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 9:47, and the war continues. An enemy force partially occupies Orlais and has decimated several Marcher Cities, while the Chantry, aided by the Inquisition, has marshaled 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. 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 newer organization that's an offshoot of the Inquisition, dubbed Riftwatch, that consists mainly of these 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. Their goal is to do what the Chantry can't or won't do, to go more directly after Corypheus and the dark magic he employs, and to keep the Veil from coming apart entirely.

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 killing you. 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 SIEGE OF STARKHAVEN: North of Kirkwall, Corypheus' forces have occupied Hasmal, laid waste to Tantervale, and has now besieging the city of Starkhaven. An army of Marchers led by Sebastian Vael has returned from the Exalted March to press against the Tevinter force, but Riftwatch's aid is still needed. With the assistance of Riftwatch's griffons, you might be doing aerial surveillance of the enemy force or swooping into the city to provide supplies and news to the people holding the walls, then bringing news and valuables back out to deliver to the Marcher force outside. Or you could be engaging directly by harassing enemy camps from the air or dealing with mages the Marchers are less equipped to face.

II. THE WAKING SEA: When Riftwatch isn't traveling by air (or magic mirror), it frequently travels by sea, courtesy of allied pirate ships. So welcome aboard. The sea is choppy and frequently violent—violent storms, violent enemy ships, or both at once—and the crew may not have much patience for incompetence, so either make yourself useful above or try not to get sick below.

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. 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

rubs hands together!! ds2 spoilers all over this thread

[portalling]

Stephen jolts. Almost knocks over his stack of books, and his chair scrapes against the stone floor as he moves a couple inches away. It’s uncomfortably skittish, like a deer about to bolt in the woods at the sight of her — but after what they’ve been through, can you blame him?

He’s been sitting on that knowledge for weeks now, mouth pressed into a thin line, biting down on that hideous recent twist to their personal history. Like walking around a bomb and hoping it won’t go off again. There’s quite a few reasons why he hasn’t told Tony yet — one of them being, the Scarlet Witch isn’t as indescribably powerful here as she would’ve been back home — but that ugly fear is still there, humming beneath his skin.

But they had gotten through to her by the end, Stephen thinks. He hopes.

His blue-green eyes drift down to Wanda’s sleeves, the turn of her wrist, her hands, instinctively looking for those burnt-black fingertips. The grip of the Darkhold is gone, of course it’s gone, it hadn’t even been there when she’d been jettisoned out of that rift, but looking for it is still like a tic.

“Of course. It’s just like home,” he says, lightly, an attempt at a joke. But there’s still a tightness to his jaw and a rigid set to his spine, watching her like he’s keeping an eye on a predator, looking for quick movements. He wishes he didn’t have to.

And then, because he’s not exactly above being curt and blunt when he needs to be, ripping off the band-aid:

“Are we finally done pretending the other person doesn’t exist?”

[control]

Though the physical taint of the Darkhold's grip on her is gone, there is some lasting damage left on her emotional and mental state — watching him jolt, looking at her like a skittish deer ready to jolt, makes something dark buried deep within her want to bark out a laugh. It twists at the corners of her mouth, but she pushes it down and buries it with everything else.

As he watches her, she watches him, her head cocking to the side, which makes the rogue copper strands that came loose from her braid fall haphazardly into her face and over her shoulder. Wanda doesn't blame him for watching her, keeping a keen eye on the hands clasped daintily in front of her, showing that she isn't a threat at the moment.

She's watching him for the same reason, positioning herself so she can see his hands beneath the table for sudden movements.

They've lost trust and faith in one another, but that's to be expected with everything they've gone through — with all she has done.

"I wasn't expecting any of this," she says as she finally unclasps her hands and motions around them, "least of all, seeing you there as soon as I stumbled out. Didn't think we'd see each other for a long time."

How long has it been since she brought Mount Wundagore down on herself and his decaying alternate self? It didn't feel like that long ago, and she expected to have more time to deal with her — issues ( or at least some of them ) before facing him again. Yet here they are, thrust together and expected to play nice to help protect this world.

[portalling]

“Yes, well. Neither did I.”

The Gallows, and Riftwatch itself, is functionally their get-along-shirt. Unlike their last headlong trip across multiple dimensions, they can’t get away from each other here, like two cats locked in the same room. It’s particularly pronounced during this quarantine period: needing to skirt around each other in the dining hall, or even squeeze past each other in those winding tower stairwells. It leaves him claustrophobic, itching to go out into a field mission on another longer trip. Maybe Antiva. Antiva’s supposed to be nice this time of year.

