TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

TEST DRIVE MEME

Maybe you’ve been around for a while, or maybe you’re new to the Inquisition. Maybe you’re new to Thedas, having recently fallen from a tear in reality and been collected by uniformed rescuers. Whoever you are, you’ve been sent to Kirkwall, to an outpost where many of the Inquisition’s members and allies work on some of the biggest mysteries and problems the organization must solve if it’d like to keep the world from ending, where “ending” means “falling under the power of an ancient powerful corrupted being who wants everyone to bow to him as a god.”

And just to be clear, it would like that. It would like that a lot.

I. THE GALLOWS: The Gallows is an island fortress in Kirkwall’s harbor. It’s been home to, in order: Tevinter slaves, a Circle of Magi, a lot of creepy red lyrium, and now the Inquisition, which has occupied the fortress with the provisional Viscount’s blessing. There are walls that still need rebuilding and corners that still need dusting, but for the most part the Inquisition has gotten down to business. There’s space in the stone-floored courtyards to train or spar; or, if your skills don’t lie in the realm of hitting things, there’s a large library and several offices supporting the Inquisition’s areas of research and diplomatic efforts. If you don’t know what to do with yourself, then by all means, ask; someone will definitely be able to put you to work.

II. KIRKWALL: A quick row across the harbor will take you to Kirkwall proper. The city is built into the cliffs, from exclusive and wealthy Hightown at the top to impoverished Darktown in the abandoned mining tunnels below. In the middle is Lowtown, home to taverns, merchants, and plenty of trouble to keep anyone looking for it happy. You’re welcome to spend your free time and your money here—but try not to annoy the locals too much, please, in case their welcome runs out. It’d be a shame to have to pack again so soon after arriving.

III. QUESTING: Barely had time to make yourself at home, did you, before you were sent away from Kirkwall again—but this time on a mission. There’s a rift outside of Markham, pouring demons into the fields, and the Inquisition has been asked to lend a hand. Maybe literally. If you have an anchor embedded in your palm, you’re needed to close the damn thing. If not, maybe you’re here to fight demons or guard against bandits on the road, or to gather samples and take notes on the rift’s location once its closed, or to speak to Markham’s nobility afterwards to make sure that they fully appreciate the Inquisition’s efforts. Regardless, it’s a long trip, so we hope you like campfire cooking and sharing a tent.

IV. SENDING CRYSTAL: Joining the Inquisition gets you access to the very latest in barely-understood magical communication devices—namely, a crystal, small enough to wear around your neck, that will allow you to communicate verbally with anyone else who has one. Or everyone else who has one. Say hello.

V. WILDCARD: The whole of Thedas is yours to explore, from coast to uncharted wilderness. Choose your own adventure!

Comments

[byblow]

"Oh, you remember my name," Alistair says. "That's great. I'd hate to just blend in with everyone else you've tried to have killed. Assassination targets one through twenty-seven—"

He has been more mature. But on the bright side, a steady stream of nonsensical sarcasm probably will function like an escape valve, preventing him from erupting with actual violence.

He cuts himself short, though, rolling up to sit and then to stand. He's neither armed nor in armor, and not even fully presentable, with his sleeves rolled up and his boots untied, but that doesn't stop him from trying to use the couple of inches he has on Loghain to loom.

"Clarel is in a dungeon cell, and Cousland is gone," he says. That's Orlais and Fereden. The Free Marches Wardens are traitors. The other northern Wardens likely are as well. "As far as I know, there's no one left in Thedas who can tell me I have to put up with you."

That is not true. Any number of people could tell him so and, via guilt and admonishments to grow the hell up, actually make him do it. But none of them are here at the moment, so he's going to continue to have this quiet ball-fisted temper tantrum, thanks.

[mactears]

Dealing with Alistair is an inevitability that Loghain can't avoid, and the part of him that owns his (world-changing, life-altering, beyond catastrophic) mistakes knows that he wouldn't choose that option even if it were presented to him. No, he won't turn his back on his shame, and he won't foist the task of handling it off onto anyone else, either.

