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.

PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS TDM FEATURES SNOW.

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, currently covered in snow and ice; 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, currently very cold. 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. In the snow!

II. KIRKWALL: A quick row across the near-freezing harbor will take you to Kirkwall proper. The city is built into the cliffs, from exclusive and wealthy snow-dusted Hightown at the top to impoverished Darktown in the abandoned mining tunnels below, where discarded waste is presently frozen into slushy brown ice. In the middle is Lowtown, home to taverns, merchants, and plenty of trouble to keep anyone looking for it happy. And a lot of snow. You’re welcome to spend your free time and your money here—but try not to annoy the locals too much, please, in case the Inquisition's welcome runs out. It’d be a shame to have to pack up and leave in all this snow.

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 Denerim, in the snow, pouring demons into the snowy 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 snow-covered road, or to gather samples out of the snow and take notes on the rift’s location once its closed, or to speak to prominent locals (in the snow) 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. And snow.

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.

There is no snow on the crystal, unfortunately.

V. WILDCARD: The whole of Thedas is yours to explore, from coast to uncharted wilderness filled with bears, and did we mention that there is snow? Anyway: choose your own adventure!

Comments

Varric Tethras, Author, Rogue, and occasionally, Unwelcome Tag Along

[hugeinorlais]

I. Gallows

Varric was...happy was probably not a good word for it. Reluctant. That was the world. Reluctant and technically beholden--all he had to do was drop off this ridiculous report and then he could be on his way. Away from the Gallows.

He was a literal hop, skip, and jump away from finally being home and the only thing in his way was the Gallows. So, with a weirdly cheerful sort of reluctance, Varric started looking for the nearest big-fancy-desk to drop this small, boring non-fiction novella on so he could get out of this Maker-damned building and back to his comfy bed in his comfy mansion.

II. Kirkwall

"Home, sweet home," Varric proclaimed right before some random dwarf hauling a cart full of pottery all but plowed into him. Varric was shoved roughly aside and, as the other dwarf threw an obscene hand-gesture at him, Varric hoisted both his hands in the air and shouted: "I'm walking here!"

Naturally, he received no response and, after an appropriate length of outrage (about two seconds), Varric turned on his heel and started walking down the street. He'd planned on going home first but, for some reason, his feet had taken him straight to the Hanged Man. Varric, ever the enthusiast, shrugged off the strange change in plans and sidled into his favorite dive without any hesitation.

V. Wildcard

I

[untiltheyarent]

There are big fancy desks in a variety of rooms, of course, and this being around the time that most reasonable people eat dinner, many of the desks are vacant. But at least one room isn't, as Varric finds when he opens the door and nearly barrels into an armful of dusty seat cushions.
From behind them emerges a pointy-eared head with a look of surprised incredulity; whoever just crashed into her wasn't tall enough to see, but upon investigation, it seems it was in fact a person. "Pardon, messere," comes a thick Orlesian accent, accompanied by a hissing sigh as several of the pillows lose their balance and tumble to the ground.

Barnabas ‘Snake Oil’ Vilm - Dragon Age OC - Trader/Moneychanger

[fineriftercrafts]

II. KIRKWALL

Barnabas has a large storefront in the market district, where he buys and sells rifter artifacts. He also offers money changing, with a rate of "Whatever the market will bare." When you go into the shop, you'd notice an array of artifacts ranging from Slinkys to communicators, some firearms without bullets, spare bullets, flashlights, power cells, Space-farer shirts which are very comfortable but do tear easily.

All of the items have a price, and a huge sign over the counter says "We buy what you sell! All sales final, no refunds, Buyer Beware."

VI. SENDING CRYSTAL

"Attention all members of the Inquisition who tumbled through a rift! Are you without coin? Without comfortable clothes? Without gear? Come visit! We buy and sell rifter artifacts, and change money from anywhere in the multiverse! Come on down, and get your first days in Thedas started off right! All sales final, no returns or refunds."

II

[ragweed]

This is the weirdest collection of weird shit that Kit has ever witnessed in the same place at the same time.

He pauses outside Barnabas' market stall, cigarette tucked between his lips, and reaches out to pick up a flashlight. Ostensibly, he's never seen one before, and he twists and turns it around in his grip with arched eyebrows and an incredulous look on his face. "What's this even made of?" he asks Barnabas, shooting the other dwarf a curious look.

Jang "Jane" Zhensen - Deadlands universe OC - Rifter

[whiskeyandbrimstone]

I. THE GALLOWS:

Jang sits in the library, flipping through books. Someone who was curious would note that the books all seem to be under similar headings, mainly magic research and history of demons. Looking closer, you would note that she seems to be playing with a odd deck of cards, flipping it in her fingers, cutting, shuffling and then squaring the deck as she reads, taking notes with her other hand.


II. KIRKWALL:

Jang wanders the stalls and markets, looking for any crasftsmen, metalworking and any that make fireworks. She's keeping to herself, but seems ill-at-ease with the elves, dwarves and other races. Her clothing is unusual as well, simple cloth and a large leather duffel bag she has strapped to her back. There is also what looks to be a oddly carved wooden crossbow butt, with a strange metal tube attached to it, without any bowstrings to be seen.

II. QUESTING:

Jang has joined a group heading to Markham, wherever that is. Apparently one of the rifts she was pulled through has shown up there, and seems like a good as place as any to try and figure out what is going on. It's not every day that you get sucked through a rift in time and space, but by the look of this place, seems like if she was to just tell someone that she was from another dimension, the most they would respond would be "Another dimension? No credit then, pay first."


III. SENDING CRYSTAL:

"Anyone who's listening, is there anyone else from America? USA or CSA at this point, I'll take either. And anyone who'd familiar with Hoyle's book of games, the original edition, We need to talk."

I

[wheretheferngrows]

Visiting the library is still something that Fern does with doubt and trepidation, as though certain that this is not a place where she belongs, given her relative illiteracy and lack of education compared to the other mages here. Yet Simon had been right when he'd told her that she could get better at it, with time--and having a tutor certainly helped.

So it is with one of her books open in her hands that Fern drifts absently around the corner of one bookshelf, heading to her preferred table in the Gallows library, when she startles to find that someone else is already sitting there. She stops short, blinking, and considers the human woman with her books and... playing cards?

Curiosity gets the better of her. She takes a few short, deer-like steps closer, inquisitive. "What are you doing?" she asks--and seems to realize as soon as she's asked the question how impertinent it sounds. She pulls a quick, hopefully friendly smile into place.

Janzik Joltcable | Warcraft OC | Rifter

[lightninginabottle]

I. The Gallows

"--c'moooon, fuckin' piece of--there we go."

Had it proved possible, there would have been a small, chugging, diesel-powered mechanical device with a drill bit on the bottom boring its way through the stone floor of the courtyard. Mercifully, it hadn't worked, and the device is now making an ungodly engine-revving noise while drilling into the frozen ground just outside the door, instead.

