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

desidério amanza | native oc

[bribon]

THE SEA.
Once, when Desidério was a boy, he took passage on a ship all the way from Antiva City to Val Royeaux. It had been him and two other boys—Sacristán and Vels, those ravenous dogs—, and they'd spent the whole of the summer doing their very best to either be gut from nose to navel in duels, or to fuck in similar proportion, all preferably without entirely ruining the reputation of Vels' very Orlesian cousin. Not on Desi's accounts, Maker no. It would've taken four or five generations of Amanza money to send their boy around in that kind of style. But he has long had a habit of finding himself in strange places, under odd circumstances, taking advantage of a certain kind of hospitality to which he isn't entirely entitled.

Take this hat for example. It's not his, but he's puking into it anyway.

Had the sea been this bad when he was a boy, and his stomach had just been more fit? Or maybe the season had been very different, and the winds simply lighter. Or maybe he can blame the food (miserable), or the drinking water (unpleasantly slimy). Regardless, this is the second straight day of this up and down and side to side nonsense, and it is coincidentally the second straight day of his being nauseated beyond what is humane. He has actively been considering whether one of the ship's ballista might be turned straight down and shot through the bottom of the deck. Sinking and drowning would be preferable at this point, and it would console his injured pride a little if he were to arrange to take everyone else on the ship down with him.

"There's a prison ship anchored in Rialto Bay that I've never much understood the threat of until now."

THE CITY.
Two hours ago, the Lowtown gambling house had been doing a very good impression of the more prestigious kind of establishment which might be found higher in the city. Now, the fire that had been set in it had burned so hot and so fast that it's little more than smoldering campfire. At some point, the bucket brigade attempting to put the gaming house out and had instead turned their attention to safeguarding the neighboring buildings in the hope that the blaze would simply chew its way through the last vestiges of the parlor and decide to be finished.

In the way of most disasters that are slightly under control, a large crowd has gathered to watch while the Kirkwall Guard makes paltry efforts at discouraging stray embers from floating off an wreaking havoc elsewhere. Sat on the crowded window sill of the pawn broker nearly opposite the smoldering remains, Desidério Amanza is considering finding a better view. He's a slight man, and if the crowd grows any thicker, it seems unlikely he'll have much of a view when the second story collapses in on itself—an event he has some money riding on, and so should be monitored with some care.

But doing so would involve releasing the sullen orphan he presently has in a headlock, and it's in everyone's best interests to avoid that.

"You could at least let me sit on your shoulders, Messere," the little boy, who is maybe a large seven or a very small ten says. Difficult to say with grubby orphans. "I could narrate the proceedings or what have you."

"And later find you've stolen a patch of hair off the back of my head? No," Desi says, amiably tightening the joint of his elbow. "We'll make do."

CRYSTAL.
[These wages are disappointingly shit for people who are meant to be saving the world from demons falling through little pinholes in the sky. Ergo:]

I've heard half of you recently died. I wager there's no one here who can take me in a fight either.

Crystal;

[notathreat]

If you want to get your ass beat there's cheaper ways to do it.

[bribon]

So I'm wrong in saying a stack of you just finished eating Tevinter shit? My mistake. You should tell 'Doctor Stephen Strange' to update this report I'm reading.

[He's not reading it right now. But the point is he's done his homework.]

[notathreat]

You keep that shit up and you'll deserve what happens.

[bribon]

It's starting to sound like you might be broke and can't afford it either way.

[notathreat]

It's Riftwatch. We're all broke, genius.

[bribon]

No wonder recruitment numbers are so low.

boat bc i know you want boat

[prelest]

Sitting off to his side, eating a bag of toffees she clearly brought with her, is a cheerfully (obnoxiously?) unaffected woman. It is not impossible that this woman is sitting near the vomiting man because the toffees are the only acceptable bit of food on this ship and she doesn't want to share.

"Well," she says, pragmatically, "I'd expect that a ship anchored in a bay sees a lot less weather. That's the point of bays, as I understand them. Not that I'm a sailor or anything, just - " A shrug, and she pops another candy into her mouth.

bless u

[bribon]

Maybe that's true. What the fuck does he know about ships, or the difference between a bay and the sea, and how a boat might behave in one versus the other? Let them talk about the Viverna and he might have one or two things to say.

—Although not at this moment. Right now, he would instead like to sincerely imagine a world in which he knows nothing about rivers, or canals, or canal boats, and maybe not even a single thing about the bridges that pass over them. In fact, take all water.out of the equation entirely. If he doesn't vomit himself into nothingness, he's going to drink only beer and wine for the rest of his days and die happy for it.

Desi straightens, cautiously crumpling the hat shut to avoid contemplating the contents of his stomach. Not that he can smell it. The whole ship stinks so terribly of sweat and salt and pitch.

"I'd prefer it if you were wrong."

Misery loves company, even the kind imagined in ankle chains.

[prelest]

Her smile is a little incredulous and, well, a little amused. As a former resident of a prison ship - one thoroughly tossed by wind and sea - there's only so much charm that sentiment holds for her. But, well, even if it doesn't hold much, there's still some. Jerks can be pretty funny.

"I might be," she agrees. "Maybe the ships in the bay sway and pitch, and every day for dinner all they serve is stinky old herring, half-rotted, I'm sure it's rancid - "

- And the funniest part of jerks is that you feel completely justified in being a jerk right back to them.

[bribon]

Beside her, the narrow slip of a man—he really is quite petite in every direction, though the shape of his clothes and the way he's presently holding his elbows and has planted his feet in defiance of the healing ship somewhat minimizes that impression while sitting—opens his mouth with the intent to discourage her.

And then he closes it. And pauses for a long moment, squeamishly considering the crushed hat between his hands, before making do with a sidelong look and the kind of single held up finger that translates to Don't in nearly every language.

[prelest]

She smiles sweetly in response, and sucks on her toffee, and bats her eyelashes as she watches to see whether he's going to puke again.

[bribon]

He is not going to throw up again. His stomach is perfectly empty, and steel enough besides not to be troubled by simply the mention of rancid stinking half pickled fish jiggling in the gel of its own rot, pearlescent white gobbets of mucus textured fat oozing up through the—what color is herring?—white flesh of the fish, and bursting under the teeth and across the tongue.

So anyway, when he has puked again and has folded the hat back between his hands, he says very genially (if one can be genial and so green) to her, "You might just kill me. It would be kinder."

[prelest]

"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."

[bribon]

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."

the city

[brennvin]

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.

[bribon]

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."

[brennvin]

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.”

[bribon]

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.

[brennvin]

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.

[bribon]

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."

[brennvin]

“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?”

[bribon]

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."

juggles some shared npc custody

[brennvin]

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.

yes good

[bribon]

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."