Stephen wants to stand up; doesn’t like having to crane his head to look up at her; but forces himself to remain still. Hands splayed across that heavy oaken tabletop. Thedas and its rifts has a sense of humour, apparently: summoning up the faces from his past which hammer most on his guilt-ridden nerves. Tony. Wanda. The allies he’d failed.

(But this is the whole point of a second chance, no? Doing better than the last attempt?)

So, still watching Wanda, picking his way delicately through his words, he says, “The last time I saw you, you were closing the Darkhold. How are you feeling now?”

[control]

"We should be used to this by now — things not working out how we expect."

While she hoped that she wouldn't have to see him for a very long time, there was still a part in the back of her mind that told her he might show up sooner than expected to finish the job or arrest her or whatever it is they do to with threats as dangerous as her if anyone found out that she was still alive.

Daring to test the waters, she takes several steps forward, hands outstretched to take one of the books from atop a pile and begins flipping through it, green eyes flicking to look at him, lingering on the familiar features of his face before forcing back on the pages.

"Better," she replies, wanting to leave it there, but she knows he won't be satisfied with that simple answer.

"Physically, I look better," she says as she places the book back on top of the pile before turning her hands over, no longer tainted by the Darkhold. Her features aren't as tired and ragged as before; that could be thanks to any amount of things. "I wonder if it's because of the dream I was pulled from or its hold is lessening the longer I'm here."

There is still that taint, that darkness and corruption within her from using the book of the damned — seeped into her bones and soul to the point that she wonders if she'll ever be free of it.

"You look — lively." For a fraction of a second, the corners of her lips twitch at the joke since he possessing a corpse the last time she saw him.

[portalling]

Unconscious and automatic, his gaze is caught by that flutter of Wanda’s hands. It’s a small, subtle relief at the sight, the little gesture to show herself as unmarred and unburnt. Like presenting empty palms: look, I’m unarmed.

He still doesn’t relax — he’s wired taut, muscles strung and half-ready to run or fight if necessary — but he does nod once, crisply, in acknowledgment of Wanda’s pronouncement. Her diagnosis. Better, she says, and she does look better. But look is the keyword: he knows looks can be deceiving.

And then there’s a confused beat of silence. “Lively?” Stephen echoes, lost for a second. He’s been in Thedas for a while now. He’d almost forgotten the context; he hadn’t had a mirror while dreamwalking, hadn’t needed to look at himself and see his own shambling corpse. There had been no other Stephen’s consciousness to browbeat into submission, so the main effect was that everything had been intolerably difficult, like maneuvering with lead weights and his hands stuffed into clumsy mittens. Yanking on dead nerves like the world’s most inept puppeteer.

But then he remembers, and realises what Wanda meant, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat; something between a snort and a scoff and a laugh.

“Good lord, can you imagine, if I’d come over here while puppeting that thing. Permanently saddled here as a zombie. Pieces of me falling off.”

It’s a ghost of humour to match her own, an instinctive kneejerk joke because Stephen Strange can barely exist without a needling joke, falling back on sarcastic humour as a crutch. It’s one of his most annoying traits. But it also, sometimes, helps smooth over those rough edges in a conversation.

[control]

That stifled mix of a laugh is enough to bring those twitching corners of her mouth into a full smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Leaving them sad, almost distant, and perhaps even hesitant to enjoy this moment where their slightly lowered defenses.

"From what I've heard and read since arriving, there is necromancy here, so I'm sure they'd put you back together in no time to get you fighting the good fight." A fight that she'll eventually be a part of whenever she's finished with her quarantine. It leaves her wondering how she'll fit in here, what division she'll be assigned, and how much of an asset she'll be since she can already tell her powers are different here.

"How long have you been here anyway?" Curiosity gets the better of her, and the question slips out before she can stop it, feeling that it might be better to leave sooner rather than later. With how tense and taught he is — like a spring-loaded and ready, she suspects he'd prefer to return to his reading in peace, without her lingering about.

She doesn't blame him if he feels that way; she has her own uneasy tenseness building within her, but him being here is something familiar, something to cling to. With how uncertain she is — or rather was and really still is — about what to do with her life ( and even herself ) after everything, she knows that the comfort of his familiarity isn't something she deserves.

[portalling]

It’s a difficult line to walk for the both of them, an alienating cognitive disjoint at the sight of her standing here in this library as if everything’s normal, as if they weren’t trying to kill each other within such recent memory. Because on the one hand, there’s the comfort of a familiar face, someone he had respected and liked and considered a comrade, a friend, a ghost from home —

but then, too, that same face had hunted and haunted him across universes, and now she’s here. If Stephen closes his eyes, he can still see that streak of blood across Wanda’s face, that fiery red glow in her eyes, burning in her fingertips, reaching out to stop his heart. It had been like having a feral animal on his heels, a fairytale monster (a witch) clawing its way out of the mirror prison he’d tried to shove her into.

