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Test Drive Meme!

'Tis The Season...

...To Still Be In The Hinterlands

Maybe the Inquisition sent you, maybe you came seeking the Inquisition. Maybe you fell out of a rift into this world last week and are still just trying to find your feet. However it happened, early fall finds you in the Hinterlands. Tucked between Ferelden's massive Lake Calenhad and the icy Frostback Mountains, the Hinterlands are a hilly region covered in patchy forests and small farms trying to eke out a living between the boulders. Though somewhat remote, the area is rich with game and minerals and home to Redcliffe, a bustling town on a busy trade route.

Lately the Hinterlands have also been full of mages and templars and rifts, all threatening to turn once-peaceful countryside into a dangerous warzone. The Inquisition has set up several camps and sent personnel to try to restore order to the region, unwilling to let it slip into chaos. There's a lot to be done, some of it straightforward killing bad things, some of it weird and nebulous morale-building.

NOW WITH ADDED SNOW.

1. I CAN'T BEAR THE COLD

You have turned the wrong corner in the snow, forded the wrong stream in the snow, crested the wrong hill in the snow, entered the wrong cave in the snow. Maybe you are far from camp, in the snow. Maybe you are in camp, which is also snowy. Whatever has happened, wherever you are: you are being chased through the snow by bears. Did you throw a snowball at the bears? Are they huge and snow-dusted? Babies burrowing through the snow drifts and coming for your ankles? Fade-touched in addition to snow-touched? Controlled by cold mages who are hiding in the snow? Popping up out of the snow like a game of whack-a-mole? What are they chasing you away from in all of this snow? What are they chasing you into, other than more snow? What warm things do you plan to make out of their hide if you kill them in the snow? What do you think they'll craft out of your hide if they kill you in the snow? P.S. It's snowy.

2. GIVE ALL THE TOYS TO THE LITTLE RICH BOYS

Winter came. The villagers are freezing. Recruit Whittle totally saw this coming. Now he might have sent you haring (get it) across the countryside in search of supplies that apostates or bandits may have hidden in caves and crannies. He might have handed you some sticks and told you to build a fire. He might have eyed your nice coat with a contemptful gleam that suggested you'd better find some blankets if you didn't want to have your own clothing requisitioned. Nobody's freezing to death on his watch--except maybe you, if you're really bad at finding hidden caches. In the snow.

3. DON'T SHOOT ME SANTA

The sky is beginning to darken and white snow continues to fall, but you and the supply wagon you're protecting should make it to the little Hinterlands village before sunset. The wagon is laden with food, blankets, and other sundry supplies, and so it's important to stay sharp and alert as you make the trecherous journey. And for good reason: an arrow is fired from the tree line and topples an Inquisition soldier from his horse. Beset by bandits, will you manage to fight them back? Or do they overwhelm your troupe and you are forced to flee? Or, perhaps, you could attempt a negotiation, knowing they could be as hungry as the people you protect.

4. DOES THEDAS HAVE FIGGY PUDDING?

It is not only snowing, it's blizzarding, and the tavern in Redcliffe is the closest and warmest place to duck into to wait it out. Unfortunately, half of the Hinterlands had the same idea. The Gull & Lantern is so packed with thawing visitors that it's hard to walk from one side to the other, the owner has given up on telling these Fereldens they can't bring their dogs inside, and that lady in the corner is almost definitely someone you've tried to kill before, or vice versa. But there's a fire going, and the bartender seems to think that giving everyone half-price drinks might prevent a brawl instead of causing one, and there aren't any demons indoors, so it could be a lot worse.

5. WILDCARD

Hunt game in the snow, kill demons in the snow, dig under the snow for herbs, track bandits through the snow, deal with someone charging extortionist coat prices now that it's snowing, fall off a deceptively tall rock into the snow, get lost circling the same hill ten times trying to find a way up to the weird glowing skull on a stick you can see is up there in the snow, climb trees or abandoned towers covered in snow, rummage around in empty homes to get out of the snow, run from a dragon in the snow, cry over how cute that fennec fox you just shot in the snow was, set up camp and chat around the fire because it's snowy and cold, knock yourself out (figuratively, or even literally if that's more your speed)-- the Hinterlands are your ~~Frostback Mountain~~ oyster, topped with snow.

Threaded | Flat

1.

Just once Mal would appreciate it if things went smooth. If one foutu job went the way it was planned. Everything had been in order, the papers, the goods, the route. He and his horse and his Mabari carting a packet of letters and goods all throughout the wilderness down the unbeaten paths to avoid bandits and other folk like him trying to make a dishonest living in the cold. Point in their favor: no bandits. No thieves. Point against: Bears.

He'd lost track of Jayne for all of ten seconds when he heard the first bellow behind him, followed shortly after by a familiar yip. Brave creatures, Mabari. Smart too. Jayne is neither of these things on occasion, when greed gets the better of him and now the great brown beast is whinging and hauling ass up the snowdrifts with a giant pissed off bear on his tail. Mal's got all of three seconds before it's on him and his ride and he isn't exactly someone of a mind to take out a big, toothy thing when he can run away.

Jayne passes in a flash and Mal turns to snap the reigns, contemplating the sizable hank of meat and bone clenched tight in the dog's mouth. Figures Jayne's belly would get them into this. "You stupid fils de pute-"

3.

