allthisshitisweird | TEST DRIVE MEME

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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, where the Chantry, aided by the Inquisition, marshalling Orlais and the faithful of Southern Thedas into a new Exalted March against 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.

You're part of (or allied with, recently hired by, imprisoned by, etc.) a new organization that's an offshoot of the Inquisition, dubbed Riftwatch, that consists mainly of the otherworldly new arrivals, rebels and Wardens, and other people who want to prevent the apocalypse without necessarily marching under the Chantry's banner to do it. Their headquarters is an island fortress called the Gallows—formerly a Circle of Magi, more formerly a prison for slaves, but its new occupants have done a good job removing the more grotesque reminders of that past and making the place livable.

Maybe you're here because you want to help. Maybe you need the money (though there isn't much of it). Maybe you acquired an anchor and sticking around is the only way to prevent your hand from falling off. Maybe you've been sent by the Chantry or some other entity to keep an eye on everyone—they're rumored to be a lot of weirdos and troublemakers. Or maybe you're a new rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.

I. KIRKWALL: Even when enormous evil darkspawn are trying to take over the known world and you and your colleagues might be the only ones who can truly stop him, you can't work all the time. And when you aren't working, Kirkwall is there for you with its dingy Lowtown taverns, its flashy Hightown establishments, its market stalls and street musicians and cellars hosting gamblers. (Or maybe you can work all the time, and you're in the city to do some official shopping, try to spy on a suspicious character, or show a potential financial backer a good time.)

II. THE PLANASCENE FOREST: West of Kirkwall lies the Planascene forest. As far as enormous, ancient forests go, it's fairly small, but still large enough to disappear in if you aren't careful. And someone hasn't been careful. A merchant en route to deliver raw materials to the Gallows has gone missing somewhere on the road, and you're one of the lucky short-straw-drawers sent to find them. Or whatever is left of them. There are Dalish in the woods—mean ones, rumor has it—as well as Thedas' typical unnaturally aggressive wolves and bears, steep drops and hidden traps left behind by hunters, and at least one group of vicious bandits.

III. THE DEEP ROADS: The ground beneath Thedas is threaded with cavernous ancient roads, once used by the dwarves to traverse the continent, now largely abandoned by anyone except roving bands of darkspawn. Unfortunately for everyone, this abandonment and inhospitality make them an excellent way to travel unnoticed beneath everyone else's feet, which is why you're currently engaged in a skirmish with a gang of snarling, corrupted genlocks, or trying to cross a narrow stone bridge without thinking about how bottomless the dark beneath it seems to be.

IV. SEND A MESSAGE: Each member of Riftwatch (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 bloody frontlines of the war, Thedas is yours to explore.

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[So to the Qunari delegation quarters she goes. It's in the company of some fresh faced physician idealistic enough to have not refused the work outright once explained and with a basket on one arm. She spends the entirety of the trip over picking loose threads from the young doctor's shirt. Who dressed you like this? Is this a Rifwatch issued shirt? Look at this cuff; if you wear it any further, it may come away from the sleeve.

Suffice to say, the pair of then paint quite the unimpressive picture at the doorway. He is some tall narrow rail of a young man and she falls entirely in his shadow - small even in her belted hip length coat with its patterned collar and lapels. She is all greys and limpid greens and she is tapping absently on the basket with her fingers, a minor clack clack of fingernails there which stop abruptly as the door opens.]

Messere chest wound, I presume?

[ And when Deimos opens the door, he doubles over the pair of them easily. All seven-foot and slate grey skin and horns. Bare-chested, and yes, wounded. A pile of at moderately clean rags in his hand, held over a wound running across his could and down. Mopping up the blood as best he can for the time being. It isn't serious, not now, but it will be if it goes unattended for much longer. ]

The mage, I take it? And - [ he jerks his head at the cowering young man who apparently just realised what he volunteered for.

And what is currently scowling at him like he can't tell if he means to eat him or not. ] - whose this whelp?

[He is quite tall. She has to tip her face slightly up to meet his eye properly rather than simply facing the wound. It should be intimidating - the combination with the general width of him, and the blood, and the horns, and the qunariness of it all (Did you know that in the Qun they keep their mages on chain leashes and they may never be left alone, not even in sleep?), and her shrinking companion -, but she has decided ahead of time that she doesn't mean to be frightened by the sort of person who is particular to how he keeps his blood inside of him and so she is not.

Mostly not. She can convince herself to ignore it.]

He is a seamstress. [A small noise of protest from the young man follows.] Would you see us in, or would you rather be stitched up here on the doorstep?

[ He does not answer immediately, as he looks them both up and down, every bit. Like he could taste any deceit if he stared them down long enough.

Or the pain was really starting to fog his mind, neither way showed on his face much. His brow creased and he grunted as he stepped away, fine, as she wished. There was no ceremony here, or at least not one cared about at this particular moment.

The edge of the bed would do. Though as they step through, they are not alone. Another Qunari stood by the small desk they had been provided with. Deimos nodded at him, the once was enough for the man to take his leave. In so much as he takes his position by the door.

With that done, Deimos sat on the edge of the bed frame, the beds here were ridiculously small for one his size, but so were doors, chairs, tables. They didn't break yet, so there was that going for them. A hand fisted on his knee as he sat stock stiff with a straight back, the hard line of a soldier first and foremost as if the leftover scars of many cauterised wounds weren't hinting as it was.

Or perhaps it was the sword at his side, clanking against the wood as he slowly moves his hand away to expose the gash. Open, red and raw, a steady trickle of blood. ]

Proceed.

[At the revelation of the wound, the woman who had ushered the young doctor in past the watching eyes of the second Qunari at once becomes assistant rather than leader. The boy nervously asks for things from the basket under her arm and she simply produces them: the cleansing rub first, and then the cloth and waterskin. He hesitates--]

I'm certain he won't mind you touching him. [To Messere Chest Wound:] Brace yourself; I believe it may sting.

[ He almost, almost laughs. Looking from her face to her terrified attendant with near bemused expression. Eyebrow lifting at the nervousness. ]

I don't bite. Unless you ask me too. [ If that's a joke, nothing changes in his expression. ] And I assure you, you can't hurt me enough to make me aroused, let alone for me to strike you for doing what you're supposed to. [ He rolls his shoulders back, hands bracing beside the bed, fingers curling around the bed frame. ] Now get on with it.

I would prefer not to discuss your sexual proclivities.

[Is the terse, nipping response to that. But she gives the young doctor an encouraging nod and he gets to work - first with the stinging solution, and then with the lukewarm water and cloth until the split edges of the dark skin and a majority of the dried blood has been cleaned away.

Miriam plucks the pink stained cloth back when he's finished with it, wringing it out there on the stone floor before folding and replacing it into the basket.

Next come the sturdy surgeon's needle and the coiled catgut, of course.]

[ He rolls his eyes. Bas. All the same. Nervous little creatures.

But oddly, despite everything, his temper and his otherwise arrogance, he simply meets the young man's eyes. Nervous and scared, worried about touching. Then when he begins to clean the wound - Dimos shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, hangs his hands onto the wood of the bed frame.

And goes completely silent. There's no faint whimper, no hiss or grunt to the pain of it. Oh, the signs are there - his knuckles turn white in starburst scars where they grip hard. The bed frame groans from the pressure he is exerting on it.

But for the stinging to the next: that slide in of needle against already screaming nerves, he makes not one little noise. No flinch of pain, even when his scowl deepens. Fixed in rage over pain, where he was well trained in being attended this way. He would make his Tama proud, he thinks, in his silence to endure pain. ]

[Yes, it's all very masculine.

Throughout it, she ought to have very little in need of saying. She should simply hand the doctor his catgut, makeing small noises of encouragement when his hands falter. She has no obligation whatsoever to strike up conversation with the Qunari gripping the bed frame for relief, though she knows fundamentally that there is to be some relief found in a distraction while in pain. She had a cut on her leg sutured once; it was agony.

She has no requirement to coddle the stranger, so she doesn't. Instead, she she speaks to the young physician. If it happens to be a diversion for the wounded man, she can hardly help it:]

That's very clean work, Serah. What the Inquisition wouldn't give for it. [A dismissive laugh from the young man.] No, I'm serious. It's neatly done.

[And so on.]

[ He wished they'd cease their prattling. The noise was irritating. Didn't stop. His mind sluggish trying to understand what they're saying, working through translating it. Yes, he's all very good for a little terrified man. Well done. Is it over?

( Alright, perhaps there is a relief to finding them irritating instead of only thinking about the wound being painful ).

When he thinks it's done - the wound is stitched up, blood cleaned off, wound less likely to get infected, he begins to loosen and stands. It's done, isn't it? ]

[Cue the softest croak of protest from the young doctor--]

Remain seated if you please, Messere. [A crisp half order from the diminutive mage.] Bandages?

[At the physician's soft Yes please, she extracts a roll from the basket. One more step, thank you.]

Bandages?

[ He stands, looking back and forth between them, trying to work out what on earth is going on. ]

I can do that myself.

[ Usually after all, he did. ]

[Oh for-- she doesn't bother to pass the roll of bandages to the young physician who is presently gawping like a fish, all his weight in his heels. Instead Miriam clears her throat, produces the end of the bandage and instructs the qunari in no uncertain terms:]

I'm sure this is all very impressive where you're from, but here in the South we like to make sure bandages are wound evenly about the body. I'm afraid you must indulge me, unless your arms really are long enough to do it properly.

