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Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] allthisshitisweird2023-05-02 05:40 pm
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Test Drive!

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 9:49, 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.) an organization, dubbed Riftwatch, that split off from the Inquisition several years ago. Riftwatch consists 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.

NOTE: This is a static test drive! We post them once per year or so and continue to use them for a long time, so you're never late. Current players are encouraged to track new top-level comments.


I. THE FREE MARCHES: Hasmal, Tantervale, and most recently Starkhaven have all fallen to the Tevinter incursion, leaving Kirkwall the largest city-state in the Free Marches to remain unoccupied. For Riftwatch, that means the war is closer to home than ever, and traveling anywhere north of the mountains runs the risk of running into enemy scouting parties. Perhaps you've been sent out to find these scouts before they find the unwary, or perhaps you're just trying to pass through unnoticed to Antiva or Rivain when you run into trouble. Or maybe you're more in the thick of it: joining the Free Marches armies in harassing the occupying army as best they can from outside the city, or slipping your way into one of them to gather intelligence or meet with an ally.

II. THE WAKING SEA: When Riftwatch isn't traveling by griffon or magic mirror, it frequently travels by sea, courtesy of a small assortment 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 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.

dissolving: (look)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-04-27 03:30 am (UTC)(link)
He is trying - and failing - not to think of Chevaliers; of Vidal’s brother, and the high arc his sword must cut over the heads of men like Cedric. The context shifts, the story does,

"Unusual?" Encouraging the story.
lyorning: (Default)

[personal profile] lyorning 2024-04-27 04:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Aerich pauses, considering his answer because he was explaining a cultural fact that was like water. "The Empire has what you would call a caste system among the nobility. Military posts are typically filled by those of the House of the Dragon. I am of the House of the Lyorn, and my friends were a Tiassa, a Dzur and a Yendi."
dissolving: (listen)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-01 07:26 pm (UTC)(link)
"And Lyorns usually - ?"

He prompts. Seems half the battle of the Rifted is knowing what's worth holding on to, what'll pass for common ground. The more details they peel back now, the closer they come to something that resonates; to tie him to anyone here, instead of there,

(Military, nobility; used to an outsider's position. They can work with that. Money's always fucked off to Riftwatch. Had its share of officers, too.)
lyorning: (Default)

[personal profile] lyorning 2024-05-01 07:42 pm (UTC)(link)
"When they aren't titled, we are clerks or scholars of history and tradition," Aerich replied. "There is a warrior tradition, but it is more of a personal art, rather than used to make war. I am one such trained."
dissolving: (listen)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-03 10:05 pm (UTC)(link)
"Afraid it's all war 'round here," Art. He must mean - a performance. "But hear we've been invited to tourneys before."

Before his time. There'll be some use in it, though; the war's everywhere, the work is, too. A warrior's tradition hasn't kept Cedric from clerking.
lyorning: (Default)

[personal profile] lyorning 2024-05-04 03:40 pm (UTC)(link)
"I have largely avoided war, as it seems rarely to be the outcome either nation wishes for. But, when the goals of a nation require either war or that the other nation yield, war is inevitable."

And Aerich had noted there were also plenty of people who found war as a useful political tool. Which he found distasteful.
dashing: (Default)

HERIAN AMSEL - native oc, tranquil edition

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 03:33 am (UTC)(link)
( because I will make her life worse even while making fun of myself for making her backstory so excessively tragic )

GALLOWS
( A figure steps to the docks of the Gallows, only noteworthy from a distance for the odd looks and space that it’s evident a couple of others afford them, the looks cast over their shoulders as they move away from her. There is no hesitation in her steps, until she reaches the courtyard.

Her own stillness, then, is undercut by the small dog hopping and circling around her, a few emphatic “woofs” between the skitter of his claws on the stone. )


What troubles, Franklin?

( Her voice is flat, even as she kneels to better inspect the dog. He has been fed, watered. There are no needs she has failed to address.
From her understanding of him, it may be this place alone that prompted the behaviour. )


Go.

( The dog skitters around her restlessly, before scuttling off.


A. Perhaps your character sees a familiar corgi and wonders if that asshole knight enchanter is back. If so, he’ll lead them back to where he left her, before sniffing around and following the scent to the gardens that she used to frequent, where she’s staring at some roses.