But it's still serving its purpose, whatever that purpose might be, and the dwarf standing beside it looks pleased. The air around him smells strongly of gasoline and exhaust.

III. Questing

Nobody bats an eye at a dwarf carrying a mace and a shield, though the naked shard in his palm might merit a second glance, and the mace crackles periodically with electricity as if augmented with a rune.

The fact that he doesn't think to use the shield in any way as he braces himself against the oncoming despair demon might give an onlooker cause to write him off as not long for this world, until the thing wheels suddenly away again with a rending screech, licked with flames that can't have come from any weapon the dwarf has on him. Janzik raises a closed fist as if to send a swift, firm up your ass message, and the ground beneath the demon erupts with self-propelled magma, forming itself into curling ropes and lashing out to snare the creature in searing tendrils. The demon screeches, smokes, and falls silent.

"The hell was that thing? I almost had to chase it halfway back to the fuckin' city. You put a saddle on one of those and you've got yourself high-speed cross-country transportation. Where's your patent office? Nobody steal that idea."

I

[untiltheyarent]

Whatever that thing is, it smells hideous and sounds worse. An unassuming elf servant pauses in her work to stare, her lips pursed into a taut line as she glances between The Thing and The Guy and tries to make sense of it.
"What is that," she asks at last, in a thick Orlesian accent.

dorian pavus. the gallows.

[liberalum]

Dorian Pavus arrives in the Gallows, in the early morning, while snow shakes down from the clouds like icing sugar.

All three of these things are terrible.

Worst above all, of course, that his arrival is met without a single ounce of ceremony, likely on account of the fact no one had any idea he was coming. He stands in the courtyard, staff in hand and staked against stone and the layer of frost that covers it, dressed in furs and wools and sundry drapery. If he hadn't spent the better part of the last year in lonely study halls and demon hunting, he might be tempted to make a mad dash back for whether the boat has yet to pull out and make as though he'd never arrived.

Just passing through, you know. Don't mind him.

This, getting his bearings, loosening his hood and regretting the choices that led up to his being in fucking Kirkwall during the first act of winter, is but one scenario under which one may find him.

You may also find him in the library, either digging about in the current stock with an ever-critical eye and a certain lack of care for territory, or ferreting out his own more permanent research space, making shelf-room for his own collection of texts that make up the most of his luggage.

Or when a certain restlessness takes hold of him, and he can be found helping with reparations, hands lifted as he floats slabs of brick from one corner of the courtyard to the other.

Or sparring with ordinary wooden staves, the solid clack of weapons striking, boots scuffing on stone tile. He's warm enough, now, that he can strip down to his usual leathers, bare shoulder exposed to the frigid air, a curl of a satisfied smile beneath his mustache whether he bests his opponent or is met with someone of promising competition.

Or standing where there's a view, wine in hand, trying to ignore the smell of this urban shithole that no one else can detect through exposure, under ice.

[gatheringstorm]

"Dorian?!? Andraste's ass, it really is you!" Korrin's amazed voice carries as she strides over, her glare easing for the first time since the snow and chill have settled in. She grins and draws him in with one of those large, well-muscled arms. Was he a hugger? Oh well, it's happening now. Deal with it.

Samus Aran | Metroid | Rifter

[chozobloodrites]

I. (Skyhold library)

She was trying hard, really hard, but researching was truly a skill Samus couldn't get behind. Yet at the least she could figure out the simple facts:

So rule one, she existed as a solid form in this ... whatever

Rule two, others existed in this dimension. And thrived. Probably didn't know about alternative dimensions, so it may be best to approach them about other realities ... later? Samus had never been tactful. Whenever they wanted to know, she was game.

So here Samus was now, in the middle of this farmland of ... grass? Wheat maybe? ... Some sort of wheat by-product? The objective she had to remember was not being among others, but manifesting in a place to help. So who could she help?

Seriously, this primitive shelter only raised questions, no answers. Finally she raised her voice in a sort of hope.

" ... Hello?"

III. (Hinterlands? Sure)

Samus had never been patient for text and subtlety, but was always happy for true action. Every point in this new dimension had so far lead her beyond fighting, but now finally she could get back to her own basics.

Sure, she didn't have her power armor and arm canon, but her extensive training prepared her for circumstances beyond the easy and expected.

Two ... whatevers stood before her. People? Maybe? But the aura around them shifted red, reminding Samus of animals. Sure, they looked like people, but the enemies in front of her were nothing more than feral obstacles. And she could destroy them.

A broken arm, a neck under her foot, these menaces were nothing compared to her training. And they were cowed.

Ignis Scientia | Final Fantasy XV | Rifter (spoilers for FFXV but not Episode Ignis)

[extraverse]

I. THE GALLOWS

Growing used to new surroundings was complicated enough during the best of times, doing so without one's sight made it even more so. Ignis, though, seemed to be coping well. He needed a walking stick to help when he was outside of familiar settings, but it was rare that he complained. He had memorized the layout of his room, the main halls of the Gallows, the offices he frequented, but out in the Gallows courtyard and beyond there were gaps in his mental map of the area. His goal today was to use his limited collection of downtime to memorize the courtyard completely.

Not that he seemed to mind the idea too much. Leaving the main part of the Gallows fortress meant he could feel sunshine on his face and breathe in fresh air.

Both were things in short supply back home.

"Excuse me?" he asked the nearest person he could sense walking near him. He wasn't sure who they were just yet without them speaking - the only person whose footsteps he could recognize easily was Prompto - but the movement of someone near had caught his attention. "Do you mind if I bother you with some questions?"

II. KIRKWALL - THE HANGED MAN

Why was he here again?

The smell was a tad overwhelming. The desire to clean the table itched at his fingertips. There was a wall of almost oppressive noise around him. The ale was barely digestible.

Honestly, he should have felt miserable, or at least discomforted, but instead he found himself catching bits of merriment here and there and felt an odd sense of homesickness.

No, that wasn't it exactly. He felt sick for a home that no longer existed, for a time that had already passed.

It was that longing and bittersweet ache that kept him seated, though he seemed more reserved than most anyone else around him. He should at least try to be engaging, but for the moment he was at a loss of what to say.

And then someone, a barmaid he realized, bumped into him and spilled a bit of drink on him. She apologized right away, mortified even more as she realized he was blind.

"No trouble," he reassured her as he took out a cloth to clean off some of the alcohol that was now all over the arm of his shirt. "It's not the first time I've found myself in a sticky situation. Cleaning up is ale in a days work." His delivery had been solid, and it was rewarded with a gentle chuckle from her and a pat on his back.

"You let me know if you need anything," she promised, before leaving him back to his own devices.

At least Thedas still had puns.

II

[crowncitizen]

Despite Ignis having something spilled on him, Prompto couldn't help but snort at the puns. Ahhhh, nothing better than a double header. As the barmaid walked away, Prompto said, "You handled that with class, Iggy, bar none." Okay, that one's reaching a little bit, but he didn't have much time to come up with it.

