faderifting: (Default)
Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] allthisshitisweird2019-01-22 11:09 pm
Entry tags:

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.

wont_be_me: (pic#12313737)

[personal profile] wont_be_me 2019-01-26 10:48 pm (UTC)(link)
"Demons?" she repeats, dull and disinterested. "Of course they do."

She doesn't believe in demons as a conception of evil. Possibly a species, or a set of traits, that she may or may not actually embody. But that's besides the point.

"So they're stupid, skittish, and superstitious," she lists that off just as bored as the previous statement. "Wound tight with their own ignorance. Maybe I will flick their switch."

Maybe it would be fun to make the stupid knights stampede.
playdolls: (animu | haha)

[personal profile] playdolls 2019-01-26 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)
"I'm much taller now than I was," their tone is pleasant, despite the fact that they very much dislike how their body has changed. They had been given their attributes by their Queen, honed them in service to their King and now they're... this... "But even like this, Youpi was bigger."

Their brother-in-arms, made only of magical beast and might.

"We come in all sizes, it depends on what the Queen was eating."

They ramble this, following after the medicine seller without any contemplation that their continued conversation may or may not be welcome. Those things don't enter their mind. The man is there to speak to and Pitou wants to speak.
meds4sale: (An amusing perplexity)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-26 11:12 pm (UTC)(link)
The Medicine Seller didn't seemed bothered by Pitou trailing after him - while he wasn't the most talkative person alive, he certainly liked to listen, and they were full of all sorts of interesting things.

He also wasn't a stranger to very different ways of thinking - the way many Ayakashi thought and behaved were quite alien to humans (and he only got involved when the combination of the two resulted in a Mononoke). If Pitou was an ant, it made sense their perspective almost entirely favoured the health and well-being of the colony to the exclusion of any single individual's needs.

"Your queen must have a varied diet," he remarked, albeit distractedly. His head turned, like some sort of animal that had caught a scent... which he had. Whoever had been living in that shack was long deceased - the smell of decay wasn't overpowering but it lingered.

"Did your body change when you came through the rift?"
inkindled: (10)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-26 11:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Yeah? Maker forbid you get bored and have to find something else to amuse yourself with.

Umm-- [He huffs a thoughtful sigh.] I don't know. What d'you like? How am I supposed to know what's going to be a good trade for this stupid answer?

I've got... a rock.
inkindled: (02)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-27 12:01 am (UTC)(link)
Matthias' mouth drops open. He takes a step closer, forgetting to be apprehensive or unsure, forgetting that there are other people around, people he should probably be trying to impress, or at least demonstrate a modicum of dignity instead of staring wide-eyed at this display.

"Maker's breath..."

The buildings move so easily under the gold Matthias' hands. Whole parts of Kirkwall changes: low buildings built high, roads made wide. The Gallows is rebuilt entirely, beautiful spires and gleaming walls, and all of it shimmering with an unearthly light when the work is done, a beacon out on the water.

Matthias looks at the gold man. "This is amazing." And he gets it, he thinks. It's the look of the Gallows that tips him off. A place where they used to keep mages now polished up and changed, a place of sanctuary built proud on the ruins of the old. It's what he would want. What it should be. A dream come to life. "I've never seen magic like this before."
krem: (CA11804)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-27 12:03 am (UTC)(link)
Oh, yeah. Very glad that the rest of the guys aren't around right now.

And it's not like he wasn't a soldier, so he doesn't correct her or anything. Certainly those years of imperial training are why he tends to do the negotiating for the Chargers. He is, by far, the least rude of them (or at least the quickest to flip that particular switch on and off), and therefore the most palatable to your average client in Thedas.

Well, Dalish is actually perfectly friendly, but that usually doesn't work out for obvious reasons.

"They're just hanging out, you think?" His tone carries little of the dismissiveness that the words might have implied, asked any other way: Krem is just trying to figure things out. He gets back to the matter of wood, cracking the dusty chair he'd picked up at its seams with minimal effort. Age and environment have clearly weakened it.

