TEST DRIVE!

[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, 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. THE CROSSROADS: This month, Riftwatch members are spending most of their free time in the Crossroads, a pocket of magic-infused reality that connects a network of magic-mirror portals, called Eluvians, that are scattered across Thedas. The roads between them have mostly crumbled, but sometimes the magic can be manipulated or a series of interconnected eluvians can allow reaching one of the ruined buildings or bridges that now hang like floating islands in the distance. The portion being explored now is also densely populated by spirits trying to fulfill some ancient purpose—which apparently largely entails annoying or embarrassing everyone they come across.

II. THE WESTERN FRONT: Riftwatch is no longer part of the Inquisition or directly engaged in the war that it, the Chantry's faithful Exalted Marchers, and Orlais are fighting against an invading Tevinter and Ander force in northern Orlais. But frequently enough, Riftwatch's business—delivering helpful intelligence, spending quality time with prisoners of war that might have information, assisting soldiers with a rift they've found too close to their camps, or passing through on the way somewhere else—requires spending time in camps. After a year, with the weather turning cold and a dragon occasionally hurtling overhead to breathe a few bursts of chaos onto the army in its sleep, morale is middling at best. But there's space around the campfires if you need it.

III. 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.

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. BANTER: Sometimes the walk is long, the herb-cutting is dull, or the watchtower is quiet, and there's nothing to do but talk to the person next to you. So say something.

VI. 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.

Comments

"Andromache" | Native OC

[dispraise]

[ catch-all warning: she's violent and angry, plz lmk if u don't want ur character attacked ]

i. the western front

[ Riftwatch has taken an enemy encampment, a slap-dash outfit contained in the ruin of an old building. There are weapons to salvage, rations to reclaim, and there's intelligence to sort through, but aside from that there are prisoners to liberate and/or interrogate.

The building does have a holding cell, but most of the prisoners aren't in it. They're chained together, gagged, but not barred from trying to hop their way to freedom, if they care to coordinate their efforts.

The holding cell is currently housing just one prisoner: a woman, similarly bound and gagged but by the looks of it, unconscious. Her right hand is emanating a familiar green light. ]

ii. kirkwall

There's always crime in Kirkwall. It's the only constant. It isn't what Andromache is seeking tonight, but when she notices someone being followed, she has to intervene. Why? Who can say. She doesn't seem particularly thrilled about it when the body drops with a loud thud and whoever the ex-person was following is alerted to her presence.

She turns to leave.

iii. wildcard

[ talk shit get hit ]

i

[thereneverwas]

[This part of Thedas is miserable this time of year, and Barrow wonders why he ever volunteered-- indeed, keeps volunteering-- to go out and do the most unpleasant jobs up for offer, but at the very least the fighting is done and there's a bit of refuge to be found inside the old building.

He's rubbing his hands together and blowing into them as he shuffles into the room when he sees the holding cell and the prisoners. With a few words mumbled into his sending crystal, he steps forward to make quick work of their bonds, certain to offer a friendly smile and keep his hands on the job so as not to make anyone too nervous.

Then, with that sorted, he turns toward the cell and comes to peer inside, noting the shard. Is she alive?]

[dispraise]

[ Alive, but dead to the world. The woman twitches the way one might expect from someone having a nightmare. ]

[thereneverwas]

[This is a conundrum, but he can't leave her there, whomever she is, or whichever side she's on; peaceful prisoners don't have to be tied up to the extent that she is, and Barrow has the sense to proceed with caution.

Using the butt of his dagger and his considerable arm strength, he manages to break the lock and pull the door open, at which point he slowly and very carefully wedges himself just far enough inside to get a grip on her ankles. Then, he drags her as gently as he can out of the cell and kneels beside her to begin untying her gag.]

[dispraise]

[ She stirs, not quite waking fully as he drags her out of the cell. When he starts to untie the gag, she makes a deceptively soft groan, head lolling. By the looks of it, the Venatori knocked her out the good ol' fashioned way: blunt force. ]

[thereneverwas]

All right, hello,

[He sounds cheerful enough, pleased that she's coming around. Fully removing the gag, Barrow peers down into her face from where he's kneeling, still a fair distance away but close enough to see her eyelids twitching.]

Looks like you've had a shit time of it, love, but you're going to be all right now.

[dispraise]

[ She opens her eyes, which slowly widen as she gets a sense of where she is. She tries to move her arms, but they're manacled behind her back. Ankles, similarly shackled together. And there's a big man looming over her, so what else is she to do? ]

Get the fuck away from me!

[ She thrashes, then tucks her knees to her chest to kick with all her strength at whatever part of Barrow is nearest. ]

[thereneverwas]

Oh--

[He's in the process of moving away, but the woman manages to land a kick squarely in Barrow's chest, knocking him flat on his back.]

Shit, [he wheezes,] sorry, look--

[It takes a moment for him to regain his bearings, but he starts trying to sit up again.]

iii.

[fiat]

People make a certain sound when they die. Caric learned it early in life, and he's never forgot it, but he's never been much a fan, either.

He turns to see a body slump to the ground, and a shadow disappearing into darkness. His face, lit by the cigarette poking out of his mouth, is full of open disbelief.

He chases the shadow. (How very lyrical.)

"Did you just kill that-?" He moves closer to it- her. He moves closer to her carefully. "Why?"

[dispraise]

"You're welcome."

The words are one thing, but the tone says fuck you. Maybe that's just the way she talks.

A brief flash of light — the blade of her dagger reflecting whatever is filtering into the alley from the street as she uses it to point to the body. The ex-person's hand is still loosely gripping a weapon of its own.

And that's that, sooo... she turns to leave again.

[fiat]

Caric takes the weapon, wipes it off on the dead man's sleeve, and tucks it into his jacket. You never know!

The woman, he follows. "Want a smoke? You saved my life!"

He was trying to lead the guy into an ambush, but it wasn't that fully planned. Things just kind of work out for him that way!

[dispraise]

She did, didn't she? Why did she do that? Andy keeps walking, keenly aware of Caric behind her and seething about it.

"No. Don't follow me." She says, and takes an abrupt turn down an adjacent street.

[fiat]

This is clearly not a woman to be trifled with, which is a shame, because Caric does not plan to stop trifling any time soon. But he can be nonthreatening as a mouse, walking in such a way that his height seems piddling and what little muscle he has is useless. He's always been a creature of physicality, but the sort he can control.

Making a grand appeal that also reveals the lack of weapons on him, he opens his arms wide. The one weapon he has, stolen from the man who was planning to bother him, he makes a production of dropping.

"Fräulein." His accent gets a bit thicker. He's just a poor foreigner doing his best, obviously. "I wish to only know how to make my thanks."

The thing is, for all this needling and manipulation... it's true.

[dispraise]

The clatter of the dropped weapon has her whipping around to face him, knuckles gone white with their grip on her dagger (she should put it away). But then he speaks, and she lets out a sigh that's nearly a growl.

She closes with him, bringing the bloody dagger up under his chin.

"What did I fucking say?"

[fiat]

She doesn't show fear, because he doesn't want to make her feel guilty, and some people enjoy killing scared prey. He doesn't know if she's the type, yet, but he does know she's interesting.

He doesn't act defiant, either. Everyone loves destroying a defiant man. He learned that in the fields, the marches, the forests. He doesn't think about that now.

"At least," his accent is still thick, for consistency's sake if nothing else, "let me know this name of my savior? So you can later be thanked."

ii

[noonrodeon]

He'd been peripherally aware of the tail, but hadn't paid them much mind. If they decided to make a play, it would play itself out. Instead he hears the sounds of a quick death behind him, turning to catch the dead body and the slim figure behind. Huh. Guess he's got a new shadow.

"Hold on now," he says, a touch of indignation in his tone when his new shadow turns to go, "You can't just leave a body in the road like that."

[dispraise]

"Sure I can," she says, pausing in her retreat to look over her shoulder at him. "I just did."

Obviously. But she hesitates, apparently less at ease slipping away now that she's been acknowledged. Her boot scuffs against the cobblestones.

"You're welcome." Okay, now she can walk away.

[noonrodeon]

"You kill somebody, you oughta deal with the body," he says, grumpily, "This ain't a battle field, we got little old ladies and kids walkin' around here in the day time."

And fine, if she's not going to deal with it, he will. With the heavy sigh of a much put upon hound, Noon walks towards the body. He's grumbling something about no consideration from new comers.

[dispraise]

"That's what street sweepers are for," she scoffs, cleaning the blood off her dagger with the hem of her cloak. "Or are you telling me they don't clean this fucking cesspit at dawn?"

She might have some unrealistic expectations about what a City should be like.

[noonrodeon]

"This is Lowtown," he says, as if that's answer enough.

He thinks it is. Anyway, kneeling down by the body, he starts to fold up the arms and legs. Turning the body over on it's side, trying to keep as curled up as possible.

"Here," he says, pulling something out of his coat pockets and tossing it to her, "At least hold this open for me." It's a large oil skin bag, rolled up tightly and tied with a cord. When unfurled it's roughly the size to fit one (1) curled up body.

[dispraise]

She catches the bag and sneers at it for a moment before doing as he says, unrolling it and shaking it open.

"What are you going to...do with it?"

[noonrodeon]

"There's a pack of feral nugs in Darktown, near the old mines," he says, "They'll take care of it."

i

[doppelgang]

[First time, Donal walks on past. He has a job to do. He narrows his vision, like a horse with blinders on, a trick he is very good at. If his eyes flick once, to the side, and takes in the other prisoners, and then the bundle of a person, and that faint green glow, well, he don't let it show.

Second time, on the way back, with two big sacks of supplies in his arms, he notes that someone else is seeing to the other prisoners. They will, surely, move onto the cell next. He walks on past.

Third time, the prisoners are gone and the person is still in the cell. So.

Donal sighs, quietly. He stops beside the cell. Is there breathing? Is this a corpse? He watches for a moment, then crouches.]

Hey.

[If he's talking to a corpse, he's going to be really annoyed.]

[dispraise]

[ No response.

There's a certain quality to one's breathing when they're asleep or unconscious. It's trickier to pull off the latter, because people can be restless sleepers, so there's a lot of wiggle room with breathing patterns and muscle twitches and the flickering of an eyelid.

Andi has practice with both. Though she came to around the time the other prisoners were being seen to, she's been keeping up the charade in order to listen to everything that's going on.

And then someone says hey. She twitches a finger. ]

[doppelgang]

[Donal's keen elven eyes miss the finger twitch. If he were aware of this oversight, he would think: typical. He's never been very observant.

Since he misses the finger twitch, he doesn't act on it. Instead he sighs, as he rocks back on his heels. Looks at the ceiling. Listens, for a few moments, to see if any footsteps seem like they're approaching, so he can slip away and leave this to someone else, but nothing like that happens, so he has to be responsible.

He slips his arm through the bars and reaches out to rest his fingertips on her shoulder. She doesn't feel corpsey. Right, give her a little shake--]

Hey.