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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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
Each impact of the flabby appendage sends a tingling crawl of revulsion up Matthias' arm. His attempts to pull free are frustrated by Nub Arm's grip, which is really quite good. That, coupled with Matthias' revulsion, is enough to make his escape difficult. If he vomits in disgust, he might win his freedom, but he will also be the newcomer that vomited in the courtyard. He knows how social ladders work. There's no upward mobility on them when you're saddled early on with a title like Vomit Lad.
"You're insane!" A less embarrassing tactic, though it likewise carries less of punch. "My leg's not wooden, you ass, that was a lie, obviously that was a lie, it's flesh and--meat, not like your creepy flappy-- stop, stop, STOP--"
Can he twist his arm in such a way that he can grab hold of the limp arm? Does he dare to touch it? What if his arm withers away? Why is this happening to him? What did he do to deserve this?
no subject
"I'll stop if you agree to clean up this mess. And if you promise not to tell anyone about any of this," says the boy. Flip-flap-flop, goes the empty sausage casing limb.
no subject
In the grand register of magic words, nghk is not very good or dramatic. But Matthias isn't trying to be dramatic, or cast any magic. The tingle of heat that flushes through his body is more like an inside-out sneeze. No visible flames, just the heat, a warmth that nosedives quickly to burn, crashing past subtler layers.
Matthias feels the spell huff out through his skin, and the flash that follows, the bowels-deep weightless high that comes after magic has been cast. Suddenly, briefly, he is an iron panhandle left too close to a fire, and Nub Arm is both bare-hands gripping and flagellating the hot pan with his nubby arm. And--
"Piss off!" --Which is little too close to a shriek, but is better, as far as magic words go.
no subject
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.
no subject
Shit.
Preservation kicks in. "Do what?" He lifts his chin, stubbornly. "Tell you to piss off? You'd better man up, mate. You'll hear rougher language than that, hanging around the Inquisition."
The templars here are different. Assholes, but different assholes, ones that must follow the Inquisition's rules. Even in the camp, attacking your fellow mages certainly wasn't tolerated, but at least everyone there knew the reality of the situation. That it happened, sometimes, which is completely what went on just now. But will the Inquisition know that? And the fact that this happened in the Gallows, which is stained with the blood of how many mages--and Matthias isn't superstitious, precisely, but he folds his arms over his chest in a way that he hopes invokes an air of superiority. Instead of just to ward off evil, and protect him from the little chill he's just felt.
"Look, I don't know what you're talking about. Only you better get to sweeping. Maybe your withered baby arm can help with the worst of it. Otherwise put it away. Makes me sick, looking at it."
no subject
Credit where credit's due: the kid's not bad. Speaking as someone well versed in telling people they're being ridiculous in the hopes that they might start to believe it, it's the kind of tactic that actually works nine times out of ten. It's just a shame that this is number ten, and that the boy's trying to out-maneuver a master wordsmith with no qualms about being a real pain in the backside.
"I wonder who Commander Coupe or that Shivana fellow with the Chantry Relations project will believe when I tell them.l? Some uppity mage who thinks he's too good for a little manual labor, or a poor defenseless young man with burned hands and a withered arm? Do you know, I heard Shivana was blind up until very recently--"
Flinging his fleshy arm about his neck like a scarf, Bartimaeus whirls around to leave on his mission to become a Grade A tattletale.
no subject
What's worse: if he gets fucked by this, his name will be blackened, he'll never get to do anything really good or meaningful with the Inquisition--and what mage will respect him or give a shit about him if he's a bloody powder keg? And all over one little mistake--it isn't fair, especially because--
"You were provoking me, you tit! You were slapping me with your--withered, little-- I didn't even do anything to you, your hands aren't burned at all! Stop walking away, you--" Oh, shit, wait--with dawning realization, and a rising tone, as he scrambles to run after Nub Arm-- "You just want to get out of sweeping! You're skiving, you--skiver!"
no subject
Instead, Bartimaeus turns back to him slowly. With the sock of an arm still wrapped about his neck, he takes a solid handful of seconds to assess little Not So Wooden Legged After All. And then he smiles, rather sharp indeed.
"And? What're you going to do about it?"
no subject
That smile. It means that Matthias is right. He's totally right. This rat bastard skiver is going to play like he's seriously wounded right up until he gets to lay down in an infirmary bed and then he'll trot off and be well and whole and fine and Matthias will either have to sweep up alone, or pay the price for being tattled on--or, worse, both of those things.
But what is he going to do about it?
He draws himself up to his full height, stopped short in his scramble. A chill wind blows through the courtyard, pushes at his back and blows his ill-trimmed tumble of hair over his forehead and into his eyes. Impatiently, Matthias shoves it back with the sleeve of his robe fallen over his hand.
"If you leave me here to clean up this--shit, all by myself," he says, in as close to a low and dangerous tone as he can muster, "then I will get back at you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday, when you least expect it, probably. And I reckon I'll have loads of time to think up a really good revenge. Because you're such a rat that you're going to go off somewhere and eat up all the loads of pity and people feeling sorry for you, like a total milksop. Instead of just doing the decent honest thing."