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

[dirth]

It is not right, yes. The world is not as it once was, and the elves of Thedas pay the price for it.

[ He is careful at how much he gives away - he knows the impact of his choices, and he feels uncomfortable with the knowledge of what the world has become. It is not right, and it feels as though every person living and breathing are nothing short of Tranquil; separated from what they could and should have been, leaving him recoiling in horror more often than not.

There are no words to express those feelings. Not appropriately, and not without letting on more of his secrets than he is willing to give. ]

I will answer all the questions you have. It will be refreshing to have someone seek answers rather than hate the truth.

[ Solas allows himself to be taken in by the manipulation, to let the image shape in front of his eyes, and for a moment he feels as though his heart has been torn from his chest. It is so like the dreams and memories of Ancient Arlathan that his skin feels as though it might burn away and show the husk of the person he is below.

It's overwhelming. Solas turns his head and sees the small elflings learning, hearing instruction and welcoming it. He watches them learn to write their names and feels the pain rocket through him, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He can hear the scrape, their pleased sounds as they do their work correctly, the understanding that they are progressing well; there is pride in their teacher's voice.

They play, they draw, they laugh and they learn, and it makes him want to fall apart. Were he not in company, were his hand not securely in the other man's he thinks he might well collapse.

It is home, but it is not home. It smells of freedom, of liberty, of happiness, and his throat is tight and his eyes hurt from swallowing his tears. He will not buckle under the weight of his regret, even as he feels it push down on his shoulders. ]

This is your home?

[rowancrowned]

I would like to hear of it. [ he says, hand still on solas', though he's stepped to the side to offer him an unobscured view of the little scene playing out before them. ] I am unbiased, [ he notes. at least in this. he will always favor elves, always loathe kinslaying, always see the hand of melkor in dragons, in the darkspawn. in the matter of the history of thedas, though. ] though I must wonder about your truth if it so enraged so many.

[ it is not a complicated glamour. solas is not moving, which helps, and the memory makes it easier. paths already worn well in his mind, easier to call up, to replace details. but as with all things here, it is an exertion, and he is keen not to show the full extent of what he could do. a few minutes more, and he will draw it to a close. ]

It is. [ the fondness could not be kept from his voice if he tried. another elf steps into view, through thranduil and solas as if they were not there at all, making his way down the miniature amphitheater's steps. it is thranduil, naturally, in far finer robes than the ones he's wearing, but otherwise unadorned. one of the elflings breaks from his seat and hurries over, slate in hand, displaying it, chattering away in a language thranduil does not translate. ]

My son, [ he offers, and more elves come down the steps, more elflings running over to them, the teacher moving from group to group, discussing. ] When he was perhaps twenty. Do you have children?

[dirth]

Then I shall tell you, when there is time for it. [ He doesn't intend to dip into the realm of true elven history in the darkness of the Gallows, and there is a better time and place for it. If Thranduil truly wishes to know and listen then Solas will speak with him, because the burden of knowledge is a great and heavy thing to bear. ] The Dalish have heard the whispers of myth and legend and accept them as reality. I have seen the truth in the Fade, shaped only by memory.

[ Still, his attention is, mostly, on the glamour and the images in front of him. The world is beautiful, just as his own had been, and the pangs in his chest make him feel as though he is going to fall apart and crumble from the inside out. It's too much for him to carry alone but he has been left with no other option - there is no one else that can undo what he has done.

He is the only one left.

The elf beside him looks well dressed and fine in the memory, and Solas recognises it for what it is - kingliness, lordship, authority. It had been his own mantle, once, before, and now he has let it all fade into nothingness. He cannot imagine picking it up again, wearing another crown, another name, but he cannot determine the path in front of him. It may yet come to pass, and he wonders if he will look even half as regal.

A son. Solas cannot picture that for himself, in any world. ] No. I have none of my own. [ He has not had the chance nor the reason. ] He seems like a good child.

[rowancrowned]

When you are not bound to the whims of your art, [ thranduil says, the curve of a smile lightening his words. Then you may correct the record. ] I would delight to hear of your founds truths, over wine, since you do not favor tea.

[ he freezes the glamour, dissolves it, though he lets legolas linger, cheerful and young and safe in the halls of the elvenking, occupied wholly by thoughts of when he would be allowed to learn to shoot, and ada look here. but that too falls into dust and they are once more before solas' mural. ]

He is my son, [ thranduil says, and that ought to be everything that needs to be said, to imply all the love that is there, still. ] Though he is not so small anymore.

[ and not here, but safe. that is a balm to everything else. thranduil releases solas' hand, and turns to face him rather than stay by his side. ]

I fear I have stolen too much of your time, my friend.

[dirth]

[ Solas feels his own smile coming, just a twitch of his lips, before he can do anything to smother it. At least there are some here that appreciate effort he goes to. ] I would be glad to give them. I am sure there are other drinks that we might share that could be more enjoyable.

[ Water is fine, he thinks, and it means he could be somewhere more comfortable, more relaxed, with the tension of memories and glamour to hold him back. Even now looking upon the image of Legolas makes his chest ache in a way he cannot possibly begin to consider, not when there is a world ahead of him. ]

Children grow slow in the eyes of their parents. [ He makes a soft noise, thoughtful. ] But then they are grown, and far from you.

[ It's a set of distracted words, and Solas shakes his head, focussing back on Thranduil. ]

It is not stolen if it is freely given. I am better for it.