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 filled with bears. Choose your own adventure!

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[ There's a gentle thrum of pride as she looks upon his art. It makes Solas feel as though the little things he does - pages of sketches brought to life, soft words to others around him, gentleness and softness hiding the depth of his anger, his rage - will result in the rebellion he seeks, in the strengthening of those who feel as though they have nothing left to fight for. He wishes to see the chains broken once more, and it burns under his skin as surely as the Anchor must burn under the others.

The woman is beautiful, he thinks, and the ethereal glow of her is familiar. There's a rush of painful nostalgia that hits him right in his heart, burning behind his eyes, because he sees her and thinks he sees someone that had been taken from his side long before. There is something about her that whispers her power, her nature, her heart, and he needs no words to recognise it for what it is. He would falter, he thinks, if he was not focussed entirely on keeping himself upright. ]

That is my hope.

[ Her smile is too much for him and he has to look away, memories of the past a heavy burden to bear. ]

It is not for the Inquisition to see. Those that see this will be those in chains, forced to live under the command of others. They are the ones that must be given hope.

I see, how clever of you.

[Galadriel steps forward, then, and looks at the wall as closely as she dares. The plaster cannot be touched, that she knows very well, but the sight of the colors, of the strokes is new and exciting to her.

It is a strange thing, to think of such works for those who dwell beneath. It is not because she feels they are undeserving, not at all, she simply cannot remember a time when such things were not ubiquitous. Artworks littered all corners of the Eldar halls in Arda because, eventually, everything serviceable was replaced with a work of art. After several thousand years there was no aspect of life that was not artful.]

Where did you find such a striking yellow...ah! My apologies.

[She turns back to him, then and bows her head.]

I am called Galadriel and I have not even asked for your name. I make it a point to know all great artisans in any give Age; I am so excited to meet another it seems I have forgotten to actually meet you.

Your words are kind.

[ Solas allows her to move closer and has no issues with her looking at his murals. They're designed to be seen, after all, to be looked upon and recognised for what they are. They're a source of inspiration, meant to be witnessed by slaves and those bound, people in the Circle that are trapped in their own way. They're there for courage, for strength, and Solas wants them to be witnessed. Let the world see what rebellion means.

There is not much art in Kirkwall, for obvious reasons, so it will not take long for word of his frescos to spread around. He will have to be careful with what work he presents when he studies and researches; it will not do for him to be linked with this kind of subtle anger. He will have to take heed of what is happening around him.

Carefully, he turns his head and smiles. ]

I used flowers from the North mixed with pale paints. Add a little more of the pale yellow typical to Kirkwall and you create this.

[ Slowly, he bows his head in return. ]

I am Solas. I am glad to meet you, lady Galadriel. Your excitement is a kindness and does me merit.

[She lets out a laugh then, almost reflexively. His smile is genuine and his compliments are well crafted. She turns to gesture at the frescoe but, before she can ask her questions, there is a clatter from the south stair. It is the sound of heavy plate and whispering fabric, a sound she recognizes instantly, and her fine mood sours. Her expression falls to one of very mild irritation, seeming more put upon than truly disconcerted, but there is a thread of worry caught up in her stance and the pinch of brow.

She gestures to Solas silently, holding a finger to her lips and lifts her free hand in an almost dismissive arc above them. Her power draws around them and presses outward, creating an eerie calm. It would be silent save for the torches.

The templar do not know she is present here, else they have forgotten her, and she has no desire to remind them of their duties, nor does she wish to see them displeased with this artwork. A moment later, two templars round the corner and head toward them. When they connect with her barrier something very strange happens and, all at once, they are moved from one side of it to the other, having never crossed between.

When their steps die away, she drops her hand and the whole of the spell unravels.]

My apologies again but I cannot abide templars. Under normal circumstances I would simply leave, but I unwilling to cut short our conversation, such would be a tragedy.

They will return, eventually, but by then the plaster will be dry and we shall be gone from this place.

