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

geralt of rivia | the witcher series | rifter.

[bleidd]

I. KIRKWALL

Looking after a drunken nobleman isn't what Geralt thought he'd be doing when he woke up this morning, but somehow he's here. Walking the stumbling man through Lowtown as he attempts to regal the Witcher with what he calls a famous Orlesian ballad. It isn't, in fact if it was supposed to be some sort of song Geralt could hardly tell with how off key Marquis d'Lussard sings.

It shouldn't hurt if he just... took the hilt of his sword and knocked the man out, would it? Hitting what could only be the songs crescendo the Marquis slips, flailing arms latching onto Geralt's for stability. Funny how quickly 'holding onto dear life' turns into 'uncomfortable hugging for dear life', it grew tiresome of it after a fifth time the Marquis slipped. As heavy as the man is Geralt manages to pry himself free, watching blankly as the man fails to regain what little balance he still has and falls back onto a patch of half melted ice.

The cries that follow ("why didn't you catch me?" "i can't feel my legs!") sounds like they come from a child rather than an grown man. They do little to urge the Witcher into action, only increase his desire to abandon the man to whatever horrors the population of Lowtown may have in plan for him.

"Get up. Your legs are fine."

II. THE WAKING SEA

His boots crunch heavily against the coarse sand, medallion vibrating rapidly against his chest. It had been doing that since the moment they made shore, confirming a part of the Witcher's suspicions as to why they had been asked to investigate. It's Witcher work after all.

"Careful," He starts, nodding towards the dolls swaying from the nearby trees. "My medallion's humming, can only mean magic. Or monsters." Despite the warning Geralt waltz's straight over to one, reaching out to pluck it down. As he does the doll's clothes disintegrates from his touch, leaving behind a cloud of dust decorating his glove. How long have they been out here? Worn down by time and weather, it's a miracle some of them have lasted this long. The sea breeze brushes past them, other dolls swinging with it, and something catches his finely turned hearing; a whisper, a plea. The wolf's head medallion around his neck shakes even more and Geralt drops the doll, only to bring a heel down upon it barely a moment later.

"Someone's been binding spirits to the dolls." A glance behind him, to his company, as he draws his silver sword from his back. The runes etched upon it glow gently with purple light, the sword almost singing as it is freed. "Stay close to me."

III. SEND A MESSAGE.

does anyone know of a good blacksmith?

iii

[reshapes]

Is this the opening to a rude joke? Because if so, consider my interest piqued.

[bleidd]

i'm going to have to disappoint you but no, it isn't.

[reshapes]

What a waste.

[insert a crude drawing involving a blacksmith's hammer here]

[bleidd]

impressive. quite the talent you've got there.

[ SARCASM. ]

[reshapes]

One of my many skills, I assure you.

[bleidd]

uh huh.

[shri]

One of the best.

[bleidd]

their name?

[shri]

Magni An Fjorleif O Talonhold.

She's the near seven-foot-tall woman in the Gallows. Blonde. Marked like those mountain folk. Won't talk much, but will listen to everything you ask.

[ Can't miss her, basically. ]

[bleidd]

[ A nearly seven-foot-tall woman? Interesting. ]

would you know if she has ever worked with silver?

[ Frankly that is the important part, you know in case he loses his silver sword and has to replace it. Again. ]

[shri]

Swords, mostly, are her speciality. But I wager she's done work with silver at one point or another.

I can attest that if you give her a description, even if she has never seen the weapon type before, she can make it with enough detail and time to learn.

[ because she's not going to admit she can just roll over and elbow Magni awake to ask. ]

[bleidd]

i'm eager to see her skills for myself. you have sung her praises well.

[shri]

Tell her Lakshmibai sent you, she'll take care with it.

[bleidd]

i will. thank you, lakshimbai.

[shri]

I take it you are new to the city? And the Gallows?

waking sea

[seaboard]

Gilia, to her credit, hadn't wandered far from the man so well equipped. She knew what she was good at, and what she wasn't, and was under no interest to pretend otherwise. Her hands held in front of her, mindful of how he walked, where he walked, making sure not to get in his way. That habit of those used to following and never making too much noise.

The only thing that isn't innocuous despite all her best efforts, is that head of hair, pinned below her wimple and veil and barely contained, trying desperately to get free. "Why ever would they do that?"

To a daughter of bonded spirits, one whom she loves - and so it loves all her family, she cannot imagine it. But she does as she's told, stepping in close to him, not so small as to be under his elbow, not so tall to be above his chin. But there might be a problem there, his charm, so keen on detecting magic.

Well, the dolls aren't the only thing spirits are mingled with.

[bleidd]

He noticed, of course, the way his medallion would hum when she joined his party. There was an air about her, something familiar and yet at the same time something he couldn't properly name. The trip to the island, however, gave him time to examine her, to make a decision. Harmless, he ruled, from first glance though it would be wise to keep an eye on her during this adventure. Whatever power she harbored, it may not be one she can control.

