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Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] allthisshitisweird2019-01-22 11:09 pm
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TEST DRIVE MEME

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.

seaboard: (where sweat and dreams have dread)

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-24 06:41 am (UTC)(link)
[ !!meanie!! ]

Which of the words is your favourite?
reshapes: ([032])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-24 06:42 am (UTC)(link)
Only one of many failings, I'm sure.
seaboard: (drift around our board)

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-24 06:43 am (UTC)(link)
[ PANIC SETS IN. ]

I did not mean too...

... and you did not even tell me what the word is.
Edited 2019-01-24 06:45 (UTC)
inkindled: (01)

gallows

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-24 06:55 am (UTC)(link)
Matthais was already sullenly holding a broom of his own, thinking dark thoughts: how he walked all the way to the Inquisition, struck out on his own, and all so he could be asked to tidy up a courtyard. Some heroic institution this is turning out to be. Suddenly he finds that he is holding two brooms, which is more than one, and halfway to an armful of brooms. Full of indignation, he looks down at them, then back at his assigned partner in this task.

Maintaining eye contact, he opens his hands, so that both brooms clatter to the cobblestones.

The sound the brooms make when they strike stone is two staccato notes, one after another. Matthias follows that with a monotonous, "Can't. Bad leg." He strikes at his left thigh with his fist, as if to prove something. "It's wooden all the way through. No sweeping for me."

Especially not whatever grody mess is over there, stinking up the place. The faster way to make a friend is to do their chores for them. Like a rube. That's not real friendship. That's horseshit on-paper-only friendship. Friendship of convenience. Who's to say Matthais wants to be any sort of friends with this lazy ass, anyways?

He does. Probably. He crosses his arms anyways, settling in.

"Not like you've got anything better to do."
meds4sale: (But a humble Medicine Seller)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-24 11:40 am (UTC)(link)
He'd have winced in sympathy with the rough way she handled her hair were he inclined to express more emotion than a wooden box. Instead, he returned her bow with one of his own, with that heavy box on his back and all.

"I may have something that may help," he offered, straightening up.
meds4sale: (What a nice story)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-24 11:55 am (UTC)(link)
The Medicine Seller hadn't really expected Pitou to miss the point so spectacularly, but he'd hardly thought to change their lifelong perspective with a single question either.

It seemed that for it to make sense, they needed time, context and experience; something he could only marginally provide. He suspected some prolonged lecture on autonomy would only confuse them and he really wasn't the chatty sort anyway.

"You are much taller than the ants I have met," he said, resuming his trek up the path. The desiccated old hut came into view, as another strong, cold wind blew in off the sea, rattling the dolls in their perches.
Edited 2019-01-24 20:04 (UTC)
seaboard: (but will not lift you)

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-24 12:15 pm (UTC)(link)
She keeps dragging her fingers through, but it is an ultimately fruitless venture. For every piece she gets back, another will spring free. It's embarrassing, honestly, to have it on her very own head, and yet, be unable to keep it together.

Enough that she looks purely grateful when she hears the word help. The miserable, hopeful little, "please," as she keeps her hands up at her head doing her best when the wind would like it another way entirely.
rathercommon: (not sure what's happening but not good)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-24 12:39 pm (UTC)(link)
It's awfully off-putting to have someone say, 'YOU.' It's doubly off-putting when you don't know who they are. That means that, somehow, someone knows something about you - that somehow, you've got a reputation or something. And Kitty doesn't have any desire to have any sort of reputation, but she especially doesn't want one that makes someone go, 'YOU.' Maybe one that makes people go, 'Oh, wow, you're Kitty Jones, I never thought I'd meet you, if it's not imposing too much could we sit and talk a bit about right and wrong?' That'd be an all right reputation - one she wouldn't mind so much. But 'YOU' isn't good for anyone or anything.

