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

octavian 'tavin' nestor sokolov | da oc

[taxonomy]

i
First, Tavin is not lost, he is absolutely not lost, it's just that the last time he had reason to come through Kirkwall it was for the briefest of trips on the way to elsewhere to investigate something else, cities themselves generally lacking in interesting wildlife to study but it looks different. But he gets his grumpy horse stabled and he must look like he belongs, heading in somewhere approaching the right direction because no one is shouting?

(Too often in Tavin's life there have been people shouting.)

Unfortunately most people seem far too busy to actually stop and let him ask a questions such as where might a man find Grey Wardens or could you possibly direct me to those studying the impacts of these rifts on the native fauna, I cannot be the only one intrigued and who do I sign on with, also where is the library? Not exactly in order of importance but he has a heavy pack and a lot of papers in it, he'd like to get them stored safely, thanks very much.

iii
What a stroke of luck! Tavin has no anchor to speak of but Tavin is a respected zoologist if not always a respected man and brandishing the right papers when you've got a good Nevarran name behind you as well as field work and hailing from the University of Orlais and well, off you go into the wilds with people with anchors and swords and magic! Magic! Tavin does indeed have a bow too but what he's more interested in is not the pulsing green rip in the sky, or the demons, leave that to the mages, the Chantry scholars, the arcane researchers.

No. Tavin is busier and most excited in the aftermath when sensible people are resting. Taking samples. Sketching. Leaping upon anyone who's seen this before for their observations. Trying to get an assistant since none of his usual suspects wanted to come with him even if this is obviously the opportunity of a lifetime. How can you say no to this Nevarran borzoi, look at that face.

v
[Or wildcard it and I'll follow along.]

i

[youwonscience]

The woman who stops is wearing a mismash of clothing that, while not unstylish exactly, reflects no underlying understanding of the fact they're from a variety of cultures or styles. (Kirkwall merchants have a much better selection than she could find near Skyhold, and Cosima is starting to adapt her style to Thedas.) Her glasses and her Doc Martens aren't from Thedas at all.

The potentially confusing picture may become clearer with a glance at her hand, however. In the Gallows, she doesn't bother with the small gloves she habitually wears when venturing out into Kirkwall proper; here, people know she's a rifter and deal with it or don't.

"Hey," she says to Tavin, slowing down on her way to wherever. "Are you looking for somebody?"

The Dragon (Sarkan) | Naomi Novik's Uprooted

[fireandsmoke]

I.

He was hard at work sifting through heavy tome upon heavy tome of books in the library.

In his home nation, Polnya, he was known as the Dragon. He looked like a youthful gentleman, high-born and resplendent in rich reds and gold — and a rather disgruntled one at that. He was murmuring, chanting unintelligible, silky syllables to himself with a cold grimace upon his face. To the untrained ear it would sound rather like a song, but it was magic he whispered to the long shelves of books, each one drifting to his hand of its own accord. When a book or two snagged his attention well enough to move him from boredom and frustration to mild intrigue, he balanced it in the crook of his arm and made his way to a table to begin his study.

Anyone who would happen across this gentleman would find him pouring over such tomes as Phylacteries: A History Written in Blood or Fade and Spirits Mysterious, his eyes darting hungrily across each new page. And if someone were to observe him long enough, every now and then, a forearm-sized wisp made of smoke and mist would drift in from a nearby window, come to a rest in one of his open palms, and flash a set of flickering images from around the fortress grounds before disappearing in a bright burst of blue flame.


V.

Around the fortress grounds a wanderer may be privy to a strange apparition.

First came one drifting along with the same, delicate wave as a dandelion seed in the breeze. Then came another roughly 30 minutes later, and another, and another in rounds and cycles. They were small, smoky, mistilke creatures, for lack of a better word, that might take a teasing spin above one’s head, or crackle and hiss faintly through the corridors, intent on some secret mission. They flickered ominously with each change in direction, as if they struggled to hold on as they rode the wind.

The strangest thing about them, though, is if one were to stop and peer and them long enough, they would give the impression of staring right on back, a hollow, shadowy semblance of a face materializing in flashes at the thickest parts of the mist…

v.

[ipseite]

The first impression that Madame de Cedoux gives is not, typically, 'bold'. Words like soft or amiable or reserved might sooner come to mind; her one disastrous foray into the field will not encourage a second attempt soon. Still - what she is, under the tranquilly politic exterior, is most of all curious. On the list of things that she fears particularly, magic is increasingly low, familiar to her and gaining in confidence.

So she's startled, the first time she sees mist that seems to know what it's about. She makes a little noise, the second. The third time, however, she picks up her skirts off the stone floor to hurry along behind it, only partially stymied by their cyclical comings and goings.

Either, she reasons, she finds the source or what they seek. And, just in case -

to light her way she will insist if all proves well

- she wraps flame around the fist not clutching her skirts.

herian amsel | da original.

[dashing]

SENDING CRYSTAL.
I fear it had been overlong since last we spoke, Inquistion. For those not yet known to me: I am Herian Amsel, Knight Enchanter of the White Spire. For those better acquainted with me, I apologise for my abrupt absence. My orders bid me elsewhere. I hope the seasons have not treated you poorly.

KIRKWALL.
( SHE'S ON A HORSE. HAS A STAFF. LOOKS DRAMATIC AF, so same as usual.

Herian frowns as she rides into town, the sounds of hooves lost to the general din of this place. Her gaze is sharp and careful, and if she spots a familiar face then it'll be marked by the faint quirk of her brow and a nod - smiles are reserved for those of more affectionate acquaintance. Regardless, she dismounts in a smooth motion, leading the giant palomino horse over to the conveniently located water trough. )

Good day.


KIRKWALL OPTION B:

( she just Sparta kicked a pickpocket against a wall, nbd. Maybe she was getting your purse back, who knows. )


OR WILDCARD BRUH.

kirkwall b.

[ipseite]

( Flattened to a nearby merchant's stall like a frightened cat, clutching her small purse to herself and huge eyed, it isn't hard to see why Petrana might have looked like an easy mark - the glow of an anchor-shard calling her unlikely to be local, her soft, low accent hinting otherwise at Orlais, the way she carries herself even in her simple dress not suggesting a woman accustomed to places like this or even a great deal of independence.

