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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
As he's been speaking, Bartimaeus has whipped the rug back to the floor and been pushing it around with his foot to rub the chalk of the larger pentacle into an unintelligible smudge. He leaves off it now, the rug a dusty pile slumped across the floorboards.
"No, and I say this quite literally, you don't have the authority to tell me to do anything. Or to go anywhere."
Which, shockingly, turns out to be a real pity. In fact, the dysphoria of it might carry him all the way through the next few minutes.
Bartimaeus takes up the cloak and whips it about himself with far more enthusiasm than he feels. For good measure and in case the strange, hollow feeling plaguing him is showing anywhere in the arrangement of this horrible guise, he rakishly tosses an edge back over one shoulder. "Well, Kitty. I can't say it's been a pleasure."
no subject
"Hold on," she says, rising to her feet. She tries to dust the greasy chalk off her hands by scraping them against her trousers and manages to leave handprints on the backs of her thighs. "What d'you mean, it's been a pleasure? You're not leaving?"
no subject
"Why shouldn't I?"
no subject
"Because I owe you." She shoves her hair behind her ear, feeling formlessly anxious. "You saved my life back there, didn't you, and I haven't properly repaid you."
no subject
But oh ho, you're not catching out old Bartimaeus tonight Miss Jones! He knows a desperate bid for something (he hasn't figured out what yet, only feels in his bones that it probably asks more from him than it will anyone else) when he sees it. The temper of their last meeting, in a not so different dusty room, has nothing at all to do with his suspicion. Really.
Something cold grows behind his facade od flippant good humor. The boy narrows his eyes at her. "Let's bank that favor for the future then, shall we? I can't say anything you could possibly do for me is coming to mind just now."
no subject
"I crossed over into the Fade, you know." Will this tactic work? Heaven knows. Maybe. Probably not. "A few months ago. I was there. I wonder if it was anything like your world."
no subject
"It wasn't." He knows just by looking at her.
no subject
"Don't you even want to hear about it?"
no subject
How does he know? Just who does she think she is exactly? What gives her the right to try to pin him to the floor over any of this? That she's unwittingly following in the footsteps of some future self or some alternate version saws at some raw nerve. How infuriating: people will almost without exception find ways of being intolerably cruel no matter what opportunities you give them not to be.
No, he doesn't want to hear about her fine little adventure in the Fade from which ahe'd returned unchanged and undeterred. No, he doesn't want to answer her questions.
"So unless you're more magician than you claim, I'd cool it with the badgering before I get irritated."
He goes for the door.
no subject
Why does it matter, Kitty? In the end, it really doesn't. Matter, that is. The information he has is interesting, but not that vital - there's no sense in needling and prodding and poking if it's just going to make him angry. And he's certainly not pleasant company.
And yet.
"At least sleep out the night here."
no subject
"I'll find my own way, thank you Kitty. Like I said. I'd rather save that favor for when it might really count." Never trust a magician's overtures of charity.
He flips his hood up. With a whisk of the cloak's edges, Bartimaeus is out of the room, across the landing and descending the stairwell.