allthisshitisweird | TEST DRIVE MEME

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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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh, the way she says it is so infuriatingly dripping. That's rich, he thinks.

And laughs. Or scoffs. Even he's not certain which. "Maybe not when it comes to you. No, I'm sure you're happy as a pig in mud¹ here. But some of us would rather not be here at all. Some of us find ourselves the unwilling victim of a girl's lack of education. If you were so keen on pretending to be something you aren't, the least you could have done was learn the right words of dismissal. Though I must say," the boy snarls, quite nastily indeed. "I've never heard of anyone botching it this badly."

1. Strictly not the word he uses, but let's keep things clean for the young readers, shall we?

"That sort of profanity," Kitty says primly, "is hardly necessary. And anyway - "

Anyway. Never mind that she'd just been wondering it in the back of her mind; now that Bartimaeus has accused her, aloud, of bringing him here, she feels utter exasperated outrage that he would even think that she's responsible for this. Because, honestly, how ridiculous can you get?

"If you haven't noticed, I'm not a magician, so how on earth could it have been me who brought you here?"

"'Not a magician'?! No, I think you've made that quite clear. Not that it stopped you, now did it? You can save the playing dumb act for someone who doesn't know any better, Miss Jones. I'm tired of playing along with you."

Come to think of it there's no reason for him put up with her holding him against this wall either. At once the boy, who is if nothing else still surprisingly strong, throws off her grip.

"I think," he says, poking her in the chest. Maybe not something he would have done if his thoughts weren't floating from the evening's activities, but he isn't and that might as well be her fault too. "It's high time you were the one answering questions here. So spit it out. What were the words you used to dismiss me?"

Edited 2019-01-25 15:38 (UTC)

She steps back, suddenly quite off-balance. Literally and figuratively. Which is an unfortunate way to be, here on this stairway with a wall on one side and gaping nothingness on the other and plenty of fat Orlesian to trip over. So she takes a moment to find firm footing before turning her attention to him.

"What are you on about? And stop jabbing at me, or I'll punch you in the jaw. And demon or no, you'll feel it. I haven't got any words for summoning or dismissing or any of it, and i ought to punch you twice for talking to me like I have got em." Then: "Have you even bothered to look around you?"

"Have I-- Have I looked around me?" The boy puffs up². "Oh you've got me. My eyes have actually been closed this whole time. In fact, they're shut right now! I'm surprised you could tell, short sighted as you are. The real question is did you hit your head when you got here? Or are you just back to name calling because I refused to help you?"

Just who does she think she is? Above the rules, for one (though that's not news). And if there's one thing being irrefutably proved by all of this nonsense, it's that those rules are there for a reason. You can't just go mucking around with the order of things for fun. People - almost entirely without exception - can't be trusted not to stick their hand into things they know nothing about and make everyone's lives worse off for it.

Let that be a lesson to you, Bartimaeus. Give an inch with a feisty young thing on the principle that you both hate the same person and the next thing you know you're being snatched from the Other Place by the scruff of your neck, interrogated as if you owe her something, and then at the end of it she can't even send you back properly!

2. By a few millimeters in every direction.

In the past, Kitty has quite appreciated Bartimaeus' chattiness. Honestly, it's - well, frankly, it's saved her life. But right now, it's so utterly obnoxious that she's half tempted to push him down the stairs. Three times - three times, she opens her mouth to interject, but he just keeps on with his outrage, listening to no one save himself. So finally, when he's done, she's finally able to cut in to say -

"I can't have summoned you, Bartimaeus. We're not on earth."

"No!" he gasps, all faux shock. "And here I thought the second moon in the sky was someone's bad idea of a joke."

Oh and now he really is getting angry. It's a good thing that the ol' Marquis over there is so thoroughly soused so as to not recognize which direction is which, because in this one the dark skinned boy is rapidly growing long in the tooth and awfully sharp in the fingernail region. He bristles like a porcupine.

"Of course you didn't summon me here. It seems abundantly clear that all of this is an accident. We're talking about when you did before. In London! In that stodgy upstairs room with your wobbly excuses for pentacles!"

