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Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] allthisshitisweird2019-01-22 11:09 pm
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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.

wont_be_me: (pic#12313735)

Carla "Is An Asshole" Morir || OC

[personal profile] wont_be_me 2019-01-23 05:45 am (UTC)(link)
Or maybe you're a rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.
She is a rifter, but she does not think these are nice people. She thinks that this is some backwoods hollow of the multi-verse and does not wish at all to be here.

"Have you even discovered antibiotics yet?" She wonders, mouth curling unpleasantly. Not for the first time, she is glad of Oscyria's stringent laws concerning citizen immunology. Otherwise she would have every right to worry deeply about what kind of fucking rabies she would get off these stinking peasant fucks. All of which she says, out loud. And when it makes someone angry enough to shake a fist at her, the bitch of a woman smiles sideways, mouthing: I dare you.

The Gallows
Someone gives her a broom and points, more than ready to be done with her. When she does not immediately take the broom, it is shoved at her hard. So she takes it, fine, but as soon as she's walked over to the mess she tosses the instrument aside, crouching down to investigate the things in the mess, rather than clean them up. She takes a very delicate little screw driver from one of the many leather pockets and loops of her jacket, using it to poke and prod at things.

"They think this garbage protects them from ghosts, don't they..."

Something ghostly sends a pail of water flying all on its own across the courtyard, startling her. She jumps, her hand going for a gun that she has already established doesn't fucking work any longer, turning the area warily.

SEND A MESSAGE - ANSWER MY RIDDLE
"If you throw me out of a window, you’ll leave a grieving wife. If you leave me in the middle of the door, you might just save a life. What am I?"

Every incorrect guess owes me a dinner.

Wildcarding
Do what you do.
Edited 2019-01-23 16:52 (UTC)
playdolls: (animu | oh)

Neferpitou - inhuman monster, literally || Hunter x Hunter

[personal profile] playdolls 2019-01-23 05:55 am (UTC)(link)
The Gallows
This is larger than they used to be. Their body has changed, from the lithe little ant they were born as into... this. They're still rather small and slim for a qunari, but the body is unfamiliar. They move ungracefully, hands flexing like they're missing something. They are, missing their claws. Missing their tail. Their ears. Someone has changed them, the same way that they had changed the humans into soldier ants to suit their whims. The ones they didn't eat, anyway.

This annoys Neferpitou, as much as it frightens them. They point at the nearest passerby and shout, their voice very feminine and youthful although neither their gender nor age are exactly clear.

"You! Fight me."

The Waking Sea
They are used to following orders, even though they don't understand why they should do anything these pitiful humans tell them to do. But when they try to flex their aura and terrify the pathetic animals back into their place... nothing happens. The lack of power is saddening to Pitou, they don't know how else to describe the emotion. The empty space where something should be. So they let themselves be directed to this island.

They notice the way others become uncomfortable here, but Pitou cannot say that the malevolence on this island is a drop in the bucket compared to their own en, and certainly not that of their Lord's. So they explore and call out noisily, without circumspection. Despite what had initially been sulking as they were brought over to the island, they quickly cheer up as their curiosity gets the better of them.

Their cheer grows a little somber, however, when they note: "These dolls have been abandoned by their master."

SEND A MESSAGE
I am bored. [ A direct and childlike statement lacking any whine. ] What is it humans do, when they are bored?

Wildcards wildcards
Wildcard me.
krem: (CA40200)

cremisius aclassi | dragon age: inquisition

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-23 06:31 am (UTC)(link)
Hanged Man
For anyone looking for someone who seems like they might be able to fireman carry even the drunkest of men, humble Krem has recently made a habit of camping in the corner of the Hanged Man, nursing the sort of terrible, lightly cursed ales one might find only within Kirkwall's dignified city limits. He'd prefer wine, like the dirty Vint that he is, but the stuff they call wine in Lowtown is much too shameful to even contemplate, and so he makes do.

