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 9:46, 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.

OOC: We post Test Drives fairly infrequently! But current players are strongly encouraged to track new top-level comments to the post so they don't miss new arrivals, and new folks should not be shy about commenting just because the post has been up for a while.

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 underground network of old mining tunnels inhabited by the disenfranchised and a few violent criminals. Or maybe you can work all the time, and you're in the city to do some official shopping, keep an eye on a suspicious character, or show a potential financial backer a good time. The city is grey, cold, and in places vaguely sinister—but it's home.

II. SUNDERMOUNT: North of Kirkwall lies the highest peak of the nearby mountain range. In more ancient days it was rumored to be the site of unspeakable horrors, but at present prowled by more speakable horrors, like possessed skeletons, shadow warriors, and the rare revenant or varterral. And you've been sent to prowl along with them, inside the winding caves that cut through the peak or over the snow currently coating the paths that wind around it. The reasons vary: maybe you're in search of medicinal herbs, maybe you're tracking a party of suspicious travelers lurking outside Kirkwall, or maybe you just took a wrong turn off the road trying to travel in or out of the city.

III. ORLAIS: Further south, Orlais is weathering the winter and the invasion of its northern territories in its usual style—which is why you're here, in a snow-blanketed manor just outside Val Royeaux, representing Riftwatch at the invitation of a gathering of masked nobility who have gathered to discuss ways to support the war effort while not starving their serfs and alienages. And to play parlor games. Maybe have an occasional chamber concert. Your role may be to actively participate in the planning, or it may be to be charming and noncommital while observing, or it may be to provide an example of a well-behaved rifter/elf/mage/Qunari/Fereldan. Regardless: your best behavior is expected, but that doesn't mean you can't sneak into the Duchess' very well-appointed library at night or slip away to try sliding down the length of a frozen reflecting pool in the gardens.

IV. THE 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 passing near or through the frontline drawn through northern Orlais and now northern Nevarra, where it's possible to encounter enemy bands of dracolisk-mounted soldiers, fire-throwing mages, or particularly nasty darkspawn with red lyrium growing from their bodies.

V. 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.

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

[poleaxed]

[Jone turns immediately, putting herself between Margaery and what appears to be-- no, is-- a giant bloody spider.]

Uhh, m'lady, this part's gonna get ugly.

[Jone charges forward, using the spike at the end of her poleaxe to jab the creature in the eyes. Sanguine ichor bursts forth, coating Jone's weapon and the once-green grass beneath them. This, of course, only makes the spider angrier, but it's a blind anger, at least.]

Try'n stay still! Their hearing's shite.

[molineux]

[ her view is quickly hindered by Jone, but there's not much keeping her from seeing the awfully unnatural movement of eight giant legs anyway, and blood drains fast enough that she literally feels her face growing numb. ]

Oh gods. [ faintly, a split second before a sickening sound and scarlet suddenly overwhelming the endless green; she's instinctively taking a step back at that, vaguely aware of the small iron spade still clutched in her hand.

I was thinking I could outrun those legs, actually, she almost quips in her horror. thankfully, her mouth proves to be far more obedient than her brain.

Jone's instruction also gives her an idea and Margaery takes the risk of hurling the spade towards the largest boulder she can find, in a direction that would take the spider's attention elsewhere, even if only for a moment. her aim is slightly off from the way her fingers won't cooperate, but her goal is achieved when there's a loud brief snap of iron against stone as the spade ricochets off the top. ]

[poleaxed]

[Margaery's gambit pays off, and the spider reroutes on twitching legs in the direction of the noise. Jone looks back, giving Margaery a silent thumb's up (everyone should be encouraged for a solid attempt) before rushing the monster for a final volley. From this angle, its head is much more easily severed in three ugly chops.]

[By the end of it, Jone is covered in spider ichor and looking a little annoyed, but, hey, they got out okay. She summons a tired grim for Margaery.] Welcome to Kirkwall, luv.

[molineux]

[ Margaery thinks she's mustered up a smile in response to Jone's thumbs up - it's only when the monster is dead that she realizes it was more of a grimace. ]

Thank you. [ her manners return after a long exhale, blinking at the sight of the corpse before she turns her attention to her companion, noting the annoyance more than the blood - they're only here because of her request, after all. ]

Are you- [ alright? stupid question. she backtracks. ]

I don't suppose we can afford to find a stream nearby to get you as clean as possible?

[poleaxed]

Don't worry none. Didn't get cut, so it ain't poisonous. Reckon we ought to start heading back, though.

[Jone says this as she wipes the worst of the gore off her poleaxe, dirtying the grass.]

You got what you needed?

[molineux]

[ there's something to be said about the smell, overwhelming and stubborn, even fouler than her own prison cell had been. Margaery nods, lips pressed in a thin line to avoid the very real possibility of gagging after the wind brings her a generous whiff.

she speaks again later, when they've left the spider behind and her adrenaline has worn off quickly with the amount of care she takes not to stumble - going uphill is straightforward in its hardship, but going down presents its own deceptive challenges. ]

You saved my life back there, you know. I don't know what I could possibly do to thank you proper, but if there's anything, I hope you'll let me know right away.

[poleaxed]

[Jone tries to offer Margaery a hand where she can, her hands mostly wiped clean of spider-blood on her trousers.]

Came here to protect you, I did. It ain't a favor when I volunteered it to begin with, aye? If I'll ask anything, it's you attending a tourney we may be having in the future. Hopefully it won't be too much a hardship.

[molineux]

A tourney?

[ sometimes, the world she's in and the world she's from collides, and Margaery can scarcely keep the childish anticipation out of her voice for the thought of excitement in the air, generous cheers and breathless silences. a clash of weapons before the triumphs.

there's a sharp tug in her heart too, for the reminder of Loras, beautiful on his mount, fierce and formidable as any. ]

What is a tourney here like?

[poleaxed]

Oh, you know. Have to have the joust and the melee.

[Jone has been planning this for a while, which is embarrassing, so she attempts to go casual about it, her accent becoming even rougher.]

Thinking a quintain and an arms pass as well. Hand out some prizes for the winners. Everybody picks out a little title-- I'm the Monster of Denerim, usually.

[molineux]

[ Jone's casual way of speaking doesn't dampen Margaery's spirit any. if anything, it seems to keep her excitement up even as they're picking their way down the wild mountainside. ]

I would love to come and show my support any way I can. Are there any traditions the viewers partake in? Like offering a favor to your favorite competitor and such?

[poleaxed]

[Jone's lip twitches in an unwilling smile. She's not immune to this woman's charm: her simple and infectious happiness.]

Oh, yeah, the favors are a big thing. 'Specially at the Arms Pass. All have to give any favors they wish to the standing champ, and their heroes have to win 'em back from him. Them. It can be a woman, I'm just hoping a mate of mine will stand.

[molineux]

[ she nods thoughtfully, too focused on watching the ground in front of her to properly catch Jone's smile; it's one thing to be caught surprised by a giant, grotesque spider, but falling flat on her face is one thing Margaery's just not sure she could ever recover from. the tail-end of it might be glimpsed though, as she glances up to speak again. ]

That certainly adds another element of motivation. And I'm sure there are a great many stories that end up circulating from these events, since all of Kirkwall must be in attendance? How often do these tourneys get held?

[poleaxed]

Whenever some prick has the coin, [Jone says,] which ain't real often since some pillock blew up the Chantry and started a bloody war.

[molineux]

[ the wind picks up and Margaery shivers in perfect tandem with the indiscernible expression that crosses her face. ]

Do you believe in the Chant and its teachings?

[poleaxed]

[Jone doesn't consider the answer before she says it. Maybe if the woman she was walking with wasn't a rifter-- but she is, so the words just pop out of Jone's mouth:]

When it's convenient.