So Kitty's grip loosens a bit, from confusion and alarm. Until she realizes, or maybe this kid is just saying that to throw you off-balance, and then she goes to grab him again. "Turn out your pockets," she blusters, trying to cover for the fact that she is off-balance.

(Does she know him? There's an odd something in the back of her mind, some little prickle of recognition...Have they run into each other in Kirkwall before?)
reshapes: ([008])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-24 01:39 pm (UTC)(link)
I'm sure you can't help it. But as I'm one to believe wholly in bettering oneself, I'll at least do you the kindness of educating you a little. Let me illustrate it.

[A drawing of a guillotine with the blade up and a smiling stick figure at the bottom appears. A second drawing follows. There's a lot of badly drawn blood for effect.]
reshapes: ([017])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-24 01:55 pm (UTC)(link)
Naturally Bartimaeus finds himself saddled with the kind of lazy layabout whose probably never risen to the challenge of good, honest, backbreaking labor a day in his short life. What are children being taught in schools these days? Do the peasants not beat their offspring enough here? He'd have put money on little ol' Timber Limb here folding like a wet paper bag at the chance to do twice the work.

Honestly, kids these days.

Bartimaeus takes him by the shoulders (never mind the crossed arms). It's a magnanimous, friendly kind of touch. It strictly doesn't have the air of wanting to grab him by the collar and strangle him with it.

"Oh come now. A sturdy lad like yourself?" says the boy, smiling in what he imagines is the picture of benevolence. Sure, he might be a little out of practice, but faking it is like riding a smirking bike. "Wood leg or no, I'll bet you can have it done in half as long as anyone expects. Would you like me to time you?"
meds4sale: (Making a mess)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-24 02:37 pm (UTC)(link)
With a small nod, he set down the hefty medicine box, and knelt, opening the large, middle compartment where he stowed his personal items. There was the sound of clinks and clanks as he rummaged through the fathomless depths of things he'd squirreled away over the centuries. Finally he procured an oblong jewelry box - wood inlaid with crisscrossing geometric patterns stained in varying shades of red, orange, and gold. He opened it to reveal an array of hair ornaments - mostly the thick, two-pronged hair pins he favoured, but there were a number of combs, and some Thedosian styles he'd picked up at the markets as he wasn't one to say no to new and interesting accessories.

Some looked quite ancient and worn - missing teeth or jewels and had been set aside in one compartment waiting for the day the Medicine Seller could get them repaired. But most seemed in good condition, albeit on the gaudy side to suit the Medicine Seller's whimsical and flamboyant tastes. Still, there were others that were, comparatively, subdued.

"These may help hold it in place - pick whichever pleases," he said.
reshapes: ([037])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-24 03:41 pm (UTC)(link)
There are instances in one's life where the cleverest course of action is to keep one's mouth shut. Personally, he finds very rare use for them.

"You," spits the boy, who seems very balanced indeed for being rail thin and shorter than her by nearly a full five inches. "Can't tell me what to do."

Which still might be the perfect point to end on while maintaining some air of mystique, but he can't help himself: "Oh, you really have made a mess of things haven't you, Kitty Jones?"
valosatredum: (48GjmXE)

[personal profile] valosatredum 2019-01-24 06:30 pm (UTC)(link)
Grabbing her drink as soon as it arrives, she treats herself to a swig. Watered-down, as expected, but she'll not complain. The question prompts a headshake and a faint grimace as memories resurface. "Ever tried the stuff? It's like dwarven liquor was made on a dare. The only thing to recommend it is the strength, and if you're not looking to get hammered, then there's no point. Good booze just doesn't come from fungus, that's one thing humans have gotten right."

Taking another sip, she settles back in her chair and looks him over. "The name's Runa...Sergeant Corday, if I'm needed for guard work. You don't seem like a bloke who'd start trouble, though I'm guessing you can end it when when need be." With armor like that, he seems more than capable even in such a relaxed setting.
inkindled: (06)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-24 06:40 pm (UTC)(link)
Gangrene is it obviously.