B. Or perhaps they see a woman standing in the Gallows courtyard, unmoving, and who appears to have been standing there some time, looking blankly up at the fortress.

C. or you can wildcard it, tbh.

While they may recognise the face, and find the absence of staff or sword at her side strange, there is a more alarming change, a sunburst burned into her forehead. The Rite of Tranquility made plain.

From the look of the burns they are still healing, a little infected. Far too fresh to easily be made sense of, in some regards.

Herian doesn’t smile at the approach, but then again, that’s not necessarily weird either. )




THE ALIENAGE
(not limited to past cr, but “people it would make sense for someone from the alienage to go get,” which some close CR / people with some kinda role / who would have been designated to go do the thing)

A couple of elves familiar enough with Riftwatch - both have helped doing repairs around abouts the Gallows when needed. Learned how to do it from an apprenticeship they got a few years back, one might even have elaborated, if there was chat.

One barely speaks, the other more chatty, but it’s from habitual pleasantness rather than current good humour. The name “Herian” might not be familiar, but “a mage of Riftwatch, made Tranquil” probably means enough.

Whoever they retrieve, they’re lead into the Alienage, and then on to a home. After a knock at the door there is a long pause, some barely audible words exchanged, and an elderly elvhen woman appears, blocking the room from view. )


Who’s this, then?
Edited 2024-05-15 04:01 (UTC)
dissolving: (look)

alienage;

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-15 04:15 am (UTC)(link)

"Cedric, ma'am," He doesn't have a hat to hold (doesn't have the ears to claim), otherwise the picture of a polite young man ready to kiss some ass. "Fixed Galen's roof the other week. Riftwatch sent me,"

That's a word for it. They should've sent a mage, probably; an elf, definitely. But the ranks are thin, and half the mages come spitting Tevene, and Farrier's busy, and the Alienage knows him -

And he was on shift. So it's him. Absent of armor or blade, because his brains don't run thin as his blood.

"Heard you were good enough to take in one of ours."
dashing: (pic#14737629)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 04:27 am (UTC)(link)
If Thedas had the Simpsons, Cedric would recognise the sound of unhappiness coming from the elder.

Ol’ Marge squints at the young man. True enough, he’d fixed a roof and been around some, but she still gives the young ones sent to the Gallows a disapproving glance. There’s judgment aplenty in this NPC.

The door is shut in his face.

There’s (deliberately) audible conversation about how very human, non-Starkhaven, and not one of a list of specific names that she lists, that Cedric may or may not recognise.

It’s a moment before it’s opened again.

“What do you do over at the Gallows?”
dissolving: (pic#16989791)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-15 04:46 am (UTC)(link)
The door shuts in his face. Cedric shifts his weight, locks a knee into slouch. No one raised by the Chantry is unfamiliar with the scorn of old women -

Names: Niehaus, Baudin, others he doesn't know. He'd sooner not shove this at Gwen, not without warning. May need to.

Herian Amsel, who was ambassador for a bit. She'd said. Alistair, the Warden. There was nearly a club.

("And of course that Evelyn's signed on with them now, I told her family no good would come of running off with some Rivaini thief,")

- The door opens. Evenly,

"Griffon-rider," What's he do? Lately, all anyone's doing is move debris. "Lend a hand with Diplomacy, where I can."
Edited 2024-05-15 04:53 (UTC)
dashing: (Default)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 05:26 am (UTC)(link)
She seems to perk up at the mention of Diplomacy, and the door swings open a little more. Ol’ Marge shifts, looking back over her shoulder and affording the Cedric-lad a view of a woman. Dark hair, pale skin. Nothing remarkable, save for the sunburst brand.

Door opens further, a sharp snap of movement that catches the old woman off-guard. Shoved, it seems, by the snout of an insistent corgi. There’s not much time for her to be surprised or for Cedric to process the small dog sniffing the air, before there’s a terrible snarl.

Franklin latches onto Cedric’s ankle and wrestles his head side to side, set on pulling the one that smells so dangerous off his feet and away from his person. Marge, one to trust the insight of small angry creatures and to grasp any opportunity to mistrust a human, proceeds to grab a handbag and assist.