"So, how you been settling in?" Prompto's been trying to help as much as he can, but he doesn't want to constantly hover, either.

Marisol Candelas Ximena Odalys Esmeralda Hierro Asturias de la Nieve Vivas; an Antivan nightare

[champions]

ooc — if you'd like to figure out past cr potentially then feel free to send me a pm!

DOCKS.
Marisol is sitting in the cold. At least the blizzards are done - they must be, or she could not be here, given that she landed by boat a few days past. At the present moment she's sitting on a large crate covered in a blanket, happily inhaling the sea air and watching the sailors work. Supervising, really, but her easy manner does not make that apparent. Next to her is a small basket of oranges, and she's peeling one slowly, seeming to make a project of trying to keep the peel in one long spiral.

Her hair, or what can be seen of it under the luxurious material of her hooded cloak, falls in dark waves, part of it pinned with with a jewelled clasp, and her dress is a rich green material. See seems oddly ornate for the noise and smell of the docks, and yet entirely in her own element. Next to her there is a staff, leaning against the crate.

"Would you like one?" She doesn't hold out the basket - she's still slowly working at the peel. "The very best of Antiva's winter produce, arrived just yesterday."


GALLOWS.
There is something of a flurry of activity unfolding in the Gallows, that seems to be moving largely around the direction of one woman.

"Take that to my room," she directs to a pair of young men, carrying what looks very much like a fainting couch, and another who is holding some sort of giant potted plant.

"Is it a shame the estate is not yet ready. This double handling is..." A wave of her hand, dissatisfied and empathetic at the same time. Too much, it seems to say.

Patiently, the man with the potted plant waits, and she smiles apologetically. "I think we should spar your back, Ernesto. The rest of the plants should go to the house. Even if it is not ready for a couple of months, we don't need all of them to go to my rooms here for so short a period, hm?" She smiles, conspiratorial, and the worker nods. "Thank you."

She turns, mouth open to speak, and she stops in surprise. "Ah. You aren't my flamingo wrangler." Her smile is bright and genuine, and slightly teasing.


MARKETS.
"Ah, ha. No."

Marisol is having some words with a merchant. "This price, for these boots? Is an insult. You are robbing people," she informs the merchant, as she turns the boots over. "And they are certainly not Antivan leather. No Antivan would commit their own name to something so poor as this, let alone let it be identified as the produce of our country."

She sets the boots down, her manner more baffled amusement than angry. "You will reimburse them, or I will inform the city guard that you are making fraudulent sales."

Are you a the merchant? Are you the customer she's helping? Are you just wondering why she's interfering? Hey hey.


THE WILDEST OF CARDS.

gallows!

[minrathousian]

"Ah. You aren't my flamingo wrangler."

A thin smile, and in a distinctly Tevene accent, "No, indeed." Standing nearby with an open book balanced in one hand, Atticus carefully steps out of the way of the man who escorts Marisol's plants out of the Gallows and towards the house. Wherever that is. Hightown, he surmises at a glance; she doesn't look like a lady who would fare well anywhere else in Kirkwall.

He considers her carefully beyond the rims of his spectacles. "I don't presume that I've met all of the Inquisition's personnel during my time here," he begins--his 'time' here, as though he were merely a guest and not a resource--"but I hope you forgive me for saying that I don't recognize you." He closes the book and folds his hands across it.

Aveline Vallen: Guard Captain just trying to keep this shit hole together...again

[didifuckingstutter]

II-Kirkwall

Eveline walked the streets of Lowtown with the same confident stride she always had. The Inquisition's presence in the city had made the city ripe with commotion, and she had extra patrols roaming the streets just to be sure any roughhousing could be dealt with quickly. She had clawed tooth and nail to get this city functioning again, and she wasn't about to see it fall apart now. She clenched her jaw, and then rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, scanning the area.

She wasn't exceedingly fond of the snow or cold, but she would never ask the men and women under her command to endure anything she would not ask of herself. So, here she was, out in the sodding cold. She could see her breath, and heard the crunch of snow beneath her boots as she walked. It had started to snow lightly. Big puffy flakes that flittered down from the sky rather than fell. It was rather beautiful, she had to admit. The stars poked through the clouds, and there was a stillness in the air that never really happened in Kirkwall. So far it seemed quiet, but the night was still young, and trouble usually ebbed out of the city walls around this time.

V-Wildcard

[hwaaaitsme]

"You!" Loki called to the redhead in the armor. There were precious few people in this market--oh certainly, it was packed to the gills, elves and dwarves meandering to and fro, clogging the street, getting in his way, not respecting his clear position as their better. It was all very frustrating--and she was the first person of authority he'd spied. He waded up to her, through the sea of miscreants, and extended a hand to bar her path.

He was dressed well but not in a fashion he thought was overtly ostentatious (it was). His dark hair was askew, slightly, but not terribly ruffled by forging his path through the rabble. All in all, he looked rather like a put upon business-man which, on all accounts, was not a terrible assessment of him.

"Thank gods," he uttered and tugged his robe to straighten out the lines of the front of it. "I cannot seem to find anyone of any competence in this place. Tell me, which way to the livery, I must requisition a palaquin and slaves--ah, correction, servants to tow it. I cannot continue wandering these paths by foot."

katja | native oc.

[erlosung]

( ooc — spirit healer, rebel and ander nobelwoman who has spent time since the circles fell hiding out in the woods and healing folk so they can keep beating up templars. she is bringing a lot of pointy stabby things to the inquisition with her. hit me up through a pm or on plurk at kaldwin if you're interested in some past cr. )

— docks.

Arriving with Vivas' gifted fleet to the Inquisition is another group led by a small woman carrying a bladed staff in hand. From the ships they remove large crates and bundles marked for the Inquisition. Not unlike her friend, Katja stands out among the hustle of dock workers around her from her intricately braided and the rich blue-gold material that had made her dress. Yet it is perhaps her dour expression that stands out the most as she watches her workers continue to remove marked crates from one of the ornate ships. Every so often, she stops one with a wave of her hand and inspects the contents of the crate with careful eyes.

Perhaps you are Inquisition workers here to welcome the newest arrivals or help in their work. Either way it is clear should you linger that this noblewoman is not carrying jewels and dresses but weaponry. Swords, staves, war hammers, bows and arrows. Perhaps more but anyone unfamiliar that gets close will instead be greeted with a soft, yet stern, accented voice:

"If you are looking for work then I might suggest you seek out the mistress of this fleet; Fräulein Vivas instead. I am but a guest here, in thanks to her favor, myself."

— gallows.

"They are personal gifts from the Sommerfeld libraries to the Inquisition."

Despite lingering indoors since her arrival, Katja is still very much dressed for the winter weather outdoors, clearly not adjusting after a lifetime spent in the arid desert landscape of the Anderfels. She sniffles, adjusting her muffle so the one of the Inquisition agents working in the library might hear her clearly despite how much she wishes to curl up near her fireplace once again. Yet... she knew it was important to pass on the second most important items she brought with her to Kirkwall along with the weaponary. It is why she is here now, speaking to the agent as her workers worked on finding space for the crates of books (which clearly seemed to focus on Chantry lore, magic, Anderfels history, darkspawn and the Grey Wardens) in the library.