[molineux]

[ the simple honesty draws out a smile. ]

I think that's the best role a religion could play. One of convenience. Anything more and the lines get blurred too easily.

[poleaxed]

Bein' honest, I reckon that's how most of the Sisters play it. Whatever part of the Chant they're reading's always real bloody convenient for them, ennit?

[She sighs, offers a hand to Margaery while walking down a particularly rough patch of loose stones. They'll have to get her better boats.]

I believed it more before I started meeting you folk, coming outta rifts and all. You lot ain't made by the Maker.

[molineux]

[ her amused smile feels a little tighter, but Margaery doesn't know if it's from the numbing chill or from the eternal shard of hatred in her heart. ]

You don't think so? [ teasingly though, as an attempt to move her thoughts away from the High Sparrow and taking Jone's hand to carefully navigate her way down through loose gravel. ] Why ever not?

[poleaxed]

"The Maker made Thedas, before He abandoned us," Jone says with a shrug. "Don't inspire much loyalty in me, personally. But it is what it is. You lot ain't from Thedas. Stands to reason there's lands outta His control. Maybe he's over in one of those, having a party. Best bloody wishes."

If she sounds a bit sarcastic or bitter, it's because she is.

[molineux]

Hm.

"It does seem to be a rather impossible task, living up to His expectations so He comes back," she says thoughtfully, considerate of Jone's obvious stance. "But I suppose that's the objective every religion, isn't it? To keep people reaching for a dream beyond their reach so they're easier kept in line?"

oops sudden change to prose sry

[poleaxed]

"I wouldn't know. Haven't seen any other religions." Carefully sliding away from a definitive stance on the Chantry seems like a good idea with someone you just met. She likes this Margaery, but she's not entirely sure of her yet. "All I know's I weren't good enough before I was born. The world ain't fair to nobody, so I won't complain, but I won't thank Him for it neither. Not anymore."

you're totally fine!!<3

[molineux]

She's not quite sure what Jone means by not being good enough yet, and it's not her place to make blanket coddling statements when they hardly know each other - Jone seems a lot sharper than the crowd she's used to from back home anyway, capable of seeing through baseless flattery because of her self-awareness.

"I think that's fair," is what she ends up going with, which seems like the perfect transitional statement to go with another, safer topic: "And what is your training style like?"

[poleaxed]

That's a helluva pivot. Jone smiles, holds a finger up. "Not for you, luv." She hefts her poleaxe over her shoulder. "Reaver. All strength and blood. More pain I cause-- to me, or t'other-- stronger, I am."

She looks Margaery over. "You're a slight sort. I'd say archery, but you'd have to build up your arms. Then again, it's better than building up bloody everything. And you'll still have need of basic defending-- It goes a mile, to just know the places that bleed most, kill fastest, and how to conceal a few good knives. Were you taught any of that?"

[molineux]

Margaery blinks with mild confusion. Surely the training will be difficult if Jone has a skill level too far above her own? She also resolves to try and read up on reavers when they get back home.

"No, apart from watching my brother fight and train often." But what the eyes can follow doesn't always mean it'll translate to her reflexes, and she's ready for an arduous test of endurance. "The closest thing I've ever done to fighting is hawking, and even then, my peregrine did most of the work for me when it came to battles. I suppose I'm hopeful that some combat talent exists in me, as my brother is -" her pause is abrupt, a chill colder than anything the mountain can conjure up washing over her. "-was-" quietly, "-a great fighter."

[poleaxed]

Jone takes a moment with that, as well. The mountain's ominous quiet deafens whatever mourning they both meet; Jone has or had a brother, once. He's died a thousand deaths in Jone's imaginings, having no news of him since they were twelve.

Nobody wants hugs and a good cry over it. What's done is done.

"Can you ride horse?" Jone says, breaking the silence. "How much exercise have you, day to day?"