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allthisshitisweird2021-10-02 11:29 pm
faderifting) wrote in allthisshitisweird2021-10-02 11:29 pm
Entry tags:
TEST DRIVE MEME!
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.
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.
communal baths wildcard babyyy
No quick and easy way to summon someone to warm his bath, and only a few scant hours in the evenings where the communal ones are kept hot for Riftwatch personnel, or sometimes harried servants carry pails up and down those terrible stairs for a private room. Kirigan — he’d called himself Kirigan here once more, falling back on a lie and a false name as easily as breathing — didn’t have the pull to ask the servants for that favour, and when he’d tried, they just levelled a blank stare at him. You can use the communal baths, ser, with the rest of them.
So. Public it is. Delicately levering himself into the hot baths, sinking into the water with a sigh, letting the heat settle into still-healing muscles and ugly scarring; the deep rents are everywhere across his bare skin, as if some great beast had torn into him like tissue-paper. (They had.) He sinks low enough into the water that at least he’s half-decent, pale arms slung over the edge of the pool, his head tipped back, unruly black hair slicked wet to his head.
Aleksander exhales, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He doesn’t like letting his guard down.
Which means he sees her as she enters, a towel wrapped around her body. He expects a lightning jolt at the sight of her, perhaps, some hook in his sternum, the tether yanking the connection between them taut —
but it’s gone, there’s nothing, whatever warped his magic in the rift also having changed the nature of their connection. His brow creases. The first expression on his face, when Alina Starkov sees the Darkling again, is not seething resentment, but this: sheer confusion.
this trope is my catnip
There's... nothing, and that alone is enough cause for her to investigate, to see who this marked up stranger wearing a face that she recognizes is certainly not her Aleksander. And certainly fate would not drop him here, like a confusing dream. Maybe it's fitting that she's naked, her mind pulling random pieces and assembling them together into a facade of reality, and next something odd will happen, yes, like a dragon will emerge from the baths and in the morning all of the odd pieces will dissolve away like most dreams do.
Her mind focuses only on the sound of her wary footfalls around the corner of the bath, closing the distance. The ground is too solid for this to be anything but real, and still she holds on to hope that her test will fail.
There is no greeting quite like being nudged in the shoulder by a foot belonging to your beloved enemy.
"Dammit," she mumbles, finding him as solid as her.
no subject
But this very much does not feel like those times — he’s not a dark canker sitting in the corner of her subconscious, and she’s not a hot livid coal in his — and the sheer appalling lunacy of the moment strikes him when Alina, with a bare foot, just gently kicks him in the shoulder like she’s prodding something unpleasant.
“What,” Aleksander says, his voice crisp. He looks up at her, scrawny legs and arms all, and— he can’t really gather his hauteur back into place. He’s caught on the back foot, out of his element, stripped of his influence and army, so all he can muster is that knife-sharp and bitter: “Would you like me to pinch you? Because I could do that, little saint. This is no dream.”
no subject
"And this is my spot," because why not list all of her grievances. It has a perfect view of a high window, where she can watch the clouds or the moon depending on the time of day without craning her neck too much. She balances on one foot, her other dipping into the water to kick again, this time to splash him in the face.
no subject
All of this is hopelessly trivial, considering the true and violent grievances between them, but Thedas is not Ravka. He’s accustomed to reinventing and rewriting himself, and yet this world is providing an even cleaner blank slate, a world where no one’s even heard of the Darkling before. (And yet. It’s a world where they treat mages much the same as Grisha, and he felt that sour turn to his stomach once it had been explained to him, with the sinking weary awareness: it was happening again. All this would happen again.)
But the stakes are lighter, and so the man glowers. He’s an animal defanged, declawed, no more dangerous than any other mage.
“You can’t lay claim on a communal bath,” Aleksander says, as if he’s explaining a basic concept to a madwoman. And then, petty and petulant himself, he reaches out with long fingers, catches the delicate line of Alina’s ankle — tugs with one sharp yank, unbalancing her — and so she tumbles forward into with an ignoble splash, water sloshing over the edges of the bath and onto the tiles, and he sinks back with the satisfaction of a job well-done. Pettily.
no subject
Her yelp is anything but saintly, echoing loudly up into the rafters before she is silenced by the splash of the water. Disoriented, she accidentally gulps several mouthfuls of water. It takes her several attempts to actually surface, gasping and thrashing wildly as she tries desperately to orient herself upright.
She is all thin limbs, wet hair, and gnashing teeth as she finds her footing, water pooling someplace below her breast and her hair wrapping around her face, neck, and shoulders in dark tendrils. Anger clouds the fact that she would have never predicted this to be the circumstances that led to standing nude in front of Aleksander.
Strangling him while nude seems almost less out of place. And apparently a more natural impulse than searing him with the power she retains. She launches forward, only slightly clumsy on the smoothed tiles of the bath, hissing as she wraps her hands around his neck. A collar of her own design.
And then she recoils like she's been burnt, finding a void where she expected power. She hadn't noticed it missing with her kick, or even when he wrapped his hand around her ankle. It would make more sense if he were a dream, a shell, than this pale version of himself.
"What is wrong with you?" She says it accusatory, like it's somehow his fault, retreating back into the water and crouching to cover herself now that she's belatedly realize the implications of her towel floating away.