"So would it be a bad idea to set the whole place on fire?" Since she seems to have more of an idea of what is going on here, or is at least comfortable taking guesses.
krem: (CA58490)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-27 12:56 am (UTC)(link)
He shrugs with a rattle of armor. "Demons are usually what comes out of those rifts. They don't tend to look like people, though." Still, it doesn't seem like a complete stretch to Krem, even though proximity and time makes it very obvious that the Rifters are just normal. Or, well, normal-adjacent. Alright, a bunch of them are real weird, but not demon-weird, and generally no more weird than the kind of folk you can find in Thedas already.

Either way, he lets out a long-suffering sigh. There's no way she's not some sort of noble, you can't be this much of a prig without being born rich. You just... can't. "Or you could just walk all the way to Kirkwall without making an ass of yourself." Wouldn't that be nice.
krem: (CA07229)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-27 01:03 am (UTC)(link)
"That's fair," he muses. Sounds terrible to him. Sounds basically like the kind of life he'd have had if it weren't for an ass of a medic and the Iron Bull.

He considers for a moment, and then not for the first time decides he's glad it all happened to him anyway. If only because this way he actually has a prayer of affording some Hightown gold-filled mansion, though not exactly any day soon.

"Is it better or worse, with the Inquisition outpost here?" Call it morbid curiosity. The Inquisition attracts chaos, but it also does its share of good: as someone who was never in Kirkwall before any of this, he has to wonder which outweighs the other for someone who presumably was.
krem: (CA11245)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-27 01:18 am (UTC)(link)
Sounds perfect, actually. "Alright," Krem agrees, then casts about them at the actual official looking merchant stalls. The plain looking men and women hocking their wares from planted structures. He'll know in another week if the Medicine Seller's products work, but his shop such as it is looks impermanent at best. "You'll still be in this spot?"
krem: (CA39687)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-27 01:53 am (UTC)(link)
Krem orders a shitload of bread and stew which the waitress seems amenable to largely because he has been in here the last few nights and has actually paid off his tabs before leaving every time without the need for any haranguing first. That's more than you can say for a lot of folk around here, apparently. He could afford better bars of course, but this is certainly the most exciting one in the city. And the rest of the Chargers like it too, so that's that.

"Krem," he introduces himself offhandedly once the waitress is headed away to retrieve their food, and he'd offer a hand but the kid seems terribly busy coordinating his drinks into his mouth. He leans back, considering the question (and Matthias' answer, which reminds him of himself all those years ago. He can't quite recall, but he's pretty sure his pitch to Bull to go to work for the fledgling Inquisition involved the phrase good fights for a good cause in it somewhere. Honestly.) "The contracts we've got with the Inquisition aren't the normal sort. More often than not it's me looking through the reports, and figuring out what the Chargers can do for them. Usually, yeah, it's that: you do the jobs you want to, for the people you want to. If you can afford to turn away work."

And that's usually the rub. Luckily, though, Bull had built them up so well that they could be as picky as they damn well pleased. He smiles to himself, as proud as he always is of his makeshift little family (of hardened mercenaries.)

"Why, you looking for other options already?"
inkindled: (07)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-27 05:00 am (UTC)(link)
He nods along at Krem's explanation--yes, yes, yes--and then a quick no, with a sheepish grin.

"I mean--I wish. Maybe after this. Not that it's easy, or anything, I know I'd have to work for it. But I'm used to traveling and camps and all of it? Which'd give me an advantage. Kind of." Matthias twists the mug around on the tabletop, sloshing the ale around on the inside and smearing the wet ring beneath it. "And I like the idea of it. Doing the job I want for the people I want. It's a luxury, yeah?"

And not one most people get to have, though of course that goes without saying. It's well-known. Matthias twists the mug back around the other way again.

"But is there-- I don't know. An audition, or a try-out, or something?"
reshapes: ([040])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-27 05:05 am (UTC)(link)
Bartimaeus ignores her hand, scraping up onto the dock with the power of sheer tenacity. Once there, however-- the sea lion waddles ungainly on the rough boards, shaking itself back and forth to flick stray water droplets from its oiled coat. The water reeks, by the way.