He lets Nathaniel's commentary about Alistair slide off his shoulders, waits for him to ask for his report. And then he provides it.

It's short but sweet, and accounts for his absence from Weisshaupt during the events that led to the Wardens' coup in the Anderfels. Loghain had heard the false Calling as well, and had devoted most of his energies to evading the old Warden-Commander's Venatori agents as they hounded him across the Western Approach. When he'd heard about the coup, he'd ventured back long enough to verify for himself the Wardens' actions--and then he'd left, to come here... and to kill as many Venatori as he could on the way. On foot or on horseback, it was quite the long journey, and he met with some delays while struggling through war-torn Orlais.

When he lapses into silence, it's clear that he's finished. He sits quietly across from Nathaniel, considering him pensively.

[mactears]

Loghain weathers Alistair's fury with a grimace, but doesn't stop him, doesn't interrupt, doesn't look away from his face. He waits out the vitriol like it's a passing storm he's stuck in without shelter, and there's nothing to do about it except endure. So he does.

"As far as I know, there's no one left in Thedas who can tell me I have to put up with you."

He lets silence be his answer to that for just long enough to see if Alistair is going to add anything else. When nothing appears forthcoming, he takes a weary breath. "Then it appears that, as the only remaining Senior Warden in the Free Marches, I owe you my report." Grimly, he adds, "Whether we like it or not."

[mactears]

Garahel receives an uncharacteristically warm smile from Loghain, who stoops as he goes to join Inessa with his hand held out to let the dog sniff him, if he so chooses. He wouldn't be presumptuous to pet the animal without his permission first.

"Garahel, eh?" he observes, approval in his voice as he speaks. He turns his glance to Inessa. "I take it this fellow is yours?"

Enduring the strife that awaits him with both Alistair and Nathaniel Howe will keep.

[pinprick]

It's that way Loghain looks at him that gives him the greatest number of creeps. That morbid fascination, as if waiting for him to remind him of someone he actually knows. Nathaniel thinks it highly possible that Loghain knew his father better than he ever did.

He lets the moment pass, absorbing the information given. Then he gives a faint nod. There is no clear path forward, when it is Loghain. Loghain fought an Archdemon, which all other living Grey Wardens but one can only dream of. That earns significant dignity.

"I'm glad you finally turned up." Nathaniel can help the backhanded compliment, but he doesn't feel like the extra effort is worth spending on Loghain. "Regardless of your record with the Grey Wardens, you are still among the greatest generals in history. I don't believe it would be in your character to side with a darkspawn Tevinter, at least, so the chances of you being a double-agent are slim, in my estimation. Which leaves us only one order of business, beyond any manner of question you might have for me."

Nathaniel purses his lips and waits for Loghain to look him in the eye.

"I don't know what the queen has told you, if she has had the chance to tell you anything. Jonas Cousland was found. He was badly wounded by darkspawn and passed away shortly after. We could not save him."

III

[aforethought]

Melys isn’t happy to be here — but someone’s got to close the rift, and having a shard of the Fade lodged in your hand makes you something of a hot commodity.

She’s been sticking to the edges of the group, snapping at anyone who gets too close, feels like asking too many questions. But there’s only so far you can sit from the fire before the wind works into your bones (only so long she’s ever been able to stand inattention), and so it’s a surly presence that settles down beside him. His obvious affiliations can be forgiven for the moment, because at least he isn’t talking on mage shit or trying to sing, and because she wants this spot. This one in particular.

She jabs a gloved finger down at his map.

"That bridge always fuckin' floods. Be up to our knees in lampreys, you try that route."

Hello to you too.

[circleprodigy]

A man who respects her mabari is someone who instantly gains some favor in her eyes, though the Fereldan accent explains that. She smiles as Garahel sniffs him, then licks that hand to indicate his acceptance along with some hopeful tail-wagging. Looking up, she nods with fond, proud smile.

"Indeed he is. Garahel imprinted on me just after my Joining. We have been together ever since, from Weisshaupt to Skyhold and now here." Garahel barks, quite pleased to be the topic of discussion.

