allthisshitisweird | Test Drive!

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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.

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"It probably would," she reflects. But then she tilts her head at him and says - penance for her previous cruelty, though it was, to be fair, quite earned - "I could also stop it from happening. If you like. No death involved at all."

Something in his broad expressive face narrows with considerable skepticism at this suggestion. From the velocity at which it manifests, the sentiment can be nothing personal. It's merely a combination of true misery, a glinting of dented pride, a certain close familiarity with kicking confidence tricksters with their oils and serums from off the curb outside of Lady Fonteyn's (it being generally bad for business for clients to be duped twice in one day; if anyone going to be predatory then it had best be the house).

"Does this alleged cure involve drinking anything? Because you should know that I've just formally sworn off water."

At some point during the chaos, an Avvar woman had sidled into position near them, leaning on tiptoe and trying to catch her own view of the proceedings. She’s not the tallest, just a respectable 5’7”, but that means she’s unfortunately outstripped by the burly-armed baker positioned in front of her for most of the rubbernecking.

She shifts a little to the left. The ebb-and-flow of the crowd surges him to the left. Frustrated, she skitters to the right. A butcher in a big, worn apron wipes off his hands and drifts to the right, blocking her view. There’s a small cluck of irritation. With her luck, a candlestick maker’s probably going to materialise in her direct field of vision any moment now.

Pivoting on her heel, the woman in the tattered leathers looks for a better spot. Squints at the two people camped out in the window across the street. Then, striding over, she scurries up some nearby scaffolding until she’s perched by Desi’s eye-level. So much of Kirkwall is covered in convenient scaffolding.

“What the fuck’s happening here, anyway,” the Avvar asks, blunt and straightforward and oddly cheerful, craning her head to see the remnants of the fire. Grubby urchins tend to know what’s going on in town, don’t they? And these two’ve both got a better view than she did.

This clambering up of scaffolding is interesting enough to draw the eye from the smoldering ruin, and so by the time the Avvar woman reaches them both urchin and the very slight swordsman—for that is what he must be if that light leather armor and the sword at his hip is any indication, small and spry as he is—are more or less prepared to meet her question.

"Carta bullshit," they both say at once, and then glare at one another. Or try to. The grubby orphan can't quite crane his neck around far enough in the headlock to shoot a dirty look up at his captor.

Desi tightens his elbow for the attempt, which prompts a squawk of indignation from the child and permits him to continue uninterrupted.

"Rumor has it the proprietor defaulted on a loan."

Interest immediately piqued at that answer, judging by the arch of her eyebrow and the slight ripple across her expression, the woman’s face an open book. “Oh, just like in the stories!” she exclaims; perhaps a little too delighted for good sense. “Horse’s heads in beds and burning down buildings. Heard a bit of that from some dwarven traders, wondered how much was true. Figured you don’t shortchange the Carta, though.”

The accent has a touch of Fereldan to it, then rolled through those northern mountain vowels. She’s tightened her grip on the scaffolding, leaning out perilously far as if she’s standing on the branch of a tree, sparrow-like. She seems comfortable with the height; presumably accustomed to vertigo-inducing mountain passes and cliff faces. After another minute of watchful scrutiny of the building, she then glances back at the other motley pair, trying to read the vibes between them, utterly failing. Why the headlock.

“Child. You’re not, like, bein’ kidnapped or anything, are you? Blink twice for yes.”

This prompts the grubby little boy's expression to brighten considerably. "As a matter of fact my lady—"

Desi's square palm closes over the child's mouth.

"Trust nothing he says. He's a pickpocket." Somewhere over the edge of his hand, the boy blinks hard. Twice. "Don't you lick my hand," Desi warns him.

The Avvar considers this new information with a contemplative look, mulling over the situation and the crimes done, before proclaiming sagely: “Well then, pick his pockets right back and then cuff him and set him loose, no? This is a very simple thing. Problem solved.”

She looks satisfied with herself, this proposed justice rendered from on high (literally). She’s very wise. She coulda been a thane.

This, suggests the sympathetic look that the small man gives her, is pure foolishness. But it is the unknowing naivety to be expected from Fereldans, of which she may very well be a perfectly ordinary kind. True, the Fereldan merchants may look the one way by the time they reach Seleny, but maybe it takes the extra travel distance to acquaint themselves with what counts as propriety and otherwise every Fereldan wears their hair and face so.

