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

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."

[byblow]

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

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

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

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

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

[mactears]

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

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

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

[byblow]

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

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

And that imaginary onlooker can get fucked.

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

"We can hope."