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

galatea. orlesian elf. app info in journal.

[kecharitomene]

iv

( The voice over the crystals is low, musical and Orlesian in accent; the kind of accent you find out in the sticks, a mixture of different regions and none of them terribly polished. )

Hallo, strangers, ( all friendliness, ) I am very new here so maybe I don't know who to ask, exactly- you have lots of people who know all about the books. I need some reading and then I'll need some writing, and in return-

We can work something out, no?

wildcard

( galatea is a 4'10" elf who loves poking her nose where it doesn't belong. hit me with whatever. )

[limier]

Word came several weeks back, and it didn't take a terribly keen eye to read between the lines of smashed skulls, and absent parties. That the nature of the disagreement has so far escaped correspondence is a sight more troubling.

Less, yet, than the one before her now. (The tattoos are new. Maker.)

She doesn't stop dead — more practiced than that — but some pause can't be helped, and that's as clear a tell as if she'd just given in. So she does: After a few places to carry her around the corner, into the doorway of her office. The knife at her side she lays flat on the table, leaves the one at her back. Its position will be expected, but that gives Galatea something to stop her going for, and that's itself something to work with.

Then she sits, puts her hands in easy view, and reviews a mental list of anything she might have done to piss the girl off.

It's longer than she'd like.

[kecharitomene]

The sedate - even languorous - pace at which Galatea follows does not negate one petinent fact: that she does. Wren recognised her, and Galatea recognised Wren, and now it's time for them to have a nice, friendly chat about those two things-

among others.

Her fingertips are the first thing, dragging lazy into the doorframe; she leans there, arm above her head and free hand on her hip, the very picture of ease and amiability. The smile is the same, even if the framing has been somewhat altered - it's useful, to look a bit less like herself. Maybe less useful than she'd thought, but it had done its business in making her description a confusing one in the chaos of the war, and she's got this far.

How much further has she still to go? A ways.

“Look at you.” She traces Wren's shape in the air, light- “I like this. That's a nice gesture, the knife. Are we going to fight, do you think?”

Her smile mirrors the blade's edge.

“Do you think there's a reason we should fight? Ser Coupe.”

[limier]

"One should not neglect their niceties." It’s never easy to forget how young she is — if it were, Wren doubts they’d be speaking now. Metal glints about the girl’s knuckles, snags the late light and the flicker of her gaze. She’s measured these odds before, but time hasn't stacked them any more cleanly. "Or so I am told."

A short gesture to the filing cabinet. Later, there will be a pin to remove from its place, notes to update. If there’s a later. Her own face holds steady, still. It’s only as neutral as a dog on scent.

"The Inquisition holds brawling in ill manner," I am not alone here, a thin reminder with most of a chantry left scarlet. She forces her shoulders not to rise. She’s never had the idle sort of grace (malice) that Galatea wears so comfortably. The best she can do now is to be ready for the worst. "You made good time, from the south."

[kecharitomene]

The Inquisition now; for Wren, and for her. All of them cut loose of their masters - some of them more savagely than others - and chasing, chasing, chasing. Their own tails, in some cases, but not all. No. Chasing higher purpose, too, chasing any purpose; the common ground is a shifting sand, but it's there.

“All elf girls look the same.”

(She doesn't know how much of her survival is already that awful truism.)

“So no one slowed me.”

And you won't, either.

She isn't angry. Right now.

[limier]

Her chin tips aside in a sketch of agreement: She’s not immune. Had Galatea's work made any less of an impression, her features likely wouldn’t have, certainly not beneath Dalish ink. The marks were clever, however they might limit her options down the line.

But planning for the future requires its consideration. Wren's fingers tent, eyes linger —

"I would invite Galatea Lourdes within," An old face, for an old name. "But perhaps I mistake her for another?"

[kecharitomene]

Martyrs have no future.

Galatea smiles;

“You don't.”

Maybe she should - a new name, for her new face. A better disguise than the haphazard one inked into her skin, a more permanent one, but she thinks she would ill-suit new skin and she has become a new thing once before, once enough. Galatea was Lourdes will be Galatea until she dies; she is, she thinks, what she is meant to be. And maybe this is where she's meant to be;

she closes the door behind her.

