TEST DRIVE MEME

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[inkindled]

"Matthias," he corrects, as if perhaps champ was an assumption of his name. He's not going to take offense to some overly-familiar and could-be-maybe-slightly-patronizing nickname, chiefly because there seems to be the possibility of a meal it for him. And also it doesn't feel genuinely patronizing. Just a little, in the thoughtless way that a lot of adults accidentally put on. "I had lunch, yeah."

And then dinner. But that was small, and a little while ago, and the waitress is walking over, and free food is dancing tantalizingly near to Matthias' grasp, so he goes for another gulp of ale rather than admit to his dinner.

"I just got here," he says, once he's downed that sip. "We sort of joined up at Ghislain. The others that made it sodded off elsewhere afterward, but I think it's brilliant, what the Inquisition's trying to do. How's it work for mercenaries, anyways? You're paid for it and all, but you've some say in the people you work for, right? You can not take the work and look for another job if you don't like the offer or the cause or some part of it."

[krem]

Krem orders a shitload of bread and stew which the waitress seems amenable to largely because he has been in here the last few nights and has actually paid off his tabs before leaving every time without the need for any haranguing first. That's more than you can say for a lot of folk around here, apparently. He could afford better bars of course, but this is certainly the most exciting one in the city. And the rest of the Chargers like it too, so that's that.

"Krem," he introduces himself offhandedly once the waitress is headed away to retrieve their food, and he'd offer a hand but the kid seems terribly busy coordinating his drinks into his mouth. He leans back, considering the question (and Matthias' answer, which reminds him of himself all those years ago. He can't quite recall, but he's pretty sure his pitch to Bull to go to work for the fledgling Inquisition involved the phrase good fights for a good cause in it somewhere. Honestly.) "The contracts we've got with the Inquisition aren't the normal sort. More often than not it's me looking through the reports, and figuring out what the Chargers can do for them. Usually, yeah, it's that: you do the jobs you want to, for the people you want to. If you can afford to turn away work."

And that's usually the rub. Luckily, though, Bull had built them up so well that they could be as picky as they damn well pleased. He smiles to himself, as proud as he always is of his makeshift little family (of hardened mercenaries.)

"Why, you looking for other options already?"

[inkindled]

He nods along at Krem's explanation--yes, yes, yes--and then a quick no, with a sheepish grin.

"I mean--I wish. Maybe after this. Not that it's easy, or anything, I know I'd have to work for it. But I'm used to traveling and camps and all of it? Which'd give me an advantage. Kind of." Matthias twists the mug around on the tabletop, sloshing the ale around on the inside and smearing the wet ring beneath it. "And I like the idea of it. Doing the job I want for the people I want. It's a luxury, yeah?"

And not one most people get to have, though of course that goes without saying. It's well-known. Matthias twists the mug back around the other way again.

"But is there-- I don't know. An audition, or a try-out, or something?"

[krem]

Krem looks thoughtful. His introduction into mercenary work had been, uh, not standard. Everyone in the Chargers' was, honestly. Comes with the territory of having such a non-standard boss. "Every company is different, but with most, you'll have some proving yourself to do."

Probably not many out there would take someone so young—or at least, not many of the more professional outfits that Krem would prefer the goofy kid fall in with even after just this one short conversation. Maker, the Chief's bleeding heart must be rubbing off on him. Terrible. (That's his story and he's sticking to it.)

"You're in a good spot for it, though. Concentrate on making an impression in the Inquisition. Earning some decent recommendations from an organization like this should make it easy enough to get your foot in the door with a good company."

He looks over the kid again, curiously. He's a far cry from Ben-Hassrath, but Krem is still pretty observant. And a decent enough judge of character if he does say so himself. Kid looks scrappy, which is a good trait for someone who wants to fight for a living. Obviously very idealistic, though, which could easily do him more harm than good out there. "What can you do?"

[inkindled]

Matthias absorbs the new information like a sponge. And, like a sponge, he takes in more ale, too, all the while Krem is talking. The bready taste of it neither deters him nor makes him flinch. He's been drinking ale for ages now. Perhaps not in quite this volume, but still.

Still. When he sets down the mug, it's half-gone. Matthias lists back a little before he remembers that there's not a proper back to his current seat, and puts a hand down on the tabletop to steady himself.

"Yeah," he agrees, somewhat aimlessly. It sort of works as a response to all of what Krem said. "That's sort of how I was thinking, too. Collecting recommendations. Prestigious." Which Matthias is decidedly not, and he ducks his head a little with his next grin. Well. "I'm quick. Helped me in every fist-fight I've ever been in. And, well. I'm a mage."

Which is the best thing about Matthias, and his favorite thing about himself, too, so the pride in his voice practically makes that sentence glow. He can't help it. Years of having that pride stoked in him, built up like an armor.

"So I can do loads of stuff. Is that common? Mage-mercenaries?"

Please let him be the first. How cool would that be? So cool. After this next sip, Matthias wipes his sleeve over his mouth. So cool.

[krem]

"Not south of Tevinter, it isn't." And those Mercenary companies don't often venture outside the borders either, for obvious reasons. Before these last few years, getting caught being a mage down here was dangerous business (it still can be, of course, but the response to it now is terribly unorganized), even putting aside all the regular perils faced as a mercenary.

The food comes, and Krem flashes the waitress his most charming grin for bringing them fresher bread than he was honestly expecting, and she skitters off quickly with a redder face.

He turns back to Matthias, awfully pleased with himself. "Get in a lot of fist-fights, do you?" See? Scrappy. He knew it. Krem waves a hand to dismiss his own question quickly though, tearing off a bit of the loaf of bread before pulling it back. Obviously a mage kid down here is going to be getting into all sorts of fights these days. "You have a specialty? Healing, or, uh, fire? Ice? Something?"

[inkindled]

If he's not the total first, he's at least a first. Not a bad consolation prize. Matthias grins, flushed with some emotion adjacent to pride--pride in his future self, maybe, who is kicking major arse as the first mercenary-mage of the Free Marches--and grabs his ale for another gulp as the food is delivered.

He's not so entrenched in the mug so as to miss the waitress, or that exchange. Cool. Maker, what does he have to do to be this guy? Or as like this guy as possible. He watches the waitress go, momentarily distracted by the figure she cuts through the crowds. Someday, it'll be him. Guaranteed. And there's a new admiration when he finally looks back at Krem, and grabs for a big hunk of bread to tear into.

"I've been in my share. Y'know. It happens." Deliberately casual. He takes a bite and chews a little, but elaborates with his mouth full: "We were living elbow to elbow in the Circle, and there were some real pricks around. And then it was the camp, and the war and all, which's a bit more dramatic than fist-fights, but not much different, when all's said and done. Specialty's fire." He makes a little gesture with his free hand, a wiggly finger motion to denote flames. No flames appear. He tries to know better than to do any deliberate displays. "Useful as it is destructive. I reckon I could be a brilliant asset, s' long as they give me a chance."

[krem]

Krem catches the new look and has to keep himself from laughing his mouthful of ale back out all over himself. Oh, no. He is going to have to keep this kid far, far away from the chief, who would be an absolutely terrible influence on him.

Not that Bull is in Kirkwall right now, but still. He makes a note of it for the future.

"Fire is good," he says, after swallowing. Hell, Dalish's fire had saved his ass in enough fights that he would know. Sometimes one well-placed storm of fireballs is entirely the difference between the Chargers winning and the Chargers retreating, no matter how many skulls he and Grim manage to bash in down on the ground. He gives the kid a reassuring thump on the back from across the table. "Don't see why they wouldn't." Other than because Southerners are, uh, wary of their mages of course, but Krem thinks that the Inquisition is working to change that down here.

[inkindled]

Matthias grins again at the bracing pat on the back, further encouraged toward this future goal. Sure, Krem could be having him on. But why would he? It's far more likely that this is all very genuine and a real possibility, and to reward himself, Matthias takes another big gulp of ale to wash down his bread.

That's one mug done, then. He grabs for the second, for one initial fortifying sip before turning his attention to food.

"Right, so--what is it you're specialized in, then? Mercenaries are probably good at a little bit of everything, right, all trades and the whole bit--but there's got to be something you're best at, yeah? In battle?"

[krem]

"I lead the front line," Krem sticks his bread in one of the two bowls of stew on the table, dragging it over in front of himself. "Usually with something two-handed," (he means the giant fuck-off boulder strapped to a stick that he calls a maul), "sometimes a sword and shield if we're defending. But..." he waves a hand back and forth, as if to shoo the notion away. The one not currently holding onto stew-soaked bread, thankfully. "Chargers mostly act as shock troops or skirmishers instead."

Because frankly, if someone is hiring them for bodyguard duty it is because they want the massive Qunari giant to lurk behind them being intimidating, not the regular-sized Vint.

A good-natured grimace crosses his face, then. "And I do all the paperwork." Very important for a Mercenary Company interested in actually getting paid, but it's, uh, not Bull's thing. Even before they joined the Inquisition and they started working independently of him so often, so surely that counts as a specialization. "If you can read and write that might help your case, too." They teach mages to do that down here too, he's assuming.