"As it turns out," she begins almost sadly. "They will be much safer here at the heart of the Inquisition then back home in the Anderfels."

— wildcard.

For anything not mentioned above! Feel free to hit me up if you'd like me to set something up specific.

docks

[champions]

Marisol hums, thoughtfully. "Do you think this hammer would suit me?"

She gestures to something that verges on absurdly giant, so far as size goes, but is careful not to actually interfere with the merchandise - for all that she leans idly against the railing, seems to move with equal parts grace and lack of concern.

"I feel like my staff is becoming, hmm. Behind the time? And versatility is so important."

Scholar Ling | Jade Empire (Rifter)

[lowpathscholar]

i. Gallows Library
"Hm," Ling is paging through each book with intense care. She doesn't seem to be reading them, no, rather she is examining the type with great scrutiny, as if the lettering were some puzzle she could conquer merely by staring at it hard enough, "Hm! Ridiculous."

And then she moves on to the next, casually reshelving each volume in a randomly chosen, and undoubtedly incorrect, place. And then selecting another. Pity the one who has to keep these books organized; they'll have work to do after this!


ii. Kirkwall
The introduction of Kirkwall to its first visitor from the Jade Empire had, of course, come in the form of a pickpocket. Necessarily, the Empire's introduction to Kirkwall had therefore come in the form of a broken wrist and a widening circle of open space around the rapidly developing Scene. The boy, for it would be too generous to call someone so foolish a man, was sitting on the ground, cradling a limp and soft-angled wrist. He was whimpering, but then, was that not an ordinary reaction to the sight of a bared sword? Even in Lowtown, the answer was yes.

"You have given an insult that cannot be ignored. Offer me a suitable apology, and perhaps you will keep your life."

And it had been going so well.


iv. Sending Crystal
This... is a most ingenious device.

[She seems almost begrudging, as if the wonder is not that the sending crystal is ingenious, but that the Inquisition has them to begin with.]

I am willing to concede that I have not seen sorcery of this kind before-- unless, of course, there was a Spirit to contend with. How was it discovered?


v. Wildcard
Anywhere, anyhow: hit me up with an idea of your own!

ii. Kirkwall

[castintoflames]

"Peace, lady." the deep voice of Maedhros Fëanorian intruded on the scene, potentially calling attention away from the pickpocket, "Many here only seek to live. He is a thief out of desperation; not greed."

The tall Elf with flaming copper hair approached the boy and he leaned down, lifting the lad back onto his feet.

"Shall we see that belly filled?" his voice softened for the child, "Return what you took from the lady and I will see it is so."

Thor Odinson, Native AU, Tevinter Mage

[thorndergod]

II. Kirkwall

Thor walks onto the docks from his ship, looking around with a wide smile. Once this city had belonged to his people. One day it will again. But today is a day for working together and cooperation and so he's definitely not assessing defenses. Instead he's grinning at anyone around. And also towering over a lot of them in deep red sleeveless robes that show off his biceps.

"I bid you hello!" His voice is on the booming side, Tevinter accent unmistakable. "I am looking for the Inquisition! Will you help me?" Not can. Surely anyone here is capable of it.

I. Gallows

Having been directed or lead here, Thor is taking his time looking at the foreboding fortress as he enters it. His smile has slipped a little. As much as he's enjoying exploring southern lands this place has its reputation. After a moment he takes a breath and regathers his good mood - he's here with purpose. Dwelling is for the old.

"I wish to join the Inquisition," he announces to all around. "Who can help me?"

IV. Crystal

Say that I am new to these lands.

[The voice is deep, with a clear Tevinter accent.]

How would you recommend someone best get acquainted with this city? I seek entertainment.

V. Wildcard!

[ooc: Hit me up with whatever! I'm voicetesting, not 100% sure on him just yet, but hopeful.]

II - Kirkwall. :D

[hwaaaitsme]

"How you have managed to survive to adulthood, I shall never know," Loki says drolly as he steps off the boat and onto the docks. His own outfit is much more understated than Thor's red and golden, revealing ensemble. True, Loki's is far more expensive and decorous, but that is hardly the point. It didn't do to wander out onto foreign docks and just start bellowing at people, it was uncooth and, generally speaking, tended to result in muggings.

He made it a point not to stand too closely to his brother, just in case of the latter.

"You," Loki says and picks a random dockworker from among the rabble. The man glowers at him, gives him an assessing look, and decides he looks like he has money. Money, after all, is the great equalizer and Loki carries it in abundance. "Tell my brother where the Inquisition keeps its council; he will need explicit directions, I fear."

Before he can scoff or tell them to piss off, Loki flips the man a pair of gold coins. The currency is Tevene, but the color is far more important in the long run.

Shota Aizawa | My Hero Academia | native AU

[eyezawa]

1: gallows
It's only rational that Aizawa join up with the Inquisition. They were the ones who had the best chance at fixing the hole in the sky and getting things back to what passed for normal. A templar's job was to protect people, the Inquisition looked like it could protect people the easiest, ergo he should join up with the Inquisition.

The fact that other people took issue with his approach wasn't a problem of his. Or, at least, that's what he keeps telling himself.

Aizawa's skills do lie in hitting things, so he's outside in the courtyard, running himself through some training drills with his sword. Anybody medical is probably going to fuss at him about this. After all, he isn't entirely healed from his fight a few months back, the one which left him tortured and almost killed him and he's still a big cagey about with regards to details. But Aizawa thinks he's well enough to drill, so he's going to practice anyway.

Anybody who approaches gets a nod of his head before Aizawa asks, in a tired voice, "Any good with a sword?"

2: also the gallows
Aizawa's skills also include naps. How a man can nap in full armor is beyond anybody, but here he is, napping in a chair in someone's office. Who's office, Aizawa has no idea, but it's here and there's a nice chair and he wants to take a nap, so he shall do so.

Of course, a whole bunch of factors might come into play to keep him from his nap. Perhaps he's napping in your office. Perhaps someone's looking for him because a templar is needed. Perhaps someone's looking for him in general: Aizawa tries to fade in the background and keep to himself as much as possible, but that doesn't change the fact that being a continuously sleepy templar attracts a little bit of attention by default. Needless to say, someone's entered the room and is about to bother him right as he's getting cozy.

"What?" he grumbles, opening one bloodshot eye to look at whoever just entered.

( ooc: cliff notes! Templar with a talent at dispelling magic, amazingly ambivalent about most things including the whole mage/templar conflict, big fan of naps, a scruffy hobo in decent armor, spent the past few months recuperating from some REALLY nasty injuries aka a Dragon Age version of the USJ fight for those canon familiar )

Courtyard

[laurenande]

"I am passable," Galadriel informs him.