She is trying. She is adapting. She manages better than some might, her willingness apparent in, yes, the plainness of her clothes and her presence in the market at all. Still; the learning curve in some places is steep, especially when it's so rare she can expect to have her hand held through it. )

I - thank you -

Kit Gandir, a dwarf | DA OC

[ragweed]

II. KIRKWALL

In the City of Chains, it only makes sense that he'd find himself in Darktown.

He'd come across the channel to the city with a contingent of mercenaries intent on recruiting more muscle for the Inquisition. His fellows seemed content to find their recruits amongst the riff-raff at the local tavern, or amongst those sullen would-be guardsmen rejected from serving in the city guard. Kit loitered on the outskirts of their group, then made his excuses and slipped away. They were finding good young men and women--aspiring heroes of sound character, if without a pedigree--on their own just fine.

He didn't disagree with their choices. But no one ever thought to look in Darktown.

The Carta gives him space as he follows the corridors of the abandoned mine shafts, squinting into the dark for the dirty, forgotten faces, the blank eyes belonging to the people Kirkwall has forgotten. No, there's nothing wrong with searching for recruits amongst would-be guards and tavern brawlers of Lowtown. But Kit remembers living life as an untouchable, and how much it meant for just one person to look at him and see something other than a brand.



III. QUESTING

At its crux, killing demons isn't that different from killing darkspawn. Taking the business end of an ax tends to exposed, vulnerable flesh put most opponents out of commission relatively quickly, regardless of whether they've crawled out of the Deep Roads or burst out of a Fade rift. On his good days, Kit manages to derive grisly satisfaction from meting out death blows to demons bent on tearing the world apart. You can take the duster--the Legionnaire--out of the Deep Roads... but the Deep Roads? Well, it's hard not to carry some of that around with you forever.

Evidently, it's also harder than you'd think to get demon ectoplasm off your skin. And off of good dwarven armor.

An especially gracious farmer on the outskirts of Markham has been generous enough to let Kit take advantage of the water pump out behind his barn. Shedding his Legionnaire scout's armor (but leaving on his gambeson and tunic, lest he scandalize the neighbourhood), he stands next to a bucket of tepid water, grimly scrubbing at his skin and tattooed face to get rid of the worst of the preternatural goop.


V. WILDCARD

[go nuts, I'm down for just about anything!]

V. The Hanged Man

[gatheringstorm]

It's a typical early evening at Lowtown's infamous tavern, which means plenty of card games, plenty of booze and ambient music. And one large, horned woman at a corner seat at the bar. Korrin has a tankard of her usual poison in hand, but she's in no hurry to drain it, instead keeping a watchful eye on the various interactions around the main room. Since this is one of her shifts, she has some investment in keeping the peace and anyone who just can't stop with the shit-stirring will find out very quickly that she likes to learn her keep.

Like that one sailor who can't handle either his temper, volume or his liquor, a bad combination when he starts losing at Wicked Grace. As his voice rises yet again, Korrin rolls her eyes and gets to her feet. Striding over, she yanks the sailor up by his collar, provoking an angry squawk from him and laughter from his tablemates. "I warned you several times already. If you can't shut the fuck up and can't play nice, you don't want to be here."

"Fuck you, you can't--"

"Watch me." Still holding onto said collar, she strides over to the door, opening it--and glancing down, realizing that a dwarf was just about to step inside. She moves aside for him, surprisingly polite for someone just about to literally toss another person out onto the street. "After you."

Biffy aka Lord Sandalio de Rabiffano | Parasol Protectorate | DA AU

[dandyofawolf]

II

Since arriving in Kirkwall due to the interest of a certain someone he was close to, Sandalio (though he did tend to prefer giving the name Biffy to others) had taken the time to explore the wealthy parts of the city. Now he was down in the slums as it were, clothes more relaxed even if they were still at the height of fashion. After all, one could blend in with the locals and still look one's best.

Tonight was a night for the tavern. It was here that alcohol loosened tongues and flirtation could score him all sorts of information. Well, that and cheeky suggestions that he knew how to use his sword. And not just the one attached to his hip presently.

As soon as he saw someone on their own at the bar, he went forward to jingle a bag of coin. "I'll pay for the drinks of my friend here and have what they're having too, if you would."

Money certainly talked so that was no problem and it left him time to turn to his new companion. "Hello. I'm Biffy. And who might you be?"

III

This was hardly the way he would go about setting up a camping trip but one could not always pick the setting. Besides, his silver tongue had been requested for this so that way the noble would graciously appreciate the assistance of the one he was with. Biffy had offered his services quickly upon learning of this trip. His skill in the courts of Orlais could prove to be very beneficial here. Not to mention he was skilled with a sword as well.

All the same, the food left something to be desired and he sighed as he set his bowl aside finally. "Ah what I would give for an inn where we might rest for the night. It would certainly be more comfortable."

And better food. Not that he was about to say that part since he hadn't prepared this meal. He knew when it was a good time to drop a potential insult and this was not one.

Wildcard

Choose your own adventure or shoot me a message if you have an idea of something you'd like to do!

III

[universal_charm]

Kirk was not so pleased to be returning to Orlais, per say, but he wanted out of Kirkwall for one, and he felt he should be there in case certain voices began to be ignored. It helped his shard came with magical properties he now had more than a modicum of control over.

He honestly liked the camping himself. Sure a bed was nice, especially a certain bed, but being out in the wilds was oddly freeing. It was as close as he could come to traveling through the stars again, and he soaked up that sensation whenever he could. Kirk glanced over at Biffy, his spoon still between his lips as he leaned back against his saddle.

"But the view would not be so fine," he countered with a little smile.

Atticus Vedici, a Venatori magister | Dragon Age OC

[minrathousian]

I. KIRKWALL - THE GALLOWS

Inside the Inquisition's expansive library housed within the Kirkwall Gallows, Magister Atticus Vedici examines the runed shackles that have been fastened securely around his wrists and ankles. He can feel the eyes of others lingering on him in combined curiosity and dread, but that's a sensation he's grown accustomed to since his capture and imprisonment by the Inquisition. In a series of slow, deliberate movements, he flexes his wrists and fingers to give himself an idea of just how much give is in the heavy chains. The verdict: not much.