Somehow, despite the (lack of) quality of swill on offer, the whole place manages to be packed tonight. In the press of patrons filling the room with a low buzz of chatter, the only table with any space left is the one where Krem has settled. He seems perfectly willing to share, though, judging by the companionable tip of his mug which he'll offer to anyone who approaches looking like they want to be off their feet. The table itself boasts a good vantage point with which to watch the goings on in the rest of the bar, tucked into a back corner as it is.

It is also, unfortunately, pretty far away from the ruddy light of the tavern's fireplace: too far to be particularly warm, which might explain why Krem is the only one there right now. He seems content in the chilly gloom, though, decked out as he is in a full suit of armor.

"Seat's yours, if you need it," he says, nodding towards the last empty stool in the room, across from him at his little table.
Hightown Markets
Krem can be spotted in Hightown fairly often on business these days, marching through with reports or offers or requests on behalf of the Chargers, but today he is loitering in the gleaming market square instead, looking a touch lost despite himself. There are times, even after all these years, that he is surprised how much money he has to spare now. Mercenary work does not pay like soldier work did, by any stretch of the imagination, which is to say that it pays so much better. There is also the fact that it is rare that Krem looks to be staying in one place for so long, to be able to consider buying nicer things. Things that don't necessarily have to be road-worthy or still look acceptable covered in mud (and blood.)

So here he is, floating from stall to stall, looking at the menswear, the more ornamental armor accents, the baubles (and the baked goods.) It's almost funny to him: everything in Kirkwall's streets and architecture screams Imperium! no matter how much the Inquisition fills up the place now, but the fashion on offer is pure Free Marches. And thank the Maker, honestly: black and red are not Krem's colors.
The Waking Sea
Krem would absolutely have preferred an island full of demons and shades to this, he thinks, when pressing one gauntleted finger into the belly of a nearby doll causes it to slouch over and sends an absolute deluge of the world's tiniest spiders scurrying away immediately. "Maker's breath," he swears, taking a hasty step back. If any of those things gets into his armor...

He shifts his shoulders, uncomfortably aware of the openness of his neck and ears to the, er, elements. Still, it seems a terrible waste to have brought a mercenary company along to discover all this nothing though, so he sends the Chargers off to at least scour the place for any valuables to bring back, much to their collective disgust and annoyance. Looks like he'll be paying for at least a couple rounds when they return. And baths for everyone. And maybe a few days off.

He turns towards whoever it is that the Inquisition had sent alongside them, eyebrows raised, while his team gets to deal with that dirty, spidery work. Perks of being the leader while Bull is off being Important. "What do you think? Anything shady going on here?"
seaboard: (GILIA12)

Gilia St. Loe | Original Character

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-23 11:09 am (UTC)(link)

i. cleaning

She doesn't mind the cleaning - honestly, she does not. It is work, and in contrast to everything else she sees in this place, it is work that does not involve a single weapon to be seen. Only her, a broom, and memory of watching servants. It takes her a second, watching others, lips blue against the cold, a scarf tied tightly below her chin, and that crowning mane of hair that - she has done her best to tame it, honestly she has, but it escapes it pins and its wimple in the whipping winds. The hard press piece of linen slowly pushing its way back from her face with each turn of her head.

Eventually, it gives up the battle. Despite her best attempts to keep it in place, as she bends to pick a stray bit of glass, the material makes its final bid for freedom against the winter air. The linen snatched free and her hair springs out like a poorly disciplined child.

She does not curse - a lady would never - but she is not fast enough to catch it with her hands full of glass. For the first time, she raises her voice: "Someone, catch it, please!"

ii. the waking sea

At first thought, the notion of going to an island brings comfort. Of being near a sea - that some glimmer says if it is the waking sea, does that mean something is alive beneath it? Would she find some measure of home amongst these strange lands and their mingling spirits? She doesn't rightly know, but she hopes so.

But it is foolish. She finds no home, on wretched toys. The things are filled with spiders. So, very, many, spiders. She is not the squeamish sort, so she prides herself. There is just a line, a line that must be drawn when the spiders drops down in front of her face, reaching for her from the mouth of a stained porcelain face. It is huge, black, and she swears she could hear it laughing.