No, it isn't her fault she doesn't know how to handle such miniature brigands. What would an orphan cutpurse in Denerim even hope to steal?

"That might solve the problem today with— what did you say your name was?" He uncovers the boy's mouth, and receives a curt answer for his trouble. "For little Fuck Off here, but I guarantee he has friends who are watching us as we speak. I would prefer them to get a good look at me so they know not to ever try putting their sticky fingers in my pockets either. In a city this size, it's easy for children to forget a face if they're not given adequate time to study it."

“Hmm. Alright. Fair.” Some added wisdom for the kid: “Some people cut off hands for thievery, y’know, or might kill someone for their trouble. Best choose your marks more carefully.”

It’s not never do it ever, just: be more careful. The woman looks at them askance again — there’s a moment where Fuck Off seems to strategically bide his time before making another valiant thrashing squirming bid for freedom, but the boy remains safely locked in Desi’s grasp.

She seems to be trying to decide something. She could perch here forever if she were hunting, waiting and watching for some actual quarry, but it’s getting annoying standing like this; so the stranger eventually swings herself into a different position, now seated on the edge of the scaffolding, legs dangling, still able to watch the proceedings. She finally notices, then, the familiar hand-shaped pin on the small man’s clothing —

“Oh, you are a co-worker,” the phrase sounds completely alien on her lips, clearly something she heard somewhere and picked up but isn’t quite sure of yet. “I’m Astrid. Riftwatch, also. How d’you know when you’re done setting an example?”

This may also account for the glove the man is wearing on his left hand, although from the side he wears his sword it might very well be his dueling glove and have nothing at all to do with mysterious chunks of magic material embedded in the flesh. Riftwatch is certainly no stranger to charming affectations among its ranks.

"Ah," he says, a flicker of surprise glinting at the edges. Working with strangers is such a novelty; it catches him off guard. Well, at least no one will be expecting him to do the rough work with big Fereldan women ranging about. "So we are. Amanza. Desidério Amanza."

He makes a small gesture with that gloved left hand. A pleasure to make her acquaintance, so on and so forth.

"And that would depend. Fuck Off, have you learned your lesson?" He uncovers the boy's mouth.

"If I say yes, you're just going to keep me here for longer aren't you?"

Desi gives the woman on the edge of the scaffold a significant look. What a relief, it says. Maybe the boy isn't fully brainless after all. Then he returns his attention to the orphan, saying, "I've a case in my pocket. Fetch it for me."

With a great aggrieved sigh, the headlocked boy complies. All the fumbling around and clinking of various pocket contents must be pure pettiness on the child's part, or else he is in fact a very terrible thief. But in short order, the case is produced. Desi snaps it open and plucks a cigarillo from it. He trades this to the boy at the same time he looses him from the headlock.

"Tell your friends I'll cut their fingers off if I find them in my pockets."

Edited (Edits a tiny bit of dialogue hours later) 2023-09-23 03:38 (UTC)

Now loosed and clutching his prize-slash-minor-bribe, the boy rubs the back of his neck reproachfully at that warning. Then he tries one more attempt at shooting an entreating look in Astrid’s direction — she’d been a potential sympathetic ally at the start, hadn’t she? — but then the woman just shrugs a shoulder at him in return, a sort of what can ya do. Fuck Off has also become young mister Fuck Around And Find Out.

And with Amanza Desidério Amanza having dispensed with one of those elegant cigarillos, she finds herself looking at it with interest. It’s not at all like the sad, crumpled, hand-rolled things she smokes herself.

“You got another spare?” she asks, impulsively. Then common sense kicks in and reminds her, trade and barter, very important, can’t neglect that part: “Could swap you some dried elfroot. It’s still good. Probably.”

Half on his way to skulking off, the kid gets an even more hopeful gleaming look in his eye (if we’re giving out free shit then, well—), but she makes a shooing motion. The grownups are talking.

This in combination with the sharp look Desi shoots the boy is sufficient to squash any hopes of additional semi-fairly gotten gains Fuck Off might have been entertaining. With a sniff and a wrinkle of his small nose—he really is quite young, possessing that paper bird in a sack look of children who have spent slightly too many of their youngest years being slightly too hungry and subsequently will never be quite as tall as they should—, the bot disappears the cigarillo somewhere into his person and then skedaddles into the crowd. In an instant, he has disappeared entirely. Presumably, he'll find other less well defended pockets on the way out of the huddle of rubber neckers.

