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

Gannicus | Spartacus: god of the arena | native au

[panulus]

kirkwall, lowtown, what is he made of money???

[Its not usual a slave of Tevinter gains their freedom for being excellent at pure, unrestrained violence, but the fates aligned and here is Gannicus. He has a famous name and a relatively famous face, if you’re one of those nerds who follows the arena fighters, but here he’s nothing more than one more man drinking in a bar with the slightly hunted look of someone who crossed over from Tevinter. He must have lost his shirt during the trip, or something, because all he’s wearing are his boots that come up to the thigh and his altogether inadequate loin piece along with a belt holding a pair of swords.

He does not, that being said, look uncomfortable.

He is sitting at a table when a fight breaks out and decides why the fuck not; he fights like a demon, so when the fight is over and someone has a broken nose and another someone has a rapidly swelling eye, he looks all the better for it, smiling like the sun as he’s spit along with the rest of the brawlers out onto the street.]

Is that all? No one died!

[If he is worried about getting banned, it doesn’t show. Somehow, he still has a jug of wine in his left hand.]

Chantry, etc

[Gannicus is not what anyone might call a “joiner”, but he does know that he’s going to need a job and he’s going to need an income. The only benefit of slavery was not worrying about where his next meal was coming from, and even that was a dubious proposition.

He hasn’t spent every coin he earned on the sands but he spent too many of them. He was told to come up to find a job here. So.]

I’m looking for a man named Flint.

[Its the only name he has, given to him by a mutual acquaintance; former and rebel slaves have a network. It doesn’t matter that Gannicus found his freedom in some legal loophole, because he has a slave brand and he is a man who knows how others look at him.]

wildcard;

[Meet him somewhere else? In the street? In a bar? In a bed? Dealer’s choice!]

Kirkwall

[amaizing]

[Lia watches the crowd rush out with interest and quickly pegs this man as the instigator.]

Do people usually die? [The question is asked in the same manner one might ask of the weather.]

[panulus]

[He's arranging his cloak over his shoulders, when she asks, and he turns to look over at her with a little shrug.]

It depends. Occasions can call for death, if a man is foolish or arrogant enough.

[But that said:]

But not so usually in a place as this one.

[amaizing]

[Lia nods. A calculated response to a question. Not all brutes are without intelligence.]

Just men then? I suppose I'm safe.

[She walks over to him, carefully looking at the jug of wine and his haphazard appearance.]

I daresay most men I've met are foolish and arrogant. It may be a bloodbath.

[panulus]

I find women less foolish, although I have met them arrogant. I should not count you so safe just yet.

[He is teasing, and it's clear he's teasing, because his smile is coming back and tilting his mouth. It's not a bad look for him.]

Do you wish bloodbath?

[He asks it casually, as if it were a casual question, although he is thinking under that mop of hair.]

[bribon]

['I'm looking for Flint,' says (more or less) the big slab of muscle, and Desidério's first thought is What, those big arms can't rub two sticks together?

Stood at the top of the Gallows ferry slip stairs, having arrived two minutes too late to catch the boat to Kirkwall and apparently right on time to answer blunt inquiries after Riftwatch's leadership, Desidério narrows his dark eyes on the man in question.

He's a small man, the Riftwatcher in the stairs. No more than five and a half feet, and narrow in every direction save for in the broad dueling glove he wears in his left hand and the sword jutting from the belt at his right hip, he cuts an impressively diminutive figure compared to I'm Looking For a Man Named Flint. Nonetheless, this would-be discrepency doesn't stop him from sucking in a long pull from the cheap cigarette—too cheap, really; this business of pirates interrupting trade from Antiva is killing him personally—stuck between his lips before he answers.]

What?

[You know. That's sort of an answer.]

[panulus]

[Gannicus takes the measure of the man; small, yes, but small men can be quick as lightning and the way he holds his body does not suggest a man who is not well-trained with the use of the sword. The cigarette smells terrible, cheap and familiar, and it actually makes Gannicus relax a little, his shoulders rolling back. A man who willingly smokes that shit either is low class or doesn't give a shit, and either way, it works in his favor.

The what sounds like a goose honking. Gannicus decides that is what he'll call this man in his head. Goose. Small, loud, potentially violent.]

Have you trouble with hearing?

Flint. I was told a man named Flint could assist in earning coin.

[He speaks formally, his speech old fashioned and definitely out of date. His last master cultivated that manner of speech in his slaves, insisting they use an archaic form of language, and he's still in the habit.]