Herian doesn’t move to the doorway or stand at all, still sitting, even as the elven man Marge had been speaking with runs out to see the commotion.
dissolving: (pic#16989694)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-15 05:43 am (UTC)(link)
One thing to know, another to see it -

(Never much knew Hildegard, she never made it out the city gates.)

He's opening his mouth to address her: Ambassador (no), Knight-Enchanter (not any more), Serah then,

And a dozen tiny knives punch through boot and skin. An undignified yelp precedes a string of Nevarran invocations. Cedric braces a leg, stooping to pry the little dog off. In comes Marge. The bag beats against his back with feeble insistence, again, again; spraying hard candies into the courtyard.

"Grandmother," The newcomer implores: "Please, you'll only hurt your wrist again,"

"Baudin," Cedric finally manages, thrusting the snarling corgi out for him. Take this. "She gave you names? Let me call them."

Which he does, given half a chance -

"Gwenaëlle," Out of breath, "Need you in the Alienage. Amsel's back, and,"

His mouth twists, his leg is bleeding. This isn't how he'd choose to deliver the news:

"Tranquil," There's no way around it. "She's Tranquil."
Edited 2024-05-15 05:44 (UTC)
dashing: (♛ nàistinn.)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 06:54 am (UTC)(link)
“Herian!” the grandson calls out, a strangled cry as he attempts to contain Frankin’s alligator rolls.

Marge shouted about a stranger, resulting in a few more locals rolling up to help her, even as the lads who’d led Cedric here try to explain the situation.

All in all, this could be going better.

Herian, summoned to the doorway, watches placidly. No urgency to her step, even as she carefully catches Marge’s elbow to stop her from accosting the young man.

“Your grandson speaks true.”

Flatly, but not cold - simply a statement of fact, her effort to help in response to the call.

Her gaze, though, is settled on the stranger. His restraint in accepting a beating from an elderly elven woman did not escape her - she had been severed from the Fade, not reason. A human tolerating violence from an elf, and who had come to the alienage to help do repairs, when repairs are needed all over.

“This man is not your enemy.”
elegiaque: (218)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2024-05-15 07:36 am (UTC)(link)
Through the crystal, the first thing that Gwenaëlle says — involuntary more than answer, pure reaction — probably doesn't help matters:

“Selfish fucking cunt,” breathlessly incredulous, half away from the crystal, and then, barked: “Guilfoyle!”

who has his uses, but she has rarely wielded him with much delicacy when it comes to deescalation. There's a moment it seems as if that might be all and Cedric might have to just hope that she's on her way, before, brisk: “You'll need to be more specific about where. Assume I have no landmarks.”

—because she doesn't. What a way to first set foot in Kirkwall's alienage.
dissolving: (pic#16989691)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-15 08:07 am (UTC)(link)
He's staring half-baffled - Selfish? No landmarks? She's bringing the fucking steward? -

When Herian speaks, and,

It's not meant for disrespect, that he turns from her to the crystal. Really, it's not. Only:

"Left at the gate, past the big tree, green banners. You'll hear us. If you got a doctor-bag, bring it," Only, he's looking at her forehead. "Burn's new."

The patter of report. Cedric straightens, carefully dislodging a wizened hand, to offer one out to Herian.

"Where were you going, Serah?"
dashing: (pic#14737615)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 08:44 am (UTC)(link)
Gwenaëlle is on her way and she sounds displeased.

Her gaze remains impassive, no flicker in it as she hears the familiar
voice. She knows she missed Gwenaëlle, knows that she had great affection for her.
That awareness brings no sensation with it, nor the mourning of its absence.

Ol’ Marge is still arguing with her grandson, who is clutching Franklin for dear life.

“I was ordered to Riftwatch,” she replies, looking at his hand a moment. Oh. Payment, she thinks. For the medics supplies.

“I have no coin purse.”

Not an apology, only letting him know. Gwenaëlle probably won’t expect her to pay coin, but that might only apply to the person she was before, the one who was Gwenaëlle’s friend. Perhaps it makes sense he held his hand out for coin, then.