"I never - " What on earth - What is he on about? Demons lie - even helpful, decent demons like Bartimaeus, who'd prodded her into saving Mandrake's life - they lie constantly. But this is simply bizarre. She cannot see the reason or logic in this lie. What's the point in him pretending she's some - magician? She could maybe see the use of it if there were someone else present, if he wanted to slander her, but the Marquis certainly doesn't care. So why - ?

"I never summoned you. We've only ever spoken once, when you kidnapped me, quite rudely may I add, and Jakob, too, and I've obviously forgiven all of that 'cause you were just following orders but if you keep waving those claws in my face I might get angry again. If someone summoned you looking like me, then it was obviously some dirty trick, and you apparently fell for it. Bartimaeus, I'm not a magician. I've never made a - pentacle in my life, wobbly or otherwise."

Edited 2019-01-26 00:18 (UTC)

Look who can't get a word in edge-wise now. She successfully bowls over a few sharp sounds of protest and one or two scoffs of disbelief - him? Tricked? Highly unlikely -, the result of which at least means that by the time she's done the long pointed teeth poking out of Bartimaeus's otherwise very human mouth have at least started to feel (and look) more silly than intimidating. He's still mad as a cat in a bag of course, but who wouldn't be? Never mind the harassment, the constant need for a very human guise, the intolerable drain of the rift shard on his honestly enfeebled essence, and the depressingly consistent backwards thinking on spirits and their ilk that evidently is a requirement for every version of the physical world. He's tired. And tipsy. And he just wants to take her by her long dark hair and--

"--Hold on," he blurts out around his mouthful of shark's teeth. It's loud in the otherwise abandoned stairwell despite the marble-mouthed syllables. For a rather long moment, he squints at her through the haze of the evening's activities and the halfway darkness. After the frankly relentless bout of talking, the silence is nearly intolerable.

Finally: "Shouldn't your hair be shorter?"

"I - " Her hand comes up to tug at her hair. She had been thinking of cutting it short, back home - to change her appearance and all that. Easiest way to throw people off her trail. But she certainly hasn't here.

Of course, that incredulous question sends a puff of air in her face. She wrinkles her nose in disbelief. "Bartimaeus, are you drunk?" But that's beside the point. "No, my hair shouldn't be shorter. Look - " She lets out a breath. "I think the problem is that we've come here from - From different times."

"You're drunk," he may or may not mutter. It's hard to tell around all the teeth.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is: "Really? That's what you're jumping to? Time travel? A second ago your theory was some magician posing as your doppelganger. Which I shouldn't have to tell you is absurd. No magician in their right, fat headed mind would ever stoop so low as to pretend to be a commoner like yourself. And for another thing--"

Here, he pauses. He'd been on the verge of saying that it couldn't be anyone but her. That the thing she's known from that wobbly pentacle had been too specific not to be. That he knew the strangeness of her aura. That no magician in countless centuries except one had ever even thought to ask about the guise of the Egyptian boy, never mind put so much thought into it.

But you know what? No. Come to think of it, he'd rather not talk about any of that. It's not as if she'd wanted to know for any good reason after all.

"F-for another thing, you shouldn't walk around with loose money in your pockets. You're practically asking to be robbed."

"What?" God, he's simply so insufferable sometimes. And he's definitely drunk. She shakes her head - "Look. You've got one of these, right?" She lifts her hand to display the green mote smoldering there. "And you've had people calling you a Rifter. Right? Basically, it's like - " She frowns, struggling to articulate it.

"They've got this thing here, the Fade, that's the realm of dreams. And I guess, back home, on Earth, we dreamed about ourselves, and because of magic, the dreams became reality. So that's what we are. Dreams made into reality. And probably you were further along in time than I was when you dreamed, or something - or maybe you were from some sort of parallel world, like mine, but where I'm summoning dem- spirits or something - but basically what I'm trying to say is that everything here's different and the things you're assuming, you probably shouldn't just assume."

Cue another round of trying and failing to interject. Eventually: "Yes, I've heard all that." The boy raises his hand and waggles his talon ended fingers. The pulse of the rift shard winks from the center of the palm. "And ignored it, because it's not possible. Spirits don't dream. We don't even sleep."

Or they're not meant to. Strangely enough, he keeps finding his attention wandering so far and for such long stretches of time that he could almost swear-- but that's not the point either.

