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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.
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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
"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.
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There would be no easy explanation for this - it was a conclusion that they would have to reach on their own, if ever.
But perhaps he could at least offer some manner of perspective. He paused in his trek along the path, his gaze wandering up to the boughs laden with dolls.
"Perhaps first consider ... is there something that you would not want to do at anyone's behest?"
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This is an answer heartfelt and pure. Truly meant without even a pause to try to be coy about it, or mask their own stubborn and independent nature. They don't know that perhaps those traits are unflattering, and they certainly wouldn't care even if informed.
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When Pitou had simply blurted their heartfelt truth, he looked almost surprised. He'd half expected some cagey non-answer, but this was fine as well.
"Then," and he spoke very carefully as he watched the progression of a spider spinning its web, "if someone very powerful had forced you to go against your king..."
He finally turned to Pitou, his expression mask-like as ever.
"...What would that feel like?"
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You can be sad, and in love. Pitou knows that one best of all the strange things humans felt. They had been very sad for Gon and for Komugi, and the ways the ants had hurt them. But they weren't sorry about it either.
Overall though, it seems the point of the medicine seller's question has eluded the creature.
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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iii
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.
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His lips twitched into a cold, unpleasant little smile.
"...Though doing that-"
He paused, as something caught his attention, and then turned his frigid gaze back to the other man.
"-You might get cursed."
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Few took kindly to the destruction of what they'd made, after all, and even some bound spirits might not care for their vessels to be broken. The feeling some of them gave off was, to say the least, less than friendly.
For a couple moments he remained silent, considering something before continuing on. "If none of these are tsukumogami..." and he'd have to keep note of the fact this man knew the term, most likely- "then what happens to the vessel should have no bearing on the spirit, I hope? It would be best to let them break quickly in any case, but..."
But being used to feeling any damage to his own weapon made it hard not to consider it being the same for these spirits.
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"It is best to learn what we can before taking action," he stated simply.
"There may be complications."
And he had no desire to cause harm where it wasn't needed. The spirits had been through enough, bound and captured as they were. He tucked the little doll into his sash, safe and snug, before ascending the rocky incline. Between the barren trees, he could make out the silhouette of a hut. If there were answers to be had, it was there.
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It sounded like he was more knowledgeable on the topic than Souza; being unused to taking leadership of such things anyway, it was likely best to default to assisting, to helping find more information and carrying out whatever eventually needed to be done. He pulled the loose fabric of his clothes closer around himself as they made their way up the incline, shielding himself from the sea wind as it picked back up, turning to glance over the trees they'd already passed.
"There are so many, though," he murmured, mostly to himself. Binding this number of spirits-- it had to have been quite an undertaking.
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He glanced back at the other man as they came up to the cabin. His expression was mask-like as ever, nary an emotion touching that chilly, flat stare.
"Can you defend yourself?"
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Not that his companion seemed like the helpless sort, really, but neither was that a certain thing.
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"I was only making sure. I have my capabilities, however," he glanced back at the man, "I cannot guarantee the safety of others. I would not like to put someone at unnecessary risk if there is a Mononoke in there."
It was, he admitted, a pleasant change to not have to throw around words like 'demon' and 'abomination'. Such terminology sat ill on his tongue, and he used them as little as possible as it was.
The Gallows
They don't know each other, not well. But upon glimpsing the strange-looking man, Benedict is struck with a pang of sadness like a punch in the gut. He was Kit's friend. Kit, who never said goodbye, who left him here to fend for himself, who was selfish enough to die.
Benedict is visibly doing better now than he was the last time they met: his clothes are fine, Marcher-made but still styled and colored in a way that suggests Tevene. He carries a scroll under one arm and is clearly on his way somewhere, or at least was.
Re: The Gallows
He recognized the young man; Kit's friend and the magister's ...apprentice? Side-kick? He wasn't sure about that relationship.
"Your Fade does not seem to know what to do with me."
As if that were enough to explain the length of his absence. He had intended to get away for a bit, true. So used to death as he was, Kit's absence had hurt in ways he'd tried to avoid. He'd gone with Morrigan on some venture into the darker parts of Thedas, gone to sleep and was spat out another Rift with nearly a year having past.
He set aside the broom. Benedict would likely have something to say - the Medicine Seller's knowledge of the man was second-hand at best, but he knew him to have... strong opinions.
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"It hardly knows what to do with itself, lately," he says with a ghost of a smirk, "I suppose you missed the show."
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"I heard about what happened. It would have been... interesting to see in person," he said. Enough so that he could have tolerated the highlight reels of his life on display for others if it meant an opportunity to confirm or deny a theory he'd had since arriving in Kirkwall. Cole had said it best - the very stones of this place were set about with some sort of malice that afflicted the city as a whole entity.
"...You seem to have endured, however."
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Perhaps they were never companions, or even all that comfortable with one another, but just speaking to someone from the recent past is setting Benedict's nerves somewhat at ease. He even smiles a little.
"I've endured a lot of things," he says, weariness creeping uncharacteristically into his sardonic tone. "...I... imagine there'll be more, until this all comes to an end."
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When you delved so often into the worst of the worst people had to offer, you had to sometimes adjust your definition of 'interesting'.
"It is almost certain there will be... more," he said in that halting way of his, vague as ever to hide his underlying thoughts on the matter.
"...Was ...anything discovered when it happened?"
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Glancing around, his lip curls a touch at the sight of the place.
"I haven't had time to look into it. ...I'm the chamberlain now, I have to see that the guest rooms are livable again."
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"Moving up in the ranks. It is better than the red lyrium."
That had been fun. And he'd only been on duty to make sure the lingering spirits didn't heckle the people actually cleaning it.
"...But this... is such a waste."
He inclined his head to the ingredients - unusable now, probably worth quite a bit before they were ruined.
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