Test Drive!

[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 9:49, 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.

Comments

iii;

[byheart]

[The hat sits atop a young man's body. In a moment it will turn up its wide brim to reveal some of the face beneath: pale and lean, scattered blemishes, hair like a fringe of beaten straw. Hesitant in the hat's shadow. Looking at her face, the smile that is and isn't a smile, looking at her hand.

Carefully he reaches out, cold fingertips in half a glove, to receive the spray of mint.]

Untethered, [he says, soft.] Adrift and drifting on another strange sea. The beacon fades, the currents carry their cargo where they will. Why here?

[aberratic]

I have, many—not just on this, but on the history and geopolitics of Thedas. I can lend all of them to you, and I'll include a list of all my references for you to check out from the archives yourself.

Talk to Abby, in the library. She's quite nice.

[ a pause between this message and the next, and then a slower hand on the book. ]

I do hope you don't take offense, because I understand your position entirely. It isn't a lovely feeling, to be told you frighten people and you need to make yourself smaller for their comfort. But your messages did not give the impression of someone capable of being diplomatic. I think the only worse thing you could have done would have been to call this all bullshit and start throwing around magic just to be contrary.

[reparo]

[ There's a little frisson that runs through Hermione, call it instinct or perception, either option ringing some alarm bells that this is perhaps a ghost. She's had experience with those, both the tame ghosts of Hogwarts and all the hauntings in her journey in Akhuras.

(Frankly, if it's not black goo jumping at her from inside a creepy painting, it's not even scary.)

But then, the maybe-ghost speaks. ]

I'm sorry, did you say 'beacon'?

[reparo]

[ She takes a mental note to talk to this Abby, but in the meantime there comes a message from someone else, calling her an idiot, and then Ennaris' second message pointing at her lack of diplomacy.

Wherever she is, she lets out a humourless laugh - for good reason, maybe, she kept being assigned the deadliest of missions instead of the intellectual ones. One merchant too many in her previous journeys was treated to the Hermione Granger righteousness brand.

And she hates being told she's been foolish. Hates it more when people are right. So, later, ]

I take it that my scolding was public - well. Perhaps it's for the best, it was deserved. I've come into a public forum with my wand out, crying at perceived injustice without so much of a thought about the politics of the world - or finding out about them first.

[ You didn't even research? Blimey, Hermione, would be something Ron would say. (God, Ron - she was going to see him again, and Harry, and everyone. She was going to dash three years' worth of personal growth on the rocks to go back to 19 year old Hermione, fresh off the final stand at Hogwarts, whole world ahead of her, with no memory of who she could be. And instead, she's gone and wished herself elsewhere again.)]

In time, I may reveal all the little details for why the first reaction was fight, not flight. Just as perhaps I may be given a chance to change that opinion of me - you're not obliged, by the way.

[reparo]

[ Her expression brightens, as if she's struck gold (unrelated to: that eye) with her assumption of what elfroot was akin to. This is her I was right! expression.

She gestures to the empty chair in invitation. ]

By all means, please. I've barely begun on the medicinal herbs, but I'd welcome conversation with someone more experienced in the world about them. [ Hello she is New. And prattling on, ] Are there any other plants that get used similarly? There are a few potions I remember how to make by heart, like one to calm someone down and give them dreamless sleep. [ Which she may come to need, herself, so she doesn't wake up screaming from her nightmares. (Not Nightmares.)]

[aberratic]

[ the reply comes swiftly enough, in the same beautiful hand: ennaris isn't upset, and she's happy to keep writing. ]

You've been forcibly swept away to a new world and told that for the comfort of others you have to be subtle about something that seems as innate and natural to you as your eye color, I think you're allowed to be a little out of sorts. The problem would come if your response was to dig your heels in, instead of reflecting on your behavior. You've clearly done the latter, so no need to be too hard on ourselves, hm? We none of us are at our best under duress.

And don't worry—there's no opinion that needs changing. One conversation on what must be a very bad day is hardly indicative of over-all character.

