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

hermione granger | harry potter | rifter (attempt 2: CRAU edition)

[reparo]

[ooc disclaimer: LET'S TRY THIS AGAIN, CRAU ELECTRIC BOOGALOO. This Hermione will come packed with memories from eastbound, which closed in February this year; she thought she was headed back home at last but.../chuckles in hunted-by-the-narrator. I know there's a test drive on page one from earlier this year but sweep that under the carpet please. ]

i. MESSAGE IN AN ENCHATED BOOK

Hello, Riftwatch,

I wish I could say that I am new to this, but - anyway. Let's get some trivial things out of the way, first. My name is Hermione Granger, I am a rifter, and by your standards I am a mage - by my standards, I am a witch. But, semantics.

I should be joining your forces shortly, not that I have much of a choice, once this quarantine is over - but I thought that perhaps building some connections would be helpful before that happens. If you hadn't wanted me to write to everyone, you shouldn't have given me access to the messaging system.

One thing of note: what is this I am reading about anti-mage sentiment in this world? Am I expected to hide? Cower? Because I can assure you, I am intending to do no such thing.

ii. LIBRARY

[ First lesson she learned in Akhuras was this: there is power in doing the research. Frankly speaking, she'd known that from before, but the same rings true again when - instead of the beacon returning her home, three years younger and having forgotten everything and everyone - she lands in the middle of a new terrible world, with a new terrible war in place.

Good old Hermione Granger, she's a dab hand at this by now. First thing's first, then: research. Supplies will be next in order, if the Riftwatch is to be her new home (temporarily, she swears to herself).

Find her in the Gallows' library, floating a heavy tome into her waiting hand. Or find her at a table, muttering under her breath as she takes notes. (Dittany = elfroot?) Or simply bump into her, while she's got her nose in a book and is walking to find the reference table again. ]

iii. WAKING SEA

[ There is a herb shoved at your face - mint, or the closest thing to it that Thedas has. A young woman, early twenties and human, gives you a small, grim smile. ] Chew that. It should help with the nausea.

[ She makes a quick gesture to her face. ] You looked a bit green about the gills.

iv. WILDCARD

[ Fight her behind a Wendy's for all I care, the world's your oyster. ]

i, may double dip later

[aberratic]

Hello, Hermione, it's a pleasure to meet you—for a given value of meet, of course. My name is Ennaris Tavane, I'm a rifter mage as well. While I haven't been here overlong myself, I have done a great deal of research into the history of Thedas, and may provide some insight to anti-magic sentiment from my studies.

Magic has historically been used as a means of subjugation and control, here—I think you'll agree it's difficult to oppose a neighbour who could at minimum wipe your home off the map with a thought, no? Additionally, mages here are susceptible to demonic possession, which may sound fanciful but is a real risk in Thedas. At worst, mages can perform magic by use of blood, theirs or others', with no care for its willing or unwilling donation. They can destroy villages, control minds, and torture for power anyone they choose, all while barely lifting a finger.

Mages here have also historically been kept from the rest of the world in Circles and refused marriage or inheritance rights. It's a thorny issue, one in which I have no small amount of sympathy for the mages, but I would think it unwise to dismiss the natives' fears out of hand.

/opens arms

[reparo]

[ Her little heart is going to swoon with all this Knowledge and Elaboration - as soon as she's done feeling a grim sense of oh no over mages - some, surely, not all - controlling minds, torturing, destroying and sounding very much like some familiar wizards of her time. ]

A pleasure to meet you as well, Ennaris - and thank you for sharing your research into the history of Thedas. This is much appreciated, even though my immediate reaction is to feel outraged.

I will agree with your points, however. Blood magic was not considered a safe and sane practice back where I come from, so I can understand the apprehension here as well. But I have to ask, surely not all mages do that?

I can appreciate why the fear is there, but isn't there more to be gained from understanding and openness? Again, I'm going to sound like a parrot here but: surely not all mages in Thedas resort to blood magic, or seizing power, or becoming possessed.

To which point, also: are we at risk of demonic possession too?

[aberratic]

[oh, hermione, you came to the right person for Knowledge and Elaboration—ask to see her notes some time, but be prepared to swoon! ]

Not all mages, no—and personally I agree, there's far more to be gained from open curiosity than this fear. But if you had no magic, and you had to rely only on the word and good will of your neighbour for assurance that they wouldn't use theirs to harm you—wouldn't that be hard to swallow? And how could you ever be certain your thoughts on the matter were your own, knowing mind control to be well within their abilities?