[bribon]

Oh is that who I should be talking to. [Here he'd been barking at Yseult's skirts for an extra stipend. Figures he should've gone to the black hearted murderer for it instead.

—is so brisk a thought that it hardly interrupts his patter:]

I hope you're not after much, friend. Riftwatch's wages consider that they offer to feed and keep a roof over your head.

[And clothe you, which may be the more pressing point. But he doesn't say that.]

[panulus]

I cannot speak for your needs.

[A pause and a consideration.]

I have no intention of staying long. I need enough coin for today, tomorrow, and a few days beyond. Certainly any wage is better than what I was offered in Tevinter.

[But he seems casual and easygoing enough.]

I heard word a man with a sword might find work and that Flint would see me well. Is there another I should speak to?

the gallows.

[elegiaque]

( brought up short by an unfamiliar face speaking peremptorily, the woman he stops takes in his appearance; she hasn't seen enough slave brands in her life to recognise it for what it is, but a tevene accent is not exactly commonplace, so there's that. she is slight and skeptical, regarding him with her one true eye (big and amber, then blank gold and false where its twin used to be): )

He's going to want to know why, then,

( an orlesian accent, the like of which he'll hear a lot more around here. she sounds like money, though she's dressed like a smaller, prettier flint. the dog at her heels — enormous, a shepherd breed — had perceptibly perked up at the sound of flint's name, and inserts himself matter of fact between his mistress and the stranger,

not hostile, but present. )

[panulus]

[She is small, and pretty, and the kind of woman that Gannicus sometimes favors.

(lets be real, all women are the women that Gannicus sometimes favors)

But he's not here to fuck or drink, which means he's also slightly and distinctly uncomfortable, although he doesn't seem bothered or intimidated by her dog. Instead he just tips his head.]

Good fortune that I know why I need speak with him.

[If he's supposed to tell her, he's.

Not going to do that.]

[elegiaque]

Congratulations.

( she says it very dryly. the rest, more as if he ought to have thought of this himself: )

If you want him to know what you want to talk to him about, you're going to have to come up with something more pressing than 'there's some cunt off the street who says so'. I have to assume you've noticed the war that's going on,

( the accent makes it hard to imagine he's got this far south without considering how else he might be perceived, where they know little of tevene slaves and a great deal of tevene soldiers, )

so I'm going to further and generously assume you have the sense the Maker gave a turnip and aren't under the impression that this is how you approach the forces commander of a paramilitary organisation with a great deal of sensitive information and resources.

( it's matter of fact — brisk, not hostile — and when she offers him options it's unclear if she personally prefers either of them, )

If you want to try again. Or you can sit by the ferry and hope he comes out before you get cold or bored.

[panulus]

[He does not look either impressed nor particularly like he's about divulge whatever it is he's been told to divulge. He's also not in the mood to be talked down to by anyone, considering he spent a majority of his life being talked down to, whether she sounds interested or like she cares at all.

He's met too many women who think that they're entitled to his words, his time, or his interest - all of them who were perfectly content to treat him like a slave - that he shrugs, turns, and without much fanfare walks out.]

[bouchonne]

By the Maker's grace alone.

[ The man providing the quips had been in the tavern, but had certainly not been a part of the fight. He doesn't look like a fighter. He looks like a talker. He leans, now, against the wall of the tavern, having followed the fight outside out of pure curiosity. ]

Aren't you cold?

[panulus]

I think the Maker had little to do with it.

[He takes the quick measure of the man, and his lips quirk a little in humor. He doesn’t seem offended or bothered, and he spreads his hands a bit in something that makes him look like he’s in wonder of the fact that he’s currently sans shirt.

Okay.]

You are not hot?

[He says this as if it’s perfectly normal, as if this man is the odd one in this conversation.]

[bouchonne]

Those with refined tastes have told me I am, yes.

[ He shakes his head in wonder. ]

And by that accent, you’re from the North. [ Thedas is located in the southern hemisphere of their world; Tevinter is scorching in comparison to Byerly’s native Ferelden, the southernmost country on the map. ] A superhuman.

[panulus]

[A pause as he digests that sentence. Hot. Hot as in attractive - oh.

He gives him a once-over.]

I suppose every woman has taste to make her wet, and I will not deny them.

[He does, in fact, speak as oddly as it sounds. First off, this isn't his first - or even his second - language. Second, the master who owned him and had him trained favored his slaves speaking in an archaic and old-fashioned way, which is a hard habit to break.]

That is the place I only most recently hail.

