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allthisshitisweird2019-01-22 11:09 pm
faderifting) wrote in 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.
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.
Carla "Is An Asshole" Morir || OC
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!
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?"
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"They won't bother forming a mob, that would give me a great deal of power over their emotions." That's when she turns to look at him, giving a nasty smile. "Don't you think."
It's not really a question, more a rhetorical device to convey that anyone with half a wit should be wary enough not to get that riled up by her.
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"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?"
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Especially not considering her homeworld has been pioneering genetic alterations for hundreds of years. They were far apart on the scales: he exposed to a world with magic, and she perfected over hundreds of years and inter-alien mixing. Sure, they might look like the same species, but that was unlikely empirically correct.
"What is in Kirkwall that I should be so eager?" She'll humor the notion of going there quietly, if there's something in it for her.
no subject
She doesn't seem the type for keeping her head down, though.
Not that he can entirely blame her, or anything. It's a good looking head, that's for sure, be a waste to keep it down all the time. "That thing in your hand," He gestures with his own to demonstrate, though he doesn't have an anchor shard and anyway his palm is covered up by a metal gauntlet. "Give it enough time and it'll start burning like mad if you don't head there. Don't know why, but probably someone in the tower has theories going if you want to ask." It has never been his concern, honestly. But there's more to the pitch than just that, and after a second to let it sink in, he pushes onward. "It's where the Inquisition is. They'll feed you, board you and pay you if you sign up. If not..." Another shrug. "They'll still feed you and board you. But no pay."
no subject
"Can they remove it?"
The real item on her itinerary. All the other things could be figured out -- food, board, pay -- but not before determining whether or not she was infected with something irreversible.
no subject
He doesn't watch her examine her hand where she's been marked, but he doesn't have to. It's... crap, frankly, getting dragged in and then stuck like this. He still sometimes thinks back to the first poor bugger who'd an anchor in her hand, the Herald of Andraste. "Inquisition is set up to stop the thing that started all this. It's a good cause."
no subject
"I'll think about it, if it's worth my time."
Apparently she does not intend to give an inch.
no subject
Also, the people in Kirkwall are more desensitized to Rifters being... Rifter-y. So there's less likelihood she'll manage to rustle up a mob.
Once they've walked long enough to be a few hours outside of the village and onto the road leading to Kirkwall, he looks back to her and asks: "Do you need a rest?"
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3 - answering a riddle
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[ Rimshot. ]
Either way you're wrong.
no subject
[Which he says, all flat, instead of actually laughing. Sarcastic-like.]
How'm I wrong? That was a good answer.
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[ I mean. She's being lewd on purpose, it is just how she is. ]
You haven't solved the riddle. Your logic skills have left something to be desired. You are wrong.
[ And she declares these things so impeccably and with great punctuation. Man she's a bitch. ]
no subject
You're the one that leaped to my knob. I said a knob. And they're grieving, obviously, because their husbands're gone. They were the knobs.
Tell me that's not logical and I'll know you for a liar.
no subject
[ at this very specific moment in time. ]
What will trade me for the right answer?
no subject
[needlessly petty thanks]
--what's so great about your right answer? I liked mine. What's yours going to get me?
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[ And she will rub it in your face for literally the rest of eternity while. The aspersions to his intellect were a given from go, she does that to everyone just as a matter of course. ]
But I also can't give away the right answer for nothing. That would make this extremely boring for me.
[ Not that lording her cleverness over others isn't a reward all its own. ]
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For now, he manages.]
And what happens when you get bored?
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[ Or someone whatever. ]
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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.
no subject
[ Also: no! ]
I want things like money, jewelry, ammunition, medicine, liquor, smoke, etcetera.
[ She rattles that off rapidly. She knows exactly what she'll take and she has these kinds of conversations with people often. ]
Things people want.
[ Things she can use to get other things that she wants. ]
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