The shriek is notable at least for just how piercing it is, as she turns tail and runs back for the shore. Those sightless dolls with their sweetly smiling faces the truest witness to her great and tremendous courage. Thank Sea-Father that there was no one here to witness it.

iii. book

pretty babe-a-sweting, thy cradle is green,
they father's a nobleman, thy mother's a queen.

I can't think another line. What rhymes with Queen?
Edited 2019-01-23 11:09 (UTC)
seaboard: (Default)

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-23 11:25 am (UTC)(link)
While he fends off spiders valiantly, ( oh, Sir Knight ), she keeps her hands firmly to herself, for the very reason he had just found out.

The little creatures seemed to find any excuse at all to crawl out, just to be terrifying, she's sure. Skittering about on too many legs, watching with too many eyes, like they were the hands of unmoving dolls themselves. She's sure if she leant in very close and held very still, she could see the evil joy in their gaze in terrifying all present company.

As if the dolls weren't bad enough. They were talking, but only when they thought no one was looking, she's sure. Father-Sea, Father-Sea, protect me from their wicked wisps.

"No more than a sad heart left with no one to remember them, I think."
meds4sale: (The plot thickens)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-23 02:36 pm (UTC)(link)
I. The Gallows
The Gallows had been an ...unusual place when he'd first arrived there with the Inquisition, nearly two years ago. Between the red lyrium they'd cleared out and the troubled history that shrouded the building, it was a wonder the Veil was only thin here and that the entire place hadn't just been swallowed up by a great big rift.

That probably wasn't exactly how these things worked but explanations of the Veil and Fade could only be told in metaphors and he wasn't feeling very metaphorical at the moment.

That was because someone had thrust a broom into his arms and pointed at a mess of broken glass and rat viscera and ruined medicinal herbs and directed him to get to work.

Normally the Medicine Seller made himself scarce whenever there was a hint someone might expect him to do Actual Work, but he'd been distracted, pondering over the esoteric mysteries of the universe - (should he get his lunch at the Hanged Man or the Blooming Rose) - you know, important things; and he hadn't noticed the mess, nor the officer looking to rope someone else of lesser rank into doing his task.

So there he stood, broom in one hand, mop and bucket in the other, armed and ready for the task before him of cleaning up other people's messes. If he was in a metaphorical mood, that might have very well been a rather good one for his life.

When one of the jars started to rattle ominously, however, his lips curled into a thin, unpleasant smile.

That was more like it.


III. The Waking Sea

There was very little that could garner a reaction out of the Medicine Seller. Spiders weren't on that list. Neither were dolls. At least, they couldn't garner more than a slight lift of a solitary brow.

It wasn't as though he had no experience with possessed dolls - there was a scar shaped like tiny little toothmarks on his left ankle from a possessed karakuri that was testament enough to that - but even this was a little much.

He picked a doll off of a branch, the jostling of its home sending a fat orb weaver scuttling out of its empty socket onto the Medicine Seller's hand. Setting it down gently on a protruding twig where it scurried off to do whatever it was spiders actually did, he returned his scrutiny to the doll.

"I do not think," he said, slow and even as he turned it over and over in his hands, "that they were bound willingly."

There was a susurration as the wind picked up, the bare branches and dolls rattling as the trees swayed. ...And on the edge of hearing, a sound like a small crowd of voices whispered urgently.

The wind stilled into unnatural silence, and the Medicine Seller wordlessly pressed on up the rocky path.


IV - Send a Message
[The book was a new development (or at least one he'd not been around for) and one the Medicine Seller was all too delighted to have a bit of fun with it. The first entry he makes in it is a number of doodles of several members of the Inquisition he'd seen that day as cats, along with some notes about varying ointments, disinfectants, and poultices - the kind that might be particularly helpful to any members presently in the field]

[He can be helpful. Sometimes.]



Wildcard! - By the Sea

It lay west of Kirkwall and clung to the towering bluff of basalt like a limpet to a ship in a storm. Once one part fortification, another part lighthouse, later converted into an estate for a wealthy recluse, it was now a husk of its former self. Fire had hollowed one part of the structure and the rest had been left to the whim of decay. It was a testament to old Tevinter architecture that as much of it still stood now - burnt and battered by decades of neglect, it still looked out imposingly across the Waking Sea.