Meanwhile, back at the ~~ranch~~ scaffolding and occupied window ledge—

"'Probably,'" Desi repeats back, extracting a second cigarillo and snapping the silver plated case shut. It's a very nice case. There's loopy scrollwork and a bouquet of flowers engraved on it. "Is not very encouraging, you must admit."

All her equipment is hide and leather, not nicely-made silver and metal. She says, casually foul-mouthed but with no particular spite in it, “You try keeping a sachet safe and dry when crossing the mountains in winter, and through the roads into fucking Ferelden, and then across the Waking Sea when it’s pissing rain. I’ll need to stock up.”

Astrid stretches, legs extending and toes curling in her well-worn boots, getting as comfortable on the edge of the scaffolding as she can. It’s an alright place to sit and have a smoke. She’s been trying to place the man’s name and accent as he speaks, but she doesn’t have much experience yet with foreigners. So maybe her assumption’s wrong and maybe it’s unfair for her conclusion to simply land on well that’s a fancy man, but stereotypes are stereotypes and —

“You’re from, what, Antiva? You’ve all got more fields than the Frostbacks. Easier to grow shit.”

A tilt of the head and a certain working of the level of his brow suggests that yes, as it happens, he is in fact from Antiva. And that moreover he doesn't find this a particularly convincing argument, all things considered. It's not as if she only just stepped directly off the Waking Sea packet onto the docks. If she had time to make her way to the Gallows, then she had time to find her way to an herbalist. But things being what they are—

Tap tap, goes the end of the cigarillo against the face of the silver plated case.

"I'll make you a deal," is a terrible thing to hear Desidério Amanza say. But they are not in Seleny, and she's Fereldan besides, and likely there is no one within four hundred miles who understands exactly how terrible it is. "Trade me a favor instead of your soggy elfroot, and you've a deal."

Astrid considers it.

Weighs the offer from all angles, mentally scrutinising it like she’s looking for a trap underfoot, barbed teeth and hidden pits and rope to yank you off-balance. Perhaps someone more canny and political might have blanched at the open-endedness of it and seen the catch. But Astrid is perpetually so fixed on practical things she can see and touch: can you eat or drink it, does it taste good, can you smoke it, will it keep you warm on a cold night. A bird in the hand, etc etc.

And these mountain barbarians value their deals — their word is their bond — so it isn’t in her nature to weasel her way out of an agreement and dishonour a favour owed, either. So.

She makes a decision. Spits in her palm, holds it out for a shake. “Deal,” she says.

There are some Antivan men with a fondness for fine boots and silver plated cigarette cases and expensive dueling sabers who would recoil at this. Desidério Amanza spits in his own bare right palm to match before clasping hands. It's a firm handshake.

"Done."

A last tap of the cigarillo against the case, and then the roll of leaf and paper is surrendered into Astrid's possession. Easy enough.

Arrival

The young man who came through this particular rift looks like he’s gone from one fight to another, still up on his feet as the demons follow but it’s not steady. To those familiar with it, it’s obvious that it’s only training and stubbornness that have Seifer raising his blade and squaring up with a lanky fear demon.

“Could use a hand, unless you’re on their side.” He says, noticing whatever Riftwarden forces have arrived.

Gallows - Research

Having been told in no uncertain terms by a rather intimidating healer that if he tried picking up any kind of weapon to practice or train that he would find himself sat upon by an angry warnug (whatever that was), Seifer had decided that digging in to whatever information was available about this world beyond the basics he’d been given was a better spending of his time.

He was, however, less interested in the mess of politics and more in the way magic worked here and the myths and legends of Thedas. He’d figured out very quickly that he was never telling a local how his magic worked unless they were really understanding about a lot of things very quickly. Guardian Forces were a lot like demonic possession it seemed.

Seifer’s taken up temporary residence in the library, and has taken up one of the tables to plow his way through… a treatise on the uses of ice spells in fabric dying. There’s more of the same on his table, though all it seems have something to do with ice magic. Hopefully nobody’s looking for these…

Crystal

Who do I talk to about maintenance on mechanical parts? I can do the basics but there’s fiddly bits that someone who knows what they’re doing with metalwork might be better at.