[So there's that.]

[ The little man is afraid, but they always are. He doesn't even so much as bat an eyelid at it - he is Deimos, and it is clear as it was screamed the first day in terror as it was now. Nor is her snapping tone, as quickly disregarded. He blinks at her, scowl fixed on his face as he looks at her.

He steps towards her, watching her, slow in the advance in so much as he steps easily double most. A fixed gaze does not waver or flicker. Like he might pick the trick of her compassion out from her mouth and expose it to daylight. ]

Why? Why do you want to do it for me?

[ The rest isn't a question. Yes, he can. No, it won't be as well done as if they do it. That isn't important to his mind. He worked it out a long time ago, that anything, everything can be done alone, if it must be, and it always must be, to him. ]

[It isn't a question of not being afraid. Obviously, she's that. Obviously, it plays there in the flickering lines of her face and the urge to take a step back from the shadow of him. It is natural, she thinks, to be frightened of this person. It would have been prudent not to run her mouth at him as well, but what can be done about it now?

Her weight shifts uneasily back into her heels, but she doesn't move them.]

Because. It should be done properly. I didn't come all this way to waste time on seeing this halfway done.

[ He waits.

He waits and he waits and he waits. For the curl in the corner of her mouth, the sharp in the corner of her gaze. That would give away the trick. What was really underneath, waiting. The strike he knows always comes because it always has. There was no such thing as kindness for kindness sake.

But she doesn't argue on behalf of it. Argues about the pride of work - and for him, for many Qunari, that - was the only thing that ever mattered. It wasn't about him then. No false sense of compassion he does not have time for. It was about her pride, and he could trust pride and vanity in a Bas. It seemed to be something that was shared. ]

Fine.

[ He reaches - these rooms are very small, and he is very tall - to reach for the bandage out of the boy's hands with no more than a bit of a lean. To press the bandages into her chest with a flat hand - fingers that reach when splayed from shoulder to shoulder in the breadth of his handspan. ] But you're doing it. Not him.

[That's fine, thinks some distant part of her - so removed that it might be some other person reminding her of it. She's bandaged wounds in the field before.

Miriam clears her throat, takes the roll of linen and twists out from under his hand. She nods back to the bed.]

You'll need to sit back down.

[There are squares of linen cut in the basket. She selects a few of those as well - something to kay flat over top the knit gash.]

[ Once she agrees - it's surprisingly civil. He just does as he's told. Sitting back down, hands settling into his knees once more, back straight. Held out stiff. But this time he doesn't close his eyes and wait. He's almost... curious.

Watching, seeing what she'll do. He has only ever bandaged his own wounds. Only had himself to clean up afterwards.

Now, now he's just waiting, wanting to know what - this - is. ]

[Not terribly complicated, is what. Once the wound has returned to within easy reach, Miriam simply creates a pad from the squares and sets it over the gently oozing line of stitching on his chest.]

Hold this here.

[Indicating the tail of the bandage, set flush to skin. He's broad enough that she can't reasonably rely on holding the tension alone. And then she begins the clumsy and awkward process of passing the bandage about him - pulling here, easing there, ordering him to pin each new layer when it reaches his hand.]

[ He lays his hand where she instructs. Despite his general demeanour, he does follow directions well, silently, no biting commentary to go with it. Just doing as he is told with it, exactly. Even the little things, lifting his arms when she needs it before she might have to say it, being careful where that means she has to lean over him to keep what he's doing.

Warmth. That faint human scent they had. Hm.

Then, after a while: ] Who are you?

Miriam. [Her family name does her no good; 'Yes, but which Enchanter Smythe?'] I'm here with Riftwatch's Forces division - late of the Inquisition.

[Though the same could be said by plenty of Riftwatch's members. After a beat, she clarifies:]

From Skyhold.

[ He nods. A pause there, because in the end, their names don't mean anything. No indication of who and what they are. Pretty little sounds that indicate less than their clothes do. ]

What do you do?

I-- [just said. She passes the bandage clumsily about him, pausing to see it flat and correct the tension.] I go out to do Riftwatch's work. Working with the front line in Orlais. Helping to manage the Gallows.

[A pause. She tucks another layer of bandages under the pinion of his hand.]

Minding dignitaries.

Bas. [ He mutters it. That was all vague. Nothing direct. Did these people truly have no direct purpose? Sometimes it began to feel like it. ]

I am Beresaad. We are Antaam - soldiers, vanguard. Those who journey ahead of the Qun to learn, trade, navigate and find out the ways of others, negotiate outside of the Qun.

['Journey ahead' is such a light arrangement of words, but it prickles uneasily at her skin. Another loop of the bandage and she pauses here to pin the end in place and motion to the young, lamb eyed physician for the second roll. He's too broad for the one.]

Is this your first time to Kirkwall, Beresaad?

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