Cat-like eyes glance at the path behind them, before falling on the young woman beside him. She is smart, at least, recognizing the security of sticking close to someone as armed as he. His gaze moves back to the island in front of them, the wooden hut some ways ahead and the trees that laid in their way. The dolls shift, sway, with each passing of the breeze and he breathes in.

"Because people are cruel." Whispers catch his hearing, slowing his steps. Things would be easier if he had Kiera's lamp, he could maybe figure out how they were bound. "Whoever did this may have wanted to curse the person who lived here."

[seaboard]

"Unless the person who lived here made them." A soft counterpoint to him, unaware of his scrutiny of her with her eyes downturned. After all, why ever would someone look at her here? St. Loe, like this island, was a wisp of a memory.

Instead, she has the rather more pressing task of gathering her skirts up in her hand.

And to that customary optimism, that disbelief, even as he says it - that people could do such a thing. Hurt a spirit, who only ever helped. Her face turned up to him briefly, and she is a pretty thing, if - well, naive, apparently. But she looks to him honestly, hopefully, taking her cues from him all the same. Wide eyes and all. "Perhaps... perhaps he was lonely, and they came to join him in the dolls."

[bleidd]

Optimistic. Fingers curl tighter around the hilt of his sword, leather creaking under the pressure. It'd be nice if that was the fact, that the dolls were made by a lonely man who wanted nothing more than some company. Even if the spirits came willingly they can't leave of this own will. Maybe it's because he is so old, lived to long in a crueler world than hers, that the hope in her eyes only makes him feel tired.

"Maybe," Geralt rolls his shoulders, stepping forward with slow, careful steps. For now, at least, there is no signs of any wraiths he can't rule them out quite yet. Not with so many spirits upon this island, trapped in fading shells of dolls. "But now they're trapped."

the waking sea.

[chainlightning]

The fact that Merrill has been sent to the creepy doll island is, in her mind, vengeance for the fact that she wasn't in the Gallows during the Ghost Incident. It's extremely creepy, and Merrill has given every doll they've passed a side-eye.

...Still. She can't help but snort slightly when Geralt mentions magic and monsters. She raises her staff slightly, almost like a nod. "There usually is," she says simply. It's Thedas - as much as the Chantry fears magic, it's still everywhere. Especially in little out-of-the-way places.

"Probably whoever was living here," Merrill murmurs, carefully stepping around sharp rocks with her bare feet. She's briefly distracted by the glowing runes, but refocuses on the dolls, ignoring the whispers that pass through in the wind. "They could have been attracted to the shipwreck."

[bleidd]

He snorts casting a glance behind himself at the elf. She is right.

Geralt moves forward, up the trail towards the hut that sits in the center of the island. They could have been attracted to the shipwreck, lured by the death and then trapped within the dolls. For what purpose? To ward off intruders? Dangerous.

"We should dispose of the dolls before we leave the island."

[chainlightning]

She nods, even knowing that the Rifter can't see it. It's dangerous work for two alone, but there are no towering Pride demons or gliding Despair demons. If they're very, very lucky, there's little more than wraiths and other weak spirits inside the dolls.

"One by one," she agrees and suggests all at the same time, voice quiet - she doesn't want the dolls to overhear. "That way, if the seal breaks and it's something terrifying, we're at least not out-numbered."

And if the seal doesn't break- then what? The spirits have been bound, which means they're likely going to be dangerous no matter what if they get free. Killing them seems the only option, but it pulls at her heartstrings a little.

"If the Veil is thin here, more will come," she adds, gesturing toward the shipwreck. "I haven't seen a rift on the island, so... we might have to go look at the wreck."

[bleidd]

"Agreed."

Better to do this slowly than allow themselves to be overwhelmed. He knows very little of her skill set, so if battle were to break out his attention would be divided in combating the threat and keeping her safe. The Witcher breathes in, sharp cat-like eyes flicking towards the shipwreck.

The rifts, portals of a kinda that seem to attract all manner of spirits and demons. He understands them to a point, knows he doesn't like them, much like any other portal he has encountered over the years. If there is one around they have to close it, don't they? Geralt nods, shifting his path towards he shipwreck. A shame he hasn't any dimeritium bombs─ though he isn't certain they would work on the rifts.

"We'll check their first, if there is a right we close it. Then we can deal with the dolls."

[chainlightning]

"I can't help close it," Merrill warns, even as she follows. "Not without a shard. But if it's too large for you to close, then we'll at least know where it is and can go get others to help."

It's perhaps more than the original mission, but it's important. The Viscount will be pleased either way, and they can't let a rift just sit out there - or let possessed dolls sit out there, either.

A bit of spiderweb crawls across the rocks they're passing. Merrill grimaces and carefully picks her way around it, refusing to let any of the sticky material touch her bare feet.

"Spirits and spiders. Lovely."