[byblow]

Alistair's hawkish glare doesn't change, except that the muscles in his jaw visibly shift where he's grinding his back teeth together. He thinks, I am going to kill you, I am going to kill you, I am going to smash your head on the ground, or cut it off, or send you to the Deep Roads alone, you maker-damned traitor, there's no one left to say I can't—

Because Cousland is dead. Everyone is dead or gone. There are more than three of them, here and now, facing something other than an Archdemon, something they're only so helpful against, but still: there aren't many of them left, and if not many turns into none, that will be on him, this time. He might joke about it being on Nathaniel while they die horribly, but it will be on him.

He doesn't smash Loghain's head on the ground.

But he isn't taking his blighted report, either.

"I think," he says, slowly, because un-gritting his teeth takes work, "we shouldn't talk about what you owe me, or anyone else. If you know something we need to act on, fine. Otherwise, I don't need to hear it. You can go."

III

[justice_is_blond]

"Are you injured?"

There's always rounds to do after a fight, and when more than a few of the group like to be off by their own it takes some time. Generally Anders prefers to wait until camp is made anymore. It's easier to keep track of where he's not needed and where he's very unwanted.

There's a cat at his heels, playing with a bit of string he's deliberately tied there to keep her with him, and there's fluffy brown fur on his otherwise blue-and-silver Warden robes to help him stay warm. It's always cold, or maybe he's just always cold.

"Grey Warden, healer. Obviously a healer, else I'd offer, I don't know, juggling instead." Unfamiliar faces means a risk of an outburst, and that always makes Anders a little nervous.

[mactears]

Compliments, backhanded or otherwise, rarely affect Loghain; his service record could involve restoring the Golden City to its former glory, rendering it a worthy seat for the Maker again, and it would still never be enough to make up for the dead in the fields of Ostagar, Maric's son hung like some grisly war trophy on a tree for the darkspawn to defile and degrade. There is no amount of penance in the world to wash away those sins, but that doesn't mean penance shouldn't be done anyway. Loghain meets Nathaniel's eyes through his description of his history and says nothing.

It's news of Jonas Cousland's death that registers a reaction from him. For a second, he looks like he's been punched, exhaling, winded. He reaches up a hand to press his fist to his mouth.

"Oh, Anora," are his only words, weighted with sadness for a daughter who should not have had to bury one husband, let alone two.

[mactears]

This is not a grudge that will be settled easily, and it certainly won't happen today. There's no victory to be found in pushing the young man to accept him into the Warden's ranks now, even by virtue of necessity. Alistair has the high ground--moral, and otherwise.

Loghain relents. He hoists his pack against his shoulder blade, turns to take his leave. Pauses.

"Whatever you may think of me, Alistair," he begins, then hesitates. His jaw works a moment, considering his words. Then he meets the young man's eyes. "I'm here for your cause. And I'll gladly die for it."

[mactears]

Loghain gives Garahel an affectionate scratch under the chin and behind the ears, thumping him on his strong back with affection borne from a man who has clearly experienced the strength and loyalty of a bond with a mabari, too. "Never find a better companion in this world," he affirms, sounding almost wistful.

It takes him a moment to recall the purpose of his visit, and when he does, there's a trace of dread in his expression. He schools it away. "I'll speak with Warden Howe, in that case, if you know where he is."

[mactears]

There's a gloved hand in his line of sight suddenly, and Loghain turns his head in some confusion to find the surly young woman responsible for closing the rift seated beside him. "That bridge always fuckin' floods," she says. "Be up to our knees in lampreys, you try that route."

Better this than small talk.

He turns a critical eye back to his map, a low, 'hmmm,' sound of thought in his chest. Idly scratching at the day old stubble on his chin. "We could take the longer route through the ravine instead," he suggests, making a small mark on the map with a bit of pencil lead, "though that will add half a day's travel. Are you a local?"

