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

john mandrake | bartimaeus sequence

[contemptful]

i. gallows

It's the sort of artless, heavy-handed irony he'd expect to see in one of Makepeace's plays: one moment John Mandrake, great magician and Information Minister, sits in the back of his own private car and very seriously debates his right — no, obligation — to take up Gladstone's Staff for the good of all of Britain. And now, not very many moments later (or weeks, literally, but that's lacking dramatic appeal), he stands, penniless, holding a broomstick and standing in...

Rat hearts? Those are really rat hearts. Anyway, it isn't the polished wood staff he was planning on holding, is the point.

Without his expensive suits and meticulous haircuts, he looks like what he is, which is a skinny teenage boy holding a broomstick and frowning thoughtfully at the broken cabinet's innards. John doesn't make a move to start cleaning. He considers digging the charcoal out of his pocket and drawing a pentacle on the floor instead. Not for the first time, which is why he knows it would be pointless. Still, maybe if he just changes the words of the summoning slightly—

"You." He's drawn out of his thoughts by a bypasser, whether they're skirting close or carefully avoiding the mess. He says you with polite authority, as if there's any way to make shouting you at someone not rude. He seems to think it isn't. "Do you know who usually tends to the grounds?"

He's not an idiot. The informal answer is clearly new recruits, or rifters, or specifically whoever's been handed a broom. But there must be some kind of hierarchy. And, more importantly: he can't possibly be at the bottom of it.

ii. kirkwall

This is a task with some merit. There isn't much about this place that makes sense, but Marquis is a word he knows and nobleman holds the obvious weight, and that means this inane, humiliating task might be a blessing in disguise. A chance to rub shoulders with the elite, to get his name in with someone who really matters.

You know what also holds weight? The Marquis, who is currently dead drunk and teetering perilously at the top of a flight of stone steps.

John has his back against the Marquis', pushing against him with all the effectiveness you might expect from a boy who hasn't lifted anything heavier than his ego in all of his seventeen years. There's sweat on his brow and an uncomfortable focus on his face, gaze fixed on the tips of his toes at the edge of a step, desperately trying not to give ground or lose balance.

He can't even look up when he hears footsteps approach. And while normally he'd approach an alliance with more finesse and strategy, right now he doesn't have much choice. Instead, there's a strained, dubiously high-pitched: "Help, please."

iii. book

In very tidy (some might even say pretentious) script, the kind that's so fancy that it's hard to say if that's an f or an s:

What do the words "spirit" and "demon" mean to you?

I have done all the pertinent reading, so I am not looking for pedantry and definitions. I know what these words mean in the context of this world. I am interested in your opinion and your subjective experience.

Does that even make sense? Wouldn't their opinion still include a definition? Can he erase this message?— no. That would look even worse than sending a foolish question in the first place. He'll stand by it.

iii

[rathercommon]

Immediately, upon reading that, Kitty wonders if this is someone from her world. Of course, every time she hears about a new rift opening up, or sees new faces in the Gallows, she wonders if it's someone from her world. Probably everyone does - thinks immediately, what if it's someone I know? What if it's some friend or some enemy or some someone? But here she has some reason for it - this sounds like the way they talk back home, and that's enough to make her wary.

So, in neat script, a secretary's tidy hand, she writes back:

Why are you asking all of that?

[contemptful]

I have an academic interest.

No, wait. He's trying to be friendly, not just professional.

And a personal one. There's no obligation to respond if the question makes you uncomfortable.

[rathercommon]

Obviously there is no obligation.

Honestly.

I suppose you're a Rifter?

[contemptful]

Um he's just trying to be polite?? Rude.

Then you suppose correctly. I assure you, however, that my status as a Rifter does not make me any less capable than someone who has been here the whole of their life. I'm a very quick study.

Because she asked for elaboration, clearly.

And you? What is your status?

[rathercommon]

She debates a moment.

I'm a Rifter, too. But from a world that never had demons or spirits or anything like that. Everything is so new. What do demons mean to you?

[contemptful]

Well, this conversation is officially a waste of time. He'll answer anyway, because he IS trying to be polite. Except as soon as he starts to, he realises he doesn't know how.

He could list all of the types of demons, if asked. He could give the names and ranks of hundreds, maybe thousands. Strangely enough, his personal feelings on demons never came up in his training. The answer he ends up with is... boring, and exactly the kind of reply he didn't want from others.

They're servants. Dangerous, but only if you lack the skill to command them properly.

iii

[seaboard]

Spirits are the beings of great power who answer the prayers of the living when we appeal to them correctly, and form great bonds with. They are patrons and protectors to many people.

[contemptful]

Hm.

A bond? You mean an agreement?

He means "threat the spirit can't rightly oppose", technically.

[seaboard]

That is the simplest way of understanding it.

[contemptful]

I see. Has a spirit ever answered your prayers?

[seaboard]

Oh, yes, many times. Our Sea-Father is very attentive to us.

[contemptful]

I'm sorry— you refer to the spirit with honorifics, or is that its formal name?

iii

[meds4sale]

[This handwriting is equally fancy and pretentious - someone is very clearly trained in calligraphy.]

In broadest terms, spirits are something that embody the nature of something, be it person, creature, object, natural phenomena, or idea.

I have found 'demon' to be subjective, usually applied to spirits people simply do not like.

[contemptful]

[ Well, the second part isn't completely wrong. ]

You would never classify something as a demon, then? Not even a spirit that's objectively untrustworthy and cruel?

