allthisshitisweird | 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.

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!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

How do you send them to the Sun and Fire?

Ah! You place them on the pyre, so, and you offer the words-- [he switches out of Trade into his native tongue, lilting and round with vowels,]

We commend thee to the Sun and the Fire, Omasvara Agathon, Lord Greyspell; by the Sun that lights all things and the Fire blazes in every heart, we give thee back to the world beyond this. May the wings of Al'ar bear thee safe to thy rest.

Go now in peace; the Warmth of the Sun awaits.

[back to Trade,]

saying, "We give thee to the Sun and Fire on the wings of the phoenix; rest well." And if they were following after the Light, you bless them with it, too.

What do you do?

[ She doesn't really recognise the words, but she thinks she gets some idea of the meaning. Her tone doesn't change - something bitter, almost determined, not reacting to the mention of death at all - but she does speak, after a moment. ]

I see. They're blessed.

[ Awkwardly, then, voice quieter. ]

I dug a hole with my own hands.

They are blessed, [he affirms,] and so go quietly to rest.

[A death knight is not fitted for gentleness; still, there’s a softer note in that echoing voice:] Did you have words to say for them?

Fitting. [ She thinks so, at least. She's not going to say it, but she imagines most of their deaths aren't quiet.

Still, the words make her ache, and she has to force herself to reply. ] I didn't know which words were appropriate.

[Death itself was rarely quiet—often came abruptly, in pain and terror.

All the more reason the dead themselves deserved dignity and peace.]

So often we don’t, no? That is why we have the ritual, to give us words when we have none.

But if you are very young or they were all you had, you do not have the time to learn the words.

[ It is painful, and loud, and uncomfortable. It's living, ironically.

If he could see her face, though - discomfort is painted all over her features. ]

Does it make it easier? To have words to choose from?

[ She's not sure if that's the case, because - ]

What if the words aren't enough?

Sometimes. Sometimes, you think, "These are not the words I would say or the words they want to hear; are there any words at all for what I feel for them?"

So, much as life--it helps or it hurts.

[He is silent a moment to consider her tone, her question. There is no sound of breathing over the crystal.]

Enough for you, or the ones you have lost?

Sometimes the two are not the same, and never will be. [ She can definitely empathise with the awkwardness of frustration, of not having the right words to fit the person, the situation, the feeling...

Her jaw clenches, tight. There are no words. Nothing is suitable - it hadn't been then, and it isn't now. ]

Both.

Yes. [After two centuries of life and a decade of undeath, it's something he knows too well.]

If it is for you--words are never enough. Death is a vast gulf and no number of words thrown into it will bridge it, though they may be--what is the word--the boards, the slats, the spans to build over our loss. You must find other things to get across.

For them... [His voice trails off, meditative; he considers.] Know that if they do not come back unquiet, the dead are content to be remembered at all. To be given a place to lie where they are not disturbed, to be in your thoughts if not your words. Vanity dies in the Shadowlands, sooner or late.

Will you tell me of who you lost?

Memory cannot be enough. Not if there was - not if... [ She stops, silencing herself, considering. It didn't feel like enough, her broken body kneeling beside the unmarked grave, blood on her hands and her back, scars on her face and pain in her eyes. It didn't feel like enough when she said his name and laid him to rest, no words settled on her tongue.

It wasn't enough. She will remember him, but he will not rest properly until he is delivered back to his home. She carries that weight with her wherever she goes - figuratively and literally - and she has to force herself to calm, to breathe, to survive, somehow. ]

He will always be in my thoughts. That will never change.

[ But, ugh. She breathes, swallows, sighs. ]

My teacher.

There is something yet you must do for him. [A different matter than simple funerals, the discharge of oaths and debts. Serious. He does not think he has to say so.]

Does it suit, to speak of him to a stranger? A grief is easier shared with those who grieve likewise, but I will gladly listen.

There is always something more to do. [ There's no escape from that. There's always another job, another task, another something...

She breathes out, sharp and tense. ] I don't speak of him. There's no point.

Yes, [amiable, gentle,] but the “all” that there is, is not the same as the discharge of what you owe your dead. Unless you are very like me, to take on all of them as yours.

Ah. So you will bury your grief with both hands, too, and keep moving.

No. But there are things that must be done. I can't simply forget them.

[ But his kindness is appreciated, at least. ]

What else can I do?

True; but it is not forgetting or shirking to place one duty above others for a little time. The duty to grieve may be one you owe yourself, to let pain run its course--like you would heal after breaking a limb, no?

[It costs so little to be kind and yet it's such a hard thing for so many--because it meant weakness and indignity and inconvenience, as the Presence had whispered.

He makes a small noise for her heartfelt question; touché.]

If you are not where you can speak easily of him, perhaps nothing now but carry on. Someday, it may help to do great works in his name, or remember him to a listener, or to bring him grave goods--whatever suits your nature.

I have grieved. I did that at his grave, when there was no one else to do it. Whatever I am doing now it isn't mourning - I have a task to complete, and that's my focus.

[ She is definitely grieving, and still in mourning, but she refuses to accept it; she carries the weight of his broken sword on her back and won't be done with it until she can admit to his family, to his home, that she had failed him. That she was his student and she had done nothing to keep him safe.

Scoffing, she wishes she could throw the crystal halfway across the room without fearing it breaking. ]

I don't know where his grave is anymore. [ Only half a lie, really. She knows the place, the road, but there was no mark, exhaustion bearing her to forgetfulness. ] I'm going to find a way to protect people. That's what he would want.

TEST DRIVE MEME!

crystal

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