“Do you know where I was? Before Kirkwall.”

[limier]

Not, She’s given cause to hope, Apcher. But surely she would have heard.

"There is a road between Val Firmin and the coast, no?"

She’s traveled it often enough.

[kecharitomene]

“I went to Skyhold,” she says, not sitting down. She lays her slim hands, one bare and one a gleaming and ever-present threat, on the back of the chair that she might have sat in; leans her weight there, like she's relaxed. Like this is relaxing. “Me, and Benoit, and Annouche, and Katherose, and Thierry. They write to me! It's very sweet, I think, but you know I don't know my letters.”

When she produces them from where they've been tucked safe between blouse and leather bodice, she is still smiling. She offers them forward.

“You know your letters, I think. No? You have a very good speaking voice, Ser Coupe. Will you read them to me?”

[limier]

Wren doesn't believe in the power of prayer, nor cosmic justice; holds no faith in some immutable record of her deeds —

— But there are times she wonders. Hyperbole only. There's little divine about a broken tool, less when jammed into a wound. She accepts the stack of parchment, and there'd be no point in disguising the slight shake of her wrist, the new tension in her jaw. Galatea knows some of what the Order asked of her, wouldn't be pressing now if she didn't.

"Benoit," She echoes, feels the hoarseness threaten to creep from her throat. "Annouche, Katherose."

But she's stalling, and that won't do for the eyes upon her now. She begins, "From Thierry: Mme. Lord S, Sometimes I get scared at night, when I look over and Iosef isn't there —”

When she finishes with the first, she stares a moment at the drawing enclosed. A great deal of red ink’s been used.

[kecharitomene]

Galatea watches her, still as a snake about to strike, until she reaches the end. (She has seen the drawing already; of course. It's very good, she will keep it, maybe put it on her wall when she's decided which wall is hers.)

“I think it's important to make sure to listen to them,” she says, her voice a blade sliding free of its sheath. “Now I make myself responsible for them.”

To not forget them- the little faces that had looked up with hope and seen an executioner, who had watched her turn her weapons on those who thought to slice through a complicated knot with their simplest solution. Wren can understand that, can't she.

Being responsible for something.

[limier]

The command's not difficult to believe — would that it were — but what a poor choice they'd made of a hammer. Should have found someone tested at this particular work.

(How fortunate, that so few of them remain.)

She sets the page aside, resists working her jaw. Some words have a way of battering it.

"The Council," Useful for something more than appearances, then; there's listening for you. "Can lay solid claim to them. While the Inquisition stands, it is unlikely they will be pursued."

It's not a disputation of protection, but a discussion of insurance. Galatea's a long way from Skyhold now, and how quickly geography eludes even the most responsible.

Whether they can afford her the same protections? Someone higher up the chain must have approved this, has weighed the cost of disavowing or turning her over. There's little choice but to follow, for now.

[kecharitomene]

“Only I know they were there to pursue. Now their new guardians, of course...”

Everything had happened, as things are lately wont to do, fucking quickly; it had been chaotic, messy, another problem to address in a place struggling to hold some semblance of control. Pursuers had not sought the children, whose light footsteps would have soon been forgotten if she'd obeyed - they sought a young city elf alone, the only survivor of a bloodbath and its almost certain architect.

Not a Dalish elf, shepherding children. The ruse had served its purpose, and her little lambs might as well not have existed the stretch of time between fleeing their Circle and turning up in her hands at Skyhold. They are as safe there as anyone can be anywhere, and that - that has to be enough. It's safer than they would have been, if she'd caved to it when they wished to stay with her.

“Now, you.”

Speaking of insurance. Galatea has always liked Wren; she would like not to be disappointed by her.

It would be unfortunate, if she were to be disappointed.

crystals

[rowancrowned]

[ in halamshiral accented orlesian: ] Are you able read Orlesian, mademoiselle?

[kecharitomene]

( her Orlesian accent is much like her trade one- an unpolished muddle. )

--do you know, I don't know whether they have written these in Orlesian or trade.

