]

( Not great, if she's honest, but - )

I will manage.

( As she's managed everything else, with her hands steady and her jaw set; she can't be even as old as thirty, but she wears her youth lightly, as something she might forget in the face of all that life asks of her. Life has asked, over the past few years, rather more than she'd expected it to. And she manages.

Manages a smile, too, or something like it. The part of her that's afraid is smaller than the part of her that thinks it novel to be spoken to this way, as if she's anyone. As if she merits consideration, and not just fear. )