— of course, Marge tunes in only at the wrong time. Outraged that he’d charge Herian for his assistance, Marge wallops Cedric over the head and unleashes a torrent of furious and blisteringly offensive insults.
elegiaque: (217)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2024-05-15 08:55 am (UTC)(link)
The crystal connection cuts dead, information acquired and no explanations forthcoming as to why she'd needed any of it or why she's made the decisions that she has, so it is safe to assume that she is probably on her way. That Guilfoyle was within snapping distance means that Gwenaëlle was herself likely not busy in the Gallows themselves,

so at least they don't have to wait long. He walks slightly ahead, a looming figure in muted tones of black and grey, servant's clothes but finely made: the sort of attendant expected to attend when how presentable he is might matter, or he had been. Unclear exactly what he is right now, besides someone who knows how to get to the alienage swifter and more familiarly than does Gwenaëlle, the bag requested in evidence but the woman holding it making no gestures as if she personally considers having brought it a matter of any urgency.

Taking in the scene she arrives to—

One person tell me what the fuck is going on.”
dissolving: (pic#16989694)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-15 07:22 pm (UTC)(link)
"No, Serah, no pay. If you come with me, we'll see to your orders -"

Schwack. His ears ring, and the ground lurches in seasick memory that the demon wasn’t all that long ago. This is the last time - and sure, he's said that before, but this is truly the last fucking time - that he doesn’t fetch a helmet.

It’s late afternoon, and as the evening trickles in, a crowd collects: Heads thrust out windows, laughing with a bottle at the end of the lane. A show's a show. Someone shouts for them to shut up. The baby just went down,

Abrupt, the mood shifts. Mouths tighten, words quiet, in the wake of some tall-shadowed Shem.

(In the scarred thing behind him, Orlesian, and angry, and dressed far too flash to not spell trouble.)

"Get ‘im, Marge!" A girl whoops, and is shushed by another, tugging at arm’s length toward tenement door.

"Reggie saw her wandering, took her here. Someone sent her," Cedric's drawn himself up, taking all his four inches on Marge for their worth. Better that she catch a shoulder. As she's doing, repeatedly. "Dunno who. Get answers when we get - Ma’am, if you don’t stop with that, you’ll ruin your bag -"

He sounds a deal less patient than this began, eyes pinched against the light.
Edited 2024-05-15 19:26 (UTC)
dashing: (♛ coimhead.)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 08:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh. No pay. Whatever response she might have made is lost to everything happening.

Marge’s grandson makes another squeaky appeal for help, this time handing Franklin to Herian so he can make sure she doesn’t put herself (and the rest of them) in danger from the shemlen.

Franklin stops thrashing, though his lips remain curled back, ire etched about his nose.

It seems evident enough that Franklin was the catalyst for things going awry, initially, and as more people arrive she does not know their position on snarling dogs. For all that she cannot feel, she knows he was her companion, that he was being protective, and that she had an obligation to him. She does not need to feel to recognise that calming him is a necessity. Ear scratches, then: a well-proven method.

“Enough, Franklin.”

Flat, not quite the same as calming. (He whines as he tries to lick her face, and though he’s not growling any more, each exhale comes as an extended grumble.)

“The Knights of Midnight Sun ordered me hence,” she says, before falling silent once more. Gwenaëlle had said for one person to explain, hadn’t she?

Her appearance might tell something of a story. None of her usual warriors garb; a dress that might have been feminine, though the dirt and muck ground into it make it hard to tell much of anything about it. She has shoes, at least, but they’re not of any decent quality, things that are falling apart, a big enough hole in one showing most of her toes. The brand on her forehead is fresh, but her skin is smeared with sweat and grime, obfuscating parts of the wound and blistering.
inmycare: (anything to make you smile)

Gallows; A

[personal profile] inmycare 2024-05-15 08:17 pm (UTC)(link)
Yes, alright old chap.

[She can hear the voice, Marcher-accented, before Franklin leads the man into view. Not Starkhaven (Ansburg, if her ear is that keen), but the familiar shape of the vowels distinct. The man it's attached to, when they turn the corner, is neatly dressed, practical but not without some care. His attention is, initially, for Franklin:]

Whatever is bothering you, I'm sure we can sort it out, though it would be easier if you sat down for a moment, you know.

[Franklin obliges, but only as he arrives at Herian's feet. Belatedly registering the person the corgi had presumably led him to on purpose, the man straightens slightly.]