Somewhere in there amidst all the shaking, his essence has begun to congeal unpleasantly back into the shape of that now-familiar looking boy. He's not quite managed to dry himself before he's person shaped again, all thin skin and freezing and looking something like a drowned, shivering rat.

"Don't tell me what to do," he chatters as he rolls to his feet. But also-- that lamplight there looks like it might be illuminating the shingle of a boarding or public house. Shoes squishing, he makes a beeline for it.
meds4sale: (What a nice story)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-27 11:30 am (UTC)(link)
"Perhaps," the Medicine Seller said. He tended to make his rounds through the city - he only really came to Hightown when he needed the money.

"I am not difficult to find, however. I sell my wares at Lowtown and the Gallows as well."

And Darktown. And the Blooming Rose. And the Hanged Man. But he wouldn't invite any to visit the first, it would be rude to imply that this man might frequent the second, and the third... well. Maybe he had a taste for bad beer and Mysterious Meat Pie, who was the Medicine Seller to judge?
rathercommon: (you need to be punched)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-27 02:20 pm (UTC)(link)
Ugh, he's simply so - Kitty grunts in annoyance once when he ignores her hand, and again, louder, when he shakes himself and manages to spray her with water. Not that it makes that much difference, she literally can't get any more sad and wet than she already is, but - it's the principle of the thing.

She trudges behind him, huddled in on herself, hands shoved into her armpits, not saying a word till they make it to the door of the pub. Inside - Oh, inside, it is blessedly warm, a large press of sailors celebrating their shore-leave and a crackling fire in the hearth pushing the temperatures in the little shack almost high enough to satisfy.

The crowd also means that people don't really care so much about the two odd figures that have staggered in. They get a few curious looks, a couple of chuckles over their state, and that's about it. A barmaid, bustling by, doesn't offer any questions - just says to them, "Poor ducks. Find a seat and I'll be over with some stew, hm?"
reshapes: ([002])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-27 02:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[Ugh, humanity is a plague.]

So glad we can all find something to admire about chopping people's heads off!
reshapes: ([025])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-27 03:23 pm (UTC)(link)
It's not the burn of the Red-hot Stipples or the Essence Lance, but it's nothing to sneeze at either. The flash pain in his hands sizzling at the edges of his essence certainly goes a long way toward interrupting the rhythm of boneless slapping anyway.

Bartimaeus also, for the record, snatches his hands back from the boy's shoulders and lets him go entirely. But let's focus on the important details, shall we? Like how he's fairly certain roasting your fellow member of the Inquisition is very much against the rules. --Of polite company, if not the letter of the law which he can't guarantee only because he hasn't bothered to read any of the Inquisition's more official looking documents.

Anyway, right. Cradling his scorched hands (ol' Floppy not included), Bartimaeus adopts a horrified expression and takes a full step back from what is clearly a lunatic rebel mage at the start of his rampage.

"You not supposed to do that!"

Extortion? You haven't seen anything yet, kid.
reshapes: ([016])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-27 03:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Find seats they do. There's an available scrap of bench near the wide blazing fireplace exactly the width of one of them, but Bartimaeus passes it up entirely of simply sitting on the floor near the heat of the hearth stone. She can have the bench and the elbow of her tattooed and bearded neighbor if she wants it. Meanwhile, he'd almost crawl into the burning coals if the wearing skin part of him wouldn't disagree with it so much.

"You're forgetting something, by the way."
rathercommon: (unsympathetic (maybe sympathetic))

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-27 04:21 pm (UTC)(link)
"Forgetting - " Oh. Right. The Marquis, who's still up on that staircase, likely to have his purse cut as he lies there drunkenly. Just his purse, if she's lucky - more than that if she's not. She rubs her face, then fishes her crystal out of her pocket.

Who'd be up at this hour? Who could she call on? Lakshmi, maybe. Flint or Vane might be out in Kirkwall, and they could certainly be of assistance - Or Gwen might help in a pinch. Nikos, too. All right, she's got options; it's just a matter of figuring out who's able to actually help out.