Latrine is 2.

Butter bean best of them to be eaten.
inkindled: (02)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-24 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)
"Wha-oh," is what he starts with, somewhere between what d'you think you're doing and what're you playing at, manhandling me and who exactly d'you think you are, dicknose, but at the same time, Matthias isn't exactly resistant to the double shoulder grip. His arms even loosen out of their cross. He's one of the lads, right; he can deal with some friendly shoulder gripping. Even some light shaking to make a point. Manful embraces. Check, check, and check.

"Oh yeah?"

The part that wrongs him is the clear and obvious bait. Matthias lets his eyes go wide and guileless. It's his inner eye is narrowing. The one that senses here, boyo, we've got a prick.

"Oh, please, sir." Earnestness to answer earnestness, with a sprinkling of sniveling. "Would you, could you, time me? You're right, I'm a fast sweeper. My dad always said I was fastest in all the village. And no one here has offered to watch me at it, and I'm fearful that I'm out of practice--you're the first kind soul I've met, you are."
reshapes: ([027])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-24 07:53 pm (UTC)(link)
There might be spirits out there too high and mighty to know when someone's serving what they're dishing up right back at them, but let it be known that Bartimaeus of Uruk, Sakhr al-Jinni of Al-Arish, Wakonda of the Algonquin, the spirit who placed the very cornerstones of Solomon's grand temple and defeated no less than three consecutive masters with use of the Hermetic Quibble isn't one of them. Look kid, he knows a thing or two about playing dumb just long enough to slither out through the nearest side exist. He also knows exactly how much trouble it can be when someone takes you at your word.

"Why then, consider me overjoyed to give you an opportunity to rehone your skill!" With what is a pretty deft move if he says so himself, Bartimaeus spins the lad around by the shoulders so he can steer him bodily closer toward the splatter of viscera and shattered wood stinking up the courtyard. He thrusts the broom into his helpless hands and--

Wait, no he doesn't. The brooms are both right where he left them a few paces away. He'd meant to unthinkingly make himself an extra limb to fetch one of them up with on the way, but these things take concentration and effort now so instead he finds himself empty handed. Literally. There's an embarrassingly half-shriveled third arm hanging bonelessly from under the dark skinned boy's left armpit.
inkindled: (05)

gallows

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-24 08:47 pm (UTC)(link)
There's ribbons.

No, wait. They're banners. It's just that the mural makes everything look small. Towers that should rightly tower over Matthias and make him feel like an ant, those are rendered small, and everything else is in proportion to those. Including the bannersin every color of the rainbow, which are fluttering, merrily, over the whitest and shiniest version of Kirkwall on an impossibly sunny day.

The air on this day, in this Kirkwall, would smell like fresh-cut grass, and smell of the sunshine baking rocks in a shallow stream-bed. The mural makes it look so real that Matthias thinks for a moment that he can smell it, really feel the kiss of sweet breeze on his face. Nothing like the real Kirkwall which, as he's experienced it, smells like wet sewage, stagnant water, old rot, and sweaty armpits.

It is beautifully im-bleeding-possible, both as a city and as an experience, and Matthias goggles at the little golden man in a way he wasn't doing previous to this moment. Previous to this moment, he'd been avoiding looking at the man, because he didn't know what to do with him and didn't trust him and didn't like how he felt, looking at him, whatever the weird thrum in the air around him was that made the blood in Matthias' veins go tingly. Now he's looking at the man because he still doesn't know what to do with him.

He points to the mural. It's a big gesture, especially in contrast to his quiet awed, "What is this?"

Nothing he's ever seen, is what. But like actually what. The rest of the Inquisition and the Rivaini in all their bright colors might well not even exist. Everything has narrowed.
krem: (CA30390)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-24 09:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Krem finds himself chuckling at the whole display, laughter crinkling around his eyes. Ah, to be so young, and so excited about ale.

