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

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?"

Re: II

[mactears]

Alistair, or Rendon Howe's boy. Well. He makes a grudging noise under his breath; he supposes that is only right, all things considered.

At her introduction, he hesitates only momentarily, then reaches out to accept her hand. "Loghain Mac Tir," he tells her. His eyes answer any startled query she might have: yes, that one. As for the rest: "--and, no, but you're kind to ask."

[doneisdone]

The startlement is there for certain, and Teren pauses mid-grasp as her eyes widen in recognition. She's never seen the man before, but she's heard the name.
"Oh, it's you," she awkwardly says after a few moments, withdrawing her hand. "...such being the case, you may want armor a bit heavier than that." The observation isn't unfriendly, but it does accompany a wince. "What's brought you here? Thought you'd find a new army to desert?"
She actually smirks-- there's no real vitriol in the question, but it was clearly meant to be a jab.

[mactears]

He takes it in stride, even smirking back, and gives his head a contrary sort of shake. Jabs like that glance off him now; he's been battered by far worse. "I suppose the night is still young," he replies.

And it is, more or less. There's still plenty of opportunity to bump into either Alistair or Nathaniel Howe, and he might indeed wish for better armour than the scraps he's assembled for his trek across Thedas.

"What's brought you here?" she'd asked.

"To make my report, as I said," he says, grimacing. "To account for my absence at Weisshaupt."

II

[pinprick]

Loghain is eventually directed to Nathaniel's office, though no names are mentioned. Perhaps the helpful Warden giving directions knew Nathaniel is less likely to fly at Loghain's throat on sight than Alistair will be.

Less likely.

The door opens; Nathaniel looks up. He takes a moment to recognize the man. It has been years, after all, and Nathaniel wasn't that familiar with his face to begin with. He almost asks the Warden's name, but it clicks before the question comes to his lips. His brow lowers, a brand of scowl that marks a person who just got things cleaned up and now someone has come to tread all over the floor in muddy boots.

"Warden Loghain. Sit." Technically Loghain has seniority, but he just arrived. Until things get sorted out and Loghain has been properly briefed, Nathaniel will continue in the job he has been working for the better part of a year.

[mactears]

If it's any consolation to Nathaniel, Loghain looks as enthusiastic about this debriefing as he does, though less pissed. Mostly he resembles a man who has been on his feet for a solid sixteen hours, and will gladly take a seat across from a Warden who wants to verbally eviscerate him if it means his bones get some rest.

He sits.

"Warden Howe," he replies in greeting, almost marvelling over the title in his reply. There's a touch of admiration there, too. Then he clears his throat. "Apologies for arriving without sending word ahead, I... was unsure to whom I should announce myself."

[pinprick]

"You chose the correct one," Nathaniel says, voice a bit chilly though not completely ice just yet. "Frankly, had you sent word, you would have left me with the task of telling Alistair about it. At least this way the amount of complaining I have to hear about it has been cut as short as absolutely possible."

For the past twelve years, Nathaniel has seen Loghain as Rendon Howe's chief enabler. It's not a pretty title, but it is of utmost importance now that Nathaniel make that resentment as low a priority as possible. Alistair cannot be rational about Loghain. Nathaniel can. This is why they work together, two men with different capabilities and, for the most part, different baggage. Nathaniel lost a father and a brother in Loghain's war, but he can deal with this. And because he can, he must.

"Very well. Give me your report, Warden."

[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.

II again, it's a party

[byblow]

It is entirely forgivable that Loghain doesn't recognize him. For one thing, they haven't seen each other—or barely have, in any case—in over a decade, since Alistair was only twenty years old, and in the intervening years he's grown to look a bit less like a darker but otherwise perfect copy Cailan and Maric. For another, his face isn't actually visible. He's laying out on the ground with both large freckly forearms arms folded over his eyes to protect against the sun.

He moves them aside, when he's addressed, and there is no moment of shock. More like a moment of silent oh, it's you, followed smoothly and immediately by a glare. It's the kind of glare that's 100% about the eyes. His lip doesn't curl, his voice nearly sounds pleasant, but if his eyes were any sharper someone would be bleeding.

"We don't have one," he says, "so I suppose you'd better leave."

He doesn't sit or stand or otherwise move to get up from the ground. That would smell sort of like respect.

[mactears]

"We don't have one, so I suppose you'd better leave."

He stops short enough that he almost seems to trip, but catches himself. Alistair's glare doesn't wound him; it's a look he knows he's earned, though some part of him had wondered if the intervening years might have tempered some of the young man's rage. Clearly, they have not, though they have changed him in so many other ways. The resemblance to Maric has faded, but shades of it are still there to Loghain's eyes; his throat constricts painfully.

"Alistair," he says evenly, and regards him with subdued caution. Well, Teren had warned him.

[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]

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."

II

[circleprodigy]

"--such a good boy, aren't you? Yes, you are. The world's most adorable engine of death--" Busy giving much needed belly rubs to a happily wriggling mabari, a slight elven woman in Warden armor glances up as it sinks in that she's being addressed. Ahem. She straightens, tucking back her hair and trying to pretend she was intercepted at a more dignified moment. You never saw this, ser.

And she doesn't recognize the Warden before her, but that doesn't stop her from trying to be helpful. "There isn't a specific Warden encampment, actually, we're a bit spread out compared to our former arrangement at Skyhold. Our senior Wardens are Alistair and Nathaniel Howe. I can show you to the office, at least. Garahel, come."

The mabari responds with a whine, still on his back. Does petting-time really have to end?

[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.

[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.

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.

[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?"

[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 —)

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]

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.

Re: wildcard.

[mactears]

He startles in the midst of spit shining a pair of leather boots that likely don’t deserve the effort he’s putting into maintaining them--but as Petrana has likely noted, better gear has not been offered to this particular Warden, nor have many additional provisions been made for his comfort. He hasn’t complained, only bent to the task of making his circumstances more bearable.

Loghain considers the young woman in front of him; it’s been years since an Orlesian accent could truly make his skin crawl, and hers sounds just off enough for him to presume instead that she is one of the rifters he’s heard about. Clearly a young lady of some consequence, wherever it is she’s originally from; her bearing is too like Anora’s for her to be any less.

“My mending?” he repeats, a touch bewildered, and seems to take a moment to sort out what she means. Then, “Ah. Yes,” he says, and reaches for the pile of old blue rags that are forced to pass for the tabard beneath his armor these days. “I suppose these have seen better days.” Or decades.

He gives her a chagrined look. “You shouldn’t trouble yourself on my account, my lady. I’ll see to them on my own soon enough.” Surely mending a shirt can’t be so different from darning socks.

[ipseite]

Her smile is tight -

"I claim no title, sir," demurring, holding up one of his shirts with a critical eye. Mmm. This will never do - but they were made for him at some point, fit well enough...if she presents the new ones to him as fait accompli without needing to ask his measurements, he can't argue with her about the matter. And when cleaned properly they will do well enough for cleaning rags. "My name is Madame de Cedoux. And it will be no trouble at all."

If she just pinches a sheet or two from one of the unused rooms...they must be blue, she supposes, but that can be done. A more involved project than she'd envisioned, granted, but it can be done.