The solution, of course, is not to shut mages away and create the exact kinds of resentment which lead to, shall we say, objectionable outcomes. But neither, I think, is the solution to act as though these are unfounded concerns.

[ and now that we're off the magic-is-actually-genuinely-scary topic... ness flounders. ]

That, I'm not sure of. I think we must be, but I admit that rifter history has not been a topic of especial focus, for me.

[reparo]

[ there will be swooning - coincidentally, she will appreciate that someone else is taking the notes (extensively) for her, but please appreciate that engagement papers will be drafted. she's so used to giving and now she gets to receive, et cetera. ]

The additional solution may be to invest a certain degree more into the education of mages, instead of making them feel ashamed, and punished, and powerless to the point of resorting to cruelty to wrestle back their own control.

Then again, I cannot judge too hard on the front of openness. In my world, there are wards and shield in place that keeps mages secret from non-magical folk. We have our own communities and culture and politics, we have our own schools and laws and, by extension, criminals and wars.

Not sure which is best. Not entirely sure my whole world wouldn't react similarly to discovering wizards are real.

book.

[elegiaque]

You're expected to have the basic common sense that might have told you learning half of one thing and firing off so half-cocked you open by implying that every mage working here is a coward might make you look like a disrespectful idiot. No one expected that, but you may now want to work backwards from the expectation opening your mouth will be actively ill advised.

You should take Ennaris's advice. She bothered to learn anything, including the fact you do have a choice whether you join the war effort or not. Consider studying before you decide.

[reparo]

Are you going to impose detention next?

and then, library.

[elegiaque]

( this is not dignified with a response. it doesn't, in Gwenaëlle’s view, merit one: she's said her piece and either the petulant new arrival will self examine later or not, but obviously, it isn't happening now.

probably there's an argument to be made for being less combative in correction if she wants it to land— but the arrogance pissed her off and further, her way has worked more often than it hasn't. she reads the message back out loud, incredulously, to both hardie and small yngvi present (supportive and disinterested respectively), turns back to her paperwork, and has largely forgotten the exchange by the end of the day.

it isn't on her mind when she's filing resources she'd borrowed back into the library, announced by the whisper of heavy burgundy skirts and the gentle metallic clink of her chatelaine at her (tightly corseted) waist. she's passing an unfamiliar, studious face when she overhears the dittany line— )

More akin to 'marijuana' in effect if you've heard of that one, I've been told, ( is offhand, the accent orlesian, as she hauls a shelf ladder towards her. ) Although I understand whatever that is, it doesn't share the same benefits of using elfroot alchemically.

( behind her, a fucking enormous shepherd dog is padding sedatedly through the shelves. he seems familiar with the space, quiet, watchful. )

[reparo]

[ She would be, frankly speaking, lying if she said the lengthy sermon (is it a sermon, or a quickfire of vitriol?) didn't affect her. She's had time to sit with it, by now.

And, although please understand that Hermione is never going to make the effort to find whoever was the author of that message and apologise for her arrogance, she's still making things right. For herself.

And thus, the self-imposed study time. She has become consumed by the things she knows - potions. Was her gift of making healing potions not the peak of her worth to the group in Akhuras? Without a considerate friend offering a book on local medicinal herbs, she never would've adapted the potions she can make from memory alone to local flora.

It's easier to think about local flora, and potions, than it is to think about how she's not back home and how she doesn't feel as bereft about it as she should. (Did she do this to herself? Think back on the adventures and growth of three years in Akhuras at the time of touching the beacon, and wistfully wished herself into a new strange world? Let's not examine that!)]

It seals wounds. [ Is the clarification, her quill pointed towards dittany. She looks up from the book and meets the gaze of one imposing, and uncomfortably beautiful woman. Also, a dog, somewhere behind her. Hermione blinks. ]

Uhm. At least, brewed into Essence of Dittany, it acts as a healing potion. I adapted a version of it to local flora before, but... [ She looks back down to the book, tilting her head in confusion. ] Maybe not elfroot? I don't want to get people, or myself, high.

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?

[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'?

[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.

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.

ii

[undergrunn]

( The library is something of a comfort, a place to retreat when the
demands of work and navigating a world so alien to her own have drained her social battery. She’s got a collection of books in her arms on physics, and is clad in workers overalls and boots that certainly aren’t of Thedas manufacture.

She was heading to a table, but stopped short when she saw the book float. The abruptness is not discrete, and even less so given the gasp of delighted surprise. At least she glances around sheepishly for being so loud in a library. )

I’m sorry. I’m still not used to magic.

[reparo]

[ The gasp comes from somewhere to her side, and makes Hermione's heart leap up into her throat. She jumps a little, the book falling into her open hand with a thud.

She turns and finds a woman - dressed in overalls? Boots? An atire that altogether looks Not Local, and Hermione's heart leaps again in curiosity and hope. ]

Ah, no - it's fine. I probably shouldn't be using it this casually, but it's a bit of a relief that the minor magic spells still work.

[undergrunn]

I bet. I’m trying to figure out if two moons and magic means anything different for physics.

( She’s tall, with waist-length hair that’s an odd contrast to the practicality of everything else about her, and to Hermione her accent might be reminiscent of Northern Europe. Abella offers her hand to shake, before she hesitates. )

Is shaking hands a friendly thing, in your world?

i.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

A wise choice to warn those who would gladly try to stand upon your throat that you will rip theirs out for the attempt. Do not be cowed here; just wary.

[reparo]

That is something I've got more than enough experience in being, so I will do just that.

[allthatgleamsisgold]

Good. You may yet survive this place. If you cannot defend yourself well, make strong allies. There are many in opposition to the imprisonment of mages. Even after Corypheus is defeated

[If that ever comes to pass, but Vlast is feeling uncharacteristically optimistic about it.]

then it will be an uphill battle. Whatever good will mages managed to build up will be eroded by the war between mages and templars, and then further from the protracted conflict with a blighted Tevinter magister who embodies everything the southern nations fear about magic.

wildcard;

[portalling]

Brand-new rifters are infrequent enough that the organisation hasn’t been overwhelmed with receiving them, but common enough that orientation has become a well-honed mechanism by now. There’s a list of people to talk to, requisitions and supplies and clothing to receive. There’s introductory lessons to help rifters acclimate to the history and culture. There’s a curriculum.

And one of the line items, neatly written in someone else’s hand, is generically named: Head Healer.

So Hermione Granger awaits her next speaker in one of the empty project rooms, appointed for this one-on-one interview-slash-discussion-slash-lecture; there’s a table with a few chairs tucked in around it, a pitcher of water, a couple empty cups, attempts at making it comfortable.

The man in question comes bustling in right on time, carrying a small stack of paper, a quill, an inkwell. He’s not wearing the exact scarlet cloak he once did, but one quite similar of Fade-touched silk.

“Morning, welcome,” he says, brisk, as he sets down the supplies; there’s a professorial air to the way he strides into the room. A familiar face, grey-streaked hair. “Doctor Strange. I’m the Head Healer here.”

When he looks at her, it’s without any recognition, only neutral polite greeting.

That's just Stephen's drag name

[reparo]

She has poured herself a cup of water just to hold something in her hands, and not fidget. The glow of the anchor shard that has burrowed its way under her palm is turning the cup vaguely swamp-like in quality, and Hermione stares into it without much more movement until the door opens.

She's here for orientation, or a health check up. More people who will undoubtedly tell her to try and keep her mouth shut, more people who will offer little to no pity about the whole ripped-from-my-world-again situation.

She's going to do her best not to bite the healer's head off.

And then the Head Healer steps in, and Hermione is stuck to her chair, staring. Can't be - but he says his name as she echoes it: "Doctor Strange?"

Memory jolts her into a time in the desert, at night, showing off the difference between Apparition and his circular portals. Discussing magic - "There are applications for neurosurgery in Thedas?" blurted out, no filter. "Or is it the sorcery bit?"

[portalling]

Record-scratch.

Strange goes exaggeratedly still and motionless, scarred hands splayed on the tabletop and pressing down that stack of papers. That abstracted neutrality sharpens, giving the girl a second, more probing look.

“Er, more the latter these days,” he says, temporarily thrown off-guard. He can count on one hand the number of people who even know to apply the word neurosurgeon to what he does (did, once did). Gwenaëlle, Cosima, Julius, Abby. Presumably someone beat him to the punch in terms of introduction.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I’m assuming the Provost told you my specialties?”