It should have been an ideal hideout for bandits - or even less savory characters - but the dark stone walls were shrouded in darker rumours. No one with any sense got too close.

The Medicine Seller followed the old path to the decrepit structure. It was overgrown with roots and tangles of vines, with only the occasional patch of cobbles to suggest a narrow road had once wound its way up the craggy incline. A bitter wind blew in from the sea, whipping up ice particles into the winter air. The naked trees rattled and rustled, and the waves crashed on the rocks below. Aside from that, and the uneven footfalls of the Medicine Seller as he picked his way through the years of growth, it was silent. No seabirds wheeled or called - there was no sign of animal life at all.

Nothing came here.

Which meant he had work to do.
Edited 2019-01-23 14:40 (UTC)
valosatredum: (FtcOi8R)

The Hanged Man

[personal profile] valosatredum 2019-01-23 02:56 pm (UTC)(link)
"Thanks, serah." The dwarven woman in Kirkwall Guard attire flashes a crooked smile Krem's way, apparently not caring about anything other than getting off her feet for a while. Setting down her gear, she plops down onto the seat gratefully and sighs. "Ah, that's the stuff. Kirkwall will have to stop fucking itself over for a while, my ass isn't getting up from this seat for anything."

Some ale, a seat and conversation. She's a simple woman, at heart.
meds4sale: (Making a mess)

Markets!

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-23 03:00 pm (UTC)(link)
The Medicine Seller didn't have any gear for sale, but that didn't mean his wares wouldn't appeal to those of a mercenary mindset.

There was no stall, though he was wedged between two of them, there was a display of wares set of on a makeshift table made from two small wooden crates and some planks and covered in a cloth. The Medicine Seller was seated behind the display on another set of planks that were the only thing between his knees and the cobbles of Hightown.

Anyone might have passed by such a cheap looking attempt, but it was the wares themselves that looked... extravagant.

Bottles and pots of brightly coloured glass or elaborate ceramics and metals, boxes and cannisters of black lacquer sporting elegant gold paintings, colourful packets of varying powders, and the soft fragrance of a subtle and sublime incense wafting into the air - all lined up neat and orderly for easy browsing.

"Good afternoon," he greets in his slow monotone. "May I interest you in some medicine?"
reshapes: (Default)

bartimaeus (the bartimaeus sequence)

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-23 03:44 pm (UTC)(link)
THE GALLOWS.
Menial labor? In this guise?

"I think not."

Don't get it wrong - generally speaking, Bartimaeus might be all too happy to be seen doing degrading menial labor in the form of a variety of lesser beings like giant insects, sentient fog, or the human one he now wears. There's usually something to be said for choosing to toil away an unsettlingly familiar shape in front of people when they know he can be anything whenever he chooses.

But it's different with this one. For one, no one here knows enough about anything to get when they're being insulted, which takes all the pleasure out of it. For two-- well, he's apparently stuck with this shape for the immediate future, and he'd rather no one know him as That Guy Who Does Whatever We Ask Him To, No Matter The Smell1. He'd spent the morning as a bird of prey terrorizing the fishermen in the harbor for giggles and has burned through enough of his reserve that he's tired and can't quite get it up to change into something less recognizable.

No, much better to be That Guy Who Waits Just Long Enough For The Person Who Gave Him This Job To Disappear Around A Corner Before Ditching His Newfound Responsibilities.

So the moment their supervisor is gone, Bartimaeus turns to the unlucky sop who's been assigned cleanup duties alongside him. He says, "You can handle this, can't you?" with all the simpering charm of a shapen with rather more curves and shoves the broom into their hands. You're welcome.

1. And the mess in the courtyard does. Nothing like a combination of embalming fluid and decade old rat hearts to really open up the sinuses.

KIRKWALL.
Being in Thedas comes with a long list of very immediate negatives for a distinguished djinn such as himself. The body? Disgusting. The necessity of keeping his frankly stellar reputation as a powerful, cunning, relentlessly clever spirit under wraps? Not only terribly close minded of the local population, but practically impossible. The magic shard in his hand steadily draining his essence? Concerning, to say the least.