[ It's not an opinion because he said he wasn't, see. ]

[meds4sale]

No more than I would classify anyone else as such.

Which is to say

"No".

[contemptful]

[ Seems like a luxury. Or maybe just theoretical. He's already speaking to someone from a world with no actual spirits or demons (ALLEGEDLY), this could be more of the same. ]

And you've met many demons, have you?

Sorry. Spirits.

[meds4sale]

A few.

[Says the exorcist who has dealt with this stuff on a near daily basis for several centuries.]

Have you?

[contemptful]

Of course. I'm a magician.

[ Which might need some context, here. How to make it sound suitably impressive. ]

It is my duty to bend powerful demons to the will of the British Empire.

[ Or just like, his will. And technically it WAS his duty, past tense. This sounds better. ]

i.

[elegiaque]

The interruption to her thoughts visibly irritates her, though she doesn't immediately snap at him; just snaps the book she'd been glancing through while walking shut, looking from the boy who's interrupted her to the mess he's regarding to the broom in his hand and back, at last, dubiously, to his face.

“No.” For as much interest as she takes in the rest of the Inquisition en masse, the individuals are often...

Well.

There are a lot of people here who she hasn't taken the time to acquaint herself with, and if they had dedicated groundskeepers, they'd probably be the least of them.

“It certainly looks like it's you, today.”

There's an anchor-shard in her hand, visibly, but she doesn't have that out of place look that rifters, the new or the stubborn, tend to.

[contemptful]

Normal, well-adjusted people might look at her irritated response and consider it haughty. A bit rude. John observes it and thinks: ah, someone of bearing and respect. Finally.

Which doesn't do much to negate the disappointment of her answer, unfortunately. John frowns at the broom, his desire to fulfill his duties and impress his superiors directly at odds with his distaste for manual labor. He's supposed to be able to impress them with research and cleverness, not... sweeping.

They hadn't said when to have the job done, though, did they? It can wait. John switches the broom to his off hand and steps forward, carefully avoiding the mess, to offer her a hand in formal introduction.

"Thank you." Because she did stop, even if her answer wasn't what he wanted. "My name is John Mandrake."

It's the kind of introduction that would be very at home at a formal event. In the middle of chores, not so much, but you know what they say about taking the boy out of the country.

[elegiaque]

As much as you can take the girl out of the nobility—

the formal greeting that she's accustomed to is not a handshake, so whether he intended to simply take her hand as one might a lady's or actually shake it, the former is what he gets. Briefly; a quick press of a hand clean and manicured but not entirely without the calluses of combat.

(Given her general temperament, suspicion of strangers and tendency to guard her personal space if not anyone else's, he's lucky she doesn't just stare judgmentally at his hand until he lowers it.)

“Gwenaëlle Baudin.” A sweeping glance—no actual sweeping, though, she can almost always find something better to be doing if pressed. “You're a new rifter?”

ii

[inkindled]

"Oh, yeah--"

The footsteps pick up some urgency as Matthias closes the distance between himself and the weird mishmash of person-and-person that he's come across. From a distance it had been a bulky shadow, but help is an ardent enough plea that he'd answered the call without thinking twice.

Now that he's arrived on the scene proper, he pulls a little face. Doesn't turn away, though. It's not the first drunk that he's helped to lug around. Camp life, life in the Circle--both had been a little bleak, and ale an easy escape, an ease to pain, or at the very least a variance to the course of a day.

Why is Matthias out after dark in Lowtown? Don't worry about it. He's a friendly figure, a welcome help with-- well, about the same level of strength, unfortunately, but two is better than one, and he skirts around the marquis' bulky form to grab for his arms and pull.

"Eurgh-- fat bastard-- step down, c'mon-- Maker's balls, what midden heap'd you dig this one out of?"

The perilous teeter gets more perilous still. Matthias, in his eagerness to assist and in his lack of understanding of basic, you know, physics, and things, hasn't really thought through his current position, and the danger he's put himself in.

i wonder how many times the marquis has died on this tdm

[contemptful]

The first thing John thinks is: ah, relief. The second thing he thinks is: oh no.

"No, not there, you—," He stumbles over which insult to use at the same time he stumbles over the edge of the next step. The newcomer pulls and the Marquis leans, and so does John, and then the balance dramatically tips.

Could he fight harder to keep the Marquis shored up on his shoulder? Possibly. In his defense, it would've been a thin margin. When the heavy man slides forward he slips off John's shoulder and entirely out of his grip, and for a moment the Marquis is balanced entirely on his own two feet: there's a perilous pause at the peak of it, and then he lurches, slow and then quick, John frantically grabbing at his gaudy cloak to slow him down.

"Watch out!"

Hope you've got high dexterity, dumbass.

like a sick groundhog day and here will be one more oops

[inkindled]

"What," Matthias starts--blank, at first, before veering wildly to the defensive, "What?" and then, finally, panicked, "What are you doing, what the he--aaa--"

Which is mostly a yell, really, as the weight of the marquis slumps forward. Matthias' brief life flashes before his eyes. Not very interesting to start with, then veering sharply into the rebellion, the war--the bulk of a stranger crushing him to death at the bottom of a staircase in Lowtown.

Unconscious preservation activates him. Matthias lets go for a second, just a second--leaps down three steps, backwards--and braces his arms out straight to absorb the weight of the marquis. Between that and the stranger pulling on the cloak, he's bought a few more moments of life.

And with the breath granted to him, he hisses, frantically, at the stranger: "Pull him up, pull him up--!"