[mactears]

Loghain knows exactly who Anders is, by reputation if not by sight. It's not too difficult to distinguish him from the other in the party; given the looks of unease or outright hostility he receives from others, it's no surprise he tends to keep to himself. It's an instinct Loghain recognizes well.

He gives his head a shake. "No, no. Not injured. Road weary, and needing some time off my feet--but thank you for inquiring, all the same." One hand gestures to the vacant spot in the grass and dirt next to him. "You're welcome to join me, if you've finished your rounds."

[justice_is_blond]

He blinks and tries to hide his surprise before nodding and taking a seat. If he wasn't fairly easily identified, he'd wonder if the man didn't know. But people talk, especially on the road, and it doesn't take much mental work whatsoever to add warden, mage, blonde, healer, male, and cat together to get Anders.

"You joined us in the midst of the battle. Were you one of the Wardens scattered by Weisshaupt? I was there when it..." Anders' expression turns a little wry. "When it spiraled out of control. We didn't stick around, though. We needed to get the griffons out."

wildcard.

[ipseite]

"Mssr- pardon me, Warden Mac Tir?"

The diminutive woman who interrupts him could easily be mistaken for Orlesian, by her accent; not quite right, off to an ear more familiar with them, but close enough that she might get away with it if she wished to. (She hasn't, yet, but the time may come.) Even in her plain clothes and neat braids, she's hard to take for anything but but gently-bred, which somewhat complicates the picture she presents, and the matter of her interruption.

"I've come for your mending, please."

Which has needed doing. She offers no commentary on the matter of why it hasn't already been done, or why a woman whose fingers are stained with ink and look altogether too soft to be well-accustomed to a maid's work means to do it now; it seems to her highly doubtful he isn't fully aware of at least the first matter. But it bothers her, very slightly, each time she sees him pass by and she notices -

He is here now, isn't he? He is doing his duty. She will mend his damned shirts.

[circleprodigy]

Garahel, closes his eyes and rumbles happily, soaking up such attention like a sponge. Inessa's smile lingers, always glad to see her mabari make new friends. That goes double when outside Ferelden, where his kind aren't nearly as loved or respected.

The trace of dread is noted, though Inessa refrains from directly asking. (Though honestly, with the way gossip circles around, there isn't much need for that. She'll hear of it, sooner or later.) "Yes, of course. This way." She stands to her full (unimpressive) height and leads them down the path, Garahel padding along agreeably."

"I don't recall seeing you in Orlais, or at Weisshaupt. Where have your duties taken you, if that's not prying overmuch?"

[byblow]

This is when Alistair should thaw, or feel unsettled, or otherwise discover some crack in the impenetrable wall of loathing. From somewhere outside himself, he knows that an onlooker would think he's being childish.

But the wall is made of a wall made of Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, and twenty other names he doubts Loghain ever learned, all dead, and Eamon poisoned, and whole fields of corpses, and somewhere down that long list there's Cailan as an afterthought, and—

And that imaginary onlooker can get fucked.

Alistair doesn't crack, and doesn't move except to cross his arms and raise one of his eyebrows.

"We can hope."

[aforethought]

Melys spies up from under the brim of her hat, faintly suspicious he's taken it so easy; the look of someone expecting to find a fight, and not sure whether she's unhappy for its absence.

"Who ain't a local," She puffs out through her teeth. Spin a wheel in a room of folks that sound Ferelden, you'll get even odds on those that fled north. "Spent a few winters running this road."

No danger in offering that answer: He's a warden, they're all half-rotten for a noose.

"Used to be a town, couple miles east, plain washed away. Heard they still got dead trouble for it," She signs absent across her chest. Speaking of corpses, "The fuck'd they dredge you out from?"

Thought they had all their neat little number corralled, hiding behind Inquisition lines. (No comments, please, on what precisely she's been doing —)

Julius | da oc

[overharrowed]

I

Depending on how closely one is looking at him, Julius could be anything or nothing. He's tanned and dirty from many weeks of travel -- really, they could have let him catch his breath in Skyhold before pushing him out the door toward Kirkwall, he thinks -- and he dresses in an amalgamation of garments he's gathered in a few years on the run.

But for anyone who knows what to look for, the mix of pride and uncertainty found in a former Circle mage dumped out into the world is probably easy enough to clock. That and the staff. The staff tends to be a giveaway. (Depending on one's familiarity with Lake Calenhad, his face may be even more familiar still.)

Still, beneath what is clearly the exterior of a refugee, Julius manages to hold his head up and walk with a purposeful step. He's here to help, and the Inquisition has made its reputation on not turning away that sort of offer. He's late, but he's here now.

He is trying very hard not to think too much about the history of the place he's entering.

II

He's gotten familiar with taverns, these past few years. Julius still isn't at east in places like The Hanged Man, exactly, but he's found it useful to remember that the vast majority of people in such places are content to mind their own business. He's more than happy to talk if someone approaches him; while alone, he wears an absent frown, but it fades nearly instantly if he becomes conscious of someone glances his way. Whatever his troubles are, he's well practiced at tucking them out of sight.

V

[Wildcard me!]

I

[puravida]

"Ah — !" A flurry of motion sends her driving up, hands flapping to fit a chicken's squabbles. "Stop right there!"

A pause, while the paint-stained figure before him grapples briefly with an upended easel — there we go. Right. Vida tries again, awkwardly shuffles her sleeves back, (slops veridium green all over one in the process),

"My, ah, my apologies Monsieur. Do not move a muscle —" She hastens to add. "— Please."

The cause for all this fuss isn't immediately apparent, but whatever it is, it must be terribly important.

[overharrowed]

As bid, he stops, raising his eyebrows. After a moment: "May I speak, or are those muscles included?" His tone is dry, but not sharp.

For all he looks travel-worn, his eyes glint with interest. Whatever else is going on, she certainly has his attention.

[mactears]

It is indeed only a matter of time before the truth surfaces, and Loghain isn’t of a mind to turn his back on it. But Inessa’s--and Garahel’s--has been the first kindness visited upon him in some months, and so the selfish, animal part of him seeking shelter from some unyielding storm is reluctant to part with the luxury of anonymity just yet.

He walks alongside the young elf and her mabari, notes her question, and shifts the back somewhat on his shoulders. “Lately the Western Approach, and Orlais a bit,” he replies, then adds a bit wryly, “though I expect the last time I spent any substantial time in Orlais was right after the Fifth Blight. I take it you were involved in that business at Weisshaupt?”

[mactears]

“The fuck’d they dredge you out from?”

“East of Markham.” Since it’s out, he points to the general area on the map. No one dredged him up, precisely, but the Fade rifts appear when and where they wont, and while he’s ill-equipped to close them, slaughtering demons venturing too close to refugees and struggling civilians is well within his purview. “I was en route to Kirkwall when I met up with your retinue. I expect the minor diversion won’t matter much; we’ll end up there in the end.”

He examines the girl pensively, the corners of his mouth downturned into a grimace. It doesn’t take an eye trained for it to spot an individual to whom life has been spectacularly cruel.

He reaches into his pack and fishes out a flask, then offers it to her. “Can’t take the edge off aching feet from the road, but can help you forget about them for a spell at least.”

[mactears]

Loghain fishes a flask out of his pack and offers it to Anders, as straightforward a gesture of acceptance as one can get under the circumstances.

”Were you one of the Wardens scattered by Weisshaupt? I was there when it.. When it spiraled out of control.”

“Ah… no. No, I wasn’t present for that, though I did catch wind of what transpired.” In piecemeal form, at any rate. He is still waiting for the opportunity to have a proper sit-down and debrief with some other Senior Wardens to fully understand what happened. Given the circumstances, he supposes he could simply ask Anders for the details right now. Something to consider.

He considers also how to account for his absence, and decides that whether or not Anders can piece together his identity from that information isn’t within his power to control--nor should he try. He isn’t in hiding--not in this company. “I was on the run from Warden-Commander Clarel’s Venatori allies, prior to the trouble at Weisshaupt. I expect the trouble you encountered drew them off my trail for a time.”