But you know what's actually a little good?

Beer is, as it turns out. Or mead. Or whatever watered down paint thinner they're serving in the Hanged Man. Funny - seems those Egyptians really did know a thing or two after all.

So if you're wondering who won that drinking contest, look no further! However, if you're looking for help trying to get the Marquis down the ruinous number of stairwells throughout Kirkwall, you're out of luck. Bartimaeus is in this instant tripping and falling down after him with a pitched yelp.

BURN BOOK.
In scratching, anonymous script:
I spied with my little eye something beginning with the letter 'D' and ending with 'id you know that a frankly shocking number of members of the night patrol sleep through their shifts?'
Edited 2019-01-23 15:48 (UTC)
notched: (pic#12553411)

burn book.

[personal profile] notched 2019-01-23 05:09 pm (UTC)(link)
I did. It has its uses.
reshapes: ([028])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-23 05:18 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh my. How mysterious!
notched: (pic#12553416)

[personal profile] notched 2019-01-23 06:02 pm (UTC)(link)
I suppose. I am restless in the night, it is nice to move about unhindered.
krem: (CA34682)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-23 06:29 pm (UTC)(link)
"Seems about right," he murmurs, and despite himself Krem's gaze snaps back over to the remains that they found. He's no stranger to death, hasn't been in many years, but this still seems very sad somehow. More-so than usual, oddly, maybe it's the mood of the island itself. There was no battle after all, nobody stole anything from him and left him to die, by all accounts it was just an old—...man? woman? they don't know, actually, and it's not possible to tell from what's left—passing away in their own house, surrounded by the creepy things they chose to decorate it with.

But it does seem profoundly lonely. As far as he can tell, nobody even knew the person's name.

Poor bastard probably had to pick spiders out of their food and smallclothes every single day, for however many years the place had been like this. Why didn't they just leave, Krem wonders? Not that it matters anymore.

"Think we should burn him?" Aside from the Nevarrans, it's rare for people in Thedas to leave their dead in-tact in any way. For very practical reasons. The Viscount hadn't made any request for the remains or anything, so it would likely be unwelcome for them to sail back with bones in tow, but it feels a little wrong to just leave the body there.
krem: (CA30390)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-23 06:35 pm (UTC)(link)
Krem laughs into his cup, giving her another look as she flops down, taking in the guard uniform and the crooked tilt of her smile. Nothing about her reminds him of Rocky, but as Rocky is the only dwarf that he actually knows, there's that ever-present urge to compare them.

He shakes his head to stop that, and tips his drink in her direction, "I'll drink to that, though it's a tall order." Peace and quiet? In Kirkwall? He's been stationed mostly in Skyhold these past few years, but even his semi-limited exposure to the city-state leads him to believe that quiet nights are rare here, as a rule. "What are you having?"

He has better luck than most of flagging the barmaids down, if only because he tends to actually pay his tabs (and he doesn't get handsy with them, no matter how drunk, both of which are a rarity in the Hanged Man.)
krem: (CA11254)

[personal profile] krem 2019-01-23 06:39 pm (UTC)(link)
Krem blinks in surprise: usually people shouting for attention at their shops are much more energetic than this, but apparently it's a decent tactic because it manages to grab his attention where he'd easily ignored other cries at the rest of the stalls he wasn't already interested in.

Medicine, though...? His mercenary company has a skilled doctor, so he's never really looked outside them unless given a list of things to procure by the man himself.

But. "I'm not sick," he replies, which doesn't sound like an outright refusal especially given that it hasn't stopped him from taking a few steps closer and looking down at the things on offer. Strange how nice they appear, beautiful bottles and elegant packages, given how the man had planted himself right down in the street. Certainly, it all looks less sketchy than some of the medicines he's been offered in Darktown and Lowtown. Regardless, for good measure he adds: "or interested in addling my own mind."
morethanadream: (I think I can I think I can)

Sandy | Rise of the Guardians | Native AU

[personal profile] morethanadream 2019-01-23 08:01 pm (UTC)(link)
Gallows

A ship bearing Rivaini colors docks in the Gallows, and a small retinue of Rivainis dressed in bright colors comes out, escorting a strange little being. The person in between them clearly isn't a dwarf, though he's small enough to be. He also probably isn't a particularly short human, because his eyes are vibrant gold, his skin has a golden sheen, and magic hums around him. As he follows the humans, he picks up little scattered potion ingredients on the way, dropping them into their proper barrels with a smile.

The retinue approaches the Quartermaster, one Rivaini sitting down with her to discuss their golden friend volunteering. "This is the greatest contribution our town can give," the representative said. "He's the source of our prosperity, and you should treat him with respect."

The little golden man, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be paying attention. He's wandering around the courtyard, taking in all the people silently with a big smile on his face. Then he seems to choose a wall, placing his hand on it and then letting it change.

A beautiful design shimmers to life on the wall, a mural too dreamy to be real, like it only exists in the mind of the observer. It shows Kirkwall at the best it can be, but the design is a little different depending on who is looking at it. What does 'the best Kirkwall can be' mean to the observer?

Waking Sea

Sandy is a friendly but silent presence on the way to the island, spending his time running his fingers through the water and playing with a hunk of clay that he found somewhere in Kirkwall. He's made a majestically detailed model of a sea serpent by the time they make it to the beach, and he wastes no time climbing over the edge of the boat and wiggling his way onto the beach.

While most would probably be put off by the possessed dolls, Sandy perks, then makes a beeline right for them. One doll, seeming a little sad as it sags on its tree, is the first he reaches. The whispers rise on the wind, but Sandy just cups the doll's head in his hands, examining it as his gentle gold light that always seems to emanate from him intensifies into a true glow.

He's talking to the spirits in the dolls. Not with words, but in another way. Then, as if he's made a final decision, he rips the doll's head off its body and smashes it against the tree, releasing a bright flash of light and the smell of ozone and magic.
reshapes: ([008])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-23 08:15 pm (UTC)(link)
'Moving about' many interesting places, have you?
notched: (pic#12624668)

you won't out cryptic me u birb!!!

[personal profile] notched 2019-01-23 10:09 pm (UTC)(link)
Every city has its nooks and crannies, doesn't it?
playdolls: (animu | oh)

the waking sea

[personal profile] playdolls 2019-01-23 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)
They turn their head at his voice. They were enjoying the little dolls, if a bit sad for them, and they contemplate his words for a moment. They were sad because the dolls were alone here, not because they were bound against their will.

"What does that matter?" they inquire guilelessly. Maybe the sorcerer had just wanted a friend. Pitou had one like that back home, a beautiful warrior with silver hair whose head they stolen, and then sewn back on so that he could dance beautifully for them. The doll had not been as lovely dead, but they had loved it just the same.
Edited 2019-01-23 22:12 (UTC)
reshapes: ([004])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-23 10:46 pm (UTC)(link)
Some more interesting than others, I'm afraid. See anything good while you've been skulking around in the middle of the night?

[Not that he gives one tail feather about anyone's hot goss of course, but the idea of putting it all over the pages of a magic book for any old busybody to read is awfully appealing.]
Edited 2019-01-23 22:46 (UTC)
notched: (pic#12553411)

[personal profile] notched 2019-01-23 10:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Nightmares, as of late. But that isn't interesting to everyone.
reshapes: ([016])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-23 11:06 pm (UTC)(link)
Well aren't you relentlessly obtuse!
notched: (pic#12624668)

[personal profile] notched 2019-01-23 11:07 pm (UTC)(link)
What were you hoping to hear?
reshapes: ([040])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-23 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Something a little more entertaining that vague nonsense about nightmares, at the very least! As a self professed lurker in the night, I'd hope you have the details on at LEAST one tawdry romance and/or which guards spend their whole shifts picking their noses.

Can't you see I'm bored.


[For good measure: a crude drawing of a nose with a finger up the nostril.]
notched: (pic#12624668)

[personal profile] notched 2019-01-23 11:30 pm (UTC)(link)
I was being very direct. About the nightmares.

And tawdriness is in the eye of the beholder. I don't judge how others spend their time.

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