( So that's a no. )

[rowancrowned]

That is a small problem only, [ he says. ] Are they confidential?

[kecharitomene]

No, no - that I've all turned over, of course.

( Maybe not all. But, you know. )

They're only letters, little ones, for me!

[rowancrowned]

Perhaps you might allow me to see them, and we will learn if they are Trade or Orlesian.

[ he is very poorly at guessing ages, but this one seems childishly young. ]

From there, we might see to replying to them, yes? And then teaching you to write, so that you needn’t request help every time you find yourself with letters.

[kecharitomene]

That is so kind of you! Where will I find you? I have no place particular, yet, I blow around with the wind.

[rowancrowned]

I am in the main office of the Research Division. [ he lists off more specific directions to get there from the gallows courtyard. ]

Do not feel the need to rush, I will be here for several hours yet.

[kecharitomene]

( She doesn't hurry, but it isn't very long all the same until small knuckles are rapping light on the frame of a door she's taken the liberty of already having opened.

Not a child. Small, nearly two feet shorter than he is, but there's a casual swagger to her that belies her not being visibly armed. At the moment. The tattoos look almost Dalish; the clothes are Orlesian, probably, soft yellow blouse and deep red leather bodice. She's taken her hair down and it softens her a little, but

she doesn't seem like she has much space for softness. )

Hallo! We spoke, I think?

I'm Galatea. You are Thranduil.

( Big rifter elf, runs Research. Interesting! )

[rowancrowned]

I am, [ he agrees, and is glad that for once, someone is clever enough to figure out that he's the division head without needing to be told by him personally. he beckons her in, turning his back on her for the time it takes to the chairs by the fireplace and sit. ]

Are those your letters? [ thranduil asks, studious. he watches her eyes, tracing the tattoos. for all their intricacy, the looping vines and leaves, they are no more dalish than he is. ] May I see them?

[kecharitomene]

Of course!

( The smile doesn't drop when he turns away, but her sharp interest in her surroundings drifts from her host to his space; the things he chooses to have around him and all of the exits.

She sits, too, makes herself comfortable with one (bare, a new habit) foot tucked beneath herself in such a way as to not much slow her if she should need to move suddenly. The letters are offered forward -

These, though. These are the handiwork of children; she's already removed their drawings, but it's immediately apparent from the writing and their tone, the content. Letters from four little mages of Orlais, Katherose and Annouche and Benoit and Thierry: all of them imprinted onto their rescuer like baby ducks, telling her stories of Skyhold and how many baths they've had and the return to lessons.

The frights at night; the dreams and memories that she had been talisman against while she shepherded them up the mountains. How they cling to one another still, how they miss those who are gone and those they may never know the truth of.

Benoit says his tattoo is healing very nicely and he covered it up with his gloves like she suggested. )

[rowancrowned]

[ he settles into reading them aloud, one after another in an even, steady voice. it is not his place to seek elaboration on the stories from her. her background and history will be the provenance of whichever division head she's placed under.

when he's done with the four letters, he folds them back up, bundled together. he offers them back, leaning forward in his chair to press them into her hand as she reaches for them. ]

Your little friends used Trade, mademoiselle. But if your mother tongue is Orlesian, it may come easier for you to learn that first.

[kecharitomene]

( They disappear neatly back into the tight space between blouse and bodice, for safekeeping- where they shall doubtless be replaced, in time, by others. Having them close, even if she can't particularly make them out - all of their lives changed together, and at once, and very significantly. They mean a great deal to her, and will not soon be forgotten or abandoned.

But they're better off where they are, for all that; better that they learn to rely on themselves than only her. It will make it easier, when they lose her. )

Oh, I expect so.

( Her interest in learning either seems to be more out of politeness to him for having made the offer than any real drive to do so - she can see the benefits, of course, but it's so much sitting and looking and there are a hundred people here who can do the things he's talking about, why does she so badly need to be one of them? Haven't they all got more important things to do than make her be still? )

You must be very busy, ( gamely. Someone lower on the foodchain might present her with more of a challenge, but Thranduil likely has a hundred things on his plate more pressing; she can doubtless extricate herself from lessons without much difficulty. )