Ah. My apologies if I'm disturbing you, serah. I'm afraid your small friend here was most insistent.
elegiaque: (213)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2024-05-15 08:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Judging by the way nothing about Gwenaëlle’s demeanor shifts, neither this statement nor Herian's garb explains anything, and she says, “No, we'll get them now. As you're not a fucking child, Amsel, I assume they didn’t order you to cause an irresponsibly unnecessary ruckus in an alienage for I cannot think of a single good reason, so you're going to have to elaborate.”

She doesn't immediately acknowledge anyone else. Prior experience tells her she must be specific, so she is, her irritation increasingly flattening under a mirror of Herian's own affect—

it is not useful to be angry with her. It doesn't mean anything that will satisfy Gwenaëlle, any more.

“Explain the circumstances of your Tranquility and,” pointedly, “why you chose to disobey that order.”

This isn't Riftwatch. This is a fucking mess. If Herian has a good reason, then fine. She can stay in the alienage as it suits her. If she's been held here against her will, then they can deal with that, too.

Guilfoyle folds his hands behind him, looking for all the world as if he could stand patiently at his lady's elbow for so long as she requires him to do so, unmoved and unmoving.
dissolving: (pic#16989691)

[personal profile] dissolving 2024-05-15 09:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Several things are happening:

Franklin, the first dog (shark?) Cedric's found occasion to dislike, is contained. Herian's named what's got to be a cult. Gwen is cursing at a fucking Tranquil, and he's halfway to an Easy - that she's only gonna ignore when her manner shifts; uncanny-flat.

Several things are happening that he'll unpack later, maybe,

But for now he's stepped around Marge, put himself between Guilfoyle and the young elf, the old. He doesn't like the way the man holds himself. Sets the hairs of his neck on end.

(There's at least one knife under those sleeves, he'd lay money for more. This ruckus doesn't need to escalate.)
dashing: (♛ feallsanachd.)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-15 09:35 pm (UTC)(link)
No tight jaw or sharp inhale. No haughtiness in how she holds herself, or shift in her muscles. Herian looks at Gwenaëlle with the same, consistent flatness.

“The party I travelled with for an assignment was ambushed. The other mages were executed, but my name was recognised as a past Ambassador to the Inquisition and Riftwatch. They were aware of Riftwatch’s stances, and the advocacy I had done here and within the Chantry. ‘An example would be more powerful than another head on a spike,’ words to that effect.”

She knows this was an affront to her. Knows that this was horrifying, something she fought against tooth and nail, but she cannot feel it. There is no relief, only a gap in who - what? - she is.

Franklin has stuck his nose into her hair, essentially burrowing in.

“Reggie intercepted me. I knew the Gallows were inevitable but…”

She takes a moment trying to lay it out in a shape that would make sense.

“Their urgency and concern allowed a delay. The sooner I alighted at the Gallows, the sooner those dear to Herian-that-was, and who held her dear, would suffer.”

Herian looks to Cedric. “I did not foresee Franklin reacting as he did. I do not have the regret to offer what you deserve in sincerity.” Apologies should be sincere, never lip service. Practicality may need to outweigh sincerity, now.
favoriteanalyst: (and you are dreaming dreams)

gallows

[personal profile] favoriteanalyst 2024-05-15 10:05 pm (UTC)(link)
[Can't spend all the time in the library, of course, and Mobius nearly passes her right by. Except. Well, except he doesn't recognize her, really, and she is eerily still, as though entranced by the sight of the old and imposing stones.

Pauses, glances where her gaze goes, looks back to her, makes an approach with a little smile.]
Hi there.

[And--oh. The mark on her forehead explains a lot. And yet not much at all.]

Do you need some help?

[She looks like she needs some whether she affirms it or not. Doesn't look like it's healing quite properly.]
dashing: (♛ feallsanachd.)

[personal profile] dashing 2024-05-16 01:04 am (UTC)(link)
Not at all.

( There is no disturbance. Not beyond the sense of a temporal disruption, perhaps, and her task was objective non-urgent.

Herian straightens up from where she had been examining the rose. There is nothing forthcoming about why she’d felt an affinity for this place in times past. )


Has Franklin caused you any inconvenience, serah?

( Her voice is even, unnaturally so, as she looks to the stranger. To look at her— well, a need for medical attention is apparent, when the branding comes into view, still raw and blistering. The grime on of travel is less shocking, but concerning in the context of the wound. )

He has been uneasy, of late.

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