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allthisshitisweird2023-05-02 05:40 pm
faderifting) wrote in allthisshitisweird2023-05-02 05:40 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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.
no subject
and then, library.
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. )
no subject
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.
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( divested of her own book burdens and diverted by a matter very much in the wheelhouse of her own interests, it is immediately evident: the full force of her interested focus is not lessened in any way by the fact only one of the eyes gazing back at hermione came original. the other, gold, is as finely made as anything else she's wearing; her true eye amber behind a well-fitted monocle. those heavy skirts cause her no trouble, hitched beneath her knees and held in place with skirt-hikes,
and there's definitely a knife in both boots, don't worry about it. )
Just don't roll and smoke it if you want to keep your head.
( politely, gesturing to the nearest chair: ) May I? I've got a vested interest in the infirmary stores.
( arguably, so does fucking everyone, so she probably means something specific. )
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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.)]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. )
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[ 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.
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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. )
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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.
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funny because it's true, mind. but the blood purity aspect, that is grimly familiar in an entirely different way, the way she smiles humourless but not without some warmth. there are parts of gwenaëlle that she has, of necessity, made into weapons; it isn't the same song, here, but it rhymes.
and this isn't, exactly, the thing she'd intended to tell when she'd said I'll show you mine (what wrenched her off course? a rage demon,) but it rhymes, )
To be elfblooded is to have one elven parent, one human. Elfblooded aren't like the half-elven some rifters talk about, ( apparently every other fucking world or dream with elves, ain't that a bitch of a thing, ) we're completely indistinguishable from any other human. There's no means I know of to tell me apart from someone whose parents were both human— but it's not quite human enough. Orlais's civil war had academics writing treatises on is it bestiality to fuck your elf servants, not even because they believe it is or give a fuck but because embarrassing the Empress by insinuating she's too friendly with elves works so well she keeps slaughtering them about it.
( if that sounds like it's probably got a lot more moving parts than she can easily cover in one bitter breath,
yeah. )
When my uncle was in the Circle, his particular study was why are the elfblooded like that. Became an expert in maternal health by accident because he wanted to study the pregnancies of elven women carrying human children. He didn't know I was, at the time, it was a very funny coincidence.
( —dryly. )
And then if he'd had a child, that'd have been about seven crimes. I have wondered how many orphan Templars were the children of Circle mages. Probably not none.
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Sleeping Draughts might be necessary, she thinks to herself as her pulse races in a panic, and then -
then her table companion speaks, of a different kind of half-blood, of a different kind of mudblood, and Hermione connects the dots and hears those rhymes.
She still listens to it, all of it. Wants to say something kind, and understanding, like gods, that is terrible, but maybe the open honesty in her expression spells it out for her, because the words lock in her throat. Then she is left with that tidbit about Templars, cherry on top. ] Circles sound like such delightful places where anyone would want to be, especially people who can get pregnant.
[ The honest expression turns into a scowl, aimed at imaginary foes in this scenario, whoever they may be. ]
Your uncle sounds like a right git.
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( a quick shake of her head: )
We need people to be curious, ( she says, firmly. ) Every year, there's some fight about how scary and dangerous it is to want to learn things and take steps to understand them— like we can protect ourselves by being ignorant. Like no one else is going to try.
( a little exhale, )
My uncle's a research healer whose work looked enough like blood magic that it'd have been safer for him not to do it. But you know, I'm not saying, he'd be doing a lot of crimes, I'm saying, he was property of the Chantry so a failure to control him would be someone's workplace fuck up and they'd take the baby and punish everyone involved.
( a gesture at the library they're in: ) This used to be a Circle. The nature of phylacteries mean if you'd been a mage here, no one would have had to torture you for your friend's location, though you'd probably have been punished for knowing it. Use the phylactery made with their blood when they were locked in here and run an escapee down at leisure.
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[ In her defense, she thought her uncle, aforementioned, was writing essays on why elfblooded were like that, from the same high and mighty position of someone who might decide to call people elfblooded and say it like it's a bad thing.
She's just having some trouble following, perhaps because Gwen hasn't caught her when she's fully caught up on Chantry history - if she can ever truly catch up, or fully understand it.
She also doesn't love admitting there's something she doesn't understand, and is sure that Gwen and her golden eye would see right through the fib, if she were to make one.
One glance around the library later, she meets the woman's eyes again. ]
So you consider being in a Circle as a mage to be paramount to being a prisoner [ too ] ?
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it isn't, actually, hermione's fault that she might react sharply and protectively about that uncle, and his work, and when the misunderstanding is obvious the precision of the way she had extended her claws about it is mirrored in the way her shoulders relax and she leans against the table.
mudblood is probably ruder to say than elfblooded; they rhyme, but the song is different. she bears it in mind. )
I didn't always, ( she admits. ) It isn't, you know, how the Chantry talks about it.