"That'll happen around here," he says, mildly. Seat-stealing is probably the single most benign act of assholery one might commit in the Hanged Man. Everything else tends towards bodily harm of some sort, from what Krem has observed, sitting in here for the past couple nights. All the same, he offers the kid a conciliatory look over the rim of his cup, and summarily takes note of his already flushed face (which he assumes at first glance has more to do with drink than with warmth) and his two full mugs. Boy...

But, well, he's not wrong. He's not exactly right, either. "Bull's Chargers," Krem answers, then figures belatedly that this isn't Skyhold and the Chargers haven't been regulars around Kirkwall for their duration of time with the Inquisition. So he specifies: "Mercenary company. The Inquisition hired us."

There. Genuinely impossible to not know what the Inquisition is, especially here. And besides, chances are that Matthias is in the ranks somewhere, judging by the robes. Dangerous to be unaffiliated, if they mean what robes usually mean, south of the Tevinter border where they aren't considered the height of fashion. He nods towards the extra cup that the kid struggled so hard to bring over. "You expecting company?"
krem: (CA04661)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-24 09:59 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh, Maker. She looks up at him like that suddenly, and he just blinks. Feels his ears going a bit red when he realizes that he must look pretty stupid, standing there like a dope.

"—Yeah, of course." He isn't quite sure that's what he meant to say, but she isn't wrong, so he warms up to it, depressing as he still finds the sentiment. He flashes her a small smile, thanking his lucky stars that everyone else is out of the room, or the rest of the Chargers would have a field day with him right now. "I better collect some wood for it, my men'll mutiny if I give them much more to complain about today."

And thinking on it, maybe they should be burning the whole house, to try and contain the infestation from any possible escape from the island. He heads towards the lonely table, to break some of the brittle old furniture up and at least give the poor sod something resembling an actual funeral pyre, sending spiders scurrying every which way when he picks up the cobweb-laden chair. He makes a valiant effort to suppress any shuddering, at least until he straightens again and finds himself eye-level and inches away from one of the dolls he'd been trying to ignore hanging from the ceiling.

There's a moment of surprised silence, and then, "are they—" he blurts, before he can think about how the question might sound aloud, "—talking?"
krem: (CA03820)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-24 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)
The company medic specializes in poultices, so Krem's not overly interested in those, but for the others... well, certain possibilities come to mind, ones he tries to ignore until they come to bite him right in the ass like clockwork.

He seems to zero in on the yellow packet, before glancing back up to ask: "Anything for cramps?" He gives himself a mental pat on the back for sounding pretty nonchalant about it, not that he's in the business of being so secretive as to fuck himself over anymore, it's been years. And it could be for a squadmate, after all, or for any number of reasons a guy might get cramps. Bad food, or whatever. Not stretching properly, you know. Any purpose aside from the one he'd actually use something like the headache powder for, especially if they do actually keep for weeks.

And if it works, coincidentally, it's also something he'd prefer to keep between himself and some random merchant, rather than reminding everyone he works with or the Inquisition higher-ups about it every month.
krem: (CA42309)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-24 10:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Krem shoots her a dubious glance, though by the time she deigns to look at him it's gone from his face. He's not overly concerned with politeness—she's not a client, after all, and she's not signing his checks—but he gets that this sort of shit is probably hard, you know, getting dumped on a world you've never been to and having a bit of the veil or whatever cut into your hand. He's always been one for cutting some slack, and anyway he's only a total shithead to the people he knows and loves.

"They don't need much," he persists. Because if she manages to start something, it's his men who are getting paid to end it, not her. They can, of course, and they will. But it's not... ideal. "They already think you lot are demons." Wow, sounds so reasonable when he says it like that.

Besides: "Do mobs tend to show a lot of emotional restraint where you're from?"
inkindled: (01)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-24 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Matthias' act drops quickly, right between the spin-around and the frogmarch toward the pile of shit. Not shit-shit. More the general version of the word, because he doesn't actually know what he is looking at, and starts to sputter a protest, and maybe twist away to get free, except--

Except.

