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 filled with bears. Choose your own adventure!

Comments

[faithlikeaseed]

It's a cold day in the Gallows, but a clear one, which means it's weather good enough for Myr to be out checking on his bees. Routine enough magic that when Gareth's walking tour of one rambles past the elf and his hive, Myr's quick to raise his head from what he's doing, put together what he heard, and asked the first question that pops to mind:

"Did you really make off with her pudding?"

He's not so credulous to believe what he's overhearing isn't at least half-joking--but he's also not so naive as to think what humor there is doesn't cover over a very real litany of pain. (Humor so often did that.) Still, it seems safer--if he's going to interpose himself at all--to follow this new mage's jesting lead rather than dig beneath.

[foundmyselfagain]

The laugh that follows Myr's question is warm enough, at least. It's probably warmer than it would be if it were someone who wasn't a mage asking that, but Gareth is pretty sure that this elf is at least somewhat understanding of the nature of the joke.

"Nah, Meredith never ate anything as decadent as pudding. All she ate was nails, served in a sauce of mage tears." There's another pause, and he follows it up with: "Not really. But I didn't really steal her pudding, either. I wasn't the sharpest guy around, but I wasn't that dumb."

The tour can wait, in the name of conversation with some of the new people (or, old people, he supposes. He's the new people, now.) and makes his way over to Myr and his bees, tilting his head as he inspects the odd set up. Definitely nothing like that here, before. "I like your hive. What spells are you using on it?" Something in the school of creation, obviously, but Gareth couldn't figure out what the exact nature of the spell was. Creation had never been one of his strengths--though he was still plenty interested in how others applied it.

[faithlikeaseed]

"Nails and mage tears--Maker's breath, she would, wouldn't she?" Myr shakes his head at the thought, still smiling--though there's sympathy behind it. The woman had proved a monster in the end. "And here I wasn't taking you for dumb--bold and suicidally hungry, more like."

The hive is a reed-woven skep--all very traditional--tucked into a little alcove in the wall; as Gareth approaches, Myr steps aside from it to afford the other mage a look. (And be in a better position to talk without calling over his shoulder.) There are bees on his gloves and his robes, a few cold-sleepy foragers resting their wings before returning to the hive. "Thanks. Aside from the warming glyph to prevent them freezing solid in this weather," oh, come on, it's not that bad; someone is a delicate northern flower, "there's one that keeps them from seeing me as a threat, and another to draw them to me so I can check their health.

"The last's not so different from the spell we're taught for war, to call a swarm and rile it up to attack something," he continues, reaching up to rescue another bee from his hair, "though without the bit that gets them angry."

The rescuee--rescue-bee--he transfers to his shoulder, before favoring Gareth's direction with a grin. "D'you do much with creation magic yourself? Or favor one of the schools that doesn't end with you wrangling bees and patching up bruises for most of the day?"

[foundmyselfagain]

"Suicidally hungry? That's a bit of an oxymoron." Gareth observes, but his attention is already focused on the beehive. It's not something he's familiar with--certainly, no one was raising bees in the Gallows before--but he's fascinated by it. A respectable distance is still maintained, especially from the actual bees.

"I see. How can you tell what their health status is--? I mean." There's an awkward stumble in his sentence as he glances at Myr's blindfold. "No offense, I'm not talking about--just seeing them. I'm fairly sure I couldn't tell which ones aren't healthy, just by looking. And what would you even do? Can you heal a bee?" It sounds absurd, but what does he know about healing, when it doesn't involve corpses?

"But no, I'm not very experienced in creation magic. My preferred school has always been primal. The earth, the sky. Very flashy, though healing is probably more useful. I was going to learn force magic, at one point, until..." He trails off, starts to make a gesture with his hand, then realizes the pointlessness of it. "...Until." He finishes lamely. "But maybe I'll give it another shot, some day."

[faithlikeaseed]

He laughs a little--sympathy, not mockery--at the stumble. "None taken. There's a lot you can tell by looking, once you've got some experience with them--the shapes of their wings, the color of their leavings, or whether there's more than the usual number of dead outside the hive. Which there should be today, owing to the cold." It is, in fact, a bee graveyard out there, complete with a few undertaker bees laboriously tugging oversized drone corpses along the ground. Isn't nature wonderful?

"Fortunately for me, you learn much of the same things by how the hive sounds or smells, or even," and here his smile takes a turn for the rueful, "how many of them get crunched underfoot on my way over here. And you can heal single bees if you put your mind to it, but it's a monstrous waste of mana--unless it's the queen, one bee more or less doesn't make so much of a difference to the hive. And if she's the one sick it's often best to let them take care of it.

"There's spells, though, for checking over the hive--if the brood are sick, how the queen's faring--and strengthening the lot of them against illness or pests. That's likely more than you wanted to hear about bees out of the blue, though." Here's a nerd who knows very well his own tendency to perseverate.

A brief gesture from Myr undoes the spell holding the bees near him, turning the lot loose to return buzzing to their hive. "'Until,'" he echoes, soft. "Events got in the way." Three years--no, it would be six for someone from Kirkwall, wouldn't it?--where no one had much of a chance to pick up a new school of magic, but maybe that's something better not talked about in a first conversation. "You might well be able to with the Inquisition--at least one force mage about, last I heard.

"What drew you to primal? Other than it's some of the most fun you can have with your clothes still on."

[foundmyselfagain]

Gareth's gaze slowly turns down the the little bee graveyard, and one eyebrow rises. Well. That's a thing. But he's had enough experience with the harshness of nature by this point to not be too thrown off by it. Instead, he tries to study the bees attending to the graveyard--bee undertakers?--and see if he can spot any differences between them, as Myr had mentioned.

He comtinues looking over the hive as Myr speaks, but he's intent on the words, considering them even as he studies the set up. "No, please. Don't apologize. You clearly know what you're taking about, and it's fascinating. I've never thought about what goes into bee-keeping. Especially using magic for it." Practical, every day kind of magic, the kind to better accomplish things that people ordinarily did. There's something important there.

"I hope so," Gareth continues, when Myr mentions there being a force mage around. "I would like a chance to get to start it, again. As for primal magic..." He gives a sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his head. "...It's a bit silly, I suppose. Harder to use it practically, like elemental or creation magic. But I was always pretty good at it, and...there was something powerful, about it. This feeling of controlling lightning, or the earth itself. It makes you feel like you can do anything." Maybe if life had gone differently, his desire for control and power would've died out as he matured. Now, it's become a means of survival.