She had stopped en route for two reasons. The first was that it was a rare thing, injured men practicing vigorously in the courtyard but, even rarer, was the fact that he was not shifty and terrified nor overextended in an effort to forget. He was simply practicing and the sight of that sort of detached determination reminds her of home. The second reason she stopped was that he was directly between her and the place she was heading and, thus, had to wait to move by him.

The first is, by far, more compelling to act upon, so when he asks her a question she answers. Then, as she steps forward, she asks her own.

"Do you require a partner?"

Julian Vincenzo Avonal De Abbrixio | Native OC

[insatiably]

{ the gallows }

"Well, this is a challenge," says an Antivan accented voice as a man stands outside the training area with his sword and shield. The whole area is covered in snow and ice, and certainly makes for something he's not participated in before. With a chuckle, he enters the area, testing how slippery the flagstones are.

"Of course, that's what makes it fun," he adds, throwing the nearest person a wink. "Shall we spar? If you fear injury, I'm sure a healer is only a crystal message away."

{ kirkwall }

Julian's been to Kirkwall before, but he's never really seen it properly. The life of an heir apparent with time on his hands means he's traveled a bit for both business and pleasure, and Kirkwall's location has made it vital to the family business of fine Antivan leather goods. This time, however, he's more looking into the pleasure aspect. A good drink, the company of fine people, and perhaps a game of cards?

Hopefully he ends the evening still wearing his pants. Or at least knowing where his pants are, if he's in a situation in which wearing them would ruin all the fun.

First stop is The Hanged Man, and he enters with all the confidence a young man in the prime of his life can.

"Does anyone by chance possess a deck of cards for Wicked Grace? I'll buy you a round if I can join your game."

{ questing: guard against bandits }

While he's not used to this weather, Julian is making the best of it. Telling jokes, stories, even singing songs in order to lift the spirits and ignore the cold. By the time he's told he's being annoying, he's expecting it, honestly. But he just laughs it off.

"Of course, of course! I'll move to the back of the party so I can continue on without bothering you." It's a compromise, because Julian doesn't go through life intentional annoying others (except for his dear sisters). So he heads back to the rear and besides a couple of new people.

"Now! What do you say to trading stories, hm? Do you have any you'd like to tell?"



[ ooc: if you'd like to handwave previous cr, work out a new prompt, or have questions, hit me up via private plurk to megoom, on discord: megoom#2520, or via PM to this account. ]

Gallows

[unshadowing]

Carver had barely paid the man any mind when he first entered the area, focusing more on his own movements and practicing his form. It's only when he's directly addressed that he actually looks at him. Accent's... Antivan. Oh boy. And a confident - or cocky - one at that. Well then.

"Don't think one will be necessary." Sparring's not meant to go that overboard. A serious injury requiring a healer usually comes about when someone's shit at what they're doing, and that, Carver is not. "Real weapons, or do you want to stick to practice ones?"

Annunziata Villanova | Native OC

[strandsofanna]

I. Gallows Courtyard

While some are bravely sparring on the cold stone that has already been cleared, some are bravely trying to make a go at clearing more room for training. One of them is a slight girl with long unbound dark hair that ripples in the cold breeze and a very serious expression on her face, gripping a shovel in both hands and valiantly struggling to move it through the snow. She is absolutely working harder, not smarter, but continues with her largely ineffectual attempts accompanied only by a deepening furrow in her brow.


II. Kirkwall

Perched on a small stack of crates and munching on some bread and cheese, Anna is watching the rollicking marketplace crowd with a concentrated interest. Her head is tilted as if listening carefully to someone, although no-one seems to be talking to her. Her dark wide-eyed gaze is easily followed to a small scene at one of the stalls where a woman is exclaiming over the price of a basket of figs and colorfully impugning the honor of the merchant selling them. The merchant is arguing right back, with a similar color palette.

"They like each other very much," Anna says quietly, "I think this is the only way either of them know how to pay attention to someone."

gallows!

[eyezawa]

She...honestly could be doing that a lot better. Aizawa had been watching for a moment or so as Anna struggled with the shovel. Still, he knows that outright saying 'you could be doing a lot better' might spur an argument or worse. Time to think of a different way to do this then.

So, Aizawa walks over to Anna. He's wearing Templar armor, but compared to others who Anna might have met, the man seems hilariously laid back. His eyes are a bit bloodshot as he looks down at the shovel, then back up at Anna, taking everything in.

"It's only going to snow more later. Why not wait and shovel after that?"

Kylo Ren | Star Wars Universe | Rifter

[letoldthingsdie]

I. Gallows

The first thing he registered upon waking in an unfamiliar place. How had he arrived? He wasn't so sure. Everything felt a bit confusing and muddled. He was careful to stay to the side, out of the way. Staying in conspicuous might be another matter. Wearing a hood over his head, hiding his face from anyone who might not readily approach, was all he could do to avoid interacting with anyone. He watched as others practiced with their metal blades and he thought of how his own lightsaber might very well rip their practice dummies to shreds. He wasn't in the mood to try it and draw attention to himself. Instead, he stops to look around, picking up one of the discarded weapons and turning it over in his hand. Casually, he removes the hood at last to get it out of his way while he gets a better look at the craftsmanship. Not caring at who might spot him, he releases the item, leaving it to seemingly float above his palm for a moment - long enough for anyone watching him to take a double take - before letting it drop into his hand again once he's had a good look of it as it turned over beneath his gaze.

II. Kirkwall

Town was vastly different than the fortress he had left behind. It was filled with merchants and taverns and bustling city life. It reminded him of one of the places his father had taken him to as a child. Not all of it was meant for children, but the vibrant excitement of it all had his childlike mind enraptured. Everything about this place was more gray and dulled, but still teeming with life.

After stopping to look around at various wares, he finds a crate to sit on, a purchased piece of fruit in his hand ready to be eaten. He watched as others passed by, carefully scanning the crowds for any familiar faces. This place felt so primitive to him and yet he didn't want to let his guard down. Be they an unknown pickpocket or - by the Force forbid - a Resistance soldier, Kylo Ren would not be unaware of their presence. It wasn't as if he was inconspicuous himself, wearing a long cloak, dark clothing, and chewing on an apple while his eyes scanned over people without hesitation.

V. Wildcard

ii, gonna just go ahead and assume canon update for her so POTENTIAL TLJ SPOILERS HERE

[provenforce]

Rey moves through Kirkwall like she belongs there. In a way, she really does. It is a city of people from different walks of life, not always good ones, and she blends in well, when she covers the shard glowing from her left hand. She's shadowed by her large white mabari as always, a little extra insurance in case someone tries to give her a hard time. Even in Kirkwall, mabari are well-known to be dogs you shouldn't mess with idly.

She hadn't expected to feel a familiar presence in the ocean of different emotions and feelings, but when she does it stops her cold. Without trying to seem too concerned she starts to follow that subtle pull, guiding her through the people until her eyes land on Kylo Ren, sticking out like a sore thumb. Granted maybe that's just her perception of it. Padawan at her side senses Rey's demeanor change and lets out a low growl, her eyes locked on the figure sitting and eating like that was the most normal thing in the world for him to do.