Take a job from the Inquisition, Wash said. It'll be easy money, he said. Give him and his wife a little time alone while Mal keeps working as he so obviously loved to do. So here's him, sitting on a too hard bench in the too cold weather while they sail up to where it's warm and try their hand and making a kid in the sand of some stupidly pretty beach or some such nonsense. Jayne, at least, is equally miserable, keeping pace with the wagon since the last attempt he made at gnawing a side of beef got him kicked off. It's his ears flicking up that has Mal going tense, hand on his Halberd tightening before the first arrow is loosed. For once the hound actually looks up to Mal before he gives the order. "Tear 'em up."

Anyone that shoots to kill don't mean to talk. Mal's off the cart and in the snow in a heartbeat, cutting down the first idiot that decides rushing a man with a pole arm was a bright idea.

4.

"Jayne, sit. Jayne. Stay." Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but with all the food and all the bodies, and all the drink around? Gett'n the hound to listen was going to be an exercise in futility. Mal did his damndest, Jayne had a habit of finding trouble even when he meant well.

Well.

When he meant to eat well.

Not much to be done about that but try to find his way up to the bar or flag someone down to get the dog fed. And them him. Honestly as long as Jayne was eating there wouldn't be trouble, Mal was happy enough to be somewhere dry and warm. He wasn't above using the butt of his Halberd to prod people out of the way when they wouldn't stand aside after a very civil 'Excuse me'. Got him up to the bar for a pint and a meal, though.

ONE

Neil- known as Baker to most of his connections in the Inquisition- was starting to get pissed off with all this snow. He was a mile from Redcliffe at most, but it was hard to tell the proper direction, between the snow falling thickly enough to obscure his lines of sight and the fact that it was mostly dark.

Then, to top it off, he nearly walked into the maw of an unseasonally awake bear.

There was just one thing to do: punch it in the nose as hard as he bloody well could and take off, hoping to put some distance between them while his new friend was stunned.

Four

Ignoring the grumbles of the people he'd showered with snow while taking off his frozen cloak and scarf, Neil shoved through the crowd to the bar, hoping for mulled wine or something hot. Of course, there was even less room at the bar than anywhere else, but Neil didn't hesitate to use his elbows to open a space for him. "Come on, budge up. Some of us need a drink too, you know."

3.

One flit of an arrow, and she's already twitching.

It'd only be a matter of time that a group felt like they had the guts enough to try to go in on them. She didn't think it was safe, but they couldn't not have a run for their supplies either. Furiosa gets that, and it's not her first time transferring delicate goods, as it were.

It'll never be her last.

Without waiting, she's throwing herself onto her horse -- appropriately named War -- and she's attaching her shield to her prosthetic. It's good timing, because these bandits or desperate people, what-have-you, have decided to poor out from the snowy bushes.

Fine then. They can die for their choice.

"Keep pushing forward! A group of us can hold them off." That, and the camp can't be too far from them now.

4.

War's been tied up outside, given some meager space apart from the other mounts. She's not thrilled to leave her outside, but there's no better place for right now while she gets something hot in her belly.

The door opens and Furiosa steps into the crowded tavern. It wouldn't be anything different, of course.

"Heated cider. When you can," she instructs the barmaid, knowing well that she's got enough to worry about. For now, Furiosa will just worry about finding a place to sit for the moment.

1: When he had gone into hiding, it hadn't been easy finding places far out of the view of the Antaam, until he'd gone so far south that things were starting to look significantly more mountainous. So now, in the middle of the wintry, cold stone of the land east of the Frostbacks, one cloaked qunari man wandered.

At least, he had done, until it had started blizzarding all over his damned head and he'd had to hole himself up in a cave, keeping his limbs tucked in close. Damned cold, damned snow, damn damn damn everything to do with this place. A violent sneeze later, and Karmin came kicking back out, in search of wood to build himself a fire. He had everything he needed tucked into the bag under his cloak and packs strapped to his sides, but he didn't carry any damned firewood. He was leaving a wide trail in the snow, but really, who would be out here that would come across a single wanderer in the middle of the whiteout?

3: When the first man fell, the initial instinct was to hide, to duck into the caravan and protect the young, the feeble and infirm. But then there would be nobody to fight back against these scavengers, these opportunists that would rather see a family freeze to death than find an honest source of goods or trade.

"Mage!" one of them yells when the cloaked man leaps from the top of the wagon he'd perched on, a staff in hand, though curiously, not glowing. The end is tipped in a curved sickle, and as the bandits besieged them, the weapon flashed through the air. Eventually it came into two parts, and a second crescent blade was snapped into the lower half of the sectioned handle. A dual-wielding scout, then?

Blood paints the snow when one of the bandits come close enough, but clearly, the single man is outnumbered, seemingly outmatched. His hood falls back at a swipe, revealing coppery grey skin, bright red eyes and teeth filed into points.

4: The tavern is packed, yes, but that gives ample opportunity to warm his bones. Near the fire a small, but wide and sturdy man sits, cross-legged and surrounded by a small crowd of onlookers. He speaks, and while some scoff and roll their eyes, others lean closer, and they hang on every word:

"And in the days of the new, it will not matter the nation of origin, the taper of ear or the creed that guides a wandering heart. We will find peace in one-another. It is seen by eyes turned inward, unfocused on the wars and prejudices of man. I dream this peace, of places where men meet Vashoth and hold no fear of conversion or threats of death, for there is no reason or right. But it cannot be done through hope alone."

5: Got another idea for where or how to meet him? Lay it on me, pally.

For qunari peeps: The exposed flesh of his wrists is decorated in a unique vitaar, recognizable to some as a symbol of one of the only successful resistance factions in Seheron. It bears a resemblance to scorched flesh from afar, as if made by red-hot manacles, but up close it is an intricate mandala, deep red and will be shown only to those that aren't outright hostile.

i
It's been a long time since she last visited Ferelden.

Back then it was a different world, ravaged as it was by the Blight and the civil war that threatened to engulf them. More to the point she was different but no one forgets an upbringing at the hands of Flemeth and the most anything seems content to leave her and her small companion be, a smiling boy who laughs as he plunges through the snow, sending great clouds of it up into the air.

"Mother! Look!"

With all the excitement a young boy can muster, voice echoing as the snow muffles all else, it becomes clear that he's pointing at something. At a rather disgruntled bear headed their way. Anyone coming across them will soon find her with her son tucked safely out of danger as she unleashes great volleys of lightning at the bear that soon finds itself roaring in agony and wishing it had just blundered right on by.

iv
It's not the Orlesian court but the taverns have improved marginally here or perhaps it's just that the company is better when she doesn't have to suffer Alistair's presence. The table by the fire is warm and in this corner no one can sneak up on her, as well as affording an unimpeded view of the door.

Times like these, there are so few you can trust.

Kieran is asleep, curled beneath both their cloaks and mostly hidden from view as she keeps an eye out. She might not exactly welcome company but she'll welcome news, if you dare to meet her eye from across the room.

v
[Wildcard! You roll spotting the witch and she'll come pester you!]

3.

Honestly, he should have known better. A wagon full of supplies. Guards riding at the four corners, plus one seated next to the driver. The sun going down. Snow. It just equaled disaster.

He knew, but he couldn't pass up the opportunity for a free ride to the next town, tired of walking through the ankle high - and getting higher - amount of snow covering the ground in every direction. Figuring that enough shit had happened to him that the Maker could lay off for one evening in ruining his life.

Fat nug of a chance.

"F-" There's a loud thunk as an arrow narrowly misses him, whizzing right by his leg. Dropping down to a knee, supplies rattling around in the wagon next to him, Garris lets fly at arrow in response, smirking when he hears a scream. No thud though - the snow softened the noise.

"Keep this baby movin'! We stop, that's it - we're surrounded."

4.
He's pretty sure he's seen her before. Damn sure. Maybe it was the long, wavy black hair. The outfit - it does look familiar. Could be the fact that she's staring right back at him, pointedly making eye contact. Maybe.

Either way she's not making a move and neither is he. Not with this weather, and certainly not with this crowd. No way - Maker be damned - that he's losing his seat because someone was making eyes - killer eyes - at him. Nope, he's just going to lean back and enjoy the ale he had managed to get, or rather fight half the bar for.

5.
Got a better idea? What's your favorite spot in the Hinterlands?

Edited 2015-12-02 08:35 (UTC)

1.

Fetch some straw, he'd said. Simple enough. Or it had been simple until the weather settled in, and, being used to carriages and carts and never having to suffer the ill-effects of a blizzard, Belle was quite certain she was lost. She'd taken refuge in a small house that had seen better days, but at least it kept (most of) the snow out, but burnable wood was a luxury and she'd had to retake to the road, or what she thought was the road. Even logically, there was no real way of knowing that this was, in fact, the road, and she wasn't just heading deeper into the woods.

Or, as it transpired, into a snow drift that merrily rolled down the hill once she took a couple of steps into it.

And at the bottom was a bear that didn't like being drenched in snow.

3.

Belle was not protecting the supply wagon, but instead, hitching a ride. The bear catastrophe had taught her one thing about roads, and that was that she should find the nearest passing wagon and stick to it like glue. Which she had, and after some negotiation and persuasion, had joined the convoy as another pair of hands to help unload. That or they were desperate and the hand knife at her waist had convinced them she knew how to fight, which she didn't. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

Right now, though, she had her nose stuck in a book that had been wedged between two barrels and looked a little worse for wear, either due to its pages freezing together or that it had been well loved in its time. The author was familiar enough to her - she'd read all of his books in her time.

And as cosy as she found herself, that was the moment when a scream sounded from outside, and bandits attacked the caravan.

4.

The good thing about so many people was that surely, surely, there would be no bear or bandit attacks indoors. Of course, she could be proved wrong, but Belle was happy enough to sit and wait out the returning blizzard after the last time, considering she got helpfully lost and unknowingly wandered into Ferelden, of all places.

Cloak pulled up over her head and bundle of straw under one arm, she weaves her way through the crowd to the nearest merchant and asks to see a map. This goes about as well as you would expect for a young woman without a penny to her name. Maybe you should intervene.

WILDCARD?

2
Whittle was going to get what he deserved when Yuki got back to the crossroads. Sending him out after the last few supply caches the apostates or bandits had left scattered across the Hinterlands, and in winter? That was cruel. The knee-deep snow the elf slogged through was draining, and his toes were starting to feel the cold despite the dual layers of ram wool and fennec fur. Andraste's Tits, it was cold out here.

Recruit Whittle was getting a punch to the face when he got back to the Crossroads, he though, pulling his hood tighter around his ears.

4
The door was getting harder to close with snow blowing in off the lake. When the elf finally got the door closed to cheers and shouted jibes from the other patrons, he stomped off his boots and clothes, pulling his hood back. There were so many people there, it was going to be impossible to get a table, so he just pushed through until he found somewhere near the fire to sit and let his frozen bones defrost. He almost let his eyes close, but he kept an eye on everyone around just in case of trouble.

Wildcard!
[Come on up, say hi, whatever! Yuki's open to anything here, even getting caught outside during a blizzard!]

2.

Being selfless was a lot tougher than people made it out to be. Sure, you got to see the bright, happy faces of the people you helped, but that came later after the part where you froze your skinny ass off trudging through snow looking for boxes of supplies. For now, Ellie was out in the cold climbing a blighted mountain. According to the directions she'd been given, the supply cache should just be over this hill. She just needed to get up it.
She reached out and used a rock she thought wasn't entirely frozen as leverage.

Unfortunately for her, she had been wrong about the rock not being completely frozen over. Her hand slipped, and with it so did the rest of her.

Apparently her ass hadn't completely frozen off because there was still some of it left to feel the ache of her landing hard right on it.

"Fuck!" she cried out. "Shit." Growling a bit, she looked around as she tried to push herself up, only to slip on the ice again. Then, from where she had landed on the ground, "I hope no one saw that."

Edited 2015-12-02 20:41 (UTC)

5.

This was different, and somewhat alarming.

One moment Muzét had been circling the rift in the Fade, where spirits clamoured, some tumbling through to become demons and others gathering up their wits and moving elsewhere. Many did not like to move, as used to this part of the Fade as they were, but Muzét was not unfamiliar with movement. Her purpose was to uphold the Veil, after all - the tears that had formed as of late in that other world, that strange world where it was said that it ignored you, where everything was physical and would not bend to your will - and that other world had been pressing into this one, ever so slowly. It was, frankly, distressing. It almost seemed as if her purpose was moot, with the number of holes that had appeared lately, holes she could do nothing about and she could not soothe or coax spirits away before they were harmed by the crossing from one world to another.

Today, she had been the one to fall through. It wasn't planned for. She had not intended to find herself here, only intended to pass by as normal, past a rift that had been here for several cycles already, when people of that other world slept. Today, she had fallen through - but unlike so many of her kind, she did not change.

She only felt alarm, and a need to be understood, and to fix the hole in the sky, even from this side. That will was enough to give her a physical form, though not one that she noticed, nor particularly chose.

Which is why you might stumble upon an elf with impossibly long hair hovering ever so slightly above the ground, darting back and forth alongside the rift, trying to force it shut with her willpower alone. Is it snowing? Are you watching her? She hasn't noticed.

[ 1 ]

Normally, Washington wore armor. And not the strange medieval plate armor that he'd very quickly acquired after he'd fallen through the rift a week ago and landed in this hellhole, but armor made for space. Armor that regulated his temperature so he wouldn't freeze to death in space. Without it, he was chilled to the bone.

All he'd done was more firewood, was that so hard? But no. Instead he he got chased by fucking bears. In a new world with no cars, cliffs, or metaphorical bears trying to kill him, he got actual bears trying to kill him.

Seeing as he didn't have any sort of gun on him (He had a sword, but who uses swords? Besides Tucker. Also, BEARS. Plural.) he decided to run. Just. Run. As fast as he could in the direction he hopefully estimated was camp.

Please let camp be nearby. Or, barring that, someone who could help him with the fucking bears, as he might shout if he ran by anyone, his voice high-pitched.

[ 4 ]

You would think that safe in a tavern, drinking alcohol and being warm would cause Wash to a) lighten up and b) make him take off his face-concealing rusted grey metal helmet, but no. This is one Rifter who does not want to be here. Not in this tavern, not in this world, not without his team. He'd deal with it, since he didn't really have much of a choice, but that doesn't mean he'd relax. Wash wasn't really known for relaxing anyway.

He found a corner near the fire to nurse his drink, trying to avoid touching somebody in this crowed place. Anyone that walks by him might notice his stiff shoulders, the way his head tilts to watch them as they go, just in case they did something he might have to be prepared for.

[ 5 ]
Choose your own adventure! I'll run with it?

Edited (gently edits typo) 2015-12-02 23:54 (UTC)

3.

It's getting cold, supplies are getting scarce, and people are getting desperate. It's the perfect recipe for a lot more criminals in the hillside, and while he's willing to bet some were just as happy with a life of banditry as anything else, a good number of these folk are probably just trying to make ends meet, to survive in the wake of everything.

Not a great mindset for going into battle. They're the ones that picked this fight. Maybe some of them will get scared and see sense, run home while they have the chance. Front line's bound to be the ones who think they're hard. They're looking to hurt.

They're about to realize just how much they've bitten off.

The Bull hoists his axe, eye scanning the snowy banks they'd been traveling through as people scramble for their weapons and ready themselves for a fight. Then he's on the move, heading for a nearby tree and giving it a solid 'thunk!', rattling the bandit that'd been perched with his arrows loose from the branches over head. Another solid swing and red sprays the snowy ground.

The one with the knife, the one that'd been waiting for someone to get close enough to shank, finally gets a look at the sight of the qunari pulling his blade from the guts of his dead buddy. Oh, this one's committed. He would've turned tail by now, scared as he is, the blade shaking in his hands as he charges in. Bull swings about, and the flat of the blade catches the guy in the small of the back, sending him flying with a graceless squawk.

Bull lifts his head, a snort fogging the air in front of him as his eye follows the shadows of the treeline.

"So who's next?"

4.

To the casual onlooker, it's a fairly simple picture, if unusual. A qunari mercenary taking up a corner of the tavern all to himself, helping himself to enough drinks to down a small regiment of soldiers, occassionally flirting with the serving girl as she comes around for drinks, because why not?

And that's happening too. Best part of being a spy is living the role, making it all believable. That comes with a kernel of truth. But he's also casually surveying the people in the tavern, noting little quirks and tells, the way they dress, the things they look at or don't. He's already picked out a few that probably aren't here for any good reason, but he's got his back to a wall and a weapon close at hand. He could make short work of them if need be.

Always good to have an exit strategy. And another round wouldn't hurt.

5.

[ Throw something else at him? I'm flexible. ]

Edited 2015-12-03 00:22 (UTC)

1.

While the falling snow may block some of the sight, movement suggests someone is trudging through the snow not far away from the camp (or you, or the biting snow babies, who knows). With a hood up all the way to his nose and a sack on his back, it's only the size and shape that gives away that it is not the early arrival of a very beardless Santa, but instead a rather snow-drenched elf.

He's leaning to what is more a walking stick than a staff, as it has no focus, and the general body language is understandably rather exhausted. Another step has him misplacing his foot on an icy patch - he slips, and the sack drags him over to a quiet flop into the snow, complete with things escaping from the burlap. Roundish, rolling things. Cabbages?

Cabbages with... hair.

No. Those are heads.

4.

Even before the mage rebellion, the common people tended to stay far away from the tranquil and usually ignored them completely or sent them nervous looks that were only reflected by emotionless eyes and placid smiles.

However, in these rocky times, harsh treatment was becoming more widespread, anger directed at these Chantry-branded for having once been mages and thus part of the problem. Especially since they usually came corralled by actual mages, or bitter templars.

Soulless drones or puppets with no will of their own. No dreams, no desires.

No food, even though the man at the back table had coin in his hand. Bearing the sun on his forehead, the grey-haired elf was at least in his mid-fifties, his calm and unperturbed face jagged with scars that were softened with the contrast of a practical braid over his shoulder.

"I have more coin," he says, voice typically monotone but with a calculated softness in it - as if he's trying to soothe the waitress. "I will cease to function without this meal."

1.

Help the refugees, Mother Giselle had said. Helping His people helps the Maker, she'd said. Helping people was all well and good, but what about herself? The chantry sister turned her gaze glumly to the flurry of snow outside of the cave. Her little sanctuary had been occupied at some point in time, judging by the bedroll and a handful of materials scattered around, but all seemed like they'd been untouched for some time. Hopefully, this snowstorm would keep the owner away, if they were the type hostile to an unfortunate sister.

No--The Maker had already begun providing, by giving her this cave. It was just as the Mother had said--provide for others, and He will provide for you.

Maybe it's your cave, or maybe you're just another unfortunate caught in the snow. Maybe you were even sent to attempt to rescue the poor Sister. Whatever you're doing, she'll be near the entrance of the cave, hands clasped together, eyes closed as she silently mouthed a prayer.

5a.

After the Tevinters had shooed most of the Chantry clergy out of Redcliffe, the Chantry itself had fallen into a state of disrepair. Melyanna had even heard that there had been a fade rift in here! She shuddered to imagine it. With the Tevinter menace disposed of (mostly, there were still a few that insisted on hanging around, for some reason), she felt called to try to bring this place back to at least some kind of decent shape.

She was hardly any type to be running a Chantry of her own--and she didn't want to leave the Inquisition--but at least a cleaned up Chantry would let other people be able come in to find solace.

So, the doors to the Chantry were propped open, and anyone curious enough to peek in would find a Chantry Sister, attempting to drag pews back into their proper order, carefully placing candelabras, and throwing rubble into a large pile. It wasn't a lot, but the more welcoming the Chantry seemed, the better.

5b.

Anything else? Throw it at me!

2.

In this dire time, the Inquisition needs every pair of hands it can spare. Every able-bodied soul who can trudge long enough through the cold to fetch supplies. There is more to be done than singing and entertaining. So Flavia had allowed herself to be convinced.

Damn her generous heart, she thinks, bent over the would-be fire as she tries to make the wood catch. If only they had sent a mage. Braver souls that she are being slashed to ribbons for Andraste's name, and she will die for want of a little fire.

Her hands are aching, and there is still no reaction from the wood. "Ma feca!" she exclaims, allowing herself to fling it away in frustration.

4.

She has had her fill of singing for the evening, and even the warmth of the fire and the many bodies filling this place is not enough to dissuade her from a drink. The crowd, however, makes it difficult to get to the bar. Oh, she can see over most people well enough — she's quite tall for a lady — but that means little if she can't step around them.

"Pardon," she says, tapping the shoulder of the last person keeping her from the bar's edge. "But I have a parched throat to tend to."

1.

He shouldn’t have wandered away from camp. He regretted it now. He’d take feeling crowded over staring down a momma bear with only a sword and a prayer. She was still a distance off, but he bet she could close it faster than he could get away. Her baby was still pawing at his boot and rolling around in the snow at his feet.

He’d almost tripped over the cub when he’d come this way, looking for a moment by himself away from the camp. He wasn’t used to being around people, being in close quarters. Sharing a tent with two others was especially difficult. A moment to breathe was all he needed. But he couldn’t get even that.

He tried to shoo the little brown baby away, but it growled and nipped at him instead, and followed him when he tried to walk away. He didn’t want to lead it back to camp.

And then… and then of course, there was momma growling over there.

2.

The map must be wrong. He should have come upon a river by now, and a crop of large boulders. This looks like the same hill he crossed an hour ago…

Actually. Are those … footprints… Those are his footprints, aren’t they?

Maker’s breath. It’s the same fucking… He holds his map out in front of him, puzzling over where he went wrong and trying to figure out where he might be.

“I’m lost. Great. What else can go wrong?”

Achoo! His arms jerk, the map splits in half.

3.

All right, okay, never let it be said that Anthony Howard Stark doesn't like a joke as much as the next guy. Sure, he's all right with being the butt of the joke, the new guy who gets hazed. But, c'mon. Seriously? Food and blanket run out in the middle of the frigging wilderness with a bunch of pimple-faced young kids?

All right, okay, clearly Recruit Whittle and Corporal Hot-Stuff wanted to see if he really was that Tony Stark, that mage-inventor, and see if he really was committed to helping the Inquisition. So yeah, he'd take their milk run if they'd finally tell him how the hell to get to the main forces.

He took over the driving because, pfffft. Come on. No way he was trusting his Orlesian steeds to Recruit Nervous McNancy who kept gaping at him. Which was fine, he was used to being gaped at. However ...

The arrow thunked about three inches away from them, and Tony snapped on the reins to jump the horses down the path, as quickly as possible, before he looked over at the shocked Inquisition soldier beside him.

"Okay, I might be fairly new to this gig, but I'm pretty sure when someone starts shooting at us, you should shoot back."

5. WILDCARD ME.

Edited 2015-12-04 02:27 (UTC)

a mix of 1 + 2.

Anyone would be hard pressed to tell how cold it was by looking at Tybault. The man was the size of a bear himself, but was wearing no fur what-so-ever. In fact he'd even shed his cloak, to stop Whittle from trying to lecture him from below, and handed it over in lieu of blankets. It really wasn't his job, fetching things. His job was to kill things, or, generally, at least to guard things, but the Inquisition had brought and entirely new aspect to his work and he didn't actually mind that much. Besides, he liked the snow. So he trudged through it, his shirt open five buttons down just so some of that brisk winter air could cool him off, and made a deep trench just by walking for anyone who was following behind.

He was looking for caches, of course. That had been the plan. But when they stopped at a slight cliff - just high enough that it would cause you to stumble if you tried to run down it - Tybault caught sight of something Better.

"Bears!"

4.

Tybault, now in the warmth of the tavern, has given up on his shirt, and is sitting, grinning, with a dog trying to lick his face, and a large mug of ale off to the side. The only thing on his chest is a chain with a golden ring - far to small for his finger - bouncing gently against his sternum as he laughed.

"You smell like a toad's fart," He told the dog fondly as he rubbed both sides of its face at the same time, making the dog's ears flap wildly. "Yes you do! Yes you do!"

5.

Tybault's grip is strong, and with a grunt he hefts his companion back up onto solid ground, which a moment ago they had nearly fallen off from.

"Alright? I like pancakes, admittedly, but they don't tend to be made of people I like." His eyes crinkle with mirth as he speaks, his Orlesian accent making his baritone voice chocolaty.

Edited 2015-12-04 14:22 (UTC)

i
[No folk of the Hinterlands, your eyes do not deceive you, there is indeed a man who looks half-Avvar launching himself at a bear. Unfortunately he has his shirt on because he’s not losing nipples to frostbite thanks but it’s only after he and the bear go hurtling into deep snow with plenty of growling from both of them but the bear sounds to be the more hurt out of them.]

Right then, time for you to bugger off back to wherever you’ve come from.

[Do you assist? Do you simply watch? Just stick around, it might get pretty damn impressive. Or pet that big old scarred mabari, good old Bronson’s a gentle soul deep down.]

iii
[The supply wagon is technically his own and it’s got a massive druffalo pulling it along as one burly man stands guard with his faithful mabari, two-handed axe in hand. The rest of his company have fanned out to find whoever is shooting at them but any assistance is appreciated. When he spots someone approaching, he whistles sharply and jerks his head.]

If you can fight lend us a hand, if not then get behind me and the lad and under the wagon for the moment.

v
[Are you hiring Asher for a job? Did he punch you that one time? Are you merc bros about to start yelling with excitement that unfortunately sounds like the prelude to a fight? Whatever the case, roll your own scenario.]

one
[ Refugees need food, water, shelter, protection. Refugees trying to get to the Inquisition are no different. Unfortunately, most of this particular group is better at mending clothing than hunting -- so it falls to Merrill. Merrill, who was never a hunter for her clan but is Dalish, so may be the best fit in their eyes anyway. Merrill, who is using her staff to help pull herself through the snow and who is, as a nod to the weather, actually wearing shoes.

She is fairly certain, actually, that the shoes are why she hasn't seen any animals so far. None of the rams that usually frequent the Hinterlands, no deer, no squirrels, no rabbits... No birds, come to think of it, and that's where she pauses. Even with her walking beneath their trees, the winter birds had still been chirping, but now they're not. Maybe they're just very sleepy passes through her head right before she hears the growl, and Merrill turns with her staff in hand to find more or less exactly what she feared: a bear, one that hadn't fattened up enough for winter hibernation that has now come out to try and eat whatever crosses its path. In this case, her. ]

Oh, dear.

[ At least her staff is already in her hands. Nothing for it but to blast the bear with arcane energy, trying to push it back before it's on her so that she can call up a shield of magic. ]

If anyone is nearby, a little help-?!

four
[ There are people everywhere inside the Gull & Lantern. It's not the Hanged Man and it isn't her old clan, but it does make Merrill feel a familiar warmth inside; there is laughter and stories, food and drink, old friends and new ones. No one is giving her too many odd looks due to the vallaslin on her face or the staff she's carrying -- thanks, she supposes, to the Inquisition's presence and the fact that they seem to recruit just about everyone -- and someone's dog has decided that her feet are just the right place to curl up and nap. It's cozy. It's wonderful. It's almost enough to make Merrill wish that the blizzard would just keep going.

It is, after all, very difficult for everyone to have a war when there's that much snow.

There is the slight problem of her current inability to move, considering the dog fast asleep on her feet, but everyone seems to be in a fairly good mood. Surely someone will help her out, right? ]

Oh, excuse me- [ and here there's a wave, highly animated for someone who has been spending their time defrosting ] Could you possibly get me another bowl of the stew? I'm a bit stuck.

( #1 )

Bears. Why did it always have to be bears? You would think that after a time, one would no longer be bothered by them. That maybe when one is also large and terribly intimidating to look at that it would be easy to feel only resolve when being faced down by one an ursus, but that was absolutely never the case. No, if anything, they lit a fire under a person. They bring out their creativity. They definitely kicked the fight or flight instinct into overdrive.

Metaari? He preferred flight followed by fight. Strategic retreat to an easier to defend location.

Of course, finding a spot like that is next to impossible in the snow. His trail is easy to follow, even as light footed as someone his size could be, and with the wind whipping around in every direction his scent was, well, everywhere.

He sucks in a slow breath and glances around the open, snowy plains, trying to find an outcropping of rock or something that he can duck behind or-- ah, better yet, climb. A grin spreads across his face as he spies a tree, barren but sturdy, and he trudges through the snow toward it, slinging his bow over his shoulder as he reaches out to start climbing. Once he's settled in the branches he knocks an arrow, poised and ready, only to let it loose in the direction of the first sound he hears.

( #4 )

There were pros and cons to heading in to the Gull & Lantern. Pro: warm and cozy. Con: somewhat stifling. Pro: plenty of people to talk to. Con: too many people. Pro: cheap booze. Con: ...cheap booze.

Still, it beat standing outside in the snow, or trying to seek refuge at a Chantry (Metaari would rather take his chances with the snow). Plus, there were plenty of pleasant faces to enjoy and chat up, and the smile Metaari bestows on a few of the fairer ones is enough to garner a reaction. He casts one barmaid a wink as she walks away before he finally settles back. It wasn't easy to procure a spot to sit, but then--well, sometimes, using his stature to his advantage is the only way to get things down.

He glances down into his mug, filled practically to the brim, before he turns to raise it in a toast to whomever has the luck to be sitting next to him. "To warm beds and bed warmers, friend."

( or whatever! come say hey. )

5. I know this isn't a log but just run with me on this one.

[A familiar, deep, calming voice echoes out over the sending crystals.]

There is something to be said about the regular sized spiders. Something that should never be said. Something that you would wish for the rest of your miserable lives hadn't been said. So perhaps it is best to stick to killing the giant, dungeon variety.

For now.

Hello listeners, and welcome - to The Inquisition.

[The far off music of a lute begins - probably just one of his friends sitting in the room across from him as he delivers you all the news.]

Today we will begin with: The War Table Calendar.

On Monday, you will all be sent to the Hinterlands.

On Tuesday, you will feel like you have never been anywhere other than the hinterlands.

Wednesday will be entirely filled with bears. Remember not to leave the camp without at least three other party members, two of which should be different classes than you, and one of which should compliment the skill sets of the others.

Thursday, this week, templar Maria Hill and the-mage-with-a-perfect-mustache Dorian Pavus will begin their templar/mage cross training. It is destined to go terribly, but all are reminded that being able to fight each other better will help with the upcoming civil wa-- [AHEM] -- war against Corypheus. Don't fight your friends. Don't set your friends on fire. Leave your violence to the armies of lyrium-laced and addled men.

Friday, the cook will be serving pie. But not for you. You will still be in the Hinterlands.

Edited 2015-12-08 13:39 (UTC)

1.

At the best of times, Evie was not fond of anywhere that wasn't a city, or populous, because it was full of surprises. Most would say she had that backwards, but there was something predictable about a city and its occupants and what they wanted (or didn't want), and about a fortress full of people striving for the same goal. People in villages, sort of the same. But what was truly unpredictable was anywhere that was subject to the weather and the whims of wild animals.

She was prepared for this. She had a map, which she had studied, picked out the best route, crosschecked with landmarks she knew or ones she had asked a helpful passerby about and went on her way. One merchant had even offered her a ride, but she'd politely refused, because it was only the Hinterlands, and she knew where she was going.

She had no idea where she was going, and was nowhere that she wanted to be. Lessons learned for the day: don't rely on maps in the snow. Nothing looks as it should.

Evie bunkers down in the mouth of a cave to try to make some sense of her current location (snow, definitely, possibly the Hinterlands, possibly the Frostbacks, possibly the opposing end of Thedas by now) when she hears the rumbling growl of a bear behind her. In the cave, closing fast.

Decade old maps? Don't show bear locations. She looks up, but not over her shoulder, with a quick, regretful sigh. "This certainly is a complication."

2.

She hadn't intended to stop and help, but Evie did. She could hear Jacob now, almost mockingly, about how she insisted that she had things to do (find the Seekers, which had become find the Inquisition) and the things were not this (finding apostate caches) but here she was, looking for them anyway. Depending on his mood or the day of the week or how much it would get him closer to what he wanted would depend on how much he would help, but she liked to think that even a crying, half frozen child would appeal to his sensibilities - or maybe it wouldn't, and the prospect of keeping whatever was in the caches that Whittle didn't want would.

Alright, so she wasn't entirely innocent. If there was something she could make use of, she might pocket it. Habit. Potentially even filter it down to the nearest Jenny she could find to send it back to Jacob (and it would not be from her, obviously). Also habit.