[ Her laugh is lovely, he thinks, but he doesn't voice it - it's not necessary. All the things he says are genuine - he does not give compliments lightly and for no reason - but they are interrupted. Solas is frustrated, since his art is not done and he was prepared to speak for a little while longer, and he steps forward. He might not have a Herald to support him now, but he knows that people know of him, and it might be enough to protect them from errant Templars and foolish humans that hunt them down.

The lady takes control, however, and he frowns as he tilts his head to watch her. He can feel her power and it is something remarkable, drawing around him almost in the same way the Fade does. He could hear a pin drop, if someone were to do it.

Solas stares as he watches the Templars spread, touching her barrier and moving away, and when his awe has settled - a quiet, soft thing that he does not say aloud, and is quickly gone - he turns to look at her again. The nostalgia strikes him like a burn, a brand across his heart; peace, calm, eerily so, and he feels his hands clenching at his sides as he forces himself to calm. ]

You have no reason to apologise. It is best that Templars are avoided, especially for those such as myself. [ Apostate mages are not looked upon fondly. ] We can walk and speak, if you would like. I would watch as the art dries, but I fear it may be a risk tonight.

If it does not trouble you to leave it unattended, I would be grateful to evade notice and this place, for a time.

[But he has already offered and she draws the hood of her cloak up once more. The doesn't douse the light that pours from her, but it draws it near once again. The effect is not unlike draping a dark scarf over a lantern. When she starts walking it is in the direction the Templars came from, rather than in their wake.]

As I understand it the Templars are only of note to mages, and the occasional person from the rifts. Tell me, are you a mage?

It is no trouble. It is meant to be anonymous, and people accuse those who stand closest to the trouble.

[ He's glad to walk with her, at least, still curious, wondering about who she is and the nature of her existence. She is a bright, shining light, and Solas wants to drink her in, to learn more, interested in a way that he hasn't for some time. It has been months since anything had drawn his attention too far from the Fade. ]

I am. I have been an apostate for as long as I can remember. [ His smile is small, and wry. ] I doubt they would harm me, but it is not worth the risk.

They are Men, unpredictable and often violent, their moods are difficult to predict at the best of times. Fortunately they are not especially keen, nor difficult to avoid if one has a mind for it.

[Oh and she does. She absolutely refuses to be returned to a cell, it is an indignity she will not suffer twice. She regards Solas as they walk, the way he carries himself is closer to how the Eldar do, but he is clearly of Thedas. He lacks the tattoos of the Dalish, though, and she finds she is somewhat grateful for it.

The idea of willingly marking oneself is still a strange one for her.]

Apostate--ah so they have decided you are criminal, or were? I find it hard to recall what some of these words mean; they change so often, alongside the politics of this place. In all truth I still do not think I am a mage, though I've been called one on more than one occasion.

I do not do magic, I simply shape the world as elves are wont, but these people insist upon the term.

I admit, though, I envy your skills. My talents lie elsewhere and of the tangible arts only weaving does not evade me.

No. They are often foolish and think with their blades before their minds.

[ At least they're of a like mind, and Solas can appreciate that. He will not allow them to take him down nor squash his thoughts, his mind and his rebellion; he is able to stand taller than that, and hold his head up high. Solas is not of the Dales nor is he of the cities; he is stronger for it, and he wonders if those that call him knife ear fear his pride.

He hums, thoughtful as he speaks. ]

Of a sort, yes. It is simply the title of one that will not allow themselves to be chained and controlled by the Circle of Magi. If it is not a title that suits you then you must not accept it; they are their words, not our own.

[ Apostates did not exist in Arlathan. They were elves and nothing more. ]

It may be capable of being taught. You have skill, and there would be a teacher somewhere who could pass on the art.

[It was a simple thing, little more than an unexpected word, but it made Galadriel pause her step and regard Solas more carefully, more completely than she had before. To date, in these lands, no elf had ever used 'our' when speaking of her, not until she had reassured them and all but demanded it. That he had used it, unbidden, was something both unexpected and precious to her.

That he considered them kin without prompt was enough to stagger her, just slightly; dramatic as it was, it felt like the welcome she had never been given.