[ but don't do it again, alright, the natives are testy and ness doesn't like conflict. ]

1/2

[reparo]

That's very gracious of you. I can tell why I've been told to learn from your example.

2/3 actually

[reparo]

I'm sorry. That was petty of me to say that.

[reparo]

It's not as if I haven't had time, between my arrival and the quarantine, to not be a mean git on first impression.

In fairness, I was going to just do it. If someone told me, yes - you are meant to hide, it's dangerous to be a mage, let alone one adapting to a new source of Magic (for the second time) - I would have done that. Deduct points for terrible execution.

iii

[dissolving]

Right, [ Hands unpeel from temple. A queasy smile returns on reflex. ] Thanks.

[ Cedric accepts the mint, rubs it between bleary fingers; back and forth. Doesn't stick it in his mouth just yet – green is a charitable way to describe clammy, sluggish, all around a bit shit. This hasn't been a kind few days: Low on supplies and delayed by storm. ]

You do this a lot?

[ Ships. Plants. Awful used to it for someone just crawled out of the sky. ]

[reparo]

[ Gently amused as she watches his fondle the herb instead of chew it - was she not clear in her instructions? He's Doing It Wrong. ]

Which part? Supply runs, yes, although pretty evidently not for the Riftwatch before. [ Vague gesture towards what stands out as Rifter in her demeanour.

(Honestly, though, she's making an effort. Even wearing the local clothes, her Muggle jeans long buried in some quarantine furnace.)

If there's ability for observational skills left, with seasickness, he might spot the mudblood scar on her arm. Hermione isn't paying it attention anymore. ]

Get on a boat on choppy waters? Weirdly enough, yes - never thought that'd be the case, but here we go. Life has a way of pulling the rug from under your feet - or throwing you into the waves. [ A pause. ] Chewing it might help better.

[dissolving]

[ A puff of breath. Might be a laugh – yeah, that might be better – before something lurches in his gut. Cedric's arm thrusts against board, bracing for a swell that doesn't come. Mismatched in the boat's motion. ]

Don't wanna spit it back,

[ He admits, rueful. Still, he knows well enough to listen; folding leaf into cheek. There's something on her arm, can't make it out for the angle. Easier to take in the accent, the phrases; an Anchor to match his own.

Thrown in, ]

They call the Fade an ocean sometimes. Reckon we're lucky you got your sea legs.

[reparo]

I imagine I'd be throwing up my breakfast overboard, otherwise. [ So yes, very lucky. She gestures to a seat near him, because if it's all the same she'd still prefer to sit down when the next wave buoys the whole ship.

But while waiting for the invitation, ]

An ocean of memory and dreams sounds almost pleasant, if you don't think about all those other being lurking beneath. Kind of like the ocean itself. The comparison makes sense.

[dissolving]

Dunno what that makes for a Rift.

[ He shuffles aside for room, leaned out over his knees: ]

Waterfalls – do those even touch th'sea? Whirlpools?

[reparo]

[ Ah, excellent. She fits, she sits, mirroring his position - mostly, anyway; she hugs her knees to her chest, leans her chin in the v-space between them. ]

Waterfalls happen in rivers and most rivers spill out into the sea, don't they? Whirlpools as well. [ There's a small shrug. ] The Mariana Trenches of the Fade. [ Of course, that's only funny to her, and she rushes to clarify: ]

It's a place where the ocean is the deepest, so deep that people haven't been able to explore it, and generally it is considered to be dangerous and deadly. [ A beat. ] Or maybe a Rift is just a Rift.

[elegiaque]

( gathering her skirts, she sits — the dog settles nearby, between the table they're at and the nearest exit, angled to be alert. )

Dreamless sleep has several obvious applications right away, ( she says, thoughtful, thinking of — everything she's ever read about susceptibility to demonic possession. she's been here too long, seen too much to imagine that the recipe would be an easy one to one replication; some things have obvious equivalents but more than that don't. more often than not, foreign magic works by its own unique ways and rules and doesn't easily translate to thedas,

but the idea is interesting. maybe there's an equivalent that she just hasn't heard of due to its complexity, so maybe they'd be rediscovering something someone else has already cracked, but even still—

she is so accustomed to her own nightmares, to managing her own panic, that that isn't what occurs to her. no, she thinks of: could they protect brand new rifter mages who don't know what to guard against in their dreams? give them a potion for the first night or two, give someone time to explain, during the day. that one elf rifter that's a bit touched in the head, wasn't there something about his sleep? he could probably do without dreams for a night. And: )

Could that be used as a surgical sedative, or is it only to sleep...?