He thinks at first that he's looking a wrinkly sheep bladder which, while weird, is not particularly remarkable, though maybe a little embarrassing, especially for a guy who was trying to get Matthias to do his sweeping for him--or maybe he should be impressed with a fellow who clearly fucks--except it's not a sheep bladder, or if it is, it's one that's attached to his side, like a flubby tentacle or a trailing sleeve or, well, now, there's something particular about the end of the--

"What!"

It's a shriek. Well, a yell. Well, look, okay, just look, and by the Maker is Matthias ever looking, at fingers. Nubby fingers. Matthias tries to recoil, but considering his shoulders are still held, ends up falling backwards into old Nub Arm, who must have had the arm all along but maybe tucked away, somewhere, and now it's come unfurled and Andraste's ass, Matthias is going to touch it by accident if he doesn't get away--

"Let go, you weirdo, stop--touching me with your weirdo- ngkac--"

A wordless noise of disgust. He tries stomping on the Nub Arm's full-sized foot.
krem: (CA39687)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-25 12:50 am (UTC)(link)
Krem laughs again, this time a bit hardier. "Fair enough," he acquiesces. She is right, and as someone who does drink to just get hammered like that sometimes when he's not the one anywhere near watch or the Chargers win a good ass fight, he can admit that. "Always try to forget it's made with mushrooms." See, this is why he likes wine best!

He grins, though. He'll start trouble quick enough when he's getting paid to do it, but the Inquisition isn't likely to pay him to stir up shit around Kirkwall's city guard, so she doesn't need to know that. "Cremisius Aclassi," he returns, though he has definitely already filed her name away as Sarge, because working with the Chargers for so long has made him practically allergic to referring to anyone by their actual names. "I go by Krem, though." Less of a mouthful, and less Tevinter-sounding. "And thanks." He leans against the table. "So how's the guard? Seems like they can't possibly pay you enough for the shit that goes on in this city."
reshapes: ([042])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-25 12:51 am (UTC)(link)
"Hey now--" Crunch, goes the foot which Bartimaeus makes no effort to move. Which hurts, and for a moment he's struck so dumb by the indignity of it all (Imagine! A pipsqueak like this one managing to illicit even the slightest twinge of pain!) that he forgets all about the arm flopping around at his side and how he's meant to be discreet about this kind of thing these days2.

His hands - the ones with the illusion of finger bones in them, thank you -, do tighten though. Call it an involuntary response. Sure, a better one might have been to absorb the spare arm and pretend like it never happened. But alas! The moment has passed.

Instead Bartimaeus twists just vigorously enough to flop at the other boy with the fleshy sock arm. "That's rich coming from someone with a wooden leg, isn't it?"
2. Although really, let's be honest. A badly manifested appendage on a djinni of his caliber isn't anything to be proud of even in the version of the world he's used to.
Edited (I found one of im sure many typos) 2019-01-25 01:53 (UTC)
rathercommon: (incredulous)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-25 02:04 am (UTC)(link)
There's something there, something in the way the boy says her name -

Oh. Oh. She knows that voice. She doesn't know the face - this isn't a guise he's taken before in her presence - but she absolutely knows that voice. Specifically, she knows the completely smug way he says her name, Kitty Jones. But she'd thought it would be impossible for him to show up here. Do demons sleep? Do demons dream? Can demons be in the Fade when they're not Thedas' version of demons, fire-breathing and mad? Did she summon him up somehow? Did Mandrake? Is Mandrake here, or another magician? Is he enslaved in this world? Is this - ?

Wait, what does he mean, what a mess she's made?

Hotly, she replies - "I haven't done anything. I haven't made a mess of anything. You're the one who nearly sent me careening down the stairs. And I still want you to turn out your pockets, Bartimaeus."

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