allthisshitisweird | TEST DRIVE MEME!

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TEST DRIVE MEME!

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!

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SENDING CRYSTAL

(

That is a definite Starkhaven accent.

)

(

he rattles off some names, could one of them be yours?

)

(

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.

)

[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?

( In the same, easy voice; )

Wasn't planning on shifting in the near future, lad.

( How fucking young are they recruiting around here. He can't even summon surprise. )

Good. Right. I'll be there in a bit, then.

[He pauses, not sure how to stop the Crystal working, tapping it on the table a couple of times before giving up and shoving it in his pocket.

And then he has to make his way down to the Forge. He knows where it is, and it isn't far. He does slow down the closer he gets, the warmer the air feels on his face. He was apprenticed to a blacksmith in Kirkwall's Lowtown for a few months, and it was not enjoyable. He's weary of most blacksmiths now- they tend to be big, muscular, and quick to anger. Not a great mix if you aren't very good at timing. Or aiming. Or any actual blacksmithy work.

Still, he's expected now, although he tries to keep himself out of the way, almost clinging to the edge of the walls. He's not sure, with the blacksmith working, he should speak up. He recalls how the Blacksmith in Lowtown hated to be interrupted.]

Er... parcels?

( One out of three.

As elves go, Seoraj is big: you don't spend the better part of your life in a forge or swinging a two-handed axe and not develop a certain physique to go with it. The fact still remains that he is an elf, and tall for an elf is still all of about 5'9" - even if he'll say 5'10" should you ask him - and broad for an elf is still a bit slimmer than a human of the same height.

His expression, when he catches sight of the boy lurking about, remains mild. He wipes his hands off, taking a moment to find the parcel of letters and packages from where he'd stowed it and sort through it for what had been left for an Antigone. Bit of a surprise that mages know anyone who'll send them mail, if you ask him, but people are not in the habit of asking him his opinion, so that's as is. )

Just a letter.

[Oh. Fetching a letter isn't exactly as impressive as going and collecting some sort of package of rare books or interesting herbs, but he supposes it will have to do. At least the letter handed over to him is sealed tight- there's no way he can be suspected of opening anyone's mail.

It's tempting just to turn and run now, but as he's no longer a child. A man doesn't just turn and run from a normal, completely harmless conversation, does he? Besides, if Adasse hears about him running like a frightened nug out of the smithy, he won't let Haelan forget about it.]

So... how did you end up with all the post anyway? Blacksmiths don't normally have spare time to give out everyone's letters.

Happened to be overheard saying where I was headed, ( his shrug the shifting of tectonic plates, a suggestion of what elves might have been, once, when they were taller and broader and lived a good deal longer -

it's not hard to imagine to see why Seoraj is, among other things, not hugely popular with the human male populations of the places he passes through. )

'Would you mind--' and I didn't.

I guess that was... kind of you?

[He pauses, watching the mass of muscles shift in the orange light of the forge. Haelan's trying to work out why someone might volunteer to do that, it's not like travelling across Thedas is safe.

And then he remembers that bit about payment. Ah ha. It all makes sense.]

Doesn't the Inquisition pay their smiths very well?

Looking forward to finding out.

( He's new in these parts, after all. )

From Val Royeaux, right?

[He's never been. But he's heard it's fancy. Really, really fancy. Fancier than Hightown]

Is it true the houses are covered in gold? Someone told me that, and that the rich people all wear masks all the time. Even when they're eating.

[He's not sure how you can eat through a mask. Orlesians are weird.]

[Simon always perks up and pays attention when he hears a new Starkhaven accent over the crystals, because to hell with renouncing ties that aren't to the Chantry when you take up the philter--life's no fun when you can't give preferential treatment to your countrymen.

But this time, it's not just the accent he recognizes, though the voice's familiarity is uncertain after twelve lyrium-soaked years. He narrows his eyes, listening hard, thinking back harder, and only at the mention of the forge does he take a chance.]

--Seoraj? That you, mate?

( There's a pause. A surprised pause - would you look at that, is that Thomas's boy still alive? Templars being what they are, these days. Simon being what Seoraj would have gently described as not a boy he'd imagined growing into a man that lives through a war of this kind.

Then again, he did hear how fucking tall he got.

(Also, one day he'll stop being surprised by human competence. Or, more likely, nah.) )

You're having me on.

[The pause makes him wonder for a cringing moment if he's gotten it wrong and made a bit of a fool of himself, but...no, that's the voice he remembers, or more specifically the tone he remembers, and he laughs with surprise and delight. He's always been one to wear his heart on one mailed sleeve, rendering the armor all but useless.]