( hm. slightly unhinged thing to say to a stranger. clarifying, )

We do have options for sedating someone if we need to. Don't worry you're about to be solely responsible for discovering one. I'm only thinking out loud.

[reparo]

[ She'd also be lying if she said that she doesn't want to pet the dog, a little bit. He looks massive, and is doing a good job at keeping watch. But the oh my god, a pet thought is secondary to the conversation at hand.

Dreamless sleep draughts might have an application here? Welcome to Hermione making it part of her mission to figure out how to brew them with the herbs of Thedas. She connects the dots between all that she has read already, on the Fade and mages and demonic possession, and dreaming in the Fade, and actually snaps her fingers. ] Yes, of course - no dreams would mean a safer rest for mages, right? I was thinking about it in terms of helping the soldiers sleep without revisiting battlefront trauma, but...

[ A sheepish smile here. ] Thank you for saying that, I was just about to start thinking of how I'd go about testing for that. How do potions get tested here, do you know?

[ Someone absolutely went about the world in terms of: if I brew it, I drink it. ]

[elegiaque]

( despite what tony thought at various points, gwenaëlle has never been a member of the research division. however, very much relevant and related to tony occasionally assuming that one's basically his anyway, she does have a history of sticking her oar into work that interests her, or cajoling nerds into sharing their resources so that she can try something deranged and potentially politically explosive—

which is why she can confidently answer: )

As far as I know there's really one way, but you'd clear it with the Provost first, submit the work for review and permission,

( and sometimes the nerds go rogue and they ask forgiveness instead of permission, but she's relatively sure the paperwork had been introduced to slightly curb those impulses, you can probably do the insane thing, but we do need records, especially if anything does go wrong. especially if it doesn't!

gwenaëlle has been party to both ways. no regrets. )

Get volunteers. Some people are more amenable than others to experimental research, mind you, once or twice annually there's a dust up about it, but we don't gain anything by sticking our fingers in our ears, so—

( she is on the side of advancement. every day thedas should be grateful this is what she's committed that curiosity to, instead of the many other ways she could have made it everyone's problem. )

[reparo]

[ She opens her mouth, a readied comment, and then snaps her mouth shut again. Surprised, ] That's...more bureaucratically thorough than I expected.

[ She presses her lips together, annoyed at herself. Come on, Hermione. ] No - sorry, that came out very condescending. It's not that I'm surprised that the Riftwatch has bureaucracy - the history books alone in this place...

[ Cue the nerdy dreamy look towards the bookshelves. But back to her correction: ] I may have gotten used to desperate times experimental research. Brew the potion, hold my nose, drink it. [ A tiny sheepish smile again, and she dips the quill back into the inkpot - in doing so, the dress (she's adapting to the fashion of this place as best as she can, thank you) sleeve, rolled up for practicality, is not there to cover the scar Bellatrix Lestrange carved into her forearm, mudblood standing out fully visible from the woman's position - and then returns the quill tip to write down Provost first. Underlines it three times for good measure. ] And hope for the best. [ Hope you don't die. ]

It's easier to check against healing potions, in fairness. A cut will heal or it won't, and then it's back to the cauldron. Sleeping draughts, Polyjuice...then it gets tricky.

[byheart]

Yes.

[Maybe a ghost, maybe just a queasy-looking boy in scuffed leathers, boots with smears of mud. Can't be more than twenty, maybe twenty-one. Voice like a candle in a room that only looks empty.]

Lights to lead travellers home, signals to show the way. Sometimes a warning, sometimes faint in the fog. They're there to help.