"I'm not like you. I don't belong in places like this. I can't be here if someone hasn't dragged me kicking and screaming. It sounds to me like whatever they've told you is true can't be. And if you're here, and I'm here, there's nothing to say you're not what's shackling me here whether you remember anything about it or not."

So maybe she isn't the Kitty Jones who summoned him. Maybe something strange happened to them both on the way to this place. But she is still some kind of Kitty Jones and maybe the laws of nature and magic that link spirits and their summoners are just doing the best they can in a confusing situation. Who hasn't been there, right? Which means... --which means!

A sudden light finds the boy's dark eyes. His clawed hands surge forward like he might snatch at her shirt collar or grab her by the shoulders, then stop halfway to it.

"You need to dismiss me!"

The claws come at her. It's instinct that takes over more than anything else - a hand going down for her knife, stepping back to get out of his reach -

Stepping back. The problem is that there isn't anything behind her. The ball of her foot hits flat stone, but the heel drops out into nothingness - and she stands, teetering on the arch of her right foot, the left jutting into the air, inscribing circles as it tries to help her find her balance and to help her find her balance forward. But gravity wins; with a shriek issuing from her mouth, she starts to tip backwards, into the emptiness that leads to the harbor a deadly distance below.

That's one way to cook an egg.

If he's right (and he usually is) and she's what's keeping him here, it doesn't really make much difference does it? The death of the magician that summoned him sends him packing just as quickly as a few words properly arranged. Honestly? It might be faster.

So after a split second's hesitation, Bartimaeus watches Kitty Jones disappear off the edge of the stairs and into the darkness of the open air beyond them.

And why shouldn't he! There's no reason at all not to let her fall to her very ridiculous death. Serves her right, acting like such a know it all around a powerful djinni who's only in the rescuing business when it's convenient or by a demand he quite literally can't refuse.

A groaning sound at his feet draws his attention. Bartimaeus finds the Marquis squinting up at him in confusion.

"What? It's not like I pushed her." And then-- "Fine! But I'm only doing this so I'm not responsible for you."

With a sigh, the boy falls into the darkness after the girl. But what snatches her out of the air is a griffon, a sickly green rift light oozing out from between its talons.

The fall is long enough that Kitty has time to think. And what she thinks is: God, what a stupid way to die. After everything she's survived, the impossible odds, the battles, everything - her grand ambitions will come to an end because she wasn't watching where she put her feet. What was it even all for, if she's just going to -

A sudden impact. And now she's dead, she supposes. But - well - her mind seems awfully active for death. Is this what death is like? Getting trapped to think and think without ever getting to act? That's really...No, hold on, it's -

She grabs at the legs of the griffon, trying to steady herself, trying to make sure she doesn't fall. Her limbs are shaking, and she's gasping for breath; tears prick at the edges of her eyes. But something saved her - But Bartimaeus saved her, she realizes. In between the numbness of terror, other emotions creep in: gratitude, and embarrassment, and confusion, and a bit of shame.

"All right," she gasps, "put me down - " And then, because he might very well fly up high and drop her out of spite over being told what to do - "Please."

So here's the thing.

The real trouble with Thedas isn't learning to keep his mouth shut when someone says 'But luckily we've all already agreed to think Rifters aren't demons', or having to trot around in an inoffensive guise all day. It's the part where he has, inexplicably and for the first time in his very long existence, something tied to him.

You'd think it'd be the same as being bound to something, or stuck inside it. And oh that happens all the time. Say something a little too smart or demolish the wrong ancestral tomb when they actually meant to raze the hillside next to it³ and suddenly you're playing the role of cheeky spirit confined to the table vase for the next year. Or you're bound to a carpet. Or you're trapped in an obelisk for so long that the literal sands of time bury and forget you. These things happen.

But in all those cases, the spirit is the same. Worse off? Sure. No one likes slowly wasting away with their knees around their ears. Meanwhile, in this one?

This is something altogether different. This is a girl clinging to his legs while the reality of the rift shard rooted in his essence feeds from the effort of the change, its constant appetite for him turned suddenly ravenous. This is a devouring millstone around his neck. It drags him down, down, down.

"I'm-- trying," says the griffon through its grit beak.