Rey doesn't speak, just stares. Honestly she doesn't even know what to say to him.

HELENA | ORPHAN BLACK

[strangel]

Opt-out/warnings over here.

Tavern.
They are not in Kirkwall. It is not that Helena has anything against Kirkwall, but she has always done better outside and away from people. She has found a tavern away from the city, and has drinks lined up on the bar. A shot, a shot, something in a tankard, a bottle. Different drinks of different types laid out before her, so she can check their taste.

She's wearing furs, roughly put together by herself, and she sits hunched over at the bar, shoulders curled over to make her seem part gargoyle, part cat.

Two shots down, and she peers into the bottle. "This smells like rotten eggs." And, looking along the bar, she nudges it in someone else's direction. "You can have this one."


Bandits - CW: violence, death.
A winding road at dusk, leaning into night. Two bandits. It was three, but one is lying on the ground with blood bubbling out of a gash in his throat. The remaining two are having some trouble, it seems. One of them is trying to control a woman (small, wriggly) in his arms, but her legs are hooked around his friend's neck and suffocating him, and she just thrashed hard enough to break his nose with the back of her head and make him drop her.

The moment she's loose, the man she was suffocating collapses to the ground, and she knocks the final bandit standing in the head with a rock. He's groaning, still alive, as she stands over him and spits.


Wildcard.

Tavern - lmk if any of this needs tweaking!

[youwonscience]

It takes a while for Cosima to hear that one of her sisters has arrived. In fact, that's not what she hears first at all; she hears that she herself has been possessed, which led to some digging...

...which has led her here, to a tavern she's not visited before. She'd thought of asking Herian to come, but the truth is, she wants to do this on her own. From the description, she's almost positive it's no one she's met. (Sarah can be obnoxious, but not people think she's possessed obnoxious. Probably.) And until she knows who she's dealing with, she wants to keep it in the family, so to speak.

(That said, she's wearing her small dagger. Just in case.)

The mound of furs at the bar doesn't immediately register, so Cosima's approaching the bartender to ask if her face looks familiar when Helena turns to try to pawn the shot off on the person next to her. She looks startled -- not to see her own face, that's getting less weird (though it's been a while), but at this particular iteration. "...hey," she says, cautiously, because it's almost certain she's been seen as well.

hanzo shimada | overwatch

[eruit]

I. THE GALLOWS

[ Hanzo, for the most part, just seems lost. He is clearly out of his depth, despite the presence he has as he stands, the illusion of confidence that shows his pride rather than anything else. It's a bit of a mask, at heart, but there's no need for anyone else to know nor recognise that, not when he is in the midst of a place that is so unlike his own world that it actually makes him question his own sanity. The memories of green and pain and monsters burns behind his eyes, which he's still struggling with, and the tension in his jaw is probably evidence enough of just how well that is going.

He's uncomfortable, and that's obvious, but he also doesn't seem to have any idea of what he ought to be doing with himself. For the most part he's been exploring, making his way around, learning what little he can here and there before he has to bow out and back away to the quiet room he had stolen for himself - but he is trying to make his way around. He's trying to memorise as much as he can as best he can and it's not as successful as he would like, considering the myriad of people that are around. They're strange and different and his clothing and his tattoos are getting him enough looks that he's a little frustrated.

That's enough, he tells himself. Slowly, he turns himself around and starts to make his way back out and away. ]

II. KIRKWALL

[ At night, the hours dwindling away into the budding dawn, Hanzo spends his time scouting along the rooves of Kirkwall to try and learn more about it. He's silent, stalking along whatever walls and tiles he can manage to get a grip on to make his way across the city. For the most part, he doesn't duck down into the streets or around where people might be able to interact with him; he's trying to plot out escape routes, trying to make sure he knows where he is and what he's doing, making sure he knows the lay of the land.

Sometimes, there is no grip nor a wall for him to clamber up and that's when he drops down to street level, the armour on his legs making his fall silent as he slips through the darkness, ribbon moving behind him. He does his best to keep to the shadows, but anyone with a keen eye would probably be able to pick him out, especially in the brighter, more populated areas of the towns. He makes his way through Hightown and down to Lowtown - and that's where he has to duck into streets and off the rooves a little more, not enough room or grip for him to stay aloft as he'd prefer.

If cornered, he's quick to draw his bow, eyes narrowed as he gazes at whoever has stumbled upon him, straight and stiff. ]

III. SENDING CRYSTAL

[ The voice is short, clipped and curt - sort and to the point. ]

The dragons here. Tell me of them.

IV. WILDCARD

[ Hit me up with anything else you can think of or throw me a line at aziraphale! ]

I

[strandsofanna]

"Oh!"

The startled noise comes as Hanzo turns around. A young wide-eyed girl has somehow managed to bump into him as he stops to turn, and has half lost her grip on the basket of oysters she'd been carrying, sending no few of them clattering into the streets.

"I'm sorry!"

Adrian "Alucard" Ţepeş | Castlevania | Rifter

[reposing]

❧ i. gallows

It's been much to adjust to, and he suspects he will continue even after many months of reading texts to try to comprehend a completely different world with different rules, even if ultimately a mob of mortals function much the same as anywhere. While the cultures of Thedas are fascinating, he finds himself exasperated at much of the history he's been researching.

Alucard lingers by the library, undeterred by the weather. In the dead of night is easiest for him, but during the day, he remains in the shadows, frowning deeply as he flips a page in the historical records he's looking into.

Should he see you, Alucard will glance up with a scowl, then shut his book. "Excuse me," he says, politely but cold. "If you've a moment, I should like to ask you a few questions."


❧ ii. kirkwall

Unfortunately, many things must be done during the day. This, Alucard knows; few people are creatures of the night, and although he can endure for a period of time, it does become a bit troublesome as time goes. He sighs, rubbing his temple as a headache starts to set in.

He stands before one of the shops in Hightown; he doesn't look to be much out of place, his bearing regal and his clothing looking to be of nobility. Most natives would perhaps be none the wiser in regard to him.

The shopkeeper eventually holds out a parasol to Alucard. "Not a lot of people askin' for something like this right now," the shopkeep remarks.

"Mm." Alucard unfolds it, settling it over it shoulder. "I think that it will do."



❧ iv. sending crystal

If I may, I've a question regarding those of us who have come through one of the rifts spread in Thedas. I would welcome an opinion from any, whether native or one who has also emerged from a rift.

Is there a method to return to whence we came? Has there been evidence of those who have returned?

What speculation have you on any of this?


❧ v. wildcard

[Consider this an invitation for a wildcard tag! Please let me know if you'd like me to produce a specific starter as well.]

the library.

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle pauses with eyebrows raised—

“Intelligent questions, I can only hope.”