Unfortunately, someone is looking for them. Well— books like them at the very least, the elemental arcane presently being a rather pressing subject of study.

(She has not created a tornado in the dungeon; that's just the sound of the sea breaking against the Gallows' island. Obviously.)

Unfortunately for the man currently in possession of this collection, that rival someone is Wysteria de Foncé. By all accounts, the young lady is something of a force of nature with or without arcane assistance; and indeed there is something distinctly hurricane like in the figure she cuts as she hustles along library's main aisle, peering down each stack as she passes and thrusting her head into quiet niches. Her skirts flap. Her hard soled boots click. When she spots the likely object of her hunt, she approaches at velocity.

"You!" is not the timbre typically reserved for places of study, but rather a shrill indictment. She's slightly red in the face from running all over. "I need this book."

She slaps her right hand down on one of the thicker tomes and makes to draw it from his assembled collection. On her motionless left hand, she is wearing a glove—no, she isn't. Up close, even from this chaotic perspective, it's clear that the left hand is the end of a metal-smithed prosthetic.

Seifer can’t help the little flinch at that accusatory ‘you’ from her, or the glare that snaps across his face immediately after.

“Ever heard of the word ‘please’ or ‘hello’, Your Majesty?” He says all sarcasm, reaching to make sure she doesn’t topple the pile of books. “What in Hyne’s name do you need… “Ferelden Frost Flowers: A Study of Crystal Patterns In Snowflakes And Frost Coverings Both Conjured and Natural” so bad for? It’s got shit illustrations compared to the one out of Orlais who’s using them for embroidery patterns twenty years ago.”

She is on the verge of stepping back, the book in the process of being drawn in against her side, but Your Majesty draws her so abruptly short that it's a wonder she doesn't pull something in the process. The book nearly slips from his one-handed grip; she fumbles to catch it before it flops off the edge of the table.

"As a matter of fact,"—she draws herself all the way up—"The illustrations are of no interest to me. I am primarily concerned with Vilari's observations on the sustaining power of the mage conjured snowflakes versus the naturally occurring ones. But thank you for your concern."

Is that 'thank you' emphasized for petty effect? Maybe a little.

( the voice that comes through is or will soon be readily identifiable as orlesian, on the low side of feminine, brisk. she thinks of alexander, who would have been ideal, but it's been years now since he fucked off back to markham— )

Provost Stark is your best bet; if it isn't him, and it probably is, it's going to be someone under him. The research division. Mechanical parts of what?

( it doesn't change her answer, she's just curious. )

Seifer tilted his head, "From what I've been reading that depends more on the ambient air temperature than anything else, and if it's humid or not." he shrugged, digging in the pile he's already gone through and offering a slim volume over. "You'll want to cross reference with this one that's more about rain, Vilari reads like they don't know shit about how weather impacts things out in the field. Ice magic's finnicky no matter where you're from it seems."

He grins a little, teasing now because it's familiar among everything else that's happened in the past months. "What're you doing snowflakes for, Your Majesty?"

[There's a hum of consideration.]

Provost Stark. I'll track him down.

It's a weapon from home, I'm good with a sword too but... well they're not exactly the same.

Her scoff of outrage is powerful enough that it's a small miracle she doesn't break something. The boning in her bodice, for example. It pairs well with the red in her face, flustered now on top of out of breath.

(Welcome to Riftwatch, Seifer. You have found the young lady most susceptible to teasing.)

"If you know so much about the topic, then I hardly see why you've surrounded yourself with every book in the Gallows library." Here, she does successfully snatch the book off the table. She shoves it into the crook of her prosthetic elbow, stubbornly spurning the second slimmer volume he's offered.

Seifer laughed, "I know so much because I've spent the past..." he leans, looking out a window. "Day and a half reading about ice magic here, gimme about two days and I won't have anything but the important bits memorized."

(Sorry ma'am, he's going to never stop. It'll just change in tone. He's Just Like This.)

He sighs, streaching with a wince. "What else're you looking for? I've gotten a decent layout of where subjects are."

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Test Drive!

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the city

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juggles some shared npc custody

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Seifer Almasy | Final Fantasy VIII

research!

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crystal.

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