Which is how, after one fantastic backwing to slow their fall, they plummet together into the freezing black water of the Kirkwall harbor.

3. Not his fault. The plans were extremely unclear.

Edited 2019-01-26 15:04 (UTC)

The water takes the breath out of her, like a punch to the stomach. She flails, swallows water - it's salty and sour and has the taste of things she doesn't want to think about - But the pirates, they've taught her how to swim. And thank God for that; a year ago, she didn't know how to so much as tread water - but now she has the instincts. More than the instincts - she knows to let out a burst of bubbles and follow them upwards until her head bursts forth into air.

She gasps for breath; coughs; retches; and then swipes an arm across her eyes, not managing to clear any water at all with her sopping sleeve. Her eyes burn with the salt, but there's no time to dwell on it. Because -

"Bartimaeus! Bartimaeus!"

The sound of her voice carries then is swallowed by the push and pull of the jet dark, bitter cold water. It isn't quiet, it isn't still, but even the nearby lights of the stepped city seem remote. A frigid wind blows across the waterway. There is no call in return and no sign at all of the griffon.

There is, however, one of the boy: surfacing now with a gasp of air some distance to Kitty's left before a new wave slaps him in the face. He disappears again with a ragged gurgle.

Edited 2019-01-26 16:18 (UTC)

Kitty lets out a curse. Of course he's no good at swimming. - Why would he be? It's clear that his powers are reduced in some way. Previously, he could no doubt turn into a fish quick as blinking, but here, now - he's hardly shifted his form even once, when before, he'd flick through them almost compulsively. He'd have no reason to learn to swim with human limbs, but now, he's stuck with them.

She's not such a strong swimmer herself, yet, but - But she sets off for him. There's no sign of him on the surface, but she thrusts her hand downward - and her fingers hit against something living. She gropes blindly and finds cloth, uses it to haul him up above the surface. Her arms scoop beneath his armpits, and she leans back to pull his face away from the waves. Her legs kick frantically to support herself and him.

"Breathe - " She urges him. And - "Are you all right?"

They sit low in the choppy water; the waves push at the sides of their heads. But there's a sort of equilibrium now, where they're not sinking and not in (immediate) danger of being pushed below.

"I don't--" He's spluttering objections the instant he's plucked from under the water. "Need to-- breathe."

Never you mind that he's panting for air while hanging like a sack of mud in her arms, twisting his face to keep it above the lap of water. That's irrelevant after the effort he'd spent floundering his way back out of the depths. Griffons, as it turns out, aren't meant for swimming. They're awfully dense. Sink like stones.

And somehow the moment after a change is always the most difficult one. Already the effort takes all his concentration, all his intent, but the moment after sparks some flash of confusion and alien panic. It's a bit like wrestling with himself knowing that the next second he'll be duking it out with the shard's demands. And while he'd never say that a few millennia of easy shapechanging have left him flabby (it does take skill, you know), the added difficulty certainly raises the stakes. Makes things like not making a fool out of yourself a little tricky.

Under the water, he kicks his feathered and furred legs until they sort themselves out. It takes a few seconds but eventually Kitty should find herself with an armful of sea lion, its down-soft pelt oil slippery in the sea. Sure, he might feel more like a giant sturgeon fish or a shark right about now, but the proximity of the rift shard in any guise without a sizable limb to keep it contained makes him a little queasy. Flippers might not be very dignified, but they get the job of dredging the pair of them toward the city's walled banks just fine.

She gives out a startled noise of dismay when he starts to feel slimy - but it's just a trick of the fur that he sprouts. He's not, as she thought, turning into an octopus or an eel or something else horrible. Which is doubly fortunate, because this new form is big enough that she can hold onto him to get back, which...She probably could have made it back, but she's not completely sure. So. This is good.

They make it to a little dock jutting out into the water. She grabs hold and yanks herself up (treading only once on his bewhiskered head, which gets him a muttered sorry), then holds her hand down to him to help him onto solid ground. She's shivering powerfully, teeth clacking in her head. The night was chilly, but not unbearable when dry - but with the both of them drenched in the harbor's water, the cold might be enough to kill them.

"We'll need to find an - an inn, or someplace of the like. Quick as we can."

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.

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?"

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."

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