It isn't hostile, as a response, but certainly it could have been a bit more welcoming. Or couldn't have, given the source, who is known for a lot of things but 'being particularly patient with the early teething problems of new rifters' has not, historically, been one of them. They're as valuable to the Inquisition as they are useful, and if they aren't useful and don't set about being so of a quickness, well.

(Galadriel is a special case. Exceptions are made, for family.)

She sets aside the book she was somewhat half-heartedly using to cross-reference; his being more diverting than it was is a low enough bar to set.

six | d&d oc | rifter

[oathskeep]

GALLOWS

[ None of this has been particularly easy to adjust to, not that she has ever been particularly good at world-rending adjustments. She feels unaligned, more than just her oath-given gifts taken from her, and there's a sense of urgency about her as she moves through the Gallows. The only thing that's grounding her is the large sword that rests across her shoulders, and the slight pull she feels on her muscles as she moves to touch it; familiar, weighted, the last tie she has to a world where she felt as though she was doing something.

There are memories that play on her mind, even now, and it feels as though she's been transported years into the past. She doesn't feel like an adult, doesn't feel as though she has any right to claim it, but she's been alone long enough that she hasn't really got any other option than to adapt. It's what brings her here, she supposes, drawing her sword off her shoulders and turning to look at the training dummies. Most of the people here are foreign and unrecognisable to her, but she isn't going to let strangers stop her from getting her work done. She can't spend more than a few days with her sword to one side; she can't risk the chance that she will get out of shape, that she'll lose something, somehow, so she pushes herself.

Anyone who comes up to watch will mostly be ignored, but if anyone wants to offer to spar with her... She won't turn down the chance. ]

QUESTING

[ There's no part of her that particularly wants to be on the mission because of the mark in her hand - she would much rather be there on her own merit over coincidence - but she's there all the same, some armour scrounged up to slap on her body and her hair tied up in a messy bun behind her head. When there's a fight, she's dangerous, clearly well trained and capable, even if sometimes she falters - where she might once have had a skill that was now lost to her. Either way, she picks up her sword and seems on the edge of terrifying, even when the battle is over and her sword is away.

During the evenings, she spends time taking care of the horses - sometimes even those that aren't her own - before she sits to clean and tend to her blade. It's rare that she engages in conversation but, when she does, she's not tense and stern; she's quiet, and chooses her words carefully, and doesn't give away too much. ]

WILDCARD

[ Feel free to find her in an inn, in her room or haunting the library! Feel free to ping me at aziraphale if you want something specific! ]

gallows | hi sis i mean six

[thunderproof]

❰ adalia isn't really the best at this melee combat business. she does what she can, of course, but magic comes naturally to her in a way wielding a blade never has. still, she wants to learn more than what she knows now, and keeping up the skills she does have may mean the difference between being dead at a templar's feet and surprising it long enough to run away. thus, she's in the training grounds, sword and shield in hand, hacking dutifully away at a training dummy.

when a woman with a greatsword enters the grounds, adalia doesn't spare her too much attention, focused as she is on her own drills, but once those finish she turns to watch her. she clearly knows what she's doing — she might be a good opponent. ❱

Hello goodlady, ❰ she calls across the grounds, voice bright as she walks closer. ❱ Would you be willing to spar a bit? I've never fought someone with a greatsword before, I could use the practice.

Ikora Rey | Destiny/Destiny 2 | Rifter

[morethanmylight]

[THE GALLOWS]

[Learning all over again to use her powers, after centuries of life and death and life again, is tedious and wears at her nerves. It's all there though, at the back of her mind and the tips of her fingers. She can almost taste the Light again, almost hear her Ghost- and oh, her heart aches for his company again- encouraging her.

She doesn't give up, she won't. Even as her muscles ache and sweat drips down her brow, Ikora works up the energy again, eyeing the dummies across from her and she sees Ghaul. She see's Ghaul and the broken body of the Speaker after they'd regained their Light. And it comes to her, almost too easily. Frighteningly so but the reminder of what had been stolen once, the loss they had all suffered, it brings a Nova Bomb to her hand and she launches it at the dummy.

And watches as it's vaporized.

Voidwalker, at least, she can start with. The rest will come. Centuries of life and battle are not so easily lost.]

[SENDING CRYSTAL]

My name is Ikora Rey. [She starts simply, spine straight and a no-nonsense expression. This is the Warlock Vanguard, not just a Warlock.]

I'm looking for any Guardians who might be present. Or anyone familiar with the Traveler or the Last City. I'd like to keep a record of those here.

I realize that many of you will not know what I'm talking about, I'll answer any questions you have. In return, I would appreciate the sharing of knowledge regarding a path home. Traveler knows that Cayde has probably blown up half of the new Tower with just Zavala there to keep him in line.

[WILDCARD]

[Anything goes, honestly. Ikora is pretty no-nonsense all the time though.]

Crystal

[utulien_aure]

If there is a way home, I've not yet heard of it. We Rifters appear suddenly, and if the Natives are to be believed simply disappear one day. There may be a way to control the phenomenon, but no one yet has discovered it.

larkspur plagueheart | warcraft oc | rifter

[deathschampion]

[ questing ]
Someone lost a dracolisk during the battle.

A demon's claw took the lanky creature through the throat, half-severing its long neck. Death was quick, mercifully; it was unconscious when it hit the ground and bled out painlessly in the snow. Somehow it avoided being torn apart or trodden into the slushy frozen mud of the battlefield in all the chaos, leaving the corpse largely intact among the rest of the charnel leavings. A perfect find for an inveterate scavenger--though the circling ravens hadn't time to descend before Lark stumbled across it.

This might be useful, the death knight thought; the living beasts they brought with them wouldn't have any truck with him--living beasts rarely did--and while it wasn't difficult to keep up with the Inquisition party on foot, a mount afforded certain advantages. (Like saving wear and tear on boots.) No telling that he'd be able to raise it and bind it into service--simple ghouls were still nearly impossible, let alone something larger--but the more he pushed against Thedas' obdurate Veil, the further it yielded. Someday, he knew with death's iron certainty, he'd be capable again of calling the dead back into the living world; and why not make that day today?

And if he couldn't raise the dracolisk, at least he could eat it. It's a lot of meat to simply let it go to waste.

So as twilight descended and the rest of the Inquisition made camp, Lark dragged his find into a nearby stand of brush, casual as you please about sliding a half-ton animal across frozen ground and hardly bothering to be stealthy about what he's doing. He's been over there sitting on his heels since, staring at the dead beast through slitted lichfire eyes as he considers how he'll reanimate it.

Maybe he got permission from its former owner. Maybe he didn't. Maybe that's your dracolisk he's planning to raise into undeath.

Maybe someone should stop him.

[ sending crystal ]

So I am told you are burning your dead, here. Your Chantry says this is the proper treatment for corpses. [There's something off about the new voice over the crystals; it echoes like the speaker's at the bottom of a well. Or a grave.] Why is this? What do your dead think of it?

Mind, I don't think this so bad a thing. My people send our own back to the Sun and the Fire when they have died, as is right. But I'm wondering--is this the same for you?

[ wildcard! ]

(interested in other misadventures with walking corpses? hit me up here or at plagueheart.)

crystal

[oathskeep]

How do you send them to the Sun and Fire?

bie | native oc

[swaging]

i. the Gallows.

On any given day, people come in and out of the Gallows. All manner of people, too--dwarves, humans, elves, Qunari--Rifters, nobles, poor folk--mages, Templars--and everything in between. So what's one more dwarf girl in a rough-woven mud-spattered travel cloak, with the hood drawn to keep the snow out of her hair.

She walks with purpose, like she knows exactly where she's going--but occasionally, some fantastic sight catches her eye as she crosses beneath gates and passes through courtyards. Qunari get a stare from her. Templars, so long as they're wearing plate armor that would befit a Templar in some story-book illustration. Wardens, if they're wearing colors or crests bold enough to mark them out. Her stare is narrow--curious, but calculating, too, as if she's trying to find something or work something out.

Her stance is bent-backed, bowed beneath the weight of the great bundle she's carrying on her back. It isn't a pack, just canvas, wrapped in rope and clumsily knotted to keep it in place--nearly three times as wide as she is, and clanking faintly when she steps too heavily.

At one point, her curiosity gets the better of her. Too busy staring at a man whose only crime appears to be how tall he is--and he is tall, to a dwarf especially--she walks right into an open gate. The force is enough to knock her off her feet, put her sprawled right on her back. The awkward shape and weight of her pack makes it difficult for her to get to her feet on her own and--

"Piss! Shit! Bugger this shitting--"

And, cursing, scrambling, she is, momentarily, helpless. And unhappy about it.

ii. Kirkwall.

Kirkwall is easier to navigate now that Bie has shed her belongings. Dressed in her warmest things, she moves through the city with as much assurance as she can.

It isn't easy. Everything here is big, and that's not meant as a short joke. But it is big, long streets that meander like a cow's aimless path through a field, buildings all crowded together for warmth or else for support, because they all look worn and crummy and in need of repair.

Thinking critically helps Bie to pretend that she's at all in control here, puts an extra assurance in her step. By the time she gets to the main marketplace, she's walking as if she's been walking the cobblestones of Kirkwall all her life. The wares on display take some of the wind from her sails. It is more than she has ever seen in her life. Stall after stall, some of them offering the same thing--cloaks, and then cloaks again, and then more different cloaks. Boots, and taller boots, and shorter boots.

She spends most of her time ogling wares at any stall selling armor or weaponry, saying little but admiring with round eyes--until she sees a man holding up a brigantine, examining it while the shopkeep looks hawkishly on. Bie starts watching hawkishly, too, and when the shopkeep's attention is pulled briefly away, she sidles over to the prospective customer to ruin the sale.

"You don't want one with small plate. Anyone worth your business'll tell you that. He's got to be selling second-hand, 'cause no one worth their hammer would do that style anymore. Big plate takes the blow better, doesn't get all whacked out of joint when you're hit in the chest with a giant maul or something. You want something big then."

The shopkeep, business concluded, now turns to glare at Bie. She puts her chin up, putting on a stubborn look.

"It's true."

Later, at a food stall, Bie hands over two coins and takes two apples. A canny watcher will spot her taking a third, tucked up the wide sleeve of her cloak. The stallkeep doesn't notice, and Bie turns swiftly away before the woman counts her apples or gets a tip from some tale-teller. She ducks between the crowds, determined to lose herself, and deliver her precious cargo.

iii - closed to Wyn.

"Here."

Bie chucks the apple at Wyn, confident that he'll catch it or, if he drops it, polish it on his cloak and eat it anyways. She certainly would. Bie puts her back against the alley wall and slides down until she's crouched beside him, heedless of the hem of her cloak dragging in the mud.

"I had a bit of luck, even if you didn't. Want to know what kind?"

Wyn will want to know what kind of luck. As she waits for the inevitable prompt, Bie bites into her apple. The crisp sound is loud in the quiet of the alley they've tucked themselves. She chews loudly, too. Win won't mind.

I.

[strangel]

Helena, being a considerate person who empathises with the plight of others, laughs. It kind of a snort-laugh, open mouthed and lacking the tact to be quiet, as she tears into a hunk of bread with her teeth.

She makes no move to help.

"Maybe you should be spending less times watching other people and more on your feet," she remarks, helpfully performing a couple of dramatised steps for effect - sound effect, if nothing else.

Moira O'Deorain | Overwatch | Rifter

[rewritelife]

1.) Questing: Experimenting

Moira had in previous times used the term 'medieval' as a disparaging description. Of course, it had been an exaggeration to highlight the barbaric beliefs of the place in question, it hadn't been truly medieval. At yet, imagine her bemusement when she found herself in a real and genuine medieval world. It was like a Renaissance Festival, but permanent, and infinitely worse. No real medical knowledge, or much of scientific knowledge at all.

Someone had mentioned leeches to her, and she knew then that she had really and truly died and gone to Hell.

But even Hell expected her to pull her weight, and so here she was, in the middle of some Godforsaken forest, with a tear in the sky itself. It would be fascinating to study, if monsters weren't pouring out of it. These monsters were far more intriguing to her--how did they work, how did they perform the magic that seemed so similar to her augmented abilities? And so it was that while others chased down and tried to slay the fiends, Moira located one of the weaker ones--a Lesser Shade, they had called it--and began the first of her experiments.

"Are you able to speak? Your contributions would make this significantly more informative," Her voice is calm, as she watches her purple orb bounce around, slowing and drawing from the Shade whenever it got too close. Which was often, since she's managed to trap it in a convenient pit. "Tell me, how does this feel? Could you articulate it?" The Shade does not articulate, though it does seem quite against the orbs as a whole, trying to avoid them to the best of its limited ability.

The scene is observed with an intense, but detached interest, Moira's arms crossed, one hand resting on her chin. Was it pain, that it was feeling? Was this a demonstration of some level of cognitive ability? Fascinating.

2.) Library

Many who perused the library had various complaints about the selection available. Not Moira. Not because the selection wasn't barbaric, it obviously was, but what could you expect? Very little, and she was not disappointed.

But there is yet uses for texts that are laughably aged and inaccurate. If nothing else, it gives Moira a better understanding of what the situation in this world was. Just how behind they were, and how she could start focusing on speeding things up. Where were lines drawn, and how could she covertly erase them? Questions that would raise eyebrows if asked of the populace, and far better suited to her own private investigation.

So, perched on a table, she flips through one of the books, a look on her face that switches from disbelief, to amusement, and back again. At least, if nothing else, she could not question the vast amount of room she had to pave way for discovery. If only she is not held back.

3.) Sending Crystal

Le do thoil, I have a few questions I have been pondering, if you would humor me.

[ She sounds more like the one doing the humoring, quietly amused and contemplative. ]

What would you define as progress? What would you consider an acceptable cost for it? Could you put a price on achieving your fullest potential?

[ Just wondering. For reasons. ]