I'd never. That's Rick's job, the bastard. What are you doing here? And for the Maker's love, why'd you come through Orlais?

Orlais pays better than your wanker brother--

( Seoraj, be nice.

Or don't. He does sound awfully cheerful, though; as surprise massive humans go, he'll take Simon Ashlock any day of the week. )

Thought I'd come down here, take up needlepoint.

( Yeah, in the fucking forge. What do you think he's doing, Simon, other than having to change his joke midstream because he doesn't know what florists call their business. Flower...bollocks? )

Edited 2017-09-12 08:48 (UTC)

...That's fair. ['Nice' is not a requirement when talking about Simon's brother in front of him; he'd probably be less well-disposed if you tried. It's a blow to his high-flying morale regardless, remembering that the forge belongs to Rick now, and Simon doesn't really know what he's made of the place. Ma wouldn't let him make a complete hash of it, and at last writing Da wasn't too ill yet to offer input, but they're still not the ones paying the wages anymore.]

Well, so long as you haven't been drowned in frills and perfume. It must've been a narrow enough escape. And I hear we're in need of good seamstresses.

You've got time for a drink, haven't you?

If you've got the coin for it.

( fingerguns )

Tell you a few stories about frills and perfume.

( Simon is not the only person in the world who noticed Seoraj's abs, hair or tats. )

Yeah, yeah. [He should've expected that, and takes it in stride anyway. It's a small price to pay for the promised few stories.

Even if he's old enough now to have a few of his own, some that he wouldn't even mind telling, that painful-sweet ache of childhood nostalgia is more than worth a round of drinks on him. Maker knows he'd sat around the forge often enough, getting underfoot and gulping down any tale Seoraj would tell him for free about life in the midst of the city or on the road.

There had come a point where it hadn't done to look so eager about it, where suddenly those abs and those tats and that glistening hair wet from the rain barrel had become very noticeable indeed, and looking suave in front of him had rocketed up the priority list, but Simon would like to pretend he doesn't remember any of that.]

Meet you at the Hanged Man, then, and you can give 'em here.

Aye.

( Like it's that easy - it is that easy, just slotting back into the something long left behind, something from a childhood that at the time he hadn't thought was still his. He felt big, back then. Felt grown. He thinks back and, ah, lad. What a cocky fucker he'd been.

They're both lucky to have got this far. You can't take that sort of thing for granted - he's fiercely glad to hear from the boy, even if the boy is thirty, and he's only five years his senior, Seoraj.

So along he goes to the Hanged Man, and nineteen or thirty-five but hasn't time been kind to him. The little beard of which he was so proud, the sideburns remain the same; the hair might be a bit longer. He dresses much as he ever did, plain and fitted for ease of movement - a few more tattoos. A few lines, around the mouth and eyes. Something more settled about him: a man who knows who he is.

And who grins, when he sees a friend-- )

Fuck me, you aren't half big.

( Bring it in you obnoxiously tall motherfucker. )

[Simon's always been too tall and broad for his own good, always getting reprimanded in the training yard for bruising the other pages with clumsy strength he hadn't even meant to exercise, but there's near to nothing left now of that soft baby-faced boy who didn't understand his own bulk or know what to do with his limbs. He'd had a pinchable-cheeked look about him at eighteen, something a little laughable about the determined set of his jaw, even if the laughter it prompted was kindly meant enough. It's no wonder Seoraj wouldn't have expected to hear from him again.

But there is no visible softness about him at thirty, and only a little of the old ungainliness about his walk once he's made to navigate a small crowded room. The armor he hasn't had the time to change out of hangs on him as if anything else would look vaguely out of place. Seoraj, though--

One always expects a subject of childhood admiration to seem less impressive when revisited as an adult. Not so, now. Not at all. The hair has only become even more majestic, the tattoos as enthralling as ever they were, and the aura of confidence that had made a teenage Simon hang on his words--that's indelible.

He grins back, and pulls Seoraj into a rough embrace.]

And you've still got nicer braids than all the village girls put together.

Edited 2017-09-14 08:55 (UTC)

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serjeant - 2017-09-14 09:25 (UTC) - Expand

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paladingus - 2017-10-11 08:22 (UTC) - Expand

There's no one in Orlais who'd be writing Myr letters, but he's got other reasons for making his way down to the blacksmith. Namely, a knife, of the easily concealed sort favored by traveling mages as one extra surprise in a moment of extremity. His needs sharpening and there's a nick in it besides he hasn't had the chance to get addressed--so, off to the blacksmith for repairs. Easy.

