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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
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."
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"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."
no subject
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!"
no subject
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.
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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.
no subject
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."
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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.
no subject
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!"
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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.
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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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
"You're forgetting something, by the way."
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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.
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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.
no subject
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."
no subject
Ungrateful.
"Well I'm glad someone is being looked after," he grumbles.
no subject
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."
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"Is that all? Easily done. In fact, hurry up with that hot meal and-- oh, here comes your hot chocolate-- and we can go back to your rooms straight away and be done with it. Do you have any chalk? Paint, even. Or should we get some on the way?"
And thank you, amenable barmaid, for the drink. Ignoring the heat, he knocks it back entirely in one go. Places to go! People to no longer be!
no subject
Now that she's got her hot chocolate, though, she's not going to move till she's good and warm. And she makes that quite clear by the way that she circles the mug with her hands and sips. She's not scalding her mouth like he doubtless just did.
"Anyway, we can't go back to my rooms, not at this point. We've almost certainly missed the last ferry back. We'll have to find rooms here."
no subject
No, maybe that's the roof of his mouth burning. He sucks in a few breathes in an attempt to minimize the sting.
"We can do it here just as easily as there. We'll just need something to draw the-- you know what with."
no subject
He's not going to run off; she's sure of that. And she could take a few moments to herself to try to sort through all that he's just told her. Because - her, doing summonings...So giving him something to do might be good, at least for a little while.
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"That suits me just fine. Meet you at-- you, where's the closest room for rent?" This, to her burly tattooed neighbor. "In an hour?"
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