[He stretches a bit, arms over his head.]

Could you show a man where to find wine? Preferably not so expensive, I find myself unburdened of coin.

Gallows!

[altusimperius]

[There’s nothing overtly Tevene about the young man with the folio who passes Gannicus in the courtyard: he’s dressed like a middle-class Kirkwaller, even if, perhaps, the proud way he holds his chin and his well-postured gait might look more at home in the robes of an Altus.

What ultimately betrays him is how he stops suddenly, turning to stare in clear recognition of a famous athlete that he never even conceived of seeing outside the Minrathous arena (from a fancy and prominent box, of course).

Benedict doesn’t realize he’s staring until it’s far too late to pretend he wasn’t.]

[panulus]

[Meanwhile, Gannicus is waiting, calmly, his hands resting easily on the pommel of his swords when he sees this young man with the bearing of a lord walk by - and then pause.

He doesn't think much of it until the stopping has turned to staring and the man has yet to move. Gannicus carefully raises his eyebrows and stares back.]

I don't suppose you're Flint.

[He doesn't think so, but he doesn't know what Flint looks like, so who the hell knows.]

[altusimperius]

[It's an disproportionate reaction in the context of what's actually happening, but when the newcomer addresses Benedict, he gives a start as though prodded with a hot poker. He shakes his head quickly, then turns and hurries away, intent on disappearing back into the bustling crowd before he can be spared a second thought.]

[panulus]

[Oh, absolutely not, young man.

He does not disappear into the crowd, because Gannicus only has eyes for this pretty boy who looks like he's seen a ghost.]

You know me.

[It's not exactly a question.]

wildcard.

[biggame]

[ To reach the Gallows (where Flint probably is) requires a skiff, and to reach the skiff requires waiting on the pier that stretches out across the water toward the rocky island that the Gallows rests upon, and to wait upon that pier—today, anyway—requires waiting alongside Xiomara Novoa, who even beneath several colorfully patterned layers, a scarf, and thick knitted gloves is so cold that she's hopping from one foot to the other and swinging her arms to keep her blood from, probably, turning into ice.

This procedure slows down but does not stop when a barely-clothed man approaches. It stops when he's fully arrived, though, so she can consider him more carefully. Also, she sniffles.

'More used to the cold than a northern Rivaini' is not difficult for anyone to achieve, but this is something else. ]

Alright. What's the secret?

[ Between the hair that envelops her ears and the scarf wrapped up to just below her eyes, there's not much to betray her as an elf. To someone well-traveled, her accent would put her somewhere near Seere or Kont-Arr, where the Qunari presence bleeds into everyone's vowels, believer or not. To someone fresh out of Tevinter—who knows. ]

[panulus]

[He has been wandering the pier now, trying to figure out a way that doesn't involve actually getting in the water, and he sees her. She is not a Qunari (obviously) and she is bundled up like she can't bear the touch of air on her skin.

He, in turn, just has his cloak, and it's open, so.

He looks at her, puzzled a moment, and then he realizes.]

Fortified wine. Near to brandy.

[He holds up his wineskin, and takes a sip, and then offers it, so she both knows it's safe and because it's good manners. Also he suspects she's pretty, under all that fabric.]

[biggame]

[ Her eyes narrow, but even though they're the only part of her face currently visible, it's clearly a good-humored narrowing, with a smile still tucked in the corners. She takes the wineskin without hesitation. There's a little more trouble in lowering her scarf, her fingers made clumsy by the thick gloves and the scarf rolled and bunched in a way that makes it difficult to just pull down without there being more scarf to replace it, but after a bit of fumbling it's beneath her chin.

And she is pretty. Thank you. But there's nothing delicate or particularly feminine about the mouthful of wine she takes, enough to swell her cheeks out just a little, or the way she swishes it around her mouth instead of swallowing it straight away.

In the meantime she holds the skin back out to him.

Once she's content with the absence of any suspicious taste or viscosity or acidic burning in her mouth, she swallows that generous mouthful in two gulps. ]

You're a Vint.

[ Observational, more than accusatory. ]

[panulus]

[He watches her, and he smiles, easy and without any guile.]

I am not. But I came from there, and spent my youth there.

[Not by choice; he takes his skin back and takes another drink. She lightened it considerably and he can't help but admire that in a woman.]

I would tell you of my homeland, but I fear you would not believe it.

[Mostly because he's standing in the freezing cold wearing a pair of thigh high boots, a loincloth, and an open cloak, but you know.]