TEST DRIVE 9:51

[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 now 9:51, and the war continues, with Corypheus and his cult of Venatori openly ruling a Tevinter. An enemy force has decimated several Marcher Cities, while the Chantry and the Inquisition have marshaled Orlais and the faithful of Southern Thedas into an Exalted March against the army of demon-bound Wardens, Red Templars, Venatori loyalists, and darkspawn Corypheus has amassed and now begun to encroach on Tevinter territory. Rifts are still scattered across the continent, periodically spitting out strangers from strange worlds with green-glowing anchors embedded in their hands, and of late the Veil that separates the physical world from the Fade seems to be wearing thinner and thinner. There's no Herald of Andraste to save Thedas. Someone else is going to have to do it.

You're part of an organization, dubbed Riftwatch, that 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 in Kirkwall, on 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.

I. THE FREE MARCHES: Starkhaven remains under Tevinter control meaning traveling anywhere north of the mountains runs the risk of running into enemy raiding parties. Maybe you've been sent out to intercept before they find the unwary, or maybe you're just trying to pass through unnoticed to Markham or Ansburg when you run into trouble. Or maybe you're more in the thick of it: slipping your way into also-occupied Hasmal to gather intelligence, or helping an ally smuggle a shipment downriver past Tevinter patrols.

II. GATE SEARCH: Invading big chunks of the world is really just a side project for Corypheus; secretly his real goal involves finding and cracking open the Seven Gates of the Black City, mysterious ancient ritual sites that may let him physically enter the Fade—and he's already managed at least two. Maybe you're wading through the marshes of the Korcari Wilds or the sands of the Western Approach, racing a Venatori team to a rumored temple site that might hold a Gate, maybe you're infiltrating a black market auction in Wycome or Antiva City to try to prevent an enemy agent from acquiring an Old God artifact that could be used in a Gate-opening ritual, or maybe you're dodging traps and solving puzzles in an ancient ruin in search of such an artifact yourselves.

III. TATTERING VEIL: Across Thedas, the Veil that separates the Fade and the Crossroads from the real world (and from each other) is thinning. Riftwatch knows this is almost certainly caused by the Gates Corypheus and his Venatori followers have been opening, but the rest of Thedas just knows there are strange pockets appearing where you can take a turn that yesterday led into an alley in Minrathous and today opens on an island in the Crossroads, at least for a few yards before you step back into a gutter again. It might feel like a moment, but it could have lasted an hour. Or you might step into a grove of trees in the Planasene Forest and find yourself looking up at the Black City on the horizon of a Fade-green sky, with the tops of the trees hanging impossibly above your heads as if gravity has momentarily reversed, just in that spot.

IV. 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.) Attacks by Corypheus' forces have left the city scarred, with some streets still under reconstruction and a gash in the cliffs over Lowtown leaving parts of the mining tunnels occupied by the city's poorest citizens exposed (letting some rare light into Darktown). But it's Kirkwall. They've seen worse.

V. 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.

VI. 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.

NOTE | Hi! If you're new here, our test drive memes are semi-static; we post them yearly or so, and current players track for new top levels and link them on the game discord as they come in. So if you're arriving at this months after it was posted, yes, it is still in use! And if you're here with a Veilguard character or with a mind to play a native OC inspired by Veilguard lore, please refer to this post for notes on what may need to be adjusted to take into account Fade Rift's game history.

Comments

Kaidan Alenko | Mass Effect

[bigplace]

I — LIBRARY

"Damn," Kaidan utters as he thumbs through Genitivi's Kirkwall: the City of Chains, caught in a particular passage about the city's sordid past. "Not a world untarnished by slavery, is there? That's a shame." Through the drivers are the same—socioeconomic benefits—that it's the closest equivalent of his people, biotics, at the helm of it unnerves him. "So, you can throw fireballs in addition to a biotic's skills, and you waste it by creating an evil empire?" He huffs, rubbing at his temples idly as he contemplates that alternative reality for himself. "Think I'd be stuck on the fireballs the whole time. That would've been handy in Noveria. And Feros. Everywhere, really."

And so it goes, random commentary Kaidan does his best to whisper to himself. The excitement and trepidation of his newfound reality, however, are too much to contain, too much to process quietly. Talking through it has always been how he handles new, difficult information, but perhaps someone should tell him his inside voice could use some work.

II — HANGED MAN

The beer? Passable. But it's no Canadian lager. The ambiance of this hole in the wall somewhat makes up for the disappointment—grimy, stale, dilapidated in a matter that suggests history not neglect—but he's still too new to approach people comfortably, too unfamiliar with the local culture to hope he won't get stabbed if he says the wrong thing to the wrong guy.

Not that it'd be a problem. Still, the best fight is the one you don't pick. Kaidan doesn't want to cause problems for his hosts, not unless he has to, or is forced to.

So, what is a bored man to do? The same thing he did when he was younger—practice his biotic mnemonics.

Feats of precision are just as impressive as feats of strength, to those with the trained eyes to see it. Since Vyrnnus and Rahna floating, sliding and flipping glasses biotically has become a form of grounding, meditation for times whenever he's adrift, listless. From one frying pan into another, war after war. But Kaidan tries not to think on it, pushes it aside as the movement of the glasses takes up all of his brain power. Reducing the usually blatant, grandiose gestures used in battle to simple flicks of his wrist occupies his body. Keeping the mass effect field calibrated just so, no unintended projectiles or showmanship, occupies his brain. Oblivious to the world around him, to those who could be watching and wondering why a man is so fixated on a tankard, and why it appears to be floating on its own.

III — SEND A MESSAGE

I was wondering, what's the best place to buy meat around here? Could use a pick me up in the form of a juicy steak. Willing to cook you one if the tip's good.

IV — WILDCARD

[He's chill and easy to talk to, so hit him with anything.]

[aberratic]

"Good morning, Messere. Are you enjoying your studies?"

The girl who approaches Kaidan is small, blonde, and wearing the most pleasant smile she's currently capable of—the thing about being raised in a library is you get really particular about some things, like how much one is allowed to speak in the library. Her tight grip on the tidy stack of books in her arm is the only indication of the past ten minutes spent at a desk a few feet away, twitching with every new comment.

No need to start out with a reprimand, though. Perhaps there are no libraries where this man is from.

ii

[anthracite]

The clunk of a bottle across is heavy enough to rattle the little table, already loose on one leg. The whole surface tips, wobbles, threatens to spill any ordinary glass –

But he wouldn't have bothered with that. More magic in Kirkwall than there used to be, and fewer to startle of it. Still, Strand cuts a deliberate angle across prying eyes.

"Wrong bar for that, friend." Soft-spoken, even. He doesn't wait for an invitation to sit. "Riftwatch?"

Obviously. The hand, the anchor.

Umbra Tellegen | Native OC

[banalras]

i. a spirited conversation

Well, the Veil being torn apart is not a particularly good thing, now is it? Umbra would be--maybe not the first, because lots of people have strong opinions on the topic, but she would certainly be one of the ones to assure you that it was so. She was, after all, a member of the Mourn Watch, and that involved investing yourself in the concerns of spirits, which would undoubtedly be sent awry by such an event. But while she would, if questioned, be sure to explain why she was against these Veil tears, that didn't mean that she couldn't...spend a little time around one, right?

Stepping into the Crossroads itself seemed a step too far, but surely it was safe for her to stand here, and have a lovely chat with a spirit as curious about her as she was of it?

Which is why, if someone were to take a side street in Kirkwall, they would find Umbra there, in her full Mourn Watch attire, busily chatting away with a spirit peeking through the hole. The Crossroads loomed behind the spirit as it gestured to Umbra, who was listening intently, a hand on her chin.

"No! He said that to his mother? Well--Surely he'd told his sister first?" The spirit shakes its head, and Umbra gasps in dismay. "You can't mean--By the Maker! And what about his betrothed?" It is, apparently, a very engaging tale.

ii. a tourist in lowtown

The Hanged Man is not known to be a spot for necromancers to hang out and chat, certainly not with all their shiny gold and proudly worn purples and greens, but Umbra is there anyway, standing out like a sore thumb amongst the more average dregs of visitors. Seated at a table that has probably seen more corpses than her prized flesh eating beetles, back ramrod straight, and eyes alight with curiosity and interest as she watches the other people within the tavern.

She looks, in short, like a tourist who has found herself in the zoo, complete with drunken monkeys.

There's a mug in front of her, though she has been much less enthusiastic about engaging with it, a far less attractive curiosity than the population around her. But eventually, she reminds herself that if she wants the Full Hanged Man Experience (trademark pending), she'll have to actually drink whatever the barkeep had seen fit to inflict on her. A few moments are spent examining the mug critically. Judging from her expression, it has not passed the inspection, but she takes a tentative sip from it, anyway.

And promptly regrets it. Her face pulls into a grimace, and the mug is sat solidly back down, where it will probably remain.

iii. free bones!

No Mourn Watcher worth her salt is unable to defend herself, and Umbra would like to believe that she is, in fact, worth her salt, or at least an approximation of it. She wouldn't quarrel over the exact teaspoon. The point is, by the by, that Umbra is perfectly able to defend herself, and when she's set upon by a raiding party on her way back to Kirkwall (where had she been? where was she going? Who knows!), she had managed to deal with them. Possibly with help (maybe even YOUR help!).

The battle is over in a dazzling show of necromantic energy, the enemy Venatori lie dead at her (and your?) feet. But Umbra seems unperturbed, and steps over to one of the dead bodies, a smile lighting up her face as she looks him over. Now that the unpleasant work was out of the way, she could do something interesting. Leaning down, the corpse's arm is grabbed, and she stands, the rest of the corpse, still being attached to the arm, following behind.

"Hmm. Fingers are in excellent condition," As she tests them out, bending each one and giving it a firm squeeze. "Structure and integrity of the bone seems solid. Wrist is," Hand moving down, she bends it as well. "Hmm. Tendons are a little tight. But the beetles can take care of those, of course. Though he has a little more fat content than is generally healthy for the beetles, but I can trim that. Overall: Yes! This is an excellent selection, I think." Triumphant in her analysis, she gives a firm nod and grin, quite pleased with herself. "Now, where did I put the saw?"

iii - wee woo it's the fun police

[dissolving]

"Easy," Cedric's still stooping up when he catches sight. A mind that's gone wandering recalls itself. "Leave him."

Nevarran accent, Nevarran armor, but it doesn't take eagle eyes to sight judex on his breastplate; or that earlier wash of silence.

"'S not their way. Show some respect."

Don't have to love a pyre for that. Gauntlet unhooks helm, smearing blood for stubble. He is — by the old order of things — outranked. Mortalitasi do what the fuck they want, and dandy for them. But they're not in Nevarra, and no one's in charge, and they just killed three men.

ii

[corpsestuff]

There's muttering every time he goes to the market in Lowtown, curious and suspicious eyes following his movements and making him rather tense. That's why he generally tries to only come with someone. Unfortunately, the only place he's been able to find with an even passingly decent vegetarian hot sauce (and really, who would have heard of a non-vegetarian hot sauce? The Free Marchers, somehow,) is in Lowtown so he's back here to buy a few bottles when he hears whispers of 'there's another one right there.'

Once his purchase is made he tries to backtrack, following the looks and comments, until coming to the Hanged Man. It makes a certain sort of sense. He's heard of the place and has always wanted to meet Varric Tethras; why wouldn't another Mourn Watcher be playing tourist in here?

Emmrich ducks in and sees her instantly with a mug in front of her. Ah. A braver soul than him, as he wouldn't dare sample the place's offerings. Then again, it does not take a great deal to be a braver soul than him. He approaches the table.

"May I?" Emmrich asks, nodding to a chair.

Hugh Rivers | Native OC

[veilward]

one. Wining in Wycome

The thing about powerful people was they were, by and large, all addicted to something. Given that the Venatori were bolstered in number by the wealthy of Tevinter, an expensive bottle of wine would draw them in like flies to a fresh corpse. Hugh knew if he wanted to sniff out the rumors of their presence in the black markets, he should start at the docks. People always liked to be in their cups before making exorbitant bids.

"Piss and vinegar," Hugh said as he held the stoppered bottle of wine by its neck to the annoyance of the stall vendor, who was going steadily red in the face. "I worked these docks as a boy and know damned well a Serault yellow comes in with the trading ships owned by the Valisti family, and all your crates say otherwise. Try not to hock this watered-down blight to any Antivans if you want to go home with all the ribs you had this morning."

Before the merchant could curse Hugh, his mother, and everyone else in his line, the Warden shook his head and stepped away. Likely, that would be the end of it. Hugh was already a tall man with a broad build but full platemail with the sigil of a regardant griffon blazoned across his chest plate deterred the average quarreler.

"That was a dead end," Hugh groused in a stage whisper. "Anyone likely to be privy to the black markers in Wycome would have more discerning taste. Follow the wine to find a Vint."

two. The Library

Hugh had never been to Kirkwall before. With his less-than-stellar reputation among the Wardens as a firebrand who bucked at orders, he had been regulated to far reaches of the North for most of his stalled career. Before then, his only exposure to Kirkwall had been his family being turned away when they were fleeing the Fifth Blight. It was strange being here, but no more bittersweet than being in any other city after a decade of one desolate Warden outpost or another.

That might have been why his first stop had been the library in the Gallows. Nothing brought feelings of home quite like oppressive silence in drafty air that smelled of dust and boredom. That was perhaps unkind—the library was fine enough for what it was. There was no reason to be here save passing time until he got his marching orders. Still, it had been a good long while since he had the time even to hold a book, much less read one.

"Hah!"

The abrupt bark of a laugh echoed through the narrow rows of shelves before Hugh stifled himself back into respectable silence.

"You must be joking," Hugh said at a much hushed, library-appropriate volume to himself.

He reached behind the row of volumes of native plants of the Free Marches for something. What he pulled out was a leather-bound book the size of a serving plate and no thicker than a man's thumb. The leather was worn and creaked in his hands, but the pyrogravure embellished on the cover was pristine. The illustration was that of a large, curly-haired, and floppy-eared dog holding a Warden standard in his mouth. Below this in blocky, easy-to-read letters read: Hugo the Warden Schauzer—a children's book.

"I'll be damned. I thought the senior Wardens were pulling my leg about these."

three. Wildcard

( ooc: hmu )

The Library

[corpsestuff]

Laughter was a rare sound in a library, aside from occasional giggle between pairs of students. Emmrich stepped around the corner to see what had caused such a noise.

A man, a Warden no less, pulled out a children's book. The statement got a raised eyebrow from Emmrich. He was missing something here.

"Why would someone joke about this?"

one; handwaving working cr but pls feel free to change whatever

[anthracite]

"And its shadow," Strand doesn't look up from the manifest under review (old friends, favours called in). He looks nearer a clerk than a Warden today: Paper and pen, and no armor at all. "Who's leaving the line?"

Their new friends. Hugh's clever about this, but he's also enormous. Visibly marked. They'll have no luck in tailing anyone without the quarry's assent. That's well enough; The Venatori keep their own Wardens close, but there are ever new defectors. The blight is powerful leverage. An Ander at his side aids the illusion.

library! (ps if i slip into present tense mea culpa, just lmk and i'll fix it)

[argentine]

As it happened, Argent was herself on the hunt - again - for a specific native plant book, and as such currently stood at about the height of Hugh's elbow, intending to simply wait until he moved out of the way--but that was such a weird and compelling series of sentences she turned to look up at him instead, nose scrunched.

"You got a book? Shit, all I got were demerits for insubordination."

She is literally only a senior warden because the one next to her died and someone had to keep leading the troops, if that tells a person (Hugh) anything.

the library.

[elegiaque]

“A piece of luck,” from an Orlesian drawl near his elbow — Captain Baudin is a good eight inches shy of his height, “usually seeing a Riftwatch name in print is a wanted poster or smut.”

It may actually be more frequently the latter, although she’s sometimes not sure if it’s apt to include Asher’s starring role in various Avvar-themed bodice-rippers toward Riftwatch numbers when he’d died in Skyhold before Riftwatch had broken away from the Inquisition — but she’s here, and Hardie (the great Anderfels shepherd presently at her heels and well-trained to be well-behaved in the space), and he would’ve preferred it, so—

Anyway, there were those books about Herian, so it holds.

It’s also quite something coming from a woman whose face was plastered on propaganda — that she wrote when she was still Lady Vauquelin, for the Inquisition — up and down southern Thedas, all of it as readily available here.

She’d still had two real eyes at the time. A lot changes in ten years.

wildcard!!

[doneisdone]

"Warden."

The greeting is quiet and low, from a tall and foreboding woman clad in drab leathers, who passes Hugh in the courtyard. She eyes him with a calculating stare-- he's unfamiliar, even if his insignia isn't-- which means either he's one of those Wardens or he's just an honest-to-goodness stranger. It could go either way.

connor guerrin | dragon age: origins

[catathymic]

i. arrival

For the whole journey, Connor has struggled, torn between two instincts: that as an Andrastian, he must pay his respects to Grand Cleric Elthina and all those poor souls murdered in the terrorist's plot; and that as a mage his presence would only be an insult, further desecration of an already wounded place. It's an impossible dilemma to answer; every time he thinks he's made up his mind one way, a new thought occurs to him, and he's back at square one. The journey from Montsimmard to Kirkwall is not an insignificant one, and yet even by the time he's stepped off the boat at the Gallows he hasn't made up his mind.

"Pardon me," he leans over to someone who seems like they work here, "would you be able to direct me to the Grand Cleric's memorial? I wish to pay my respects."

ii. the field

Connor doesn't belong in the field—he's said as much to anyone who would listen, and for the most part they have listened to him. As a guest of the organization, not an agent of it, there's not a lot anyone can force him to do, anyway.

Which means it's his own fool fault that he's stuck out here in the middle of the Hinterlands.

He'd thought... something. Something about it having been ten years since he was last so near home, something about his father being three years dead and how he hasn't visited his ashes once. His uncle is still in charge of the arling, he thinks. His mother may be there as well—she never wanted to return to Orlais, a country he may have spent more time in than her, at this point. His sister...

He's never even met his sister. Does she live in Redcliffe? Does she sleep in the room that was once his? Does she ever think about her brother, the abomination, the cause of all their family tragedies?

He'd thought about all those things when someone mentioned a mission in the Fereldan Hinterlands, and he'd volunteered, and now he's here, wading knee-deep through mud and pouring rain looking for some noble's lost druffalo. Thinking has never been his strong suit.

"Surely," he says to his companion, futilely licking rain off his lips and drawing his cloak closer about himself, "the druffalo has found somewhere dry to wait out this rain, and so should we? And anyway Riftwatch has got to have more important things to worry over than Bann Loren's druffalo, he's not rich enough for this to be worth it."

Certainly not worth the mud, which has made it inside his boots, dripping down the back of his ankle.

iii. crystal

Hello, Riftwatch. I've been permitted use of one of your sending crystals to introduce myself, and ask a question.

My name is Connor Aurum. I knew the Grey Warden Alistair when I was a boy, and I was... saddened, to hear of his loss. I know he spent some time with the Inquisition, and then later with Riftwatch. If you knew him, I would buy you a drink, and hear of him from his friends, if you'd permit me.

I'm not a member of Riftwatch, so I can't keep this crystal long. If you attempt to respond and can't reach me, I'll be in the Hanged Man tavern in Lowtown for the next few hours. Please, if you knew Alistair, seek me out there. I would be very grateful.

iv. wildcard

[ ooc: feel free to hit me with anything! connor's in-progress app is here, but short version: he's that kid from origins who fucked up redcliffe because he made a deal with a demon to save his dad's life. open to prior cr with any mages from kinloch hold or anyone with ties to the mage rebellion, and anyone who'd know about the boy with redcliffe's blood on his hands is free to realize that's him whenever appropriate! you can message me on discord at compels or pp me on plurk at supersoldier to work out details! ]

iii > transition to action

[overharrowed]

[In the early days of his time with the Inquisition, running into someone with ties to Kinloch Hold had been ... not an everyday occurrence, no, but not so rare. But it's been a long war. He hasn't thought of Connor specifically in quite a long time and yet: Here he is, a voice on the sending crystal.

Julius is not entirely sure how Connor will react to him, and he doesn't have anything in particular to add about Alistair, having only met the man a time or two in passing. So it seems wiser to make his way to the Hanged Man. He'd been in town anyway, so it doesn't take him long. And if Connor doesn't want to talk, well, easy enough for Julius to leave such a public place without fuss.

Connor may well catch sight of him first. It's been a dozen years, give or take, but Julius looks largely the same. His hair is light enough that any grays blend in well, and his slender build is more or less as it was. Perhaps the biggest difference at a glance is that Connor never saw him in anything other than robes, and today he's wearing trousers and a doublet in a Marcher style, not ostentatious but finely made. He's not trying to hide that he's a mage, given the worn staff with a red hart leather grip he carries. But it's obviously been an eventful decade and change, even for all that has remained outwardly the same.

It takes Julius a moment longer to recognize Connor, but only a brief one. Julius suspects he'd recognize anyone he'd taught at length, but Connor had been an especially memorable apprentice.]

ii

[wythersake]

"Every life is precious," Dull. Isaac isn't looking for the druffalo, and he isn't looking at Connor; squinting instead over a rain-soaked map – "There's meant to be an outpost ahead, but I'm afraid it may have washed into the sea."

A spreading rivulet of black ink. He crumples the sodden page into a pocket, and lifts a head to the surrounding hills. Blinking past rain:

"Does any of this look familiar?"

Ten years or better since the Rebellion holed up out here. There are those who remained, he knows, and he also knows better than to arrive unannounced.

i.

[interroga]

The man Connor corrals happens to be around his age, dressed in innocuous rumpled clothes, no identifying markers, not even a division pin on his lapel.

But he does work with Riftwatch, if not strictly for them, and he hesitates. Dark eyes flicker to look across the water back to Kirkwall proper where a tall Chantry most pointedly doesn’t tower over the city anymore, and his mouth twists slightly. He’s not a Kirkwall native, but he’s made it a point of learning the city in which he now lives, its nooks and crannies and shortcuts and ugly history and, yes, the memorial garden the Inqusition had helped build.

“You’re about seven years late,” the stranger says, mild, “but I can take you there, yes.”

There’s a noticeable accent: something halfway between Tevene and Antivan, the blurring sound of someone who grew up near the border, perhaps.

billy butcher / the boys

[cwords]

coming from mid-s3.
cw: he kills and he curses. sorry, lads.

waking up in vegas

( first of all, you're wrong. butcher is not a part of any organization, much less one called 'riftwatch'. he's got a ragtag group back home, sure, but to call his boys an organization of any kind is pretty damn generous.

billy was dreaming — as one does. he and homelander, neck and neck. a laser singe here, a bullet hole there, a crowbar to the face for good measure. par for the course with them. it was a good dream, if not an ordinary one. his obsession with destroying homelander is just that: an obsession. unfortunately, collateral damage in the form of city-wide mass destruction isn't all that surprising within his dreams.

falling through a green portal? that's pretty surprising. he'll give you that one; you got him this time.

he's got a glowing doo-hickey smack-dab in the centre of his palm, and there are folks in armor about. )

What's all this? A goddamn Ren Faire?

( and, wow, that sure is a rage demon falling out of the portal behind him. it's not the kind he's used to, but he's never been afraid to bash a bloke first and ask questions later, so he tosses his crowbar between his two hands and motions for whoever's near to take a step back. maybe dreaming of clobbering homelander has him a bit trigger-happy. sue him. )

Hope you ain't squeamish, love.

hightown, high prices

( right, so, he's not exactly happy about this new arrangement. he doesn't like supes on the best of days, and now he's learning that there's a world full of them — mages, they're called — and all he's got go up against them are shiny swords and crossbows? he don't much like them odds. these people have powers! what's a sword meant to do against balls of fire?

he's still taken to wearing his trenchcoat around, not quite ready to ditch it for the scalemail and robes that seem to be the norm around here. )

Five bits? You're joking.

( he knows pounds and he knows dollars, so he's come to surmise that 'bits' aren't a whole lot. it really doesn't sound like much. he doubts five bits will be enough for a drink, not even the cheap ones. )

I want a sovereign, at least. Come on, now. You ain't seen nothing like this, have you?

( and what, pray tell, is butcher attempting to pawn off onto a scrupulous merchant? )

Have a look at that barrel. That slide? Cocks like a lad of the night, it does. Here, have a listen:

( and then he cocks his gun. the gun he has. the gun he arrived with. the gun that showed up, totally devoid of bullets, making it little more than a mechnical paper weight for him. )

You, go on. ( you! yes, you! ) Tell this fine gentleman what a wonder this is. He'd be a fool to pass it by.

[boeric]

[ An elf in this city — this part of town — there are expectations. She doesn't fucking like them.

You, go on, and the tips of her ears twitch back; reveal attention, for all the stubborn gaze she keeps driving down toward a rack of wrought tongs. She isn't looking at him. The gun cocks: Metal and mechanism, and Sennara doesn't like this, but she loathes a missed opportunity. ]

Worthless, [ She clicks, tongue-tip through teeth. A step closer, reaching to tap the barrel. ] Clumsy. See? No guild-mark.

[ Whether or not he believes her, the merchant turns aside, already dubious for this odd and loud affair. He isn't in the habit of taking of assessments from Northern elves or madmen. Stretching to her toes — and unwilling to cede an inch of space — Sennara hisses under breath: ]

I show you who buys this.

rowena macleod ★ supernatural

[magike]

★ THE LIBRARY

( though she's opened portals to other universe's before it's the first time that rowena's actively been thrown through one herself, and given the magic that seemed to want to kill her she'd gotten proactive. she'd gone to the library to try and find accounts, reports of the magic in question, history of this world and the names of people she'd only half-understood, and grimoires or texts on the magic here.

it's a search that encompasses several days, rowena looking at history one day, magic another, or generally getting frustrated at the information (or lack of) that she finds.

which is definitely why it's easy to find her muttering complaints to herself, questioning how anyone finds anything or how useless some of the information is, and absolutely with some colourful curses thrown in )

★ LIBRARY II

( a task meant focus. she'd heard about an artifact, something that rowena knew nothing about but considering her own research was still a work in progress she'd offered to help a small group try and find information on it.

it was a magical artifact, at least that was what the little information that she had made her believe, trying to piece together where this old god artifact had last been seen and how they might be able to use it. except an important question certainly was-- )

Who exactly are the old gods?

( says the woman who puts zero stock in any god. she's met one, not a fan )

★ A TAVERN

( a witch couldn't research all the time. she'd needed a drink after (metaphorically) hitting her head against the wall yet again in her research, needing a change of scenery, something strong and other kinds of distraction.

except the first thing that she'd ordered hadn't been known, and after hearing something in return (the ale did not sound appealing) had signed )

What's the strongest drink you have?

Library 2

[succise]

(It is correct to try a Vint if you'd like to know more about the Old Gods, though not necessarily Vega, who barely looks up from the book that is perched in her lap. After turning a page, she gestures upward and around the both of them, swirling her fingers importantly.)

We are in a library.

(Rowena is free to interpret this as either a kinder way of saying 'keep your voice down' or 'try a book'.)

dash valor 𖤓 original character

[starfuckboy]

kirkwall → lowtown tavern (not the worst dive he’s been in)

[ The tavern smells like sour ale, damp stone, and someone’s truly heroic attempt at soup. Dash doesn’t mind. He’s been in worse dives—hell, he’s woken up in worse dives. The corner table’s his for now, boots kicked up on a bench, one hand curled around a drink that looks like it wants to be whiskey but definitely isn’t.

His anchor hand’s quiet for once, no glow, no hum—just a faint ache under the skin like it’s waiting for the next problem. Or maybe just a decent distraction. He’s dressed down tonight—jacket off, arms bare, collarbone glowing faint where his hybrid physiology throws off a little more heat than the average Lowtown drunk. ]

So, question. Is it just me, or does Kirkwall actually smell better after a darkspawn attack?

[ He grins lazily into his drink, eyes flicking up to whoever’s nearest. Stranger, friend, flirtation, or fellow Riftwatch misfit—he doesn’t seem picky. ]

Not complaining. Just—y’know. Adjusting. To the vibes. The whole "you're from another world, try not to die before last call" thing.

[ A beat. He raises his glass. ]

If you're buying, I promise I’m charming. If I’m buying, I might ask you to dance. Either way— You’re sitting down, right?

riftwatch comms → enchanted message book

→ entry marked: 11:47 PM, moonlit, probably still drunk
→ sender: Dash V. (yes, that one)

Okay, serious question:

If you’ve ever accidentally seduced a Tevinter noble while on a mission and possibly made them think you're royalty from your home dimension... is that, like, against protocol? Or just a fun Tuesday?

Follow-up: how do you gently back out of a romantic entanglement without sparking a political incident or duel?

...Asking for me. Obviously.

[ A pause. Ink trails off a little like he rested his head on the page for a beat. Then, a second scribbled line appears below. ]

Also:
If anyone’s got a bottle of something strong and an hour to kill, I’m bored enough to start writing bad poetry. Please help. Or flirt. I’m flexible.

tavern;

[dissolving]

"Uh,"

That's yours then, and a slug in the arm, and the skinny man at his side's vanished for the bar. This is Cedric's usual spot, set between the Alienage and Lowtown proper. A mix of ears, mostly faces he can put a name to. Trouble's rare, and Ollie sorts it, big bastard up front.

But there's a shard in his own hand like an old sliver, and there's a look that Rifters get about them: A bit in the clothes, plenty in the eyes. There's an accent didn’t crawl out of the Marches. So night off or not, if this is trouble, it's his trouble to mind.

"S'pose I'm buying then," Chantry is, anyway. Cedric sits, glancing over the top of an empty tankard. Not his first. "Y'won't die here. Better spots to get robbed."

Can't think he's got much worth stealing. Buying the drinks is getting ahead of empty pockets; take a guess whether the stranger's had pay yet.

Davy Jones ⚓ Original Character

[blacktideking]

ii. gate search
The Wilds aren’t trying to kill him today. That’s the best he can say for them.

Davy moves through the mist with the careful swagger of someone who knows how to look like he belongs anywhere, even here—hip-deep in mud, boots stained with rot, shadows writhing behind the trees like they’ve got teeth and opinions. The place hums low, old as anything he’s ever touched. But it isn’t singing for him. Not yet.

What he’s found is a half-sunken archway, choked in vine and moss, carved deep into a raised rise of earth that might once have been a temple—or a tomb, depending on how optimistic you are. The markings along the stone are old. Not just ancient. Wrong. They pull the eye like undertow, geometric and trembling beneath the touch. Not a Gate, no. But close. Something made to point the way.

“There you are,” Davy breathes, brushing mud from a spiral carved in blackened stone. “You’re not the door, but I’ll wager you’ve whispered to one.”

Behind him, the reeds shift. A splash—soft, then closer. Not alone.

He doesn’t look back. Not yet. Instead, he draws his hand away and flexes his fingers, the cutlass still sheathed at his side.

“If you’re Venatori, darling, do keep your monologue short. I’ve got very little patience and a great deal of steel.”

v. send a message
The blue crystal hums faintly against his chest. It’s warm—not unpleasantly so, but in that aware way that most enchanted objects tend to have when Davy doesn’t ask permission first. He turns it over in his fingers, watching the soft glow catch in the callouses of his palm. Curious little thing. Clever. A leash disguised as a gift.

He leans back in the battered chair he’s claimed in a half-abandoned study hall, boots kicked up on a table still cluttered with someone else’s maps. There’s a book open beside him, quill stabbed into the spine like it insulted someone’s mother. The message crystal dangles in one hand, and—because he can—he speaks into it, rich and lazy:

“This is the new one. Davy. I’ve been told this bauble can carry a voice across the void, which is either very useful or very alarming, depending on your bedtime reading.” A pause. Then:

“Anyway. If someone would be so kind as to confirm that this thing works I’d be ever so grateful.”

He gives it a moment, then adds with a grin audible in his tone:

“Also, does anyone want to meet me for a drink before the world ends again? I promise to behave terribly.”

v, message—brackets okay?

[aberratic]

[ the voice that responds is high and feminine, with a vaguely upper class english accent. ]

I took some weeks to acclimate to the crystals as well, but they have been more useful than alarming during my time here. There have been some issues with delayed messages recently, though, or messages not going to their intended recipients, so perhaps the alarm was merely delayed.

Hello, Messere Davy, your crystal works.

Jesse Pinkman | Breaking Bad

[yeahmagnets]

🧪II. GATE SEARCH - You ever get the feeling we're diggin' up stuff meant to stay buried?

Jesse hates the desert.

The sun is already halfway up, and his sweat-soaked shirt clings to his back like it’s trying to suffocate him. Sand grits between his teeth, in his fingerless gloves, in the hinge of every joint. The Western Approach isn’t just empty. It hums. It's like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for something nasty to crawl up from underneath and ruin his day. Again.

He crouches behind a half-buried statue, its face long eroded, eyes staring into nothing. Jesse swishes around a mouthful of lukewarm water, turning his head to spit it into the sand before he takes a fresh gulp. He squints up at the statue. “Yeah, bro. Same,” he mutters and drops his canteen back into his pack.

They’re close now. Too close. The Venatori scouting party had to have just come through this way. He found the fresh prints an hour ago, heading straight toward a sinkhole marked on the old map some mage back at The Gallows swore would lead to a buried temple. Another gate, supposedly. And he's out here, searching, like the last two didn’t nearly kill him.

There are others around, too; climbing the bluff or sorting gear. Jesse lifts his hand, the green glow of the anchor low but steady. Aching with anticipation. He sighs, standing and picking up his back again. “Welp, here's to hopin' this hole in the ground don’t get us all killed.”

He glances over his shoulder, shielding his eyes against the glare. “Hey. You see anything out there? ’Cause if not, it’s probably already seein’ us.”

---

🧪IV. KIRKWALL - City's alive, even when it's rotting

Lowtown never sleeps. Not really. It buzzes, somewhere between desperate and defiant, like it knows it should be buried in rubble by now but refuses to die out of sheer spite.

Jesse leans against the outer wall of the tavern, watching a street musician butcher a song with too much flute and not enough talent. "Yeah, bro. Real inspiring." He deadpans, raising his glass before sipping from it. He’s halfway through his third drink, the tang of cheap liquor burning in his throat. He came outside after losing two bets in a row in a dice game that he still doesn't understand how to play. The smell of wet stone and frying meat mixes in the air, and Jesse swears he can taste the city on his tongue.

He should be out hunting down parts for the latest gadget--a rift-sealing doohickey he only halfway understands--but somehow, this is where his feet took him. Because, of course, they did. Kirkwall: where everything’s a mess but somehow works anyway. Story of his life.

Jesse taps ash off the end of his rolled smoke and scans the street. The last time he was here, some Venatori bastard in a velvet coat tried to blow up a whole block just to get one of their people, so when someone brushes past him a little too close, he stiffens, sucking in a breath.

Then, he hears the clatter of dice, laughter from inside the tavern behind him, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. He relaxes again. For now. Jesse drains the rest of his drink and stares at the last few drops swirling in the bottom of the cup as he tilts it from side to side.

“You comin’ in?” he asks without looking up, sensing someone nearby and tossing the words into the night to see who answers. “First round’s on me if you promise you're not gonna blow anything up.”

---

🧪 V. SEND A MESSAGE - Mic check, one, two

He stares at the blue crystal suspiciously, like it might bite him, a scowl of discomfort on his face. It looks uncomfortably familiar. A remnant of a life that both feels like yesterday and twenty years ago.

“Yo. Uh. This thing on?” He speaks, a little too loudly, not sure how clear he has to be or how close to his mouth he has to hold the thing. Like someone who doesn't get how speakerphone works. The crystal glows and thrums with a light vibration. That's a good sign, right?

“So. It's Jesse, if you can hear me. I'm out here in the ass-end of nowhere, trying not to get murdered. Uh, again. If anyone gets this, tell Silas that the dumbass map he drew was upside-down or backwards or somethin'. Almost, uh, walked right into a Venatori camp disguised as a fuckin'--what d'you call it--a sheep thing? Or somethin'? Cow house? I dunno. Where they keep 'em. The animals.” He sighs, running a hand down his face.

“Also, if you're near the Gallows, tell Maeve or whatever-her-name-is that I totally did not break her staff on purpose. It was, like, possessed or some shit. Flame demons? You know the deal. Anyway. Still alive. For now. Not that anybody gives two shits. But if you do, and you wanna help a brotha figure out where the hell I am and how to get back to, like, town or something? Yeah, that'd be cool. You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, or whatever they say.” He doesn't know how to turn the thing off, so the rest is just rustling sounds and cursing under his breath.

---

🧪 VI. WILDCARD - Just 'cause the world's ending don't mean we gotta follow the script

Throw a scene starter my way! I'll fit Jesse into whatever you toss at me.

[ OOC Note; I'm completely canon-blind to Dragon Age, so be gentle with me if I get things wrong. I've been recommended to throw up some starters on this test-drive and see what sticks. Feel free to leave a comment if you want to tweak any of the scene starters. I'm pretty much up for anything with this guy. I will also match length and style. I'm fine with brackets or prose. Coming back from a long hiatus and itching to write :) ]

gates

[extortionate]

"Nope." He isn't looking. "Try being a smaller target."

Rumbles a man the size of an ox. Lazar's got the spyglass turned on the ass of their escort, already above them and climbing. Pretty little thing. The glass — must've cost a piece to make. Guide's not so pretty, but she's not so little either, and the steady pump of thighs upward is a sight for sore eyes. He finally glances back as she turns, flips him the bird.

"You want this?"

Ready to toss the glass his way. Above them both, something shifts in the cliff wall.

Ea Lowkey | Baldur's Gate 3 (malleable protag) | Rifter

[infernaling]

a. crystal

[ It's a low, dry sort of voice, but distinctively feminine. The accent is identifiably Not From Around These Parts. There's a bit of a drawl. ]

Absolutely wild that these things are not limited to 25 words or less - feels like I'm cheating every time. I hope everyone knows to be grateful for how good you've got it.

[ There is here a small pause; she's aware that some people use the crystals as a way of making introductions. As a Rifter (weird name but okay), she imagines she'd be expected to make similar introductions herself, but... Well. Either they'll realise her voice is new or they won't. ]

Of course, I reckon not everyone's familiar with the limitations of Sending, eh?

b. gate search

The setting is familiar: an assignment to find a Gate before the Venatori do ends with a confrontation. Daggers are whisked out of boots and from up sleeves, sent flinging at clever enemies. Blades gets traded for arrows just as easily, by a woman who seems to have no issue with fighting dirty and doing a fair share of backstabbing. The victory belongs to your group, this time, though it is fairly possible this is because of the foes being only a part of the group Corypheus sent to the Korcari Wilds to search for the Gate.

Nevertheless. There's maybe a moment of pause at the end of it, once the last Venatori has fallen, where you might think that it's time to get going - carry on the chase. Ea, however, is built different.

"What, you're not even going to try to look through their pockets?" Coming from the lithe-looking qunari woman half crouched over one dead Venatori's body, her hand inside the front left pocket of their robes already.

Riftwatch has a thing or two to learn about looting properly, gods almighty. "I'll be quick - oh hey, look." She pulls out a vial of lyrium. Shakes it. "This is useful shit, right?"

c. lowtown

She's still in the early days of being out of quarantine, and being in Thedas at all. From time to time, she'll catch her reflection in a window or a mirror and startle at the lack of a tail - fuck, she misses her tail - which is only the start of her physiological differences now. The horns have remained the same, though, as well as her unnaturally coloured hair and eyes, so at least she can still recognise herself most days. And at least the tadpole is no longer squirming, as though finally far enough away from whatever illithids were controlling it to no longer be a concern. (Is it gross that there's basically a brainworm wiggling in her head? Don't worry about it.)

She has had time to think about the state of things, and she is nothing if not adaptable. Her new friends from the nautiloid will just have to do well, and continue to do well without her; she can only hope, because everything she's read and heard about this predicament spells that it's pretty damn permanent.

She's had time, but there's still moments when Thedas - or rather Kirkwall - manages to take her by surprise. Here in the slums, while on an idle walk, she sees a child sitting by a dilapidated wall with a plate set down in front of them. If you spot her, it goes like this:

Ea fishes inside her pocket for a coin, which she drops only the child's plate. The child cowers at the sight of the tall qunari woman looming over him, letting out a whimper. "Ah," she says, as the dots are connected in her-but-not-quite-her head. She straightens up, holds both hands up to prove she's no threat, and says the familiar words: "Not a demon."

Then she starts walking again before the child can figure out she left them a whole sovereign.

d. gallows

Nevermind the library, the common dining area is where you can make connections. She's still new enough to be interesting, and if the vaguely human-hue of her skin, the pointy horns, and odd eyes don't draw your attention, then the fact that she's found (see: procured via five finger discount) a deck of cards might.

She's shuffling those cards very cleverly, putting on a bit of a show. Or proving something to herself. Still got it.

"Well? I assure you, it's easier to stare if you sit down and play."

[ ooc: Ea is what one would call a 'Tav', but she has her fair share of background story from before the events of BG3 by dint of having been a D&D OC before. I could wax poetics all day so I'll keep it down to the basics: tiefling in Faerun, but dropped out of the Fade as a qunari in Thedas; she's a skilled arcane trickster rogue, but given the weird half-caster nature of the arcane trickster, I'll be reskinning her as just a rogue; her background is criminal, but she tends to take a very Robin Hood approach to crime. I'll bring her in from the beginning of Act 2, and if you're curious about all she's done in Act 1, see here. ]

a; to start

[aberratic]

And you don't even have to cast a spell, or anything! They just do it, over and over, no effort or magical talent required! It's extraordinary, I could hardly get used to them at first!

[ someone's excited to hear a recognizable spell name, bless her— ]

the iron bull | dragon age

[ataash]

I. THE FREE MARCHES WITH BAD PANTS

"Shitting me—"

It's not that the man has one pair of pants, the Iron Bull isn't a degenerate. He has two pairs of pants. This one has a ragged tear down the back of his thigh, on his blind side. Might ride up to his belt by the sting of it, but a tight rotator cuff and a low leather plate that safeguards the center makes it tough to paw at. Unfortunately the edges of that plate run just up that tear to that belt. Catches it the wrong way, smooth sailing for a blade. When the heart pumping in the ears dies down, the barreling rush that just makes him hit harder, he finds the nicks and gouges. Usually they're not so precise with the chinks. Usually go for the broad bits. Tits are right there. "Fuck me."

Not a combo sale. Louder, "Someone check my ass?"

A booming request over the sound of dwindling fire crackle and complaints from Vint deathbeds and victors. On his good eye's periphery, he jabs a finger at a fast approaching Charger. Bull is taking this too seriously to be fucked with right now. Wall to wall degenerates, all of them, but his all time favorite guys. Trust them with his life, not his ass. Feels trickly. Bloody. Might be in his head, but once it's in the head.

"Not you. You were too quick on the draw."

Someone sell a pinch of professionalism to be appraising a wound. Or just don't be that guy.

II. READING RAINBOