TEST DRIVE MEME

[faderifting]

TEST DRIVE MEME

While in some alternate, tidier timeline, the War against the Elder One ended years ago, you're not in that timeline. It's 9:45 and there's a war raging in northern Orlais between the Inquisition and its allies and the army of demon-bound Wardens, Red Templars, Venatori loyalists, and darkspawn Corypheus has amassed over the last four years. Rifts are still scattered across the continent, periodically spitting out strangers from strange worlds with green-glowing anchors embedded in their hands. There's no Herald of Andraste to save Thedas. Someone else is going to have to do it.

Under the leadership of the Herald's advisory council and Seeker Pentaghast, the Inquisition remains in Skyhold and manages an army of thousands. But you're not going to Skyhold. You've been assigned to the Inquisition's outpost in Kirkwall, one occupying an island fortress called the Gallows—formerly a Circle of Magi, more formerly a prison for slaves, but the Inquisition has done a good job removing the more grotesque reminders of that past and making the place livable.

Maybe it's an honor; they're doing important work. Maybe it's an insult; they're rumored to be a lot of weirdos and troublemakers. Or maybe you're a rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.

I. THE GALLOWS: Welcome to the Inquisition. Here's a broom, and there's a mess: a shattered window, a splintered pile of wood where a wardrobe was thrown out that window into the frost-encrusted courtyard, a whole shelf of jars containing rat hearts and deathroot and other miscellanea that exploded like firecrackers. The Gallows doesn't house much in the way of a cleaning staff, so it's up to whoever doesn't have anything better to do, and whether you like it or not, at the moment that person is you.

The source of the mess—an apparent invasion of ghostly spirits—has already been dealt with, but a door might still slam, and the shards of glass might still rattle. It's harmless, though. Probably.

II. KIRKWALL: The Marquis d'Lussard is very heavy, as you discover when it becomes your job to fetch him from the Hanged Man, where his sightseeing tour has ended in a drinking contest that he decidedly lost. Now he's swinging between unconsciousness and mumbled drinking songs, apparently a hugger when he has control of his arms, and heavy. He's also, diplomatically speaking, worth his weight in gold, so getting him back to the Gallows' guest quarters in one piece is worth the effort.

That means making your way through the streets of Lowtown and down to the Gallows at night, on ice-patched streets, with a masked Orlesian nobleman whose entire slumping, singing presence screams please rob me blind. Try to resist any and all urges to drop him into things, including ditches, uncovered drops into Darktown, and the harbor.

III. THE WAKING SEA: The island is too small to have a name, a dot of land off of Kirkwall's Wounded Coast that's traditionally only seen use by fishermen who wanted a guarantee they wouldn't be hassled for a few days. But in more recent years, it's been a permanent home to someone, people say, until the last few months, when the nightly fires stopped appearing. Nervous whispers from the coastal bandits and explorers who ventured out to see if its resident left anything worth stealing have reached the ears of Provisional Viscount Bran Cavin, and as a personal favor to him, the Inquisition is sending a couple of people to have a look.

And here's what you're looking at: a rocky, sandy stretch of land with a few dozen scraggly trees, each of them decorated with dolls in various styles, in various states of decay. All of them give off energy—some friendly, some malevolent, some despairing—and if you're very quiet, it's possible they whisper. Or maybe that's the wind through the masts of a nearby shipwreck. Either way, they're definitely home to bound spirits, and probably more than one spider.

There are more in the wooden hut at the island's center, which is also where the bones and tattered robes of the island's former occupant can be found. (There's no sign of blood magic or ill intent. Just a lot of dolls. Everyone needs a hobby.) Box them, burn them, have a funeral or don't. As long as someone can tell the Viscount that he doesn't have to add an island of possessed dolls to Kirkwall's list of tourist attractions/nightmare fuel, the mission will be a success.

IV. SEND A MESSAGE: Each member of the Inquisition (or rifter, or ally) is assigned a blue crystal, small enough to wear around the neck, that can transmit voice messages, as well as an enchanted book tied to that crystal that can be used to exchange written messages. They're secure enough to discuss the war, if you'd like to get down to business, but loosely controlled enough to ask a question or play a game with only a few rolled eyes from people who hate fun.

V. WILDCARD: From the Gallows' library to the pirate islands off the coast, from Hightown's high-priced market stalls to the frostbitten frontlines of the war, Thedas is yours to explore.

Comments

Carla "Is An Asshole" Morir || OC

[wont_be_me]

Or maybe you're a rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.
She is a rifter, but she does not think these are nice people. She thinks that this is some backwoods hollow of the multi-verse and does not wish at all to be here.

"Have you even discovered antibiotics yet?" She wonders, mouth curling unpleasantly. Not for the first time, she is glad of Oscyria's stringent laws concerning citizen immunology. Otherwise she would have every right to worry deeply about what kind of fucking rabies she would get off these stinking peasant fucks. All of which she says, out loud. And when it makes someone angry enough to shake a fist at her, the bitch of a woman smiles sideways, mouthing: I dare you.

The Gallows
Someone gives her a broom and points, more than ready to be done with her. When she does not immediately take the broom, it is shoved at her hard. So she takes it, fine, but as soon as she's walked over to the mess she tosses the instrument aside, crouching down to investigate the things in the mess, rather than clean them up. She takes a very delicate little screw driver from one of the many leather pockets and loops of her jacket, using it to poke and prod at things.

"They think this garbage protects them from ghosts, don't they..."

Something ghostly sends a pail of water flying all on its own across the courtyard, startling her. She jumps, her hand going for a gun that she has already established doesn't fucking work any longer, turning the area warily.

SEND A MESSAGE - ANSWER MY RIDDLE
"If you throw me out of a window, you’ll leave a grieving wife. If you leave me in the middle of the door, you might just save a life. What am I?"

Every incorrect guess owes me a dinner.

Wildcarding
Do what you do.

1!

[krem]

"Discovered what, yet?" Well, that answers that question. Krem seems, so far, less nettled by her general attitude than most of the people present on this particular mission to escort new Rifters back to Kirkwall. Maybe because the blatant disgust and air of superiority she's putting out there is so Tevinter that he's feeling downright homey. Maybe it's just because it's a lot harder to get under his skin these days than it used to be.

Or maybe it's because she's actually sorta hilarious in like a terrible way that he refuses to be caught laughing at (because it's certainly not not pointed at him as well.) And in a dangerous way, because yeah, he notices what she's mouthing at the first person to give her the reaction she seems to be going for. "You know what a right pain in the ass dealing with a mob is, don't you?"

3 - answering a riddle

[inkindled]

A knob.

Neferpitou - inhuman monster, literally || Hunter x Hunter

[playdolls]

The Gallows
This is larger than they used to be. Their body has changed, from the lithe little ant they were born as into... this. They're still rather small and slim for a qunari, but the body is unfamiliar. They move ungracefully, hands flexing like they're missing something. They are, missing their claws. Missing their tail. Their ears. Someone has changed them, the same way that they had changed the humans into soldier ants to suit their whims. The ones they didn't eat, anyway.

This annoys Neferpitou, as much as it frightens them. They point at the nearest passerby and shout, their voice very feminine and youthful although neither their gender nor age are exactly clear.

"You! Fight me."

The Waking Sea
They are used to following orders, even though they don't understand why they should do anything these pitiful humans tell them to do. But when they try to flex their aura and terrify the pathetic animals back into their place... nothing happens. The lack of power is saddening to Pitou, they don't know how else to describe the emotion. The empty space where something should be. So they let themselves be directed to this island.

They notice the way others become uncomfortable here, but Pitou cannot say that the malevolence on this island is a drop in the bucket compared to their own en, and certainly not that of their Lord's. So they explore and call out noisily, without circumspection. Despite what had initially been sulking as they were brought over to the island, they quickly cheer up as their curiosity gets the better of them.

Their cheer grows a little somber, however, when they note: "These dolls have been abandoned by their master."

SEND A MESSAGE
I am bored. [ A direct and childlike statement lacking any whine. ] What is it humans do, when they are bored?

Wildcards wildcards
Wildcard me.

waking sea

[versicoloured]

"As many things are, when their masters leave or pass on. They don't always give such consideration to their possessions."

And these don't seem to be anything that others found worth taking, in their master's absence-- though that may be for the best, he thinks. Being taken is not always an improvement over being abandoned or destroyed. Souza reaches up to idly touch one of the dolls, at that; it feels sad somehow, and despite the brief urge to cut it loose from the tree, he leaves it alone for the moment.

With a glance over at his companion, he adds, "Do you intend to do anything with them?"

cremisius aclassi | dragon age: inquisition

[krem]

Hanged Man

For anyone looking for someone who seems like they might be able to fireman carry even the drunkest of men, humble Krem has recently made a habit of camping in the corner of the Hanged Man, nursing the sort of terrible, lightly cursed ales one might find only within Kirkwall's dignified city limits. He'd prefer wine, like the dirty Vint that he is, but the stuff they call wine in Lowtown is much too shameful to even contemplate, and so he makes do.

Somehow, despite the (lack of) quality of swill on offer, the whole place manages to be packed tonight. In the press of patrons filling the room with a low buzz of chatter, the only table with any space left is the one where Krem has settled. He seems perfectly willing to share, though, judging by the companionable tip of his mug which he'll offer to anyone who approaches looking like they want to be off their feet. The table itself boasts a good vantage point with which to watch the goings on in the rest of the bar, tucked into a back corner as it is.

It is also, unfortunately, pretty far away from the ruddy light of the tavern's fireplace: too far to be particularly warm, which might explain why Krem is the only one there right now. He seems content in the chilly gloom, though, decked out as he is in a full suit of armor.

"Seat's yours, if you need it," he says, nodding towards the last empty stool in the room, across from him at his little table.

Hightown Markets

Krem can be spotted in Hightown fairly often on business these days, marching through with reports or offers or requests on behalf of the Chargers, but today he is loitering in the gleaming market square instead, looking a touch lost despite himself. There are times, even after all these years, that he is surprised how much money he has to spare now. Mercenary work does not pay like soldier work did, by any stretch of the imagination, which is to say that it pays so much better. There is also the fact that it is rare that Krem looks to be staying in one place for so long, to be able to consider buying nicer things. Things that don't necessarily have to be road-worthy or still look acceptable covered in mud (and blood.)

So here he is, floating from stall to stall, looking at the menswear, the more ornamental armor accents, the baubles (and the baked goods.) It's almost funny to him: everything in Kirkwall's streets and architecture screams Imperium! no matter how much the Inquisition fills up the place now, but the fashion on offer is pure Free Marches. And thank the Maker, honestly: black and red are not Krem's colors.

The Waking Sea

Krem would absolutely have preferred an island full of demons and shades to this, he thinks, when pressing one gauntleted finger into the belly of a nearby doll causes it to slouch over and sends an absolute deluge of the world's tiniest spiders scurrying away immediately. "Maker's breath," he swears, taking a hasty step back. If any of those things gets into his armor...

He shifts his shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the openness of his neck and ears to the, er, elements. Still, it seems a terrible waste to have brought a mercenary company along to discover all this nothing though, so he sends the Chargers off to at least scour the place for any valuables to bring back, much to their collective disgust and annoyance. Looks like he'll be paying for at least a couple rounds when they return. And baths for everyone. And maybe a few days off.

He turns towards whoever it is that the Inquisition had sent alongside them, eyebrows raised, while his team gets to deal with that dirty, spidery work. Perks of being the leader while Bull is off being Important. "What do you think? Anything shady going on here?"

[seaboard]

While he fends off spiders valiantly, ( oh, Sir Knight ), she keeps her hands firmly to herself, for the very reason he had just found out.

The little creatures seemed to find any excuse at all to crawl out, just to be terrifying, she's sure. Skittering about on too many legs, watching with too many eyes, like they were the hands of unmoving dolls themselves. She's sure if she leant in very close and held very still, she could see the evil joy in their gaze in terrifying all present company.

As if the dolls weren't bad enough. They were talking, but only when they thought no one was looking, she's sure. Father-Sea, Father-Sea, protect me from their wicked wisps.

"No more than a sad heart left with no one to remember them, I think."

Gilia St. Loe | Original Character

[seaboard]

i. cleaning

She doesn't mind the cleaning - honestly, she does not. It is work, and in contrast to everything else she sees in this place, it is work that does not involve a single weapon to be seen. Only her, a broom, and memory of watching servants. It takes her a second, watching others, lips blue against the cold, a scarf tied tightly below her chin, and that crowning mane of hair that - she has done her best to tame it, honestly she has, but it escapes it pins and its wimple in the whipping winds. The hard press piece of linen slowly pushing its way back from her face with each turn of her head.

Eventually, it gives up the battle. Despite her best attempts to keep it in place, as she bends to pick a stray bit of glass, the material makes its final bid for freedom against the winter air. The linen snatched free and her hair springs out like a poorly disciplined child.

She does not curse - a lady would never - but she is not fast enough to catch it with her hands full of glass. For the first time, she raises her voice: "Someone, catch it, please!"

ii. the waking sea

At first thought, the notion of going to an island brings comfort. Of being near a sea - that some glimmer says if it is the waking sea, does that mean something is alive beneath it? Would she find some measure of home amongst these strange lands and their mingling spirits? She doesn't rightly know, but she hopes so.

But it is foolish. She finds no home, on wretched toys. The things are filled with spiders. So, very, many, spiders. She is not the squeamish sort, so she prides herself. There is just a line, a line that must be drawn when the spiders drops down in front of her face, reaching for her from the mouth of a stained porcelain face. It is huge, black, and she swears she could hear it laughing.

The shriek is notable at least for just how piercing it is, as she turns tail and runs back for the shore. Those sightless dolls with their sweetly smiling faces the truest witness to her great and tremendous courage. Thank Sea-Father that there was no one here to witness it.

iii. book

pretty babe-a-sweting, thy cradle is green,
they father's a nobleman, thy mother's a queen.

I can't think another line. What rhymes with Queen?

Cleaning!

[meds4sale]

A stray bit of cloth had blown in his direction, and he'd already reached out to catch it before he heard the exclamation from across the courtyard. Fingers closing around the fabric, he smoothed it and approached the woman, her wild hair whipping in the wind.

He could sympathize - his own mess of ash blond hair was pinned tightly, and (mostly) contained by the bandanna, but there was no keeping all of it under wraps, so to speak.

He held out the wimple to her.

"It does not seem to have gotten dirty."

[meds4sale]

I. The Gallows
The Gallows had been an ...unusual place when he'd first arrived there with the Inquisition, nearly two years ago. Between the red lyrium they'd cleared out and the troubled history that shrouded the building, it was a wonder the Veil was only thin here and that the entire place hadn't just been swallowed up by a great big rift.

That probably wasn't exactly how these things worked but explanations of the Veil and Fade could only be told in metaphors and he wasn't feeling very metaphorical at the moment.

That was because someone had thrust a broom into his arms and pointed at a mess of broken glass and rat viscera and ruined medicinal herbs and directed him to get to work.

Normally the Medicine Seller made himself scarce whenever there was a hint someone might expect him to do Actual Work, but he'd been distracted, pondering over the esoteric mysteries of the universe - (should he get his lunch at the Hanged Man or the Blooming Rose) - you know, important things; and he hadn't noticed the mess, nor the officer looking to rope someone else of lesser rank into doing his task.

So there he stood, broom in one hand, mop and bucket in the other, armed and ready for the task before him of cleaning up other people's messes. If he was in a metaphorical mood, that might have very well been a rather good one for his life.

When one of the jars started to rattle ominously, however, his lips curled into a thin, unpleasant smile.

That was more like it.


III. The Waking Sea

There was very little that could garner a reaction out of the Medicine Seller. Spiders weren't on that list. Neither were dolls. At least, they couldn't garner more than a slight lift of a solitary brow.

It wasn't as though he had no experience with possessed dolls - there was a scar shaped like tiny little toothmarks on his left ankle from a possessed karakuri that was testament enough to that - but even this was a little much.

He picked a doll off of a branch, the jostling of its home sending a fat orb weaver scuttling out of its empty socket onto the Medicine Seller's hand. Setting it down gently on a protruding twig where it scurried off to do whatever it was spiders actually did, he returned his scrutiny to the doll.

"I do not think," he said, slow and even as he turned it over and over in his hands, "that they were bound willingly."

There was a susurration as the wind picked up, the bare branches and dolls rattling as the trees swayed. ...And on the edge of hearing, a sound like a small crowd of voices whispered urgently.

The wind stilled into unnatural silence, and the Medicine Seller wordlessly pressed on up the rocky path.


IV - Send a Message
[The book was a new development (or at least one he'd not been around for) and one the Medicine Seller was all too delighted to have a bit of fun with it. The first entry he makes in it is a number of doodles of several members of the Inquisition he'd seen that day as cats, along with some notes about varying ointments, disinfectants, and poultices - the kind that might be particularly helpful to any members presently in the field]

[He can be helpful. Sometimes.]



Wildcard! - By the Sea

It lay west of Kirkwall and clung to the towering bluff of basalt like a limpet to a ship in a storm. Once one part fortification, another part lighthouse, later converted into an estate for a wealthy recluse, it was now a husk of its former self. Fire had hollowed one part of the structure and the rest had been left to the whim of decay. It was a testament to old Tevinter architecture that as much of it still stood now - burnt and battered by decades of neglect, it still looked out imposingly across the Waking Sea.

It should have been an ideal hideout for bandits - or even less savory characters - but the dark stone walls were shrouded in darker rumours. No one with any sense got too close.

The Medicine Seller followed the old path to the decrepit structure. It was overgrown with roots and tangles of vines, with only the occasional patch of cobbles to suggest a narrow road had once wound its way up the craggy incline. A bitter wind blew in from the sea, whipping up ice particles into the winter air. The naked trees rattled and rustled, and the waves crashed on the rocks below. Aside from that, and the uneven footfalls of the Medicine Seller as he picked his way through the years of growth, it was silent. No seabirds wheeled or called - there was no sign of animal life at all.

Nothing came here.

Which meant he had work to do.

the waking sea

[playdolls]

They turn their head at his voice. They were enjoying the little dolls, if a bit sad for them, and they contemplate his words for a moment. They were sad because the dolls were alone here, not because they were bound against their will.

"What does that matter?" they inquire guilelessly. Maybe the sorcerer had just wanted a friend. Pitou had one like that back home, a beautiful warrior with silver hair whose head they stolen, and then sewn back on so that he could dance beautifully for them. The doll had not been as lovely dead, but they had loved it just the same.

bartimaeus (the bartimaeus sequence)

[reshapes]

THE GALLOWS.
Menial labor? In this guise?

"I think not."

Don't get it wrong - generally speaking, Bartimaeus might be all too happy to be seen doing degrading menial labor in the form of a variety of lesser beings like giant insects, sentient fog, or the human one he now wears. There's usually something to be said for choosing to toil away an unsettlingly familiar shape in front of people when they know he can be anything whenever he chooses.

But it's different with this one. For one, no one here knows enough about anything to get when they're being insulted, which takes all the pleasure out of it. For two-- well, he's apparently stuck with this shape for the immediate future, and he'd rather no one know him as That Guy Who Does Whatever We Ask Him To, No Matter The Smell¹. He'd spent the morning as a bird of prey terrorizing the fishermen in the harbor for giggles and has burned through enough of his reserve that he's tired and can't quite get it up to change into something less recognizable.

No, much better to be That Guy Who Waits Just Long Enough For The Person Who Gave Him This Job To Disappear Around A Corner Before Ditching His Newfound Responsibilities.

So the moment their supervisor is gone, Bartimaeus turns to the unlucky sop who's been assigned cleanup duties alongside him. He says, "You can handle this, can't you?" with all the simpering charm of a shapen with rather more curves and shoves the broom into their hands. You're welcome.

1. And the mess in the courtyard does. Nothing like a combination of embalming fluid and decade old rat hearts to really open up the sinuses.

KIRKWALL.
Being in Thedas comes with a long list of very immediate negatives for a distinguished djinn such as himself. The body? Disgusting. The necessity of keeping his frankly stellar reputation as a powerful, cunning, relentlessly clever spirit under wraps? Not only terribly close minded of the local population, but practically impossible. The magic shard in his hand steadily draining his essence? Concerning, to say the least.

But you know what's actually a little good?

Beer is, as it turns out. Or mead. Or whatever watered down paint thinner they're serving in the Hanged Man. Funny - seems those Egyptians really did know a thing or two after all.

So if you're wondering who won that drinking contest, look no further! However, if you're looking for help trying to get the Marquis down the ruinous number of stairwells throughout Kirkwall, you're out of luck. Bartimaeus is in this instant tripping and falling down after him with a pitched yelp.

BURN BOOK.
In scratching, anonymous script:

I spied with my little eye something beginning with the letter 'D' and ending with 'id you know that a frankly shocking number of members of the night patrol sleep through their shifts?'

burn book.

[notched]

I did. It has its uses.

Sandy | Rise of the Guardians | Native AU

[morethanadream]

Gallows

A ship bearing Rivaini colors docks in the Gallows, and a small retinue of Rivainis dressed in bright colors comes out, escorting a strange little being. The person in between them clearly isn't a dwarf, though he's small enough to be. He also probably isn't a particularly short human, because his eyes are vibrant gold, his skin has a golden sheen, and magic hums around him. As he follows the humans, he picks up little scattered potion ingredients on the way, dropping them into their proper barrels with a smile.

The retinue approaches the Quartermaster, one Rivaini sitting down with her to discuss their golden friend volunteering. "This is the greatest contribution our town can give," the representative said. "He's the source of our prosperity, and you should treat him with respect."

The little golden man, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be paying attention. He's wandering around the courtyard, taking in all the people silently with a big smile on his face. Then he seems to choose a wall, placing his hand on it and then letting it change.

A beautiful design shimmers to life on the wall, a mural too dreamy to be real, like it only exists in the mind of the observer. It shows Kirkwall at the best it can be, but the design is a little different depending on who is looking at it. What does 'the best Kirkwall can be' mean to the observer?

Waking Sea

Sandy is a friendly but silent presence on the way to the island, spending his time running his fingers through the water and playing with a hunk of clay that he found somewhere in Kirkwall. He's made a majestically detailed model of a sea serpent by the time they make it to the beach, and he wastes no time climbing over the edge of the boat and wiggling his way onto the beach.

While most would probably be put off by the possessed dolls, Sandy perks, then makes a beeline right for them. One doll, seeming a little sad as it sags on its tree, is the first he reaches. The whispers rise on the wind, but Sandy just cups the doll's head in his hands, examining it as his gentle gold light that always seems to emanate from him intensifies into a true glow.

He's talking to the spirits in the dolls. Not with words, but in another way. Then, as if he's made a final decision, he rips the doll's head off its body and smashes it against the tree, releasing a bright flash of light and the smell of ozone and magic.

waking sea

[playdolls]

"You're not supposed to break them!" Pitou declares, aghast. They had learned that it was no fun to break and destroy their toys, sure you might be able to put it back together again but it wouldn't be right. Their genuine understanding of human agency remains... limited. "And it was so pretty..."

It is unlikely anyone else on this expedition agrees with that sentiment.

Jack Frost (Rise of the Guardians) | NATIVE-AU | hello hi he is a spirit of fun

[eternally]

some rift somewhere

The weather around the rift is intense, unseasonably powerful, fat hailstones dropping violently out of the clouds in the area and harrying the things crawling out... but curiously, only in the area. Everywhere else, though the wind is sharp and cold, it is simply snowing. Once any anchor bearers come in close enough to do the work of dispatching the demons that poured out of that green rip in the air, the suspicious storm lets up, and that (almost) seems like that.

But before the rift can be fully sealed, another person appears in the field — or was he always there? — a young man that is tall but whip thin, with bright white hair despite the fact that he appears quite young. His clothing looks terribly old and threadbare and wears no shoes, without heed for the fact that his toes are buried directly in snow, and there is a shepherd's staff covered in faintly glowing frost tucked into the crook of one elbow so that his hands are freed up to be gaped at.

In the center of one palm is a strip of glowing green light.

A bit absently, like he isn't talking to anyone but himself even though there are now people nearby: "What is this?"

gallows courtyard

Whoever tried to rope Jack into doing real, actual work clearly had never met him before, because after the initial shock of being handed a broom (the same surprise he regards anyone who addresses him directly with, for at least the first couple seconds), Jack has proceeded to do exactly zero cleaning up.

Instead, he keeps sweeping the frost around while keeping an eye on whoever got suckered into working alongside him, surreptitiously dropping the tip of his long, spindly shepherd's staff down to tap the ground whenever they get too close to sweeping up anything substantial, freezing the bit of whatever there to the cobblestones beneath it. When confronted he just grins brightly, spreading his hands in a very innocent totally clueless shrug. Weird, right?

"Hey, let's take a break." Absolutely nothing has been accomplished here. Minor details. "Want to do something more fun?"

Wildcard

[Does your character really need cheering up? To have some fun, even against their better judgment? Leave me one of those "come bother me!" starters and Jack will fix them right up or your money back!]

gallows!

[meds4sale]

The Medicine Seller had turned his attention from sweeping when his compatriot had decided to freeze the pickled viscera to the floor and act like he absolutely hadn't seen him do it. Instead he seemed to be making a brand new mess - there were oblong, rectangular pieces of paper stuck to a nearby wall. Occasionally, dark writing would appear on them before fading away.

"Oh?"

The Medicine Seller was absolutely on board with accomplishing absolutely nothing here. He avoided real work at every turn as though it might make him break out in hives.

"We might get a demerit. Perhaps even several."

He'd already set aside the broom.

souza samonji | touken ranbu

[versicoloured]

[please don't mind the flamingo hair icons and just assume he's blond because i cannot photoshop. /fingerguns.]

I.-

Field duty was one thing, back home. Filthy work, yes, but work that had to be done and at least brought with it some kind of reward-- being human meant needing the food they grew, after all. This? This is a completely different matter, and one that he's not at all dressed for.

--Not that he is dressed for much that's useful, probably, but the point remains.

He isn't one to shirk directions given (not that he's in any position to, he's sure), but neither is he terribly enthusiastic about it, using the end of the broom to prod idly at the spilled remains of a jar of... something. Souza has no idea what a decent amount of these things even are, only that what's on the floor in front of him looks disgusting.

"They don't expect us to pick this up, do they... we'll get filthy at that rate," he murmurs as he squints down at it. "Can you even tell if this is worth keeping?"

II-

The first step in dealing with a problem like this is to make it easier on yourself, if possible; unfortunately, just about everything about this man is something that causes trouble in getting him the hell out of here and succeeding in his objective.

There is one way, though, to make dealing with him much easier.

Getting him out the door is a struggle, but once outside and once he's fairly sure there's no one else observing-- ah. Souza's hand must have slipped while trying to help shift the Marquis' weight a bit, and how convenient that it happened to slip in just the right spot to knock the man unconscious. He's halfway there anyway, he reasons. Just needed a bit of a push. (And he was already so tired of listening to drunken babbling and, worst of all, being clung to.)

"He really has had far too much to drink," he says casually to his companion, as he adjusts his hold-- how can one human be so difficult to lift? "I expect he'll have something of a headache from it all in the morning. Give me a hand bringing him home, won't you?"

i

[aestivation]

Casimir frowns over, wears the distant intensity of someone concentrating very hard — but not on this conversation.

"Don't pick it up," Pauses in pulling on a glove to tug it off again, hand them over. "Until you put these on."

A gesture, the glass. The door slams behind them for what must be the third time in as many minutes; a nerve in his temple jumps. He squats to pick gingerly at a shard, bare skin coming away black and ichorous.

"Eel, I think. It'll be contaminated," Another gesture, more emphatic. Skin nicks, he flinches back. "Ow."

liam | native oc

[irreverently]

II. KIRKWALL

The most galling part of this entire thing, Liam thinks as he bats Marquis d'Whatever's hands away from trying to pull him into a hug for what must be the thousandth time, is that he would make a perfect target. Just a month ago, he would have been the bandit lurking in the shadows, waiting to kill his escort and rob this man absolutely stinking blind. Not that Liam hadn't already liberated the man's coinpurse and a shiny trinket or five from him the last time he slumped over unconscious directly on top of him, but it's not like he won't also be looted when the inevitable happens. (What? It's not like the Marquis will remember any of this, and if anything, someone at the Hanged Man will probably get blamed.)

He is just reaching the end of his rope, where the urge to drop the nobleman and book it to save his own skin almost overpowers him—diplomatic worth be damned—when he spots someone else from the Inquisition. Someone Inquisition-adjacent, at least.

"Hey! Help me with this idiot," he calls over as forcefully as he dares, given how rife the streets of Lowtown are with... well, his own sort of people, this late at night.

He duly ignores the slurred, indignant and heavily accented "how dare you!" from the drunk man, as well as the subsequent, tremulous: "I thought we were friends."

III. WAKING SEA

For someone so allergic to any real worthwhile work, Liam seems downright delighted to be here. He hasn't even looked at the body, or the house they were sent to inspect, except a brief and cursory glance around to try and find anything valuable to loot, but instead he seems to be knocking dolls aside and studying the spiders that come skittering out from behind them.

"Have you seen anything black with a red mark on it? Or with a yellowish-brown body?" A beat, and then he actually looks up from where he is crouched in front of a particularly nasty looking spider web teeming with activity. "Don't touch it if you do."

IV. SEND A MESSAGE

How much would one of these things sell for, do you think?

iv.

[elegiaque]

Less than it's really worth to sell something activated by your own name.

( like go for gold, dude, but if she doesn't sound worried it's because that definitely sounds like a self-correcting problem. )

john mandrake | bartimaeus sequence

[contemptful]

i. gallows

It's the sort of artless, heavy-handed irony he'd expect to see in one of Makepeace's plays: one moment John Mandrake, great magician and Information Minister, sits in the back of his own private car and very seriously debates his right — no, obligation — to take up Gladstone's Staff for the good of all of Britain. And now, not very many moments later (or weeks, literally, but that's lacking dramatic appeal), he stands, penniless, holding a broomstick and standing in...

Rat hearts? Those are really rat hearts. Anyway, it isn't the polished wood staff he was planning on holding, is the point.

Without his expensive suits and meticulous haircuts, he looks like what he is, which is a skinny teenage boy holding a broomstick and frowning thoughtfully at the broken cabinet's innards. John doesn't make a move to start cleaning. He considers digging the charcoal out of his pocket and drawing a pentacle on the floor instead. Not for the first time, which is why he knows it would be pointless. Still, maybe if he just changes the words of the summoning slightly—

"You." He's drawn out of his thoughts by a bypasser, whether they're skirting close or carefully avoiding the mess. He says you with polite authority, as if there's any way to make shouting you at someone not rude. He seems to think it isn't. "Do you know who usually tends to the grounds?"

He's not an idiot. The informal answer is clearly new recruits, or rifters, or specifically whoever's been handed a broom. But there must be some kind of hierarchy. And, more importantly: he can't possibly be at the bottom of it.

ii. kirkwall

This is a task with some merit. There isn't much about this place that makes sense, but Marquis is a word he knows and nobleman holds the obvious weight, and that means this inane, humiliating task might be a blessing in disguise. A chance to rub shoulders with the elite, to get his name in with someone who really matters.

You know what also holds weight? The Marquis, who is currently dead drunk and teetering perilously at the top of a flight of stone steps.

John has his back against the Marquis', pushing against him with all the effectiveness you might expect from a boy who hasn't lifted anything heavier than his ego in all of his seventeen years. There's sweat on his brow and an uncomfortable focus on his face, gaze fixed on the tips of his toes at the edge of a step, desperately trying not to give ground or lose balance.

He can't even look up when he hears footsteps approach. And while normally he'd approach an alliance with more finesse and strategy, right now he doesn't have much choice. Instead, there's a strained, dubiously high-pitched: "Help, please."

iii. book

In very tidy (some might even say pretentious) script, the kind that's so fancy that it's hard to say if that's an f or an s:

What do the words "spirit" and "demon" mean to you?

I have done all the pertinent reading, so I am not looking for pedantry and definitions. I know what these words mean in the context of this world. I am interested in your opinion and your subjective experience.

Does that even make sense? Wouldn't their opinion still include a definition? Can he erase this message?— no. That would look even worse than sending a foolish question in the first place. He'll stand by it.

iii

[rathercommon]

Immediately, upon reading that, Kitty wonders if this is someone from her world. Of course, every time she hears about a new rift opening up, or sees new faces in the Gallows, she wonders if it's someone from her world. Probably everyone does - thinks immediately, what if it's someone I know? What if it's some friend or some enemy or some someone? But here she has some reason for it - this sounds like the way they talk back home, and that's enough to make her wary.

So, in neat script, a secretary's tidy hand, she writes back:

Why are you asking all of that?

eliot waugh | the magicians

[dependently]

ii. kirkwall.

"You know, usually I'm the dead weight being dragged back to bed," Eliot says aloud to the heavy, horrendous liability he's hauling through the streets. "If this is what counts as personal growth..."

The snippy aside trails off into irritated silence, then bitter huff. Eliot's agitated to the point of near-hysterical laughter. Is this really his life? Sweating and grunting his way through the streets trying to get some idiot of apparently semi-royal blood back to bed? At what point will circumstances stop dropping him into far off lands with insufficient plumbing and too many problems?

The Marquis breaks off his incomprehensible song with a hrk that Eliot rightly interprets as: I'm about to vomit on your shoes and proceeds to drop him and hop back before the Marquis spews a great deal of terrible beer across the street in front of him. Eliot expression curdles into resigned disgust.

"I should have been issued a cart for this."

Or not have gone at all? Eliot still isn't entirely sure what his role here is, other than stay out of the way until someone needs him or the stupid shit embedded in his palm for something. Typical. He stoops with a disgusted groan to grab the swooning Marquis' armpit and start the process of hauling him back upright, momentarily unaware of the interested, shadowed parties eyeing him from the nearby alleyway.

iv. send a message.

Does this place have any fun drugs that I should know about?

v. wildcard

[ do whatever, i'm game. ]

ii.

[elegiaque]

“Is that who I think it is?”

—the voice, slightly muffled and over the sound of hooves and wheels, is too unfamiliar to mean Eliot, but a liveried carriage rolls to a stop beside him and a small face leans out of it to be sure. (An arm is partially visible behind her, in a way that suggests the back of her dress is being held lest she lean too perilously or be lunged for by someone untrustworthy.)

She slaps at it, absently; “He's Inquisition, I can see his hand,” as if she herself hasn't frequently argued that that isn't really a great recommendation for a person.

“Drag him in,” she says, opening the door wider. Then, “Guilfoyle, make sure the carriage gets cleaned before it goes back to Hightown.”

“Madam,” placidly, from the shadows.

derrica | native oc.

[tender]

iii. the waking sea

Derrica thinks, the Seers would have so much to say about this place. The island is so small, but it drips in spirits. Derrica can almost feel their presence on her skin, cold fingers grasping for voice. Or something else. Derrica doesn't know yet. She isn't like her mentors; she hadn't learned how to take the measure of a spirit's whisper and understand it's nature and she's too afraid to gamble on her own.

Anyone who could have taught her is dead now. Derrica tips her head back to look at the doll dangling from the spindly branch above her. She catches it by the foot and the cloth disintegrates between her fingers. How long have these been here?

"We should try to see what's further up the path," Derrica says slowly, scrubbing her fingers against her tunic. "I'm not sure...I'm not sure how these got here, but I don't think fisherman left them."

Someone left them. Derrica's interested, maybe even eager, to find and question the person who did, but she's trying to contain that impulse. The Annulment had been sufficient demonstration of what happens when people become aware of practices beyond what the Chantry sanctioned.

"I can go first?" She prompts, though she hardly presents the kind of figure that reassures anyone she could withstand a full on assault from an ominous being.

iv. send a message.

Where does everyone come from? Where did you travel here from?

v. wildcard

[ do whatever, i'll roll with it. ]

iv.

[elegiaque]

I came to the Inquisition from Orlais—Halamshiral, mostly, but my father's lands before the war were at the edge of the Greatwood, towards Lake Celestine. Shardbearers were still in Skyhold, at the time. I'd never left Orlais before.

geralt of rivia | the witcher series | rifter.

[bleidd]

I. KIRKWALL

Looking after a drunken nobleman isn't what Geralt thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, but somehow he's here. Walking the stumbling man through Lowtown as he attempts to regal the Witcher with what he calls a famous Orlesian ballad. It isn't, in fact if it was supposed to be some sort of song Geralt could hardly tell with how off key Marquis d'Lussard sings.

It shouldn't hurt if he just... took the hilt of his sword and knocked the man out, would it? Hitting what could only be the songs crescendo the Marquis slips, flailing arms latching onto Geralt's for stability. Funny how quickly 'holding onto dear life' turns into 'uncomfortable hugging for dear life', it grew tiresome of it after a fifth time the Marquis slipped. As heavy as the man is Geralt manages to pry himself free, watching blankly as the man fails to regain what little balance he still has and falls back onto a patch of half melted ice.

The cries that follow ("why didn't you catch me?" "i can't feel my legs!") sounds like they come from a child rather than an grown man. They do little to urge the Witcher into action, only increase his desire to abandon the man to whatever horrors the population of Lowtown may have in plan for him.

"Get up. Your legs are fine."

II. THE WAKING SEA

His boots crunch heavily against the coarse sand, medallion vibrating rapidly against his chest. It had been doing that since the moment they made shore, confirming a part of the Witcher's suspicions as to why they had been asked to investigate. It's Witcher work after all.

"Careful," He starts, nodding towards the dolls swaying from the nearby trees. "My medallion's humming, can only mean magic. Or monsters." Despite the warning Geralt waltz's straight over to one, reaching out to pluck it down. As he does the doll's clothes disintegrates from his touch, leaving behind a cloud of dust decorating his glove. How long have they been out here? Worn down by time and weather, it's a miracle some of them have lasted this long. The sea breeze brushes past them, other dolls swinging with it, and something catches his finely turned hearing; a whisper, a plea. The wolf's head medallion around his neck shakes even more and Geralt drops the doll, only to bring a heel down upon it barely a moment later.

"Someone's been binding spirits to the dolls." A glance behind him, to his company, as he draws his silver sword from his back. The runes etched upon it glow gently with purple light, the sword almost singing as it is freed. "Stay close to me."

III. SEND A MESSAGE.

does anyone know of a good blacksmith?

iii

[reshapes]

Is this the opening to a rude joke? Because if so, consider my interest piqued.

Aerifor "Definitely Not Mahariel" || Native OC

[aerifor]

II. Kirkwall- the Hanged Man

Aerifor isn't here for any shem babysitting, he's just here to look for merc work. Actually he's here to get wasted, but you know, a job opportunity wouldn't go wasted.

He looks really Dalish(with the facial tattoos), but the heavy armor, dual greatswords, and the being PRETTY BIG for an elf might throw you off before you get a good look at him. Either way, it's obvious this dude is a merc out here to have a good time, but he's not having a great time when some human fool in a mask gets real drunk and starts getting too close. Close enough for hugging, and THAT'S FAR TOO MUCH.

Sop who's the one babysitting the Orlesian lush, because now drunk and angered by the unwanted friendliness, Aerifor has fully picked up this rich dude and is not more than a few seconds away from tossing him, no doubt starting something awful with this nobleman.

III. The Wounded Coast

Dolls. Of course it's dolls, because it has to be. Nothing can be normal with shems. Nothing. Never. Aerifor is so tired, but a job is a JOB and if that means dealing with some weird haunted doll island, then okay, fine.

Now, how do you deal with ghosts? You can't hit them with your oversized swords and that's a pain, so the best thing he can think of to do is just clean this place the hell up. This could be a neat escape honestly, if not for the ghost dolls, but that does mean moving the dolls elsewhere. He's thinking some shem city that he doesn't have to live in for awhile, and so you may come across some giant elf in heavy armor with a woven grass basket on his back like a backpack absolutely full of dolls. Just every doll he's found so far, and he's continuing to pick them up as he goes before noticing someone who noticed him, scowling at them.