"When the barmaid comes round, get me a hot chocolate, please," she says to him. And then, with a look of firm severity - "Do not order more ale for yourself. I'd prefer not to have to continue to deal with you when you're pissed." Then she takes the seat on the bench, and bends over the crystal, murmuring into it to try to arrange a pick-up for an obnoxious nobleman.
reshapes: ([023])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-27 04:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh right. The Marquis.

He waits until she's done - somewhere in there having smartly rattled off an order with the barmaid when she'd come by with a few steaming bowls whose contents, against his better judgement, do smell surprisingly appetizing - to say:

"That's not what I meant. What you've forgotten is 'Thank you.'"

And here, he pitches his voice higher by an octave or two. "'Thank you Bartimaeus for saving my life,' or 'I know such acts of generosity and base kindheartedness are far below a noble and powerful spiri--'" Hmm. Tough crowd. "'--individual such as yourself, but I swear my undying gratitude is now yours for the rest of my days.'" Back down those octaves now: "I'll wait if you need a minute or two to compose something appropriately venerating."

He slurps soup from the bowl without breaking eye contact.
rathercommon: (explaining you a thing)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-27 04:44 pm (UTC)(link)
Kitty's response is to wrinkle her nose and respond, "I don't sound like that."

But, well - Honestly, he's not wrong. He did save her, and nearly drown doing so. And so, even though it's dreadfully obnoxious, him spraying her with water and acting like her hand is poisoned and all that, he is owed something.

"Thanks," she says. "You didn't have to do that. So - thanks."

Clearly not what he was hoping for in terms of groveling, but the sentiment is sincere, at least. She curves her hands around the bowl in front of her, soaking up a bit of the warmth through her palms, and says - "He is being taken care of. The Marquis, I mean."
reshapes: ([040])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-27 04:58 pm (UTC)(link)
There is maybe just the tiniest, most inconsequential moment in which he finds himself taken aback by the fact that she just says it instead of kicking up a fuss and side-stepping away from the whole idea. Luckily any feelings of charity it might have inspired are now a bad habit well and truly broken, so he finds himself more annoyed than gratified by any of it. Here he is lounging on a hearth, ordering a rum hot toddy against her wishes, and making a right ass of himself in front of an entire dance hall of burly sailors, and she can't even do him the courtesy of recognizing any of it!

Ungrateful.

"Well I'm glad someone is being looked after," he grumbles.
rathercommon: (unsure how to feel)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-27 05:06 pm (UTC)(link)
Her brows quirk at that. She's buying him soup, isn't she? And something to drink, which, in retrospect, she really oughtn't have told him not to buy alcohol; that probably just made him more likely to do so. Oh, well. In any case, that seems like looking after him to her, unless he's got a different definition of what that means.

Well - actually, he probably has. What was it he'd been demanding of her, before she pitched backwards over the edge of the staircase? Words of dismissal?

"I don't know how to do what you want me to do," she says, picking her words carefully to avoid pointing out to any possible eavesdroppers that, Look, look, a demon walks amongst us. "Sorry. I could try to do it, if you could teach me."
versicoloured: ((70))

souza samonji | touken ranbu

[personal profile] versicoloured 2019-01-27 07:08 pm (UTC)(link)
[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?"
versicoloured: ((113))

waking sea

[personal profile] versicoloured 2019-01-27 07:20 pm (UTC)(link)
"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?"
versicoloured: ((156))

iii

[personal profile] versicoloured 2019-01-27 07:33 pm (UTC)(link)
This was a rather unsettling place, particularly for someone like Souza-- and that statement certainly didn't help a bit. He'd been wondering about the dolls, about the odd feelings coming from them, considering how old they might be and whether they might have spirits of their own; binding one into an object is quite a different thing.

He abandoned his inspection of one of the dolls to follow along that path and trail slightly behind, trying to set aside the feeling that the doll might have been a little sad to be left behind.

"Do you think, then," he started softly, voice just barely loud enough to be heard, "that there is anything to be done about it?"

The most direct answer would be destroying them, he was fairly sure, but- the thought didn't sit well with him.

Page 7 of 23