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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.
kieran | dragon age
The countryside is generally preferable to Kirkwall proper - which, however impressive it might look, frequently smells wretched - especially as they get further away from any of the Marcher strongholds. Kieran's got a good sense for the natural world; he's a fair hand at foraging and making camp in particular. It might mean coaxing companions off the main path to replenish their elfroot supplies, of course, but they'll get where they're going. And once they're sitting around a campfire for the night, he's the first to suggest storytelling.
He's also fairly well aware of the danger they face and holds his own in a fight. After, kneeling beside an injured companion - "Let me see that."
[ the waking sea ]
Kieran's not unused to travel, but most of his journeys have happened by foot, carriage, or magic mirror. Ships are a novelty he's never quite wrapped his head around; he's got no sea legs to speak of, and it's unlikely he'll ever truly feel at home on the water.
Which is to say, there's a tall, lean young man clinging to the rail near the starboard bow, spewing his lunch into the choppy sea below. Get a move on, one of the deckhands shouts, and he holds up a shaky hand as though to say give me a second. Judging by his chalky complexion, he might not actually be fit to stand on his own right now.
[ kirkwall ]
When he's not on assignment, Kieran has a few favourite haunts:
He often finds himself in trinket shops, especially those claimed to be run by antiquaries; he's less interested in purchasing items so much as sifting through what's there. Cheap amulets, well-made but ultimately pedestrian daggers, moldering books - beneath and behind the commonplace materials, he occasionally finds something really worthwhile. (And then he purchases it and sends it to his mother, naturally.) Other times, he might glance at an object and murmur, "Looks like a forgery."
He's not infrequently at one of a few pubs in Hightown, sipping from a tankard and people-watching. Lowtown, he generally has to be invited out to by someone else, since he's aware he doesn't blend in particularly well; even if he puts on a pair of worn trousers and an ill-fitting shirt, he ends up looking like a nobleman playing dress-up. But if someone should happen to invite him, he's likely to be eager company.
And of course, he can be found all over the Gallows, particularly its library and the training yard. Taking copious notes, setting a practice dummy on fire - all the usual activities of a young man in the prime of life.
[ wildcard. ]
[ Feel free to meet Kieran wherever you'd like! Check this post for an idea of my approach to the character.
Nota bene: I'm told that Kieran was previously an NPC in Fade Rift way back when he was a preteen. If your character was around then and would still remember him, please reach out to me before we get tagging; I'm not opposed to using his prior history in the game, but I'd like to know what it is / vet it before we get rolling. ]
wildcard. per discush.
she thinks of them often. Observations she wishes she could make to Morrigan other than in a letter, where she might have forgotten half of it by the time it comes to send, and Kieran for whom she’d felt so responsible, a lever ruthlessly applied by Coupe in a way that still stings in memory. More people than not here in Kirkwall would hardly recognise the young woman who had banned all Wardens from the Hightown mansion except Alistair. It doesn’t occur to anyone, probably, to send word to Captain Baudin in the field to expect Lady Vauquelin’s past charge, so she isn’t expecting it when she’s hauling off glove, gauntlet and cloak headed up the stairs to her office to see Kieran, grown, presumably coming down the stairs from the library.
Down an eye (its replacement gold and blank), nevermind what she is and isn’t recognisable as: she knows him immediately. Depth perception, nothing; Morrigan and Kieran are family.
“Oh, Maker, you’re taller than me now—”
Gwenaëlle hears the words even as they come out of her mouth, and pulls a face. Probably, with effort, she could have chosen something stupider to say.
no subject
"Madame Baudin," he says with a little bow. But that's a level of formality he's unwilling to keep up beyond greeting. He comes close enough to pull her into an embrace, adding, "You were so much taller in my memory."
She'd had two eyes as well - though it seems impolite to mention that here.
no subject
She’d thought, once, that they’d have won the war by the time she saw Kieran again. She’s learned, since, to appreciate seeing someone she loves at all.
It is impossible not to think of Alistair, and difficult for a moment to talk around her heart in her throat, but she’s beaming like he’s the best thing she’s seen all day when she does say, “I’m taller in my memory, too. When did you get here? No, —walk with me, I’m going to my office, I just need to put a few things down. Hardie, you remember Kieran,”
if she’s smaller than he remembers, the Anderfels shepherd that haunts her heels is probably bigger, nosing forward from well-behaved sentinel to overly-familiar curious animal at her encouragement.
no subject
He'll find his footing soon, helped along by more friendly faces - and if he seems even more pleased to see Hardie, it is, hopefully, forgivable. The creature is the closest he's ever come to a pet; for all he'd petitioned Mother for a war dog to join them on their travels, he'd always been rebuffed. (In retrospect, such a thing was never going to happen, but a twelve-year-old's dreams are stubborn things.) Bending down a little, he gives Hardie an affectionate scratch behind the ears. "Hardie! What a beast you've become!"
To Gwenaëlle's office, though, and with some dignity (and perhaps he'll see what tricks Hardie still remembers later). He follows her down the stairs, finally answering the question she'd asked in the middle of everything. "I came a few days ago - overland from Nevarra. The countryside was choked with Venatori, I'm sorry to say, but I'm sure you're well aware."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
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marches, storytelling;
The waggle of one fat, weathered finger —
"Gotta have guts or tits."
He's helping. It's tough to work off a blank slate.
this got a little gross. wounds, infections, etc.
What he can come up with is a tale he encountered some years ago, an aside in a treatise on magical warfare.
"An Orlesian soldier once lived for a fortnight with his intestines outside his body," is what he offers, after a pause. "Their company's commander kept the entrails in a leather bag greased with rendered bear fat on the inside, in hopes that they wouldn't dry out before a healer could save him. He was bedridden, of course, with the sack lashed about his middle, and by the tenth day, he was delirious. When a healer finally reached their camp, she opened the bag to find that its contents had begun to turn green with decay."
no subject
Another pull off the drink. If the gore's given him any real pause — well, right clear it hasn't. A little funny, the past few days, how seldom his expression shades any real depth.
"You want us to bag yours up?"
no subject
Lazar has seemed a fascinating sort to him throughout this journey: pragmatic to a remarkable degree, morally ambivalent, plainspoken and occasionally brusque. At the moment, he appears to be in a good mood, and Kieran's inclined to encourage that, if he can. "Your turn. Tell us something interesting."
Tits and guts are optional.
[ in the marches ]
"Normally I'd volunteer to go first, but I feel like listening for a change. What'cha got," she asks, leaning forward eagerly.
no subject
"That depends on what you like to hear," he answers, taking a sip from his waterskin.
no subject
"Something true. The strangest thing that happened to you, the funniest thing, the saddest thing? I'm in the kind of mood where I could either laugh or cry."
no subject
Because no, absolutely not - he's spent his life learning what he can and can't say about himself and keeping the thin little line between those two categories intact. The world is full of fascinating and impersonal truths, anyway, most of which make far better conversation.
(no subject)
kirkwall;
The book in her hands is, by all accounts, a weathered, mouldering thing—but you don't grow up in the greatest library in your plane and not be able to tell the difference between artificial aging and the real grip of time. She couldn't tell him how she knows it's not a real account of the life and death of Garahel, hero of the Fourth Blight, couldn't voice the specific way the book smells and creaks in her hand that says so definitively on purpose, not real—but she knows.
She sets the book down dismissively, and returns to the bookshelves in front of them, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.
"Sometimes shops like this have the real thing hidden around somewhere," she peers closer at a book, then sighs and moves on, "you just have to be diligent, and hope the owner doesn't know what they have."
Re: kirkwall;
In the dusty shop of a hovering bookseller, though, he knows well enough to play the part of a dedicated scholar. One who's actively considering purchasing something, even.
"I've yet to find anything promising here." His attention shifts back to the title in his own hand, a serviceable but not at all rare treatise on spirit healing. "Have you?"
no subject
She lists these while scrutinizing the shelf in front of her, though nothing really catches her attention. On a shelf above, though—an interesting spine catches her eye, gold leaf peeling off aged leather. Ness raises herself on her tiptoes to try to get a better look at it, but at 5'2" she's just too short, and she rocks back down onto her heel with an annoyed huff.
"Haven't found anything older than this age, yet. Where's the ladder, this is ridiculous—"
the waking sea
"Chew it," she clarifies. "It's mint leaves, might help with the nausea. Or at least...uhm. With the aftertaste."
no subject
"Well," he says, turning away from the waves with the small, deliberate steps of a child just learning to walk, "it certainly can't hurt."
At worst, it'll be one more thing that comes up later. He slips two mint leaves out, his back resting heavily against the rail, and gives them a sniff before setting them on his tongue. Not unfamiliar, neither a particular favourite nor a hated taste; as he chews, he glances down at the woman beside him. "You're the Rifter, aren't you?"
no subject
She glances to her left hand, where the anchor shard is burrowed deep but not flickering or glowing, and nods. "Hermione. Granger - Hermione Granger. That's my full name, but you can call me Hermione." She looks back to him. "What about you?"
(no subject)
marches;
The danger this time was a small party of Venatori scouts. One of them got lucky enough to loose an arrow before Vlast could put up a barrier; it had punched through the leather of his bracer and into his forearm. A flesh wound that would likely heal fine on its own, given time, but just as easily could become a real problem were it to sour.
In the aftermath, Kieran's generous offer is met with a low, gurgling hiss - the kind of sound that, were it a few octaves lower, might precede an angry gout of fire. As it stands like this, Vlast can just bear his teeth and menace.
"It's fine," he growls out the most words he's spoken consecutively the entire trip; "I can mend it myself."
no subject
If he wants no help, he'll receive no help. There's neither value nor point to demanding a grown man acquiesce to healing, particularly when Kieran's healing skills do lag the rest of his magic.
Besides, seeing just what Vlast is capable of is something of at least minor interest. Qunari, an acquaintance only as of this assignment, and evidently not directly of the Qun if he can boast both magic and eyesight. It's certainly not unheard-of, but his own travels haven't brought him into the orbit of many Qunari mages.
no subject
There is an odd, disorienting moment as the surrounding ambient magic is drawn directly into the Qunari to be consumed and circulated through his system. The hole in his wrist shrinks, pinched scar tissue surrounding a thick scab where there had been an open and angry wound.
With an exhale, he releases the excess magic, blades of grass beneath him crystalizing and iridescent motes of gold hanging in the air before a breeze disperses them.
"There." With a grunt, he gets to his feet and offers a hand up. "Let us move on quickly. Have they allies, I would rather take them by surprise."
Far more than his wrist, Vlast's pride is smarting from being so caught off-guard.
in the marches
She doesn't say much at all, quiet and sad-looking as she ever is. If questioned about if she's okay, she gives only a slightly pained look and a miserable, "that's just how my face looks..." completely aware that instead of Resting Bitch Face she has Resting About To Sob Face. But aside from being able to mostly keep up, she has no idea about anything else. Foraging, helping to set up, cooking around the fire--she's painfully aware how useless she is at it, even if she tries to do her best about it. Quietly, as ever, not saying much of a word to anyone.
The campfire is a welcome reprieve, even if she feels a bit like she might fall asleep sitting up here. "Stories?" She echoes Kieran's suggestion, blinking herself awake and sitting up a little.
"What kind? I'm... afraid I really only know sad ones, or ghost stories..."
no subject
Sending her out here strikes him as a bit cruel - surely there are plenty of tasks in Kirkwall she could be given, things she might already know how to do - but if she's willing to learn, this isn't the worst assignment to start with. So far, he's left the teaching to others, preferring to focus on his own share of the work. But now that the work of the day is through, there's reason to try to draw her out a little more.
"Any kind." He's found a fallen log to lean against, the fire pleasantly warm after a cold day's hike. "I've no quarrel with sad stories or ghost stories."
cw: mentions of suicide
There had been too much blood spilled in Kirkwall, too many unhappy spirits that made Yuri's head ache, powers diminished or not. Her head felt a little clearer out here, though it was clear that blood had been spilled just about everywhere in this world.
"Well..." Yuri still sounded a bit skeptical, as if she's pretty sure Kieran doesn't know what he's asking for. But she relents anyhow. "Where I'm from, I live at the base of this mountain, Mt. Hikami. According to local tradition, Mt. Hikami is where one could die a "proper" death. The belief is that a person's soul is born from water, and when they die they return to it. People that believed that would come from all over to... return their lives to the water. A sect of women, shrine maidens, would watch over the people and stay with them so they wouldn't die alone and help cleanse their souls for the afterlife."
She stares into the fire, expression distant once again as if drawing up a memory of first-hand experience.
"Revered as a sacred place since time immemorial, it was once the worshipping ground and home of many shrine maidens.
Once, there was a man who fell in love with a maiden, and came to the mountain in order to court her. However, she remained loyal to her duties and refused his advances.
Enraged, the man killed her and threw her into the river.
Several days later, he returned with a torch and blade, and proceeded to brutally butcher all the shrine maidens on the mountain, tossing them into the river as he went.
The waters of the mountain flowed red with blood, carrying the slaughtered corpses of the maidens all the way down to the Pool of Purification.
It is said that the eyes of each of the shrine maidens had been gouged out.
Just before killing the first maiden and tossing her into the river, the man's eyes met with those of his victim. Something in her eyes led him to murder the others, or so the legend goes.
With all the maidens dead, he killed himself by cutting his own throat.
The ghosts of shrine maidens, still drenched in those bloodied waters, have appeared on the mountain ever since.
It is said that those who meet their eyes are led to their deaths; they follow the women into the water and drown themselves."
She ends of a soft, sad sigh. "It's a bit more romantic than the truth, I guess..."