"If you expect me to work," he begins, the timbre of his voice naturally light and a bit raspy, "I'll need more slack than this." He fixes his attention on whomever it is who has been tasked with keeping an eye on him while he carries out his research work for the Inquisition.

[altusimperius]

"Don't talk to them," comes a voice low in timbre but somehow still managing to whine, "you don't have to talk to them."
Chained beside Atticus is a ludicrously well-dressed young man in his early twenties, who would no doubt be the absolute picture of perfection if he weren't all scuffed up and grass-stained from being seized by the brutish Inquisition.

mr sandman send me any dream but that one oh god

[minrathousian]

V. KIRKWALL GALLOWS (again)

Imprisonment is tedious.

With his books and other personal possessions confiscated, and no visitors save for the jailers who bring him his rations and scant water for bathing, Atticus has little other than sleep to keep him occupied. He tries not to do it overmuch, lest he be unable to drift off deeply at night, and thoroughly immerse himself in the living memory of the Fade as it has been shaped by this place. Even torture and trauma and bloodshed and grief can, in its specificity, craft a vision of the world that is fundamentally unique due to both place and time.

Atticus doesn't have to sleep to do this--but it looks much less strange when he does so. He may be able to enter the Fade at will, but he hasn't yet mastered the ability to retain awareness of both his physical and incorporeal selves at once.

So he waits until nightfall, when the guards have stopped heckling him and the moon is high, and his mind is exhausted from performing complex alchemical equations and remembering verbatim old school texts from his youth. That is when he lets himself sleep, and in his sleep, reaches out towards the minds of others within Kirkwall as they dream. His touch upon those minds is feather soft, just enough to give him a glimpse into their dreams, but not enough to draw their attention. Not yet, anyway.

[eolasemah]

Though Sina is no somniari, she is still a mage, and is familiar enough with this particular dream that she is able to recognize when something about it is amiss.
Atticus will find himself on a black beach with an eerie green sky reflecting into the lapping, viscous ocean, which pools around the hips of an elven girl who hardly looks older than twenty. From her chest glows a similar but far more saturated green, cracks-- or tendrils of it-- seeping up through her sternum and down toward her belly, cruelly tracing her modest bust and piercing right through the thin shift she wears.
She turns to look at the invader, her eyes hollow and weary yet backlit by green, her bearing decidedly unfriendly.

"Have you come to watch," she asks coarsely, her thin voice doubling over itself, "it won't be long now."

beth childs | orphan black. cw: potential reference to suicide and drug & alcohol abuse

[bethamphetamine]

A LITTLE AFTER A RIFT SHENANIGAN/LOCATION FLEXIBLE.
( There's a woman dressed smartly - a dark single breasted jacket, a deep red skirt and shirt. "Smartly," but something is off about her. Her feet are stockinged but she's wearing no shoes. Her knuckles are a little bloody, clearly the worst of it was washed away, but the flesh is intact. Her hair is tied back neatly, her make up is simple and well done, but she looked hagged and tired.

She's clearly not okay, if the tense way she holds herself is anything to go by, the way her stockings have ripped about her feet, filthy from walking in the dirt. )

Christ, I've really lost my mind. ( Quiet, barely audible, as she looks at the world around her. She's clear of the— whatever the fuck those things were, but that hadn't made the world fall back into what it was supposed to be. Her laugh is quiet and sardonic. ) Congrats, Childs. You've gone to Hell, and it's a God damn D and D campaign.


KIRKWALL.
( And by "Kirkwall" I, of course, mean "The Hanged Man Tavern," because fuck this. She's sitting, nursing something weak claiming to be whiskey, and wondering if this place is really that shitty, or if she just got ripped off. )

Hey.

( The barkeep ignores her, and she raises her voice a little. ) Hey. You got something better than this shit?


WILD CARD.

[newwaver]

[Felix had been having similar thoughts.

Even more so now he's confronted with the sight of Beth Childs. He stares in shock for too long to make a believable recovery, but under the circumstances he doesn't think he can be blamed for that.]

Who knew hell would be so nerdy? I always pictured more BDSM.

[Considering who he's talking to he thinks he should be commended for how calm his voice sounds now.]

sarah manning | orphan black

[coppelganger]

kirkwall;

[ What does a person do after they've been sucked through a hole in space-time? Drink, obviously. Even if what she's drinking is a shitty imitation of the bourbon she prefers back home, room temp and awful tasting, Sarah appreciates it for what it's trying to be. She's sitting at a back table in a tavern, keeping her injured leg straight and wondering if she drinks enough, maybe it'll work in reverse; maybe she'll fall asleep and get thrown back to Toronto. Even that bloody island would be a decent sight, compared to all this.

As if to emphasize the point, someone walking by sways drunkenly and spills some ale into her lap. ]

Oi! For fuck's sake!

[dashing]

( It's Kirkwall, people aren't nice. The drunk that spilled ale on the fair lady lunges for her, and meets a fist coming from the other direction.

Dramatic timing, its her thing. )

Ser, I am sure the lady will do quite ably without your... attentiveness. ( He glowers from the floor, and one of his friends is helping him up, nodding understanding. Herian turns to..

... what. )

Cosima? You're injured.

Myrobalan Shivana, elf mage | DA OC

[faithlikeaseed]

[[Please forgive my laggardliness in editing my icons; Myr's blindfolded most of the time.]]

ii. Kirkwall

They'd told Myr there was a miraculous forest in the middle of the city and he hadn't believed it. Even now that he's here, standing with the shadows of the trees lying cool across his face and the city-echoes drowned out by that vast rustling expanse, he can't quite wrap his mind around the idea of it.

It certainly smells real--surreal, even, with a sweet riot of fruit-foliage-flower scents from half-a-hundred species he knows never bloom all together.

It's only the fact he can't see it that keeps him from thinking he's fallen sideways into the Fade somehow.

"It just appeared here overnight?" he asks the guard he can hear fidgeting nearby. "All at once?"

An affirmative grunt met the question. Myr wraps his fingers around his staff, leaning on it as he thought through the implications of that. Creation magic on a grand scale? Blood magic? Something wilder and more exotic--something Dalish, even? It beggars the imagination.

"Can I go in...?" He'll have to investigate.

The grunt this time is decidedly negative.

It's not an answer Myr will take. He frowns, thinking a moment, then sighs deeply. "There's a pity for you," he says, straightening up and making to leave. "I'd been hoping--" He twirls a forefinger through the air, putting out a soundless call to a hundred little buzzing busynesses bumbling about the forest's newfound bounty. "--to research whatever magic's at work here."

A subtle jerk of his head in the guard's direction completes the spell and names the target--over there, a patch of clover bigger than you can imagine.

"Without any eyes? What devilish sort of--Maker's sack!"

It's all Myr can do to keep from laughing--and make his unhurried way into the new forest--as the pollen-doused bees swarm the guard in search of their clover flowers.

v. Wildcard

[[ Need a blind elf somewhere? hmu. ]]

ii

[ragweed]

That was pretty sneaky.

Once the guard makes his hasty retreat, swatting and flapping at the swarm of poor bees who hound his tracks, Kit moseys away from the stone wall he'd been lounging against while watching the scene play out. It was certainly good for a laugh, but he hadn't missed the blindfold over the elf's eyes--and while the fellow surely seems more than capable of looking after himself, well. Never hurts to have someone watching your back.

Kit's got a mother hen streak in him a mile wide.

He insinuates himself into the newly sprouted grove, following the elf's tracks, and doesn't make any secret of his presence. "Hey there," he calls out, once he glimpses the back of Myr's head, "you all right?"

Romola Kader, a surface dwarf | Dragon Age OC

[cloudgazer]

II. KIRKWALL - At the site of the old Chantry, where the forest grows.

Where the Chantry once stood, a forest grew over the course of one night, and its presence has caused quite a stir throughout Kirkwall. By the time word of it reaches Romola Kader, the city has finally decided to settle down and accept the latest addition to its urban landscape. This means there are no crowds gathered around it, gawking in shock or awe or horror--no one to block her view of its heavy boughs, the plentiful fruit hanging from vines and branches.

A small dwarf woman, unremarkable in all ways save for the otherworldly green glow emanating from her right leg, has to stand on the tips of her toes to brush her fingers against a fresh green leaf, her eyes wide. "Incroyable," she says in Orlesian to no one at all, marvelling at the miracle the Maker has brought into being.


V. WILDCARD - Finding some religion.

In a small, out-of-the-way corner of the Gallows library, someone decided to organize a theology study group focused on the Chant of Light--and Romola is early, of course. With her small copy of the text and a few pages of hand written notes tucked into the front cover (and an ink-stained quill tucked behind one ear), the dwarf waits just outside the door, a bit diminutive and careful to keep herself out of the way of passers-by who seem to be in a bit of a hurry, and waits for anyone else to show up.

When at last she glimpses someone who looks as though they are headed towards her, and not to a different section of the library, she offers them a hesitant smile of greeting, drawing herself up just a bit as she does so.

III

[gatheringstorm]

"It is, isn't it?" The voice comes from much higher up, from a horned woman standing not too much further away. Her gaze is on the forest moreso than the dwarf woman, and there's a small proud smile on her lips. Sina really accomplished something amazing, whatever else can be said for all the ruffled feathers that resulted.

And then that glow gets her attention. She raises an eyebrow upon seeing where it's located. "A leg-shard? That's new, most I've seen are just the palm sorts." At one very worrying chest-shard, owned by the very woman who created this forest garden.

Skadi Iceblade | Avvar OC

[iceblade]

I.

If there's ever an obvious newcomer, here she is. A tattooed woman in furs and skins with a large sword strapped to her back rides atop a painted elk, peering up at the towers with both awe and unease. She's never seen anything quite like this place, and isn't sure what to make of it just yet. The discerning might notice a faint green flicker in one of her palms; she's yet another shardbearer.

Forcing herself to focus rather than just spend her time gawking, Skadi looks around and her ice-blue eyes settle on the nearest person. Guiding her mount over, she flashes a smile, speaking with a thick Avvar accent. "Two questions for you; where can get Kodlak here settled and where can I find the best view this place has to offer?"

III.

As one sporting a shard, it's easy to see Skadi's role in the mission...or would, at the very end of it. Until it's actually time to seal the rift, she refrains using her shard to interact with the rift in any way. Instead, the Avvar woman swings her two-handed sword at the demons with enthusiasm, and her unusual fighting style is made manifest when she cloaks herself in arcane energies that seem to be responsible for her being relatively untouched despite relatively light armor. A more offensive side is shown when she draws several demons over to her before unleashing a burst of Fade energy, tearing them apart. Only when there are no other demons to face does she reluctantly raise her hand to seal the rift, frowning down at her palm and rubbing it afterward.

I

[theexile]

Kattrin hasn't seen another Avvar for months, not since she left the hold. It's less that she's been avoiding them and more that it's rare to see one in the lowlands. She has to wonder why this woman is here until she sees the flicker of a shard. Much is explained in that moment.

But it doesn't fix any potential awkwardness to come of this as she speaks, her own accent equally as thick. "There are stables that will provide. For a view the best places in the city seem to be the docks," the mage woman answers, seeing no reason to not respond to the questions presented no matter what her own position among the Avvar might be. Not every Avvar will be able to be aware of her status on sight, after all.

here's this asshole (Loghain Mac Tir)

[mactears]

III. QUESTING

The road to Markham isn't often besieged by highwaymen, but the retinue en route to the city to report the closure of the Fade rift have armed escorts anyway. Mages, Inquisition soldiers, scouts--and some taciturn Grey Warden fellow who has yet to introduce himself, but who joined in the fray nonetheless and cut down a fair number of demons. He now travels a bit apart from the rest of the group, disinclined to make small talk, though not discourteous when approached.

That evening as the group beds down for the night, he sits on his canvas bedroll, consulting a map laid out before him while listening to the rest of the party talk amongst themselves. While not especially inclined to join in, neither does he seem bothered by the chatter.


II. KIRKWALL

Wherever the Wardens now make their camp in Kirkwall is where Loghain Mac Tir goes.

He leads his weary horse, sweat at its flanks, to the stables where she can be seen to by the grooms and stablehands of the Inquisition. While they give the mare water and hay and help him remove her tac, one of the maids (who looks young enough to be his daughter's child, and thus has no reason to suspect who he is) gives him helpful instructions on where to find the rest of the Wardens. He thanks her, leaves her to go on about her work, and then takes up his pack.

It's easy enough to recognize them when he tracks them down; Wardens are a peculiar lot, standing out even without their iconic silverite armour. He hesitates on the fringes of their camp, delving deep into some untapped reservoir in search of courage.

Then he steps forward. To whomever he happens to approach first, he says, "I've been led to understand that this is the Warden encampment in Kirkwall." He shifts the weight of his pack on his shoulders. "I've arrived to make my report to the Warden Commander."

II

[doneisdone]

"Encampment," Teren snorts, "putting us up like bloody Templars in their dungeon rooms, right. You're here." She's parked on a stone bench, surrounded by scraps of fabric and clearly in the middle of mending a thousand blue undershirts.
"Warden Commander's going to be Alistair or Howe. First one's a big fellow, reddish hair, thinks he's funny. Second's usually got a scowl on, you'll know him when you see him."
Pausing her stitching, Teren leans forward to extend her hand for a greeting clasp. "Teren von Skraedder, I'm the quartermaster. Anything you'll die if you eat?"

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.

Maglor | Tolkien's Silmarillion

[seawanderer]

I.
It had been just enough time that Maglor felt he needed to make sure his skills were where they should be after so long just getting by. At least he'd held onto his sword throughout the Ages, along with his harp, though he hadn't played in some time. So he took himself to one of the training grounds and set about doing some serious damage to the training targets. With every passing hour he spent tirelessly training, his every movement grew smoother, more precise, and even faster. It was far too easy to slip back into that mindset, and he did his best not to dwell.

II.
No, he still hated going over water. Rowing only made him tenser, expecting the small boat to capsize and the water to swallow him up at every stroke, but he'd learned it was the best way to get to the capitol, and he'd been summoned. The Feanorian breathed easier once he was back on dry land, and made quick work of slipping through the streets, smiling as he avoided running into people and helping here and there as he saw the need.

V. Have an idea? Hit me! Maglor's a curious elf and will travel here and there.

/creeps in (I.)

[castintoflames]

Maedhros was still adjusting from being transported from the fiery heart of a volcano to a place that was so like Arda that he was not sure if they were different at all. Or maybe Eru made two worlds and this was the second? Either way, it felt good to be whole again - he had two hands and he was free of the scars he had gained in life. As such, it felt right to visit the training grounds and put his strength to the test.

He did not, for one moment, expect to see his brother - his shadow - striking out at a target there before him. He blinked several times, waiting for the image to fade, but it was stubborn in its reality. If he approached, would he disappear? If he called out, would that undo this spell?

Anxious and desperate for answers, he walked to another target and hit it with all his might, sending it flying towards Maglor. His brother was too good of a warrior for that to hit him.

Fern Doirnáin, a city elf | Dragon Age OC

[wheretheferngrows]

III. QUESTING

At some point on her journey from Ansburg to Kirkwall, her dumb mule decides that he's Had Enough with walking, and stops. In the middle of a creek.

It's not so much that there's any immediate danger to Fern or Rooster; the creek is babbling along harmlessly enough, with little fishes in it flitting around eating other fishes or bugs that happened to fall onto the surface. Even if she were to dismount, she'd barely be knee-high in the water. It's the fact that the second she gets off his back, he'll know he's won; Rooster is a clever asshole that way.

"C'mon," Fern encourages him hopefully, clicking her tongue at him. In response, Rooster only angles his ears backward and stomps one hoof in a manner that can only be construed as argumentative.

"Come on--the shore is right there--"

At some stage, with an agitated groan, she flings herself out of the saddle, takes hold of the reins, and tries to lead him towards the bank--only to get yanked backwards when Rooster tosses his head. She tumbles back into the water, landing there with a splash. "What the f--"

Rooster, startled by the water, dances to the left a few steps. Whomever happens to pass by this scene will bear witness to Fern cussing up a storm as she scrambles up out of the water, while Rooster enjoys his newfound freedom to do whatever the fuck it is stubborn mules want to do once they've gotten their way.

V. WILDCARD

(surprise me? :B)

V.

[circleprodigy]

It's mid-afternoon, between meals, which is why the dining area is nearly empty. At the moment, only two souls linger. A pale elven woman in Grey Warden armor sits at one end, savoring her book and a cup of tea, while a grown mabari licks an empty plate as though hoping to conjure more food with his tongue. When he looks up, there's a soft, pleading whine.

"More? You're such a bottomless pit, Garahel...." She rubs that belly with a foot, then sighs. "I suppose I could do with a refill, anyway. But that's it for today, then. You're spoiled enough."

The mabari barks, happy and shameless. More, please and thank you.

Gabriel "Reaper" Reyes | Overwatch

[shotgunsakimbo]

Gallows 1

Reaper is well aware of how much he looks out of place, especially with his Blackwatch outfit - the black hoodie, dark blue fatigue pants clashing greatly with the local fashion, even with the body armor stripped off. And he certainly feels out of place, the set of his shoulders tense, and all his movements kept minimal, footsteps quiet.

But ever the opportunist/covert ops officer, he’s working his way through the Library in the Gallows. He needs information beyond what he’s been told, and this is a good place to get the foundations of that for now.

Reaper tosses another book, gently, onto a nearby table with a selection of other books that he thinks might be relevant after a quick skim, not having gotten into heavy reading just yet. He lets out an aggravated huff as he continues browse the stacks looking for more information. This is not going to be the first time, he’s sure, he curses the lack of internet, search engines, and a certain hacker ally, under his breath.


Gallows 2

There’s a need beyond curiosity for more information of this world, and it leads Reaper to the courtyard, watching people spar and train.

He’s trying not to look like he’s assessing fighters like he would have his own agents, but trying to keep it to an observing or learning eye. This isn’t the warfare or combat he’s used to by any stretch of the imagination, and certainly out of his depth, but he’s going to have to learn.

And he’s going to have to adjust how he acts, to blend into this place better. He knows he’s acting off balance, expressions probably more closed off than necessary, but also not sure how to deal with it at the moment. It’s a disjointed sort of feeling in his head, being removed from where he actually needs to be Reaper.

He lingers over a rack of practice weapons, putting a hand on the handle of a wooden sword, not yet drawing it.


(Or wildcard me! I'm happy to roll with anything.)

hi hello! (library!)

[faithlikeaseed]

There'd been murmurs among the archivists of a strange new rifter in the stacks--and Myr, ever-curious, couldn't resist postponing his own business among the books to investigate. He's no model of stealth himself--the staff sees to that--so Reaper doubtless notices he's got a visitor sometime before the mage has picked out the words he wants.

"Finding everything you need, serah?"

It's a little bit of an odd thing for someone so obviously blind to ask--what help could Myr possibly be at locating books?--but it's the easiest in to conversation he can think of. Better a weird question now than hovering until he can think of a better one.

Adasse Agassi | Dragon Age OC | Part A Kirkwall | Part B and C The Gallows

[gottakeeponejumpahead]

Part A.

Later on, when someone asked Adasse, 'How in the name of the Maker's Balls did you get caught up with the Inquisition?!', he would honestly have to answer, 'Did the Rodent Loose con on the wrong crowd'.

It should have worked, that was the worst part. It worked a thousand times before, should have worked a thousand times after and you know what? If it hadn't been for that damned fruit seller ...

Sigh.

He could still see it all - the open marketplace in Hightown. Beautiful day, people were actually in a good mood and out and about with their coin. He was standing over by the stairs leading down to Lowtown, good place to start just in case he got made early on. The Guard knew to look for the 'thieving elf boy' all around the fancy mansions of High Town, so he moved to the Marketplace until things cooled down. Hard to run a Turtledove when the heat was on you.

He was ready, large satchel on his hip, and he kept sneaking his hand down to pet the creature inside. "It's all right, Cocoa. Almost time ... " The guards were switching over now - just needed to wait until they were all babbling to one another - good. He grinned wickedly, went behind the pillar and pulled out a large chocolate nug, who chittered at him. He stroked the creature's ears, "You ready, buddy? Big pile of mushrooms in it for you."

The nug chittered again, his small eyes squinting in the lowlight. Adasse peered around the corner, dropped Coco out of the sachel, and then gave the nug a little slap on the rear. It took Coco a moment to scatter out on his little hand-paws into the open, and let out a soft cooing noise at the skirt of a fancy tart...

Who promptly screamed and yelled, "RODENT!"

Which caused, as per usual, the scatter, and Adasse walked through the yelling crowd, calmly snipping purses as he went, letting out a low whistle to call the nug back the other way.

Except ... sigh. Except the fruit seller had been out, and Coco had gone straight for the fruit, little greedy bugger. Adasse gave up the ghost after three whistles and started to make his way back to the steps - Coco would know to run right quick when the guards finally got through the crowd to him - when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

Shite. He mentally cursed, turning to look at who caught him, brightest smile on his face, "Pardon there, serah, did I tred on your cloak? Thousand pardons, thousand pardons..."

Part B.

"Y'know ... got to give it to the Inquisition. Their dungeons are a lot nicer than the ones at the Palace." Adasse said, leaning against one of the walls, looking around as he chatted outloud, Coco tucked under his arm. He shifted upwards, looking around to see what he could see. Weaknesses, guard rotations, the lot. He heard someone moving about out there, and he wasn't quite sure who?

But no one had yelled, "Shut up, knife-ear!" just yet so he was feeling confident that at least he could hold a conversation with ... whoever else was here.

"Are you in for somethin' there, mate, or are you one of the people 'keepin' me down'? I mean that in a friendly sort of way. You lot seem all right exceptin' for locking up me and my nug. Harmless looking elf doing no wrong ...and you have to know the nug is innocent. Look at this sweet face."

And yes, he's holding the nug to the bars so whoever else is here can look at that squinty, adorable face.

Part C.

So here he was, a fresh-faced, wry-expression new spanking member of the Inquisition. Small price to pay to get out of jail for free, but he had to wonder what in the name of the Maker's Bloomers would they be using a pickpocket and a thief for.

That wry expression faded, though, as he walked into the huge open area, where once giant brass statues of slavers and slaves had stood. Dark eyes took it in, pensively, hugging the small brown nug to his chest. One name rang in his memory, and he breathed out her name just loud enough to be overheard, "Evelina..."

A sigh, then chin up, gaze straight ahead. Time to find a haystack in the corner to dwell in. He shifted out of the way of someone moving by, tipping an invisible hat to them. "Many pardons, serah."

C

[circleprodigy]

Nearby is a small elven woman, clad in Grey Warden armor and with a mabari at her side. She was lost in thought until spotting the brown nug being held by the newcomer and smiles. Her mabari notices, too, but she murmurs to him to behave as they approach.

"Your companion is adorable. What's their name?" She offers her hand for it to sniff, before reaching into her satchel to retrieve a treat. "May I...?" Garahel wags his tail, wanting to sniff at the nug and get treats, but ultimately behaving as his mistress desires.

Carver Hawke | Dragon Age

[unshadowing]

II. Kirkwall

[Kirkwall never really became home for Carver. Not in the way it had for his oldest sibling, who made her name here. Rather, it was a brief phase of his life before fate took him elsewhere, far away from the city that he had only visited a handful of times since then.

Still, despite his outward scowl, there's a part of him that's relieved to still see the city standing and, apparently, recovering well enough. A long mission near the Anderfels kept him completely out of the loop for months. Coming back to the surface, and to reality, the things he had learned... disturbed him, to say the least. Suspicions about the Order and this talk of Corypheus sent him on his way to Kirkwall, where this Inquisition was stationed. He'd also heard talk that other Wardens had come to help as well, so he'd hardly be the only one.

Of course, it was more than that for him. He hadn't spoken to either of his sisters for months, and when he heard the oldest was missing, he knew he needed to find Bethany and see what needed to be done. (And yes, he's worried about big sis. A lot. Where does she get off on disappearing without a word anyway?) So really, despite his checkered history with Kirkwall, he knew he'd be coming back, and this time plans to stay for awhile.

When he arrives, he's not sure where to start. Inquisition people pointed him to the Gallows, but the thought made his skin crawl. He can't imagine Beth - or any of the others - staying there anyway, not after what happened. So, he takes off into the city, in search of those he knows. Hightown, Lowtown, the docks... heck, he'll even popped into the Hanged Man. It's a good place to start looking, right?]

III. Questing

[Yep. That's a Rift. It's the first one Carver's ever seen, and admittedly, he's left staring at it a moment. After being a Warden for as long as he has, he'd think nothing would surprise him anymore. But he shakes his head and lifts up his two-hander.]

Been awhile since I fought a demon. One might even call it a refreshing change of pace.

[...oh Maker. He's starting to sound like his oldest sister. Flames take him.]

How many do we usually have to deal with when we come across one of these things?

[Though it won't take long to find out, with how much the Rift is spitting and hissing.]

IV. Sending Crystal

[Oh this thing isn't totally suspicious or anything. Carver's got it on the table in front of him, frowning at it. While he wasn't raised to fear magic, not in the way most are, this thing definitely strikes him as more than a little odd. He decides to give it a try, though it wouldn't be Carver if he didn't complain a little bit.]

So, we're using these magic items to communicate, even though we don't know how they work? Right, that'll go well. And somehow everyone who has one can hear this? Quicker than a raven, I suppose, but I'm not going to be the least bit surprised if this winds up coming back to haunt us.

[So optimistic, Carver Hawke.]

IV

[circleprodigy]

There is that risk, it's true. If the crystals fell into the wrong hands, it could compromise much of the Inquisition's activity. That's why we must guard against carelessness, and make liberal use of the privacy function when needed. However, the benefits can outweigh the risks, when used correctly and carefully.

[There's a thump beside her and a canine grunt, though she angles the crystal so that her companion isn't breathing heavily into it.]

Haelan / DA OC

[bad_thief]

I: The Gallows

Working for the Inquisition is sort of a sideline. Well, sideline insofar that it's most like Community Service, because he was stupid enough to get caught going through saddle bags.

But it's fun, when it's not bloody dangerous, and the loot isn't too bad, although they take some back off you for food. The trouble is, Haelan's skillset isn't as much in demand as he'd like. The Mages are always busy, the scholars and the Chantry folk are always bending over books. The soldiers are always being sent out for things, and the diplomats have got their work cut out for them.

Haelan and the other sticky-fingered, knife-wielding, quick-footed types are left to their own devices. Which... wouldn't be a problem, if they were inclined towards quiet hobbies that didn't disturb anyone else. Pranks are not welcome in the Courtyards, or in the rooms filled with bubbly pots of potions, lotions and ointments. Trying to ride the huge horses in the stable yard is also not approved of.

In fact, there's not very much to do, unless one of the important people want something. Oh, he could go on a mission, but... but those sound like a bit more than he can handle. And he doesn't want to fight monsters from the Fade right now.

He'd much rather get in people's way in the Gallows, until something entertaining happens. Unfortunately, he's far more likely to get caught up with something interesting opposed to something entertaining...

II

a: Kirkwall Lowtown

It's busy. That's how Lowtown normally is, especially when the markets open and it feels like all of Thedas has arrived to barter for fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar. It's easy for someone to squeeze in between the stalls and crowds, unnoticed or at least, disregarded. Haelan knows there are a few of his brethren working the crowd already- they glimpse each other through the press of bodies, making sure they give each other space to work. No one likes competition. And no one likes having to flee to Darktown because someone else was stupid enough to get caught and you have to get out before the Guards arrive.

Normally, Haelan is the one getting caught, but this morning he's done rather well. There was a coin purse from some tubby Orlesian, a few coins left unattended by a stallholder, a few trinkets here and there.

He should quit while he's ahead. He should know better by now, but there's a woman just ahead of him in the crowd, and her satchel looks heavy- maybe with gold, maybe with expensive books or Tevinter treasure. Either way, he's like a moth to a flame, weaving through the crowd as he follows her.

b: Kirkwall Darktown

...As it turns out, the woman was a messenger for the Viscount, and trying to lift the contents of her bag had been a very bad idea. Haelan might not always be the best pickpocket, but he's very, very good at running away. And climbing away, when necessary.

Most people climb up, but in Kirkwall, climbing down is also a viable option. If you don't mind Darktown, that is. But when you have to choose between a whole pack of Guards wanting to make your acquaintance or Darktown... actually sometimes the Guards are the better choice.

As it turns out, today is one of those days. As he drops down into the squalor of the subterranean tunnels, there's a shout of recognition. "Haelan! You little prick!"

Yeah, today is definately one of those days...

Followed him from II A to B

[gottakeeponejumpahead]

Well, lucky for you Haelan, your luck is about to shift ever so slightly to the left, as there's the sound of boots casually scrapping across wood and dirt, and the cheerful whistle of Adasse coming to your aid. Thumbs hooked in the well-patched breeches, he stood on the steps. He didn't look at Haelan - in fact he seemed to be working very hard at not looking at him at all. Instead, his dark gaze was fixed on the young man behind him, tipping his chin down ever so slightly. The dim sunlight caught the sharp points of his elven ears, and the even sharper edge of his smile.

"Well hello there, Prickles. You wouldn't be about to bother my bosum mate, would you? The last time you decided to step on this side of the Pocketing line, I gave you a nice little scar to rem'mber me by. Are you looking for something more permanent like?"

Around his worn boots, his nug Coco chuffed in almost intelligent scoffing. If nugs could scoff, at least.

Adasse shifted his gaze only minutely at Haelan. "All in one piece there, mate?"

seoraj allaway | original | starkhaven city elf

[serjeant]

SENDING CRYSTAL

Ho, the Inquisition.

( That is a definite Starkhaven accent. )

Looking for a few of you - ( he rattles off some names, could one of them be yours? ) - as have them in Val Royeaux writing you letters. Packages. I'll be where the forge is; don't mind coming to you, if it's more convenient.

A bit of gratitude wouldn't half go amiss.

( In other words, if you want your mail hand-delivered, it'll probably be faster if you sweeten the deal. Just saying, in his ever mild and amiable way. He did carry it all the way from Orlais, and he is definitely not the messenger, so. Goodness of his heart. Could do with some reinforcing, probably. Who does he have to fuck to get a beer in this place. )

WILD CARD

( Feel free to come up with your own scenario for the ripped elf. )

[bad_thief]

[Okaaaaaay. The sparkly crystal talks. But the voice doesn't sound like the Mage he lifted it from in the Inquisition's Library. Maybe he could just drop it down the garderobe and forget about it. But if the Mage finds out, he'll end up plastered to the walls, a gooey mess. Or turned into something, like a nug or worse.

So... maybe he should return it. Maybe, to sweeten the deal, he can collect the Mage's post? That sounds like a good thing to do. Maybe he won't get turned into anything. Maybe the Mage will be so pleased, she'll reward him!

That sounds good.

He clears his throat, and lifts the crystal up on it's string so it's closer to his mouth.]

Er... I've been asked to collect the post for... [Andraste's knickers, what was the Mages' name? Antigone? Antifreeze? Something like that] For Madam Antigone. How long will you be at the forge?

Annalise Gabriella De Luca / OC

[in_search]

The Gallows

Seaports all smell the same. It's not a pleasant smell, but it is one Annalise is used to, and she has enough control of herself to stop her nose from wrinkling too much as she makes her way across the courtyard full of bustling people, and attempts to find someone in charge. Or at least, someone who can point her in the direction of someone in charge.

"Scusami," She begins, and then makes an apologetic sort of smile, mixed with obvious tiredness from a long journey. "I need to see the Port Master. I need some information."

The information she wants may or may not be here, but it's the first lead she has, and she has to start somewhere.

Kirkwall - Hightown

Annalise is used to elegant towers and delicate spires, golden plazas and roads paced with topaz tiles. Kirkwall has none of those things. The stonework is crude, made entirely of heavy lines and big grey blocks. It's cold and uninviting, but at least the squares have some greenery. It's almost pleasant to sit on a bench and watch the leaves rustle in the sea breeze, her fingers interlaced in her lap.

She's got a lot to do, later. Finalise a place to stay while she's here, try and find more information on her husband and their ships. She should try and make some contacts here, some friends even. But for the moment, it's nice to close her eyes and pretend she's still in Antiva.

Kirkwall - Lowtown

She wasn't a Bard. Her education had involved negotiation and politics, but not fighting or intrigue. She'd never wandered the rougher parts of Antiva City, but here she was, in a strange part of a foreign port, waiting for a contact who may or may not show up.

She didn't know the names of all the sailors on her husband's boats. She hadn't brought the payrolls with her from home, but the name Silverfish- one of her husband's ships- had caused a flicker of memory in an old man in the port. There was a sailor who had been on the Silverfish, he was sure. He'd set up a meeting.

And her she was. In the dark, with shadows all around her, and no guardsmen to be seen, realising how very silly this was.

Radu 386 | Space Cases | Rifter

[perseid]

I. The Gallows

The small figure sitting on a bench outside the Research and Diplomacy offices gives every impression of a wayward student awaiting a scolding. In a way, it's exactly what he is. The structure of a military academy is not easily maintained, thousands of lightyears away from any legitimate authority, but he and his crewmates are still nominally accountable to two superiors who can punish them for leaving the ship without permission.

It doesn't get much more "leaving the ship without permission" than finding oneself in a place where the ship is absolutely nowhere to be seen, where monsters pour barely-checked from the sky, where the level of technology on display suggests that nobody here has ever heard the word "starship" before. Radu knows, intrinsically and undeniably, that this is not a place where the Christa can find him.

And so he waits, still slightly shell-shocked, gazing down at the faint green glow of the shard under his glove and working up the courage to go and find out whom he needs to answer to from now on. There's always a chain of command. He can only hope it's a fair one.

II. Hightown

Radu has never seen a horse before, or a carriage, and he has so infrequently read about them that he wouldn't be able to put names to the parts involved in the overturned mess blocking the street. But he is, if absolutely nothing else, well aware of what to do when a posh-accented woman is bellowing for immediate assistance and threatening dire consequences if it doesn't happen. In a way, it almost makes him homesick.

"Let me," he offers, eager to make himself useful again for the first time since he's arrived in this human-filled nowhere. He hastens forward, even as the horse spooks and kicks, planting a forefoot hard into his chest and drawing gasps from the onlookers assembled. It's an injury he's abstractly aware would be much more serious to someone not Andromedan, and he's sure he'll have a bruise, but it shoves him only briefly off-balance as he reaches for where the reins are to decouple them from the wreck. The carriage itself isn't in irreparable shape; he only needs to right it, and he can see a good handhold if he can just get in there, exerting himself with a grunt to tip it back onto its wheels--

When he turns back around, victorious, the pleased smile on his face takes only a second to fade at the expressions on everyone else's.

IV. Sending Crystal

[The voice on the end of the crystal is unusually soft, probably necessitating the listener to raise the device closer to their ear, but without any hesitance in it. If nothing else, Radu knows how to use an intercom device. He's just glad they have something like it here.]

Excuse me. I'm...new here, and it's not that I need help finding my way around, because I have that covered, but, uh, I can't seem to find the food replicators? They're not in the mess hall, and I don't know where else they'd be. I'm sure I could just be missing them. They're probably right in front of my face and I can have a good laugh about not noticing them... [The laugh this trails into is not one that could fit any definition of "a good laugh," but he's trying.]

Anyway, um. Thank you, in advance, for the help.

IV

[ragweed]

...the what now? [Food replicator? ...Is he talking about the cooks?]

I- Aveline Vallen | DA II

[didifuckingstutter]

Aveline strode into the Gallows, hand on her sword pummel, as she headed toward the area where refuges and new comers usually gathered. It had been quite a few years since she first found herself here, but the memory hadn't faded. She remembered the feeling of uncertainty that always came with starting over in a new place, mixed with the grief over Wesley's loss. Even now the thought strangled her heart, but at the time it had all but consumed her.

However, she was not one to roll over and die when the going got tough, so she had persisted until getting a position with the Guard. She had made it a habit to visit the Gallows every so often, looking for promising individuals in need a little direction and safe place to lay their head. There would always be a place for good men among the guard as long as she ran it.

She surveyed the group of people, looking and assessing. She liked to say she was a good judge of character, although sometimes while off with Hawke she had cause doubt it. Hopefully, today someone would catch her eye.

[unshadowing]

It's hard not to spot her: the red hair, the armor, and that imposing stare. Carver hasn't seen Aveline in a few years, not since their escape from Kirkwall and all that followed. Duty took him elsewhere for a long time, namely the Deep Roads, and he's only been back in the city a handful of months. He wonders if she's heard? Well, either she'll be surprised or she won't.

"Who's getting the stink-eye today?" he asks as he comes up next to her. Maybe a criminal's loose, or a guard's slacking off on the job (rare, but it happens). Or maybe she's just stewing over something. Carver never could quite get the hang of what all of her looks meant.