"What? You got a better idea?" Of course they don't, this idea is perfect and cannot be improved upon in any way.

IV. Message

hey who can i stab for money around here i'm getting bored and also tired of stale bread

X. WILDCARD

No matter where you might be, here's a REALLY BIG BUFF ELF in heavy, dusty red armor. He might even resemble a short Qunari before you realize his Definitely Dalish Facial Tattoos, but hey. He's not judging you for looking the way you look! Unless you are human, then he's definitely judging.

Also he may or may not be picking fights just to see if anyone would throw money at him for it, so hit him up anywhere you'd like.

[OOC: feel free to hmu here or at decathect if you wanna hash anything out/ask questions.]

II

[krem]

Krem took his eyes off the Marquis for what feels like one minute maximum and he's already getting (probably deservedly) manhandled by an armed and armored stranger, isn't that just his luck?

He makes a beeline for them, having been trying to negotiate his astronomical tab with the bartender, reaching up to grab at the back of the Orlesian's collar in order to at least stop him from getting whipped clear across the room if he can't de-escalate this fast enough. Normally he wouldn't be so bold as to just grab rich clients, but there is literally no way Marquis d'Lussard isn't fully black-out drunk right now. What he doesn't remember can't hurt Krem's sterling reputation.

This shockingly buff elf, however... "Sorry, I can see he's been bothering you."

Zuko | Avatar: The Last Airbender (AU Native)(renamed Dante probably)

[blood_royal]

The Gallows

Well, his life hasn't really been privileged in quite a while, but having lived in a Circle tower for most of the last few years Dante is much more accustomed to spending his time in the library or training, not doing menial tasks. That's what Tranquil are for, and he was supposed to be here to do something important. Isn't that why he'd been sent?

The one who gives him the order doesn't stick around, though, so Dante turns his attention to the debris. He absolutely does not intend to cart any of it anywhere, so while he does make a token effort to round it all up into a single pile, once that's done he sets the whole thing ablaze with an impatient wave of his hand. Ashes will blow away in the wind, and the remains will be easier to move.

[faithlikeaseed]

To say Myr's more casual about displays of his own magic than a Circle mage ought to be is a gross understatement--

But even if he'd once disposed of a pile of broken furniture back in Hasmal exactly like that, he hasn't been quite so free with his own destructive potential since coming to Kirkwall. (Though there were more reasons than simply not wanting to frighten the locals behind it.) It's the prickle of the spell through the Fade as much as the wumph of the bonfire igniting that catches his attention; his startled look up from the papers he's reading one of momentary alarm. Why is there--

Oh. "Don't know why we didn't think of doing that before," he says merrily, only a little bit forced to cover his own alarm. "Other'n not wanting to terrify anyone by not warning them."

Adrian Rowan / D&D oc / Rifter.

[smiteproof]

I. GALLOWS.

There is a mess, a broom, and a well armored man who looks about as confused as he does exhausted. He exhales, hand coming to run through a mop of messy brown hair. Gods, does his head hurt. It isn't the first time headaches have crippled him, he can remember exactly two times prior to this that his head felt as though it was about to explode. However neither of those were caused by being thrown out of some sort of portal, ambushed by demons, and saved by the Inquisition. (That's what they called themselves.)

Those were different sorts of headaches, the sort Adrian would rather not revisit anytime soon.

With a sort of sigh of resignation he moves towards the mess, bending down beside the mess of what was someone's component jar, nudging the scattered contents with a gloved finger. Rat hearts, some sort of herbs - fimilar yet unfamiliar at the same time. Be a waste if he just leaves them here. He puts aside the broom then, picking up the contents and shaking them of dirt and glass, before pocketing them into a small pouch on his hip.

As he does, Adrian sighs once more, mumbling: "I need a drink."

II. KIRKWALL.

This is more like it. Despite the fact he is very much aware the job is to escort the particularly large and rather drunk man back to the Gallows, Adrian decides not to, not straight away. In fact he makes it his mission to becoming chummy with the Marquis, drinking a few rounds with him before challenging him to a card game. Adrian, of course, manages to win without even having to cheat, reliving his charge of a few gold coins.

This, naturally, gains the attention to few of the other patrons, who gravitate towards their table taking up the opportunity for a little but of light-hearted gambling. It's where you find Adrian, and a rather passed out Marquis, some hours later. Table surrounded by a crowd of patrons, as he smoothly lays his cards out on the table. His opponent curses loudly ("Maker's Balls!") as the small crowd cheers, Adrian leaning back in his chair.

"It seems, my good sir, that I have beaten you once again."

III. WILDCARD.

Come at me. ;)

OH BOY

[swordproof]

Six’s return to training has been a slow yet steady process. With her leg mangled she had been forced to rest for what felt like far too long, her attention elsewhere - helping, supporting, doing what she could in other ways... And delivery missions. Being back in the Gallows now is a kind of delight she had never thought to be so wonderful; being able to train again, to feel her strength grow, to feel the strain in her muscles... It makes her smile, content.

She’s completely lost in her work, moving and pressing, hefting her greatsword with the kind of strength that she had worked on for years. She doesn’t notice the comings and goings of people until there’s something like a chill on the back of her neck, skin pricking a little before she breathes out, turning her hair. With her hair braided and her armour on she can feel herself stand tall, as a threat, but she stops when she realises what it is.

A ghost. A spirit. A flicker of memory from the weakening of the Veil.

Gritting her teeth, Six holds back the tide of emotions and forces herself to be calm. Her blade is put away. Her eyes are forced to remain dry. She can tackle this, she tells herself, another spirit come to claim her. She doesn’t note the glow of green in his hand, nor the way her Mabari is not concerned by his presence, as if he were alive and not dead.

“Adrian.” Voice soft, quiet: sad. “You should not be here.”

Mollymauk Tealeaf / Critical Role / Rifter.

[mauks]

I. GALLOWS.

And among the mess, a man stands in a multi colored coat. Well, he looks like a man. One with horns and purple skin, although for a moment you might think that this man may actually be a woman considering how thin he is in comparison to the other Qunari (though he insist he is a Tiefling) you may have seen. But in truth the coat is likely going to be the thing that catches your attention more, long and bright and demanding to have you pay attention to it.

Then it's the tattoo that adorns his neck, curling up onto his cheek, a bright depiction of peacock feathers than disappear into his colorful coat. That's odd, isn't it? Qunari don't adorn themselves in tattoos stereo-typically, or wear bright coats that screams for attention. Yet here one stands, head cocked to the side jewelry adorning his curved horns jiggling slightly with the motion.

Who would have thought the second time he clawed his way out of his own grave (that's what happened, right?) Mollymauk Tealeaf would have to trivial responsibility of cleaning thrust upon him. He certainly didn't. He waits, wide smile upon his lips, until the person, who had gifted him the broom, disappears before handing it off to the nearest person - "Terribly sorry, I have something important to take care of." - before walking away, waving a tattooed hand at the poor unfortunate soul.