After a moment's awkwardness, spent in silence simply staring, misty-eyed, at his face, Galadriel brushes the thought away and smiles at him.]

Ah, that might be true of intangible things, but I have never been able to draw with even passing grace. Perhaps if I devoted a thousand years to the task, I could gain some meager mastery, but I've not the heart to waste such time on selfish self-betterment.

Then again, if you are offering to be my teacher, I would certainly not refuse you.

[ Solas, for a moment, does not understand where the emotion comes from, what has happened to inspire such sudden intensity of feeling; there's a striking moment of awkward discomfort as he goes over his own words to consider what he might have done to upset her so surely. The only thing that he can recognise is the two of them being compared, sharing the title of 'our', and he wonders why that would hurt her so much.

He thinks it best not to ask, not to push the matter, to let it settle to one side and give her the benefit of gathering her emotions. There is no pleasure to be gained in drawing undue attention to someone else's feelings, and he lets his eyes drift away as she gathers herself. ]

If only there were a thousand years to be given to such study. [ That is certainly said with enough bitterness that he feels himself almost bite his tongue physically, forcing himself to keep speaking as though he had done nothing to betray his own heart. ] But there is time here, at least, while we learn more of the world and what the Rifts truly mean.

[ Carefully, he turns his attention back to her. ]

There may be enough hours in the day that I might offer some form of guidance. You are free to join me when you can, to see what you may learn.

The rifts are but breaks in the shroud that divides Thedas from itself; they are where the clouds part and the stars shine through. We shall have them solved, in time, and either the world will be cast into grey safety again, or the stars will shine upon it.

[Galadriel reaches a hand out and touches him, very lightly, ont he shoulder. She does not often do such things but she can only pray it does not offend. What she does not consider, as she makes this gesture of comfort to stay the bitterness in his voice, is that she wears the Elessar now and its power is conveyed by touch much more cleanly than Nenya.

Her fingers only light upon him, but the power of restoration is bright and unpredictable. What boon it grants him is impossible to predict and she is unaware she is granting it, even as she does.]

Do not despair of time spent, I am patient and, one day, all elves will return to their long years. It is our way and how we were made into this world.

Edited 2017-12-11 00:06 (UTC)

I have done some research and I have come to the same conclusion. They link Thedas to the Fade, as though the Veil itself was shattering around us. It is a strange and unfortunate set of events that has brought us to this point.

[ Solas, of course, knows far more about the Fade and the nature of the Veil then he is willing to let on. He is about to continue, but then her hand moves and rests upon his shoulder, and he is caught in whatever trap she has laid for him to fall into. He is frustrated, true, but his thoughts are distracted entirely as soon as she gets close to him.

He stands taller, he thinks; he feels stronger for the gentleness of her hand. It's almost as though time itself has bent around him, and there's anxiety that floods him as he shifts to try and step away from her. ]

I am sure it will come to pass in Thedas, too. [ It is his dream, after all, and he will find a way. ] It will simply take time.

[The weight of the world lifts off of Solas, for but a moment, and he steps away from her as though she has burned him. She wonders, to her own horror, if perhaps she has and lowers her hand with a slow, and interrupted motion.

She resolves not to touch him again and her expression holds some nameless quality of apology within it.]

It shall. [Her agreement is ready and without caveat. She gestures on and begins walking once more though her pace is somewhat slowed.]

During my time here I have often asked of artisans, of mages and of elves, just how their creations are formed and I wonder if you, being all three, might avail me.

Do you pour your...[She hesitates to use the word because it is a poor substitute, but it is also the parlance of these lands.] Magic into the works you create? Does a piece of you remain within them, guiding their existence?

[ It was not her touch that made him stagger but the knowledge, the weight, the strength it gave him; Solas has an image to maintain, a facade to hide behind, and feeling his strength return to him... It made that a much harder burden to bear. With all the names he has been given and all the myths about his nature there is too much he must do to protect himself, and he cannot be undone by the idle, gentle support of someone who does not know him.

He does not look at her, and does not witness her apology. He focusses on the path ahead, as he must always do.

Do not forget your goals. ]

There is no magic in my art, no. It is simply paint and charcoal, with images of truths to encourage those that might be blind to the hope that still remains for them.

[ He looks back over, finally, expression gentling. ]

I had not thought to put magic into them. I do not wish to be known as the artist, after all.

[Galadriel arches a brow at this but, for a moment, says nothing. She does not wish to question him too terribly on the method of his art, but it is so strange to her that elven artisans in Thedas do not do this. It is intrinsic to the art in Arda.]

It is more an act of imbuing it with...[She makes a small huff of frustration, it is a rare sound coming from her.] I am sorry, I lack the equivalent word. To imbue your works with fëa is so common that seeing works without is...odd for me.

[She lifts the corner of her cloak to serve as an example. On the surface it is a boring object, plain grey and uninteresting. It is easy to let one's eyes slide over the fabric and travel onward to view other things. If one focuses, though, it becomes a challenge to see; where the fabric passes into shadow it even seems to reflect the world behind Galadriel. It is a dizzying effect, overall.]

I doubt I could weave a cloak that did not carry my will within it. But then, I suppose I have never been overly concerned with anonymity.

[ It is paint and charcoal, true, but perhaps the magic comes from the pain of the art itself. Solas puts his heart into it, his spirit, his life, because he has seen and viewed all these things before in a way that is painful to remember at times. It is his life in drawings, and there is no way for him to ignore the personal touch that emerges as he goes. ]

If there was a way that mirrored it here I would make an attempt for you. Unfortunately, all I have is paint and walls that need decorating.

[ The cloak is, at least, a distraction, and Solas lets his eyes drink it in carefully. After a moment he has to look away, the movement of the fabric enough to make his eyes feel as though they're crossing over themselves. It harks back to the world he knew once more, when magic was not as tame and difficult as it is now, in this world where people think of themselves as mages and are barely a scrap of what had once been.

Smiling, he shakes his head. ]

I see no reason why anonymity should be your concern.

Edited 2017-12-13 21:43 (UTC)

Some anonymity might be wise; I've no desire to see the inside of an Inquisition cell again.

[His offer makes her smile and, briefly, she toys with offering to teach him how to imbue willpower into artwork. She does not know him well enough to make such an offer, unfortunately, and refrains. She lowers her cloak back into place and regards the hall around them with a careful eye.]

At any rate, I should like to see more of them decorated. This is a dark and dreary place and the colors of your paintings are a splash of spring in the dead of winter.

Before I bid you goodnight, I should ask: where might I find you when I wish to study paint, color, and the art of rebellion?

[It is a joke, a simple reference to the meaning of his work, and she hopes he will not take offense.]

That is a desire that many share.

[ Solas can't help the way he frowns. He can imagine why she might have been imprisoned, but he doesn't have to like it. He hadn't enjoyed the Herald's imprisonment, especially when he had tried for some time to help keep her alive, and he mislikes the idea of someone as graceful and nostalgic as the elf in front of him being behind bars. No one should be imprisoned for their existence, and he has to bite his tongue.

For now. ]

I can only give what I can to those that have very little left to fight for. Finding hope in a time as difficult as the one we live is not easy.

[ The art of rebellion, she says, and Solas can't help the way he smiles, the way that it makes him think of names and acts, the history of the world and what he made of it, makes of it now, unfolding and remaking. ]

I spend much of my time in the library, studying the Fade and the Veil. If I am not there then I am here, or in my quarters.

I shall seek you out, then, and shall hope for far fewer templars when next we meet.

[Galadriel places her hand over her heart and bows forward ever so slightly. His words about hope had endeared him to her and, even as she rises, there is a distinct fondness in her face.]

Elen sila lumenn' omentielvo, Solas.

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TEST DRIVE MEME!

insert solas' emotional breakdown here

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#Fadesplaining

fjskdgjsdg this is the bEst

Oh shit he backed up, is it me? Quick topic shift!

1000 years later: im actually fine with you touching me

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FORESHADOWING or something, idk.

:EYES:

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