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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
But there is nothing of the sort on her face. Her voice is soft, sad, desperate. It pulls at his heart, filling his chest with an ache he doesn't understand.
"Cecilia." Why does that sound so familiar? It feels as though he has heard that name before in a dream, in something distant and fleeting. He reaches for it but can't grab purchase. Cecilia. At any other time Adrian would think it a pretty name, even complement her on it. Instead he breathes out hands falling to his side, expression as pained as it is confused. Six, she says in Draconic, emotion clear in her eyes. "Six..."
Adrian breathes out, fingers curling trembling fists. Six! Watch out! Gods, he knows that name. He knows.
"You where there when I died."
no subject
She does not attempt to defend herself. She does no more than stand in front of him. Feeling ungainly, too large for the public space, as if she might shatter, Six has to remind herself to breathe.
What she wants, more than anything else, is to take him into her arms. She wants to feel that he is real and alive under her fingertips, that the tilt of his head and the softness of his features is not a dream, that the warmth of his face is a reflection of the pulse of heart. Six wants to touch him, to know that he is alive, that he is breathing, that he is real. She wants to believe in this gift.
Moving forward, she forces herself to take a few steps closer. She knows she appears threatening, with her height and her bulk; if he doesn't remember her face, her name, her heart, the warmth of her smile as she looked at him -
"I was. I... I wished to save you, with all that I had. I failed you." A break in her voice, hands clenched tight. "I failed."
no subject
Six moves forward and Adrian jerks, muscles tightening as he falls into a defensive stance. Habit, things his body remembers even if his mind has forgotten. She's imposing, frightening. Adrian's head throbs with pain looking at her, and a pain pierces his chest. A distant, nameless ache.
"You failed me, huh?" Something bitter surges up into his throat, something terrible that leaves the taste of dirt in his mouth. It holds like a vice around his throat. "So it's your fault I died."
For all he knows it could be her fault, maybe she had been the one to put him to the sword, maybe she had been to slow to notice an attack and he took it for her. His memories of the event are choppy at best, all he can remember is pain and blood. And after that? Well, he remembers laying in dirt, gasping desperately for the air that had been denied to him.
fuCK YOU
He jerks, moves, defends, and Six wishes to cry. She thinks she might fall to her knees and collapse completely, that she would bow her head and offer her own blood in repayment to his but it would not be enough. Nothing would be enough when all she wants is to touch him and take him in her arms, when the intensity of his voice and his word is enough to show that he wants nothing to do with her.
Voice hoarse, quiet, desperate, she tries to speak.
"Yes." It is her fault; she distracted him, was not strong enough, did not have a bond, an oath, powers. He wished to protect her and laid his life down for it - and it was that, in the end, that lead him to his death. She cannot deny that, at heart, she was the one that caused him to fall, not the men carrying their blades. "I was the one who was not enough. I failed you and you died. The blame is mine."
Her eyes close and the tears come, falling gently, soft on her pale cheeks. She bows her head and wishes that this was over, that the knife would come to her throat and give her the peace she wants. It would hurt less than this.
I'M SORRY!!!! sorta
His mouth opens, then closes, the harshness of his expression falling in face of her tears. She does not weep openly, but he sees them stain her cheeks, watches her head bow in almost surrender. The bitterness stays, twists in his gut, but Adrian feels something relent.
"I didn't stay dead," There is no softness to his voice, but traces of hurt. "I woke up wit the taste of dirt in my mouth and a mark burnt into the palm of my hand."
Pulling the leather from his right hand, Adrian turns his palm out towards her, on it the symbol of a sun marks his skin, almost illuminated by the green glow that comes from the anchor. He breathes out as finger start to tremble, closing in on the mark and the light.
"You... should have been there."
you're never sorry
He stares at her and it feels more like he is looking through her than he is looking at her, and Six does not know how to manage that. She sees his face and she wishes for the soft, gentle Cecilia, the touch of his hand against her cheek, his careful words telling her how brave she was, how strong, how far she had grown.
(Never how beautiful, how soft, how sweet, not words that fit her awkward shape).
"No. No, I - I can see that." She steps forward, noting the hurt, wanting to soothe it. Wanting to draw him into her arms and touch his hair, to give him softness and comfort, as if her sharp edges would not pierce him. "It was not Sarenrae. She would have told me if she had returned you to me, if you were... If you had..."
The shape of the sun. Pelor. Sun, light, healing. Sarenrae if she was not herself, a mirror, a reflection -
she chokes.
"I wish I had been there for you, aestar."
never ever, also i am sorry this is so late
Yet he can't, as much as apart of him might, Adrian struggles to shift all the blame upon Six's shoulders. She looks so much smaller than she did when he first spotted her, as though she had shrunk two sizes since their conversation had began. He can see only sadness in her eyes, a pain that sinks right to her very core.
"I..." He breathes out, dropping his gaze to the ground beneath his feat, "I wish you had been as well, I wish I hadn't woken up alone."
i'll CRY
She had just begun to move on from her grief and here he stands, watching her, guided by a deity not so distant from her own.
Moving forward, her hand twitches, desperate to reach for him, to hold him, to wrap her arms around him and feel the relief of his existance there in front of her, real and solid. No one could take him from her again, she told herself, not if she could touch him and know that he was truly present -
"I would never have left you if I had known his mind," she breathes out. "I would never have let you face such a thing." She loved him too much for that.
cries with you
'I know' sits on the tip of his tongue and Adrian frowns. Does he know? He can't claim to know her, aside from a name and her face. Whatever the gods did to bring him back to life tore what memories he had of her from his mind. It leaves him uncertain, hands curling into tight fists as she crumbles before him. Gods, he wishes not to be here, not to face this. The ache in his head and his chest only seem to grow with each moment he looks at her, a walking reminder of what he lost to breathe again.
"It doesn't really matter now, does it? What's done is done." Adrian shifts, watching her move closer, trying not to tense with each step. "But I suppose it brings a little bit of comfort."
no subject
She does not touch him, even if she wants to with all her heart. She can't, not when she can see the tension in his body and the way his eyes move over her. There's no denying the fact that she has never been an expert in people, never been good at reading them and knowing them, but she knew him. She knew him as well as she knew herself, with all the depth and love and adoration that came with the first true love of a young girl's heart, and she cannot ignore what she sees.
Six will not hurt him.
"As long as it gives you that," she admits, voice low and quiet. "How long has it been since you...?"
no subject
"It has been almost a month since I came back."
Maybe it had been longer or shorter, in truth Adrian wasn't able to track the days very well at first. The first week had been a series of blurred images and muffled voices. He had found shelter in nearby home owned by a elderly couple. They had found him delirious and covered in dirt and took pity upon him, nursing him back to a semblance of health.
Lucky that they happened upon him when they did.
"How long has it been since I died?"
no subject
"Only a month."
How could she have known? Was it years since his death, or had she been unaware? If he didn't remember anything then it could have been years upon years, more than even she could remember. Her eyes stare, unblinking, at his face before she breathes out and shakes her head.
She had told his parents he was dead.
"It has been many years for me."