Important things, yes, like finding the nearest bar.

II. WAKING SEA.

"This is a little morbid, isn't it?"

Firstly, Mollymauk isn't so certain he likes boats. Or the ocean for that fact. Secondly, dolls hanging from seemingly dead trees is frankly unsettling. He glances over at his company, one hand resting on top of a scimitar hanging from his waist. The sooner they get this done the better, right? There is a comfortable bed and wine waiting for them back at the city, and Mollymauk hadn't finished enjoying both when he was pulled onto this mission.

III. WILD CARD.

You know the drill.

ii / i've arrived

[potential]

Morbid is a good word for most of what's happening right now. In a boat on a beach of a dying island filled with spiders and dolls with a tiefling who may or may not be dead. Caleb watches Frumpkin cleaning his paws in the bottom of the boat for a moment and clicks his tongue for him, waiting until Frumpkin's begrudgingly sprung out of the boat onto the beach until he replies.

"All the more reason not to linger," is Caleb's answer. "Perhaps we should not have come this close."

Though even saying this is a joke. Of course they came this close. Regardless of who among their party is and isn't here, the Mighty Nein continually poke their noses into things that might bite back. Whatever Caleb might have told himself otherwise about his own tendencies, he's still standing on this beach and considering walking further in towards the center of the island.

"Shall we go?"

Last chance to prevail upon him to set the whole thing alight from where they stand, Molly.

adalia enneris | d&d oc | rifter | she's like a bad penny

[thunderproof]

ii. kirkwall

❰ adalia began this evening with every intention of being a good little inquisition agent and not ruffling any feathers, magically or otherwise. she's just recently returned, after all, and any goodwill (or... lack thereof) she may have acquired in her first appearance in thedas is but a memory; she should tread carefully until she can establish herself again.

but the marquis is very heavy, and she was never built for carrying heavy things, and what's the point of being able to move things with magic if you never use magic for that purpose, honestly? so the marquis is floating along beside adalia, very sedately, unaware of his magicked state and still singing as loud as he pleases. fortunately, he hasn't seemed to catch the attention of any bandits. yet. the night is young, and adalia isn't much of an optimist anymore. ❱

Should have learned Silence, ❰ adalia mutters to herself, and sighs, and trudges reluctantly onward. ❱

iv. sending crystal

Last I was in Kirkwall, it was Firstfall, and we were at battle in Ghislain. Clearly I've missed some things, so — anyone care to catch me up? Was the wedding a shitshow? I have wedding presents, Gwenaëlle, so come to my room when you get a chance.

❰ the line goes dead for a moment, and then starts back up. ❱

Oh, has the Elven Artifacts Assistant position been filled yet? I'd like to have my job back, if it hasn't.

❰ and then, hesitant, soft: ❱

Six? Are you still here?

v. wildcard

❰ ooc; hit me up on plurk (salvatrice or in pm if you want something else, or just leave me a prompt! i'm easy. ❱

crystal.

[swordproof]

[ Breathless, as if she’s grabbed her crystal quickly, jumping for it. ]

Adalia?

ruth aldine | x-men | native!au

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

[the gallows]

"Can any pardon be saved? Please." It smells horrible, everything all mixed together--but she remembers warnings about the dearness of ingredients, back in the Circle. Some of these jars would have taken weeks or months to replace at home, provided they could be paid for.

Ruth moves easily as she walks the little courtyard's flagstones--despite the touch of ice on the paving, despite the blindfold tied around her face--edging around the remains of the wardrobe to inspect the broken glass of the jars. She's crouched down, hair hanging around her face, her free hand hovering above the mess. While she doesn't see in the conventional way, she perceives enough to want to find something to salvage.

[the waking sea]

Ruth's never been to the sea before. No--more accurately, Ruth's never had a moment with the sea, an hour where the world around her seems to relax and everything smells of brine. Her trip to the Inquisition's doors was a hasty one, the underbelly of her ship over weighted with nausea and a child who couldn't stop crying, while Kirkwall proper has too many people roaming its docks (and too many rotting fish).

This lonely little island has rocks strewn all over its beach and birds that call down to their prey. She knows they're here for a purpose, but she's drawn to the edge of the lapping tide even after she's waded through it from their dinghy. There's a moment, bending over and letting her fingers drag through the wet, pebbly sand, when everything feels clear and right.

But they're there for dolls, and the remains of someone who once loved the way they swayed from the boughs of trees. Ruth cuts one, its cloth dress mildewed, down with a little knife. She starts when her hand closes around it.

"It was sorry, yes, yes a friend. It listened." She knows it, the same way she knows the little apron it wears is made of old ring velvet. Touch a thing, know its past--somehow, the Fade gives it up. Ruth sets it on the pile. "This is strange."

[wildcard]

[Ruth's a former Circle mage, around 19 or 20 (she's not entirely sure which), who would likely be terrifyingly powerful if she hadn't repressed most of her magical abilities in the wake of A Really Unfortunate Harrowing. While she often keeps to herself, the fact that she walks around the Gallows (and Kirkwall as a whole) wearing a blindfold may or may not be reason enough to do a double-take and/or tell her to stop fucking around before she runs into somebody. If you'd like to do something else and want to talk about it, please feel free to reach out by PMing this journal!]

Athessa Sulahnan || OC

[sulahnan]

I. THE GALLOWS:

Well, might as well organize the mess. Makes sense to dump the rest of it out the window so it’s all in the same place as the wardrobe, right?

II. KIRKWALL:

Capable as she is, or can be on occasion, Athessa is not big, tall, or overburdened with upper body strength. Also, drunk weight is much harder to handle than dead weight. Dead weight is easy, you just drag it or heft it into a wheelbarrow, or--

Well, actually that could probably work with drunk weight, too. If there’s a wheelbarrow around, which there’s not. At least not one that isn’t full of...stuff you wouldn’t want to sit in.

The elf has cycled through a few carrying methods thus far, starting with the typical arm-over-the-shoulder assist, but when her quarry made that particularly difficult, she changed tactics. Currently, the tactic is try not to be crushed by the man on your back.

“Hey, Marcus, I really like that song so if you don’t mind--could ya stop ruining it?”

III. THE WAKING SEA:

The start of the excursion onto the haunted island of dolls goes ok. Not much excitement, just some silly banter between the explorers. That is, until Athessa brushes past a doll-laden branch and the movement dislodges a spider from one of the creepy buggers and it lands on her hand. She flails, shaking her hand long after the initial jerk sent the arachnid flying into the distance.

“EEEEOOOOOOUUUWWWUH SOMETHING ICKY JUST TOUCHED ME!”

IV. SEND A MESSAGE:

[ We all know the tone of voice this is said in: ] I’m in.

V. WILDCARD: