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

Loki (Variant L1130) | Loki TV show

[icasm]

→ i. crystal network;

[ The voice may be familiar to several, actually, depending on where —be it native to Thedas or a different world — one is from. He sounds smugly amused, somehow, and his accent either places him as from London, Asgard, or Tevinter. ]

Hello, Riftwatch, was it? Yes, Riftwatch, in the Gallows of Kirkwall, which... historically, as I understand it, not a lovely place is it now. [ Murmured: ] Despite the name. [ The vocal equivalent of a shudder. ] So it is my understanding that there are magic users here, native and foreign, from far and wide, so please: regale me with stories of magic where you're from, good or bad.

Don't be shy. This is a place free of judgment. [ At least for the moment. ] You don't have to be a magic user to answer, even.

→ ii. orlais;

The soiree is outdoors, under a blanket of foreign stars, and Loki has been chatting it up with this duchess and that viscount for most of the evening. Now, however, he's standing off to the side on his own, with a drink in hand and peering up at the sky.

There are shooting stars, [ he says, as you approach, and points upwards. ] There. See?

[ He chuckles, softly, and looks back at the goblet in his hand. ]

→ iii. the frontlines;

[ Perhaps you were surrounded a moment ago. Perhaps there was someone behind you, poised to strike a crippling blow while your back was turned. Perhaps it doesn't matter; it's a battlefield after all. But whatever was menacing you is very much dead now, and the man standing in their place is breathing hard and pulling a rather long dagger out of a body and wiping the blood on someone else's uniform. ]

Well. Suppose you're all right now.

→ iv. wildcard;

[ Come at me. ]

i.

[bouchonne]

[ A droll voice in return: ]

What kind of magic are you interested in? I've heard some scandalous tales.

[icasm]

I'll take the tale that you feel is the most scandalous, if you don't mind sharing it on such an open forum.

[bouchonne]

Hm. I think I need to hear, first, a tale that you think of as scandalous, so that I can properly calibrate my level of scandal to yours.

[icasm]

Well, I hardly think that's fair, but if you insist.

[ Did the man insist, Loki? Either way, you've asked a storyteller to tell a story and here he goes: ]

A queen had a lover, a simple mortal man who loved her deeply named Óttar. Of course, any queen of power must have a husband, a king of power, who is bound to be of the selfish and jealous sort, as kings tended to be. This caused a problem for the queen because she wished to keep her lover's head on his shoulders and her king's attention away from her dalliances.

So when Óttar came to her with the desire to remain at her side forever, she used her magic and turned him into her battle-boar, Hildisvini, so that she could ride him in public before all and sundry.

[ ...Loki. ]

II:

[illithidnapped]

Beautiful. [Astarion agrees, drawing back the span of a gilded mask for the sake of letting himself breathe for a moment. Oh, he appreciates Orlais deeply for what it is: a pit of longing and loneliness and lies— all the things Astarion feeds on as surely as he'd once fed on blood alone— but work is ever work.

And these masks get so humid in the warmer summer months.] But not what we've been sent here to take care of, if memory serves.

I've certainly seen you chatting up our dear friends all evening, but I wonder— considering the sheer amount of ensuing drama between guests as they bicker over rumors— just how much you've managed to pull from them, rather than embed.

[icasm]

[ Loki's mask is vaguely lupine-shaped, as foxes are also tricksters, and adorned with outlines of the floral namesake at the ears as well. He's kept his on because he likes the style if nothing else, and smirks at Asterion just a little bit as he swirls the glass in his hand. ]

Ah yes, the task at hand: social propaganda, was it? Tell them stories of Riftwatch's successes on the front lines in order to assure ourselves of some of their discretionary funding, or somesuch.

[ He waves the hand with the glass in it, making the alcohol swirl. ]

By the time the evening is over we will have our funding, Madame Varela will know who her cousin is sleeping with, and I'll have spent the night not entirely wasting my talents here.

[illithidnapped]

Unless word gets back to Madame Varela just where this all this information about her cousin’s come from.

[Then, Astarion imagines, Loki might be the one under siege, rather than the pretty little Orlesian nobles he’s been stringing along on his every word since well before sunset] Aren’t you the least bit worried that in a fit of passionate displeasure, one of them might point to that dashing emissary in the fox mask as the source of their tales?

Because if so, the supposed god of lies might just be in for a very tumultuous departure.

[He purses his lips slightly. Draws a few fingertips thoughtfully across the edge of his glass.]

Of course, if someone else were to heroically swoop in and ensure only the right gossip met the right ears in mingling conversation, well....I imagine such valor might warrant an owed favor or two.

[icasm]

[ Can you see, Asterion, the ellipses above Loki's head right now? He's not even sure where to start. Supposed god of lies might be a good point of contention, but. Well. He imagines he won't get very far arguing that specific detail when the only gods involved in Thedas have either turned their back on the world entirely or have been so inherently changed to the point of wreaking havoc upon the land when they return.

He takes a sip of his drink instead.

There's always a catch, isn't there? ]

What sort of favor?

[ He's not saying no. He just wants to know what he's in for. Something fun or something else? ]

iii.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Physically, perhaps, assuming the splashes of blood that show dark on the forest green of her leathers and bright on their accents of gold are not from her— evidenced by the blooded pair of daggers she holds— but... the quick look of gratitude the woman turns to give, the sort that might be expected from someone in return for such an assist before they plunge back into the fray, turns into wide-eyed guileless shock and doe-like freeze when she registers whom it is she's casting that look upon.

A long shallow breath and the freeze melts to a fragile, tentative kind of joy; and that deepens to a warm summer sky that shines like oh, and yes, and welcome, and the air she managed to take in is escaping in a wispy breathless little laugh as she stares at him like no-one on the battlefield around them is dying. Like there is no battlefield and no-one in the world has ever died at all. Her mouth opens as if to speak—

And then she bursts into tears.

(Which is to say, no. Not all right.) ]

[icasm]

Goodness, [ he murmurs, eyes locked on Lexie's face, flicking one of his wrists in order to embed a dagger in the throat of a combatant who was approaching from behind him and to the left.

No need for either of them to get stabbed on the account of tears, not after he'd just saved her.

Loki doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look at him the way that this woman did in the moments before she burst into tears, and part of him is insanely jealous of the man she's confused him for — another variant or something else entirely? — while the rest of him solidly wishes they were anywhere else so that he could coax answers out of her without pretense.

He pulls a small handkerchief out of literally nowhere and presents it to her with a flourish and a small frown. ]

Come now, my dear, let's mind ourselves, shall we?

[ They can, even, fight side-by-side with their daggers while he slowly drags them towards the edge of the skirmish and, with luck, eventually lead her back to camp. It's not like he's going to let her out of his sight now. ]

[coquettish_trees]

[ Even through the blur of sudden tears she can read the pause and question in him and the shock of that stops her crying as suddenly as it'd begun. She looks, wary and sharp as a falcon, and knows—

It's not him.

But then he moves, and it is him. He is the same the way a folk song sung in the fields at Val Fontaine is the same as the one they sing in the fields at Ghislain. A different phrasing here, a note held longer, the verses come in another order, but it is the same song and she knows by heart the way his wrist flicks sharpness through the air. She knows the little flourish that birthed the handkerchief she will still be clutching numbly when they make it back to camp. The somehow innocent puzzlement in his frown, the tiny vulnerability in it masked by politesse. The myriad of tiny patterns that had left her world, that she had slowly starved for until she couldn't feel the hunger that now rushes back in a kind of exquisite agony that strips away thought.

Even though her mind is silence her body still answers to his words and their sound because she knows them, and she can fight because her body knows that too, but she will barely notice when the battle is behind them. Barely notice when they reach the relative safety of the camp. Won't even seem to understand that she should sit instead of remaining swaying slightly on her feet unless he draws her attention to it; a lost and docile thing. ]

[icasm]

[ The woman appears to be in some sort of shock, poor thing, gripping the handkerchief he gave her like a lifeline even after they're amongst the safety of the camp. He doesn't immediately point out that she's standing unnecessarily; there's the matter of finding a blanket, first, which he drapes across her shoulders, and then leads her by the elbow to a seat facing a small fire some distance from the bulk of those within the camp.

He pulls out the chair for her. Hopefully, that encourages her to sit; if she does, he'll press a mug of what smells suspiciously like strong vodka into her hands, gently wrapping her fingers around the sides of the container.

If she doesn't, well. He'll stand there a bit stupidly at her side, holding two mugs until she does. ]

I'd invite you to tell me about him, [ he starts after an uncertain pause, ] but I think I would prefer your name, first.

[ He almost wants to apologize for not being her Loki, but that's too close to apologizing for who and what he is, and he's just not up for it. ]

i

[overharrowed]

I strongly suspect if you ask ten Thedosian mages to tell you about magic, you'll get ten potentially contradictory answers. But if you have any questions about how magic works here, I'll do my best. I've been practicing since I was six, so I do have some grounding in the subject.

[icasm]

Well. In the face of a bonafide expert who has been practicing magic from the age of six, my rather open-ended earlier query feels as though it's fallen short.

The use of and access to magic here is connected to one's connection with the Fade, yes?

...100% thought I replied to this, I did it in my mind

[overharrowed]

[He suspects he's being made fun of, but he used to teach pre-teens, so he's used to it.]

Yes, that's right. Generally it's an ability one is born with, though training refines control and can introduce you to new possible applications. Most mages are identified through reflexive, involuntary uses of magic during childhood.

[icasm]

[ No more so than Loki makes fun of anyone; everyone gets a little mocking, as a treat! Much like a teenager, actually. ]

But your Maker also resides in the Fade. Do other gods reside there?

i

[altusimperius]

What are you on about?

[It's a strange way to resurface. Maybe he lost his memory.]

...welcome back, by the way. [He could probably mean that more.]

[icasm]

I want to hear stories about magic.

I've never been here before. You've confused me for someone else.

[altusimperius]

[A long, bewildered pause.]

...Loki?

[Is this a trick? That wouldn't be unprecedented.]

[icasm]

That is my name, yes; who are you, if you don't mind my asking?

wildcard combo ii / iii.

[elegiaque]

( orlais can be a difficult place for gwenaëlle, these days, as neither one thing nor t'other; born to its highest privilege and shunted out of it in disgrace, a reminder when she's here (rarely) of how easily that can be done. an awkwardness, an elephant in the room — she was never good at the interpersonal politicking and false fronts that make up so much of orlesian gameplaying, better suited to the strategy of it at a remove where she can't be easily provoked into telling someone what she really thinks of them with her sharp tongue or sharp knife (which is worse: debatable). now she has entirely different enemies and less cover—

it was a bit of a gamble, being here at all, but the assassination attempt is still a surprise. in a moment, she'll rifle through the pockets of her assailant to see if she can figure out who, what, why (because she's riftwatch or because she's gwenaëlle?), but first she has to take a moment, gathering up her skirts so she can get to the knife hidden in them that she'd not managed to reach with her head ringing from where it had been knocked against a pillar in this secluded part of the garden— )

Get his mask, ( does not even vaguely resemble a thank you. hers she removes, annoyed by it, and shoves into the low neckline of her tightly corseted gown for the moment; up close, it is clearer that that corset is probably armored and that that had probably saved her life moments before loki came to make sure it stayed saved, fabric torn away from metal. )

[icasm]

[ That directive is not, in fact, a thank you, and Loki tilts his head a little to the side as he unfastens the man's mask anyway. His is still on, covered in lupine flowers in oranges and red against a background not very dissimilar to his own preferred colors of black and green, accented in gold.

Either this woman thinks she knows him, as have several at this point, or she is just like that. Or something else entirely, it's difficult to tell in this exact moment; there just are not enough details available. He gestures at her corset with a hand that had been holding a knife just a moment ago which has since... disappeared, for lack of a better word. ]

Well-crafted.

[ Unlike this dead man's mask. Loki sucks his teeth at it in clear disapproval. ]

[elegiaque]

( he's got the mask—it might be a useful way of identifying this prick later, even if it's a feint—so gwenaëlle takes the pockets, kneeling down in a puddle of her own elaborate skirts to rifle through a dead man's things as one who is unwholesomely comfortable with doing so for a young woman who carries herself with such aristocratic bearing.

(but he'd probably know a thing or two about that.)

it becomes further apparent that the answer is, in all likelihood, that she is just like this when she finally looks up at him properly at his thoughtful compliment to her stylish practicality and very visibly recognizes him only now—there is something about how incredibly easy she is to read that suggests it wouldn't have helped her, if she were still wearing the mask that's currently uncomfortably shoved out of the way.

her eyes narrow. it's possible, with her fingers tightening around the hilt of her knife, that he'd have got an even less warm welcome if she'd caught a proper look at him first—but, ah, it's the slowness of this moment that corrects it before she can think to regret not being able to get a plausibly deniable knife in his leg in when she had the opportunity (it was an accident, Lexie, I was fighting for my life, and anyway, he'll live—). the resemblance is uncanny, down to the appreciation for her waist (all right, for its armor, this time) and the habitual, troubling knife-wielding, but they aren't identical, not quite.

she sits back on her heels, having cut away secreted pouches and palmed the weapon that was meant for her throat. studies him. says, eventually, )

Failing my winning personality, ( dryly, ) there's always concealed steel and weaponry. Apparently, I need to be paying more attention to rifter arrivals.

( she has an anchor-shard in her fist. it'd be easy to mistake her for one, too, but there's slightly too much familiarity here for even the longest lasting of them. )

[icasm]

[ Her eyes narrow, her hand tightens around the hilt of her knife, and Loki holds a breath; that his Thedosian counterpart has made so many somewhat unfriendly reunions possible is neither surprising nor upsetting, but he is curious about why another beautiful and deadly woman might want to stab him.

She doesn't. He lets go of his breath and makes an expression somewhere between a smirk and a smile, spreading his hands before lowering his upper body into a bow. ]

As far as I know, it's left to ourselves to make announcements about our arrivals here in Thedas; considering how many enemies the Loki you're familiar with may have had, you'll understand my hesitancy in being too boisterous in unfamiliar territory.

Loki [ now he smiles properly, and straightens ] Laufeyson, at your service. The superior version in my own opinion, but since the other isn't here to defend himself perhaps that's all that matters. Do we know why our intrepid assassin targeted you?