Picking up a companion is new. She looks over to them now as they cross a frozen stream, equal parts wary and friendly, which gives her something of a threatening aura, someone not to cross - but the smile might ease those fears. Might. "Here's to hoping we find what he wants in the first of these marked places. How much farther now?"

4.

Somehow, Evie has fought the competition for the most regal seat in the house, a large, comfortable chair that would likely be claimed by a merchant or visiting dignitary and not by a young woman with a devilish smile. But claim it she had, and no blood had been spilled. No bad blood was in the air, either - maybe someone had been bribed or someone had been told a secret or something had happened, but Evie continued to contently sit by the fireplace, tankard in hand, quite contented. This was nice. Just like home.

And no Jacob to natter in her ear. Even better.

WILDCARD?

Edited 2015-12-08 13:28 (UTC)

5. FLOWERS FOR SENNA. QUEST BEGINS;

"On dhea'him!"

Sabine stops, turning in place to square a look at whoever addressed her, the immediate defense cutting haughty in her features softening upon realisation. Another bare-faced elf, white-haired and harmless, blinks back at her. In his hands are a bundle of flowers, the thick, thorny kind that grow during the winter. "I'm sorry. I mistook you for our Dalish kin. You're dressed for the woodlands."

"You were going to give me those for being one?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"No, these are for my wife. Her ashes are buried at a shrine, on a hill to the west, near the Table Stones. I take these to her every year, but with the Hinterlands crawling with bandits and wolves..." He trails off. "I was going to ask if you could make the journey for me, but I won't--"

"Why?" Her query cut like a knife through the snow-speckled air. "Because I am not Dalish, you don't think I care about honouring dead wives? And flowers? I care about both very much." She reached out, snatching the flowers from his slack grasp. "I will take these to your wife's shrine. You do not have to thank me."

5. FLOWERS FOR SENNA. QUEST COMPLETE;

"Why would you bury a wife so far away from where you live? Why would you honuor her at such a time of the year?" To complete the tirade, she whispers once more: why?

It's snowing. Shaking down as light and cloying as sugar, and clinging to her cloak. It's the sort of snow that even the most light-footed find themselves sinking into, making each step a slow drag to the next. The thistle-flowers have seen better days, clenched in one fist, woefully neglected as Sabine forges ahead, uttering Orlesian cursewords beneath her breath.

Finally, she finds the shrine, which has thankfully not disappeared beneath masses of snow, even of it goes halfway obscured. With a satisfied grunt, Sabine flings the flowers at its granite face. There. She turns to walk away.

Stops.

Turns back, and crouches down, wiping away the snow from the engravings with gloved fingers, and tidying up the flowers with-- not that much more care than before, really, but a little more graciousness.

[ ooc ; feel free to run in, interrupt, or be on this quest with her! ]

Edited 2015-12-12 14:06 (UTC)

three;

[ It could be worse she repeats herself, over and over and over, until the itching in her fingers stops (due, no doubt, to the fucking cold) and the head of the escort in front of her ceases to look like a target. This, if nothing else, is a great improvement, for she very highly doubts that cracking the skull of one of the men meant to defend the precious cargo in which she comes included will do their current task any good.

Looking up at an already alarmingly dark sky, she supposes that in a worst case scenario she can simply salvage the corpse of a bandit. It ought to preserve nicely at the current temperature, regardless of how long she needs to stay in the little village. It is very little, after all-- it wouldn't keep me out here for long. It is with these promising thoughts in mind that the first arrow graces her cheek, and by the time someone is grabbing her and telling her to keep low and hidden, a few many filthy criminals are coming their way, yelling and waving and making her ears hurt with all the unnecessary noise. Charming. ]

five;

[ The bard has a lovely enough voice, she supposes. It distracts her from the unsatisfying taste of her brandy (antivan, the bartender said, but if this is antivan then her ears are fucking round) and the curious looks of the agents still not used to the Inquisition's new volunteer-- if nothing else, it's also what's keeping their eyes on their sockets (where they belong) and not in a jar atop her desk (where she'd like to have them). That alone ought to make them feel very grateful, she thinks.

Not that it matters.

She leans back on her chair, eyes set on the faces of her observers and on the rest of the tavern's current crowd and, if not happy, if not at peace, at least she feels a bit less bitter and a good deal less tense, the cold send to the back of her mind-- a little inconvenience for once, instead of the constant and mortifying weight that usually tormenting her. It'll do. A hand plays with one of her earrings, the light of the candles and the fire catching in it with a pretty glint; yes, it's not perfect and it's not home, but it's nice enough.

Awful brandy, though.]

Edited 2015-12-13 02:41 (UTC)

Threaded | Flat

Page 1 of 2

Malcolm Reynolds | Firefly | DA AU (Wandering Merc & His Mabari)

Neil Mackay | X Company | DA AU (One of Leliana's People)

Furiosa | Mad Max: Fury Road | DA AU

Karmin Vaantas | Homestuck (I'm sorry) | DA AU

Morrigan | Dragon Age

Garris Vakrie | Mass Effect | DA AU (Vigilante)

Belle | Once Upon A Time | DA AU (Orlesian noblewoman turned servant)

Yukimura Argente | OC | DA AU (Scout)

Ellie | The Last of Us | DA AU (24 years old/human rouge/Denerium-born/5th Blight survivor)

Muzét | Tales of Xillia | DA AU (Spirit of Purpose)

Agent Washington | Red vs Blue | Rifter