[Black crescent of a nail caked with dirt presses into the leaf, then turns over so he can look at it. Presses again, smears...]

[reparo]

[ She presses her lips together, watching the young man bruise the leaf, a knot in her throat from his words - quite inexplicably. First thing: ]

Maybe don't eat that now, it's dirty.

[ And a beat passes, then, ] Rifts don't look like beacons.

[byheart]

To some they do. It's all they do. Chase the light, find a way out. You're very bright,

[and his tone brightens a little to say it. If he's aware of what he's just implied, it doesn't show. Don't eat that makes him think about eating it, but she said not to, so he doesn't. Does lift it, though, to take in the scent—and then again, with the distinct look of a second try.]

[reparo]

[ Find a way out. She doesn't know about that - the beacon was meant to return her home, but... (And for a being like Cole, these are worries and sorrows that would be too easy to pick up from just a glance at her thoughts: I should be back home, and that I'm here is just - what if I'll never get to rest? What if it's because I'm addicted to the new experience, and the difficulties, and the adventure? What if I wished this upon myself? What if it's my fault?)

Anyway. She sighs, and holds out another similar leaf. ] If you're going to get sick, at least don't do it on my watch.

[elegiaque]

( very little about gwenaëlle, even on first impression, could be described as subtle. elegant, yes; understated, perhaps not. this is to say: it isn't difficult to read the beginning of hackles, rising in the way one eyebrow rises, only to smooth and settle as hermione reverses course before she can decide how annoyed she's going to be—

it wasn't going to be none. but she doesn't press it, accepting both apology and explanation and there's a sense of mutual understanding in: )

Well, bad news, there's not none of that, ( with bleak humour, her gaze snagging on the scar. ) But even that...

( a tilt of her hand. )

A few months ago, there were targeted, coordinated attacks. One of the men who died in them was ( my friend ) at the time, the only known, living former Tranquil. Reversing that wasn't sanctioned when we did it. That miracle could have ended with him.

( if there had been no records. if everyone key in doing it in the first place had fallen in the same attacks, a thing not guaranteed not to happen. the same hand she had tilted, thoughtfully, she indicates hermione's arm with, continuing in the same tone: ) Is that from where you learned to move fast and figure it out on the way?

( as if acknowledging that that's a tactlessly blunt way to bring up something that's almost certainly not a happy story: ) I'll show you mine.

( it's not the eye. )

[reparo]

[ She hasn't gotten further than the first mention of Tranquil, deciding on the spot that she had to stop when she started to see spots from how hard she'd started clenching her jaw. The existence and factual description of the ritual in the book, the justification, it had all cut deep and nobody had scolded her (publicly) at that point, for Hermione to pause and think.

Now she may have to go back to it, if the ritual of Tranquility is reversible.

Her condolences are on the tip of her tongue to offer, but then the woman points to Hermione's arm, and her gaze drops to follow, and then her stomach drops. ] Ha - no. Torture. [ Almost as if she's been inhabiting another body, not hers, she grazes a nail down the centre of the ugly word. ]

From - my actual world. [ well, if she'll show Hermione hers, she takes a soft breath and opens up about it. Three years in, she's not giving Bellatrix any more power. Not giving the word power, either. ]

The mages in my world, we live in a separate society, secret and hidden from non-magical people. You'd think that would make for a utopia of sort, which is what I thought, but no. There's contingents of that society who are - or were - obsessed with blood purity. Were you born from wizards as far back as centuries, or were you the first mage in your family. To those... [ how to call them, ] monsters, to be a wizard whose parents were not wizards was considered... Well, this. [ She lets her hand drop so the word can be legible again. ]

My friends and I, we fought in a war against the blood purists. We got caught, and - [ Her mouth dries, cotton-stuffed sensation on her tongue. The rest is complicated. Even what precedes it is complicated. ]

Anyway, yes. A madwoman carved it into me with a dagger so I'd tell her where my friend was. [ This time when Hermione lifts her gaze, bringing her hand down to her lap, fists pressed to her skirt above her knees, her expression is fierce and proud, despite all scars that came out of it. ] I didn't.