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She's not sure how to feel comfortable with this knowledge, in this world. (Do not cower, but stay wary - that's a good advice.) ]
Of course it is. Why would the Chantry call it anything else except for benevolence? [ She purses her lips, then quietly, ] When they burned women on the stake for witchcraft in my world, the Church called it saving their souls.
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she thinks of andraste, burning. ah, she thinks, there are other rhymes here. )
That's sort of what I was taught to think of Tranquility. A broken thing, given purpose instead of the void by the Maker's grace. ( it doesn't really sound like that's an opinion she holds now, even if her views on tranquility are more complicated than is commonplace in thedas, ) Here, though, it's— the saying is magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.
I don't know if Andraste meant so lock mages up and use them like tools instead of people when she said it, or if she was just trying to make a point about not doing crimes. You can see how it's turned out.
no subject
Anyway, to say that the final bit makes her snort in been there before is to put it mildly. ]
Magic exists to serve man, therefore mages exist to serve man - what a lovely little fallacy. [ Through gritted teeth.
She purses her lips, unclenches her fists. ] To your previous point, curiosity is good.
no subject
she is nearly unrecognisable to the girl who was hauled weeping and unwilling up the frostbacks. )
Which is why I have a collection of marked up medical treatises, ( more ruefully, a nod to where they'd begun. (or: begun again, unbeknownst.) ) I have a little bag of tricks that I take into the field with me that are lately head healer approved, to that end, I can give you some notes on the recipes I keep it stocked with.
( it's a little release valve, maybe, for a conversation that has become heavier than either of them had probably anticipated at the beginning of it. a moment of elbow room, amidst all else: something boringly practical to think about, while the rest settles. it could be indicative of bringing the interview to a close,
but she doesn't seem to be making the moves to leave. it's just a breather, if hermione wants it. )
no subject
There's a light and bemused smile that flashes across her face upon mention of the Head Healer - she's been to orientation now, she knows who that is, and it is strange to see him here with no memory of Akhuras. If she's been generous in considering parallel timelines and the possibility of Actual Hermione continuing to exist despite her falling from world to other world, then she can consider that Stephen Strange is possibly affected by the same.
(A shame about not remembering her. A shame she hasn't thought too hard on how that makes her feel.)
So the release is desired and welcomed, with a small smile. ]
I will not say no to anyone's notes or research to expand upon. I may still act a bit bewildered that there are notes, but that's a byproduct of where I was before. But brewing potions and alchemy is similar in no matter which world, so if I get instructions I should be more than capable of replicating.
no subject
gwenaëlle is not entirely as unsympathetic to them as she appears. maybe not as sympathetic as her many close relationships to rifters have led to a reputation for, either, but who doesn't contain multitudes these days. )
Before all this, ( with a light gesture of her left, dully-green glowing hand, ) I'd been a poet and a debutante, a courtier,
( 'socialite' would be pushing it; if she could make it through an evening without having to actually speak to anyone, that had been a win in val royeaux, )
and about half of these recipes I'd got the hang of back then.
( so, you know. cake walk, probably. the punchline is no one thought very much of her back then, but it's subtle enough that she doesn't hear the disapproving sound of loxley's voice in the back of her head, wishing she wouldn't do that. )
But it did mean my primary skill upon arriving to the war effort was writing things down; you'll get bored of my handwriting before I run out of things I can lend to you, if you're interested.
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(Don't think about Fred Weasley, dead. ) ]
I can appreciate a good handwriting, you know. [ A smile again. ] But I'm interested - at the moment, I think I've got some time on my hands to get familiar with this place and its history, before I waltz into the war efforts and make a mess about it unintentionally.
no subject
there have been other grudges in the near decade she's been at this, people she gives less (what she considers) grace than just arrived, probably needs to be told; moments that felt ascribed more to callous selfishness than choosing fight instead of flight, freeze or fawn. )
Half the trick of it is that everything's still — ( a twirl of her finger in the air, ) in motion. The rebellion's not resolved, just tabled while we try not to get annihilated. The war's made for strange bedfellows which might or might not last. The world's going to look different when all's said and done, but in what way?
( a shrug. )
Everyone's got an agenda. But there's so much to catch up on to start tilting things the way you like— that's not unique to rifters, either.
( she'd by no means arrived fully formed. )
no subject
Not likely to be long, and she will remember this conversation when the time comes. Everyone's got an agenda, and everything is in motion. Mage rebellion and Templars working together now to defeat Corypheus doesn't mean they always will. Doesn't mean they won't turn on each other as soon as that threat is cleared.
And when that dust settles, what then? What becomes of Hermione then? There is no Merchant to promise her a beacon home here anymore. Is there a way home? (Does she want a way home?)
(I wanted this, didn't I? It's my own fault, for wanting more adventure.) ]
Do you think...[ she bites her lip, hesitates. This is, after all, a stranger. A stranger who knows about how she was tortured and why, but nevertheless... ] Are there notes on rifters? Anything that speaks about what happens... Do we ever leave, or is this just the newest normal?
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