A problem presents itself when he gets to the smithy: He's never dealt with a blacksmith who wasn't Tranquil. There's surely etiquette for making these requests that's different when you're dealing with a whole person, and on top of that he's only got the sketchiest grasp of whether the Inquisition funded these kinds of repairs themselves or if he's expected to pay out of his meager wages or--

Well. No use worrying overmuch about it. Someone will explain it, or they won't; he'll make it through this interaction either way and take what he can from the failures. Myr appends himself to whatever queue there might be with a minimum of fuss, sheathed knife hanging loose in the fingers of his offhand. He can't quite quiet his own need to fidget with it, twisting the hilt absently as he waits his turn.

It isn't a long wait, for all that there's plenty of work to be done - most aren't inclined to linger. The new denizens of the Gallows are a mite more progressive than your average citizen of wherever the fuck any of these bastards hail from, but all the same if they think it's strange to seen an elf in a forge when bigger men with bigger hands might do the work, they certainly don't hesitate to set him to work for them. For the most part, it's on the Inquisition's dime; certainly as small a thing as Myr wants. A few, only, have requests that he'll set aside and evaluate on their own merits and costs, projects that for whatever reason don't have the automatic backing of their division budget behind them -

And they can wait. (Well; some might be more pressing, but none today.)

"Let's have it," he says, amiably, but he'd noticed the blindfold before he spoke and he adds, "my hands're just in front of yours, mate."

(He could have just taken it, or touched him, but he doesn't. His mother raised him with fucking manners.)

He puts together scraps of dropped conversation, assembling a loose picture of this new blacksmith as he waits. Another elf--that's interesting. Big for one, too. From Starkhaven, by the accent. And--

A damned sight more polite than some of the people Myr's spent the last three years of his life with. He flips the knife so he's holding it by the blade and proffers it hilt-first. "Thanks," for the consideration. "Afraid I nicked the edge badly last time I used it, and it wants sharpening besides." Their trip from Hasmal Circle hadn't been sedate; a rebel templar with a vendetta had gotten through the cordon once, little expecting the short, blind elf to be knight-enchanter trained. The quarter-inch gouge in Myr's knife is a souvenir of the bastard's armor.

Where Seoraj's other patrons are quick to depart, Myr does linger, half-nervous and half-curious. This is all new to him and even if he can't see the interior of the smithy there's information to be gleaned simply by paying attention. And questions--always questions. "You're lately from Orlais, aren't you?"

"Lately," he agrees, the dryness of his tone easily enough explained by his significantly Starkhaven accent. Could not be more clearly not any other time from Orlais if he had actually answered, as he might well have done, with aye. "Bit of a changed place, now her majesty's arse is feeling a bit more firm on its seat."

Bit less profitable, in other words, though whether or not Myr has heard that the blacksmith has another occupation from time to time - who can say. He didn't come here as a soldier, whatever he may have been while he was in Orlais.

The time will come when he puts hammer down and picks up axe; it's inevitable.

But it's not today.

[Adasse and his faithful nug, Coco, had been scoping out the Gallows courtyard, looking for some easy marks to practice on. If you were going to be a pickpocket for the Inquisition, he supposed this was the best training ground to make it happen. Leaning against one of the pillars, Coco chittering at his feet, Adasse's dark eyes narrowed and his pointed ears almost twitched as he made out an Inquisition scribe muttering to himself.

He started to move forward, whistling to Coco to go for the scribe's legs, when out of the corner of his eye he caught someone looking right at him. He didn't as much turn, as shifted his weight away from the scribe, whistling for Coco to follow, and ambled towards the general direction of the stare.

Which. Well. Was when he saw an elf man with more muscles than it seemed possible. Adasse was tall himself, and years with the daggers made him fit, but this man could probably lift Adasse clear over his head.]

Evening, evening. [Casual as you please.] Nice day for weather, isn't it?

This is Coupe. [ from the list. with the names. ] If I am not mistaken,

[ she's not; there are always letters from val royeaux. chantry post comes from chantry hands until it's inconvenient to go screaming to everyone with eyes that it's about chantry business — ]

You've a parcel courtesy of Monsieur Simonds. [ in name only, save that she knows vigil and he'd never neglect a chance to be cheap. there'll be a dozen letters of his own stacked in the bunch: introductions and offers and deals she'll need to see delivered over half the bloody city. ] I will be by the forge shortly. Has your work finished for the day?

[ some forms of gratitude don't combine well with fire and hammers; she's not about to bust out her much-depleted stores of alcohol just for a useful craftsman to bash his hand flat. ]

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TEST DRIVE MEME!

seoraj allaway | original | starkhaven city elf

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SUP ELFBRO

BODYSLAMS

OOF

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ThE MEETING OF THE MUSCLE ELVES

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Lanky thief elf meets ripped elf, news at eleven

crystal; finally gets to this