Sometimes Stephen still had nightmares about it.

“A couple months,” he answers. Enough time to be out of his quarantine, to go on a couple out-of-town trips for official Riftwatch business, to start finding his place in the organisation and realms of expertise where he can be of use.

But not long enough for it to be a home.

And he’s still looking at her, as if he’s still afraid to take his eyes off her for a second. They all knew what she’d been able to do with an unattended second. And— fuck it, but he’s tired, and he doesn’t have the patience for this part of it, dancing polite circles around each other.

“Are we going to be a problem, Wanda?” Stephen asks bluntly. “You and I.”

[control]

"Now Stephen, I'm offended," she lowers her tone as she places her hands on the desk, fingers splaying against the flat surface as she leans down to level her gaze with his. No longer looming over him, green eyes drag over his features before locking with his. "If I were going to be a problem, you'd already know by now."

Wanda doesn't pretend to be a saint or sweep what happened between them and the horrible things she has done under the rug like it never happened. On the contrary, she knows she's a monster — she's everything she hated seeing in the world and fought to stop alongside their comrades.

There's no changing any of that, but she can try to move on and grasp onto the tiny bit of hope that landing here has given her. To atone for what she did and try to become the person she was before desperation, loneliness, and the Darkhold sunk their claws into her.

"If you're worried, you can always tell them about me. About what happened," she leans closer. "Tell them I'm a monster and can't be trusted. Maybe they'll lock me away with some nullification piece of jewelry wrapped around my neck like they did on the Raft. You won't have to worry about me being a problem then."

Maybe they can even perform the Rite of Tranquility on her if they think she's enough of a threat — severing her connection to the Fade so that she can no longer use what powers she has retained. She shivers at the thought of being severed and emotionally stunted, which is why she doesn't even utter the idea for fear of it happening.

[portalling]

That voice and that statement is silken-soft; very nearly almost a threat, as Wanda plants her hands on the desk and leans further into his space. Posturing territorialism. Stephen keeps himself rigid and motionless like a statue, chin tipped upward, his blue-green eyes meeting hers steadily as his mouth thins.

And she doesn’t even have to utter that last possibility aloud, because he’s already thinking it. (Despite everything, they do think very alike, and he’s quick on the ball; that had been the whole trouble, as that apple-orchard dissolved around them into hellish red flame.)

So Stephen’s mulling over that possibility, meeting her eye, and he says: “Did you know, they have these things here called mage circles. Towers of magic-users guarded by templars, their swords and shields ready to put down an unruly mage like a rabid dog, because they know the threat they pose. They can cut them off from magic entirely. It’s a kind of lobotomy, as I understand it. An atrocity and a crime and an abuse of power, in my opinion, but that doesn’t change the fact it must get the job done.”

Flat voice, steady. Silken-soft and very nearly almost a threat.

But he doesn’t have much interest in continuing to rattle their sabers at each other, and he fucking hates the Rite of Tranquility; doesn’t actually want to invoke it and call down that particular hammer onto his once-friend, no matter what she’s done. So he hesitates. Sitting on the precipice of a decision — a very important one, all truth told, since Tony Stark is just a few storeys away, and he’d once put this very woman under house arrest, too.

“So. It all depends. Are you a threat to this world or the people in it? Are you going to be trying to find a way to tear open another rift, to jump back across universes and get back to your children?”

[control]

Despite the anger and rage beginning to boil under her skin, making her fingers tingle with want — they want to reach across the table and wrap around that neck of his or, with a flick of her wrist, send him flying across the room with a psionic blast of energy to his chest — and power to surge through them once more, Wanda listens.

She knows.

When she was able, Wanda began researching how this world deals with magic and those who use it. It didn't take her long to understand that the people of this world see magic as a threat and those who possess the ability to wield it.

The almost threat she can handle, ready to toss her own at him, but when he mentions her children and her tearing open another rift to get to them, she begins to crumble. Whatever posturing she had before dissipates as she pulls the inside of her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing on it to the point she begins stating the metallic tinge of blood.

She can feel herself coming apart. The careful walls she built up crash down as the tears begin welling in her eyes. Try as she might to hold back the tears; they eventually spill. One large droplet slides down her cheek, followed by another and another when they start to fall. Straightening, Wanda brushes away a few tears and swallows hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat.

"No," her voice cracks, raw and pained, as she doesn't try to hide her anguish. "Despite how things felt — how I felt and still feel — they weren't real. None of it was real. As desperate as I want to be with them again. To feel their love, hear their voices, and feel their arms around me, none of them are mine. They are loved and belong to another version of me."

It is unbearable to have that life and finally have happiness, only to be taken away. In her anguish, she did things she never thought possible. Became a monster. Murderer. Even tried to kill someone she once considered a friend. All so she could steal another woman's children to fill the aching void left within her when she realized her life was a lie. An unhealthy coping mechanism caused her powers to go out of control and created an alternate reality, so she didn't have to heal with the pain of losing Vision, Tony, Steve, and Nat.

[portalling]

Stephen blinks, alarmed at the sight of that composure splitting open, like he’s just landed a better blow than he expected: a solid strike, glass ringing, fractures spreading.

It still feels like they’re standing on a precipice. There are so many things caught on the tip of his tongue, but he’s always been terrible at comfort, at reassurance, at finding the right words, and so what he says now might cause irreparable damage if he doesn’t choose carefully, in the wake of Wanda scrubbing away those tears.

Good —
I would have come to help, if I had known —
I’m glad that you’ve come to your senses —

He needs to watch his words more carefully than he usually does. Some of his first instincts are hopelessly condescending, potentially disastrous, and he’s too-aware that his last attempt at negotiating with the Scarlet Witch hadn’t gone well; had led to her attacking, apprentice sorcerers dying, the fall of Kamar-Taj. So he sits there in the awkward silence for a moment, both of them marinating in it. It’s ugly. It doesn’t feel good. Finally, Stephen clears his throat.

“I’m truly sorry about it, Wanda. If there had been a way—”

But there wasn’t.

“They don’t take kindly to messing with rifts here. You can’t just jump through one to go home again. So for better or worse, we’re stuck here together. I’m willing to bury the hatchet, if you are. Riftwatch could use someone of your talents, and there’s already enough going on with this war without worrying that we might blow up the Gallows on each other. I don’t want to waste time and energy watching my back in our own headquarters.”

And then, warily, he reaches out one of those scarred hands to her. Truce. A ceasefire.

[control]

Rubbing her tears away feels like a fruitless attempt. Whenever she blinks or focuses on him, they return, warm as they slip down her cheeks. She feels so pathetically weak; it makes the aching pain deep within her chest feel ten times worse. This wasn't how she wanted this interaction to go — to stand crying in front of Stephen Strange in the middle of the library. Thankfully they are secluded enough that no one else has seemed to notice.

The last thing she wants is his pity or his words. Even if he means it, they feel hollow and do nothing to fill the void that threatens to tear her apart. If he were truly sorry, he would have helped her instead of letting her loneliness and desolation fester to the point she became the monster everyone thought she was.

No — it isn't his fault, and she shouldn't direct her unfettered emotions at him. After all, she is the one who decided to seclude herself away and isolate herself from the few remaining friends she had. If only she had reached out to let them know she was struggling, maybe — maybe all of this could have been prevented. But it's too late now, and she has to live with the consequences of her actions.

Scrubbing away her tears again, Wanda focuses on him. Green eyes rimmed with red, nose red, and lips swollen from the rush of blood to her face. Her gaze shifts away from his face, lingering on the scarred hand outstretched towards her. Truce. A ceasefire. Maybe even a friend again with time.

She reaches out, hesitating as she grabs his hand and curls her fingers around it. The pad of her thumb smooths over the back of his hand.

"I know," she says finally, "and I don't want to spend my time worrying and looking around every corner either."

[portalling]

They shake hands. An armistice between former allies and former enemies, in a quiet library.

It would be an easier thing, a pat and simple thing, if they could simply patch over this grievance and instantly go back to how things were. But they can’t; not when he still feels that jolt of fear as Wanda’s palm touches his, not when her eyes are still red-rimmed with grief, not when that trust between them is cracked and eroded and lying in ruins.

(Can she still dig her fingers into his mind, considering how their abilities change going through that rift? Can she still splinter his psyche and make him see what she wants? He’s read that blood magic can control the minds of others, see into their dreams, summon demons. It might be possible.)

Once upon a time, he would have tried to comfort her. Extended that hand out of friendship, rather than chilly professional practicality. But it’s that brute pragmatism at work when Stephen says crisply, “We have bigger problems at hand. They’ve told you about Corypheus?”

If hundreds of heroes on Earth could set aside their grievances and all haul in the same direction to take down Thanos, then as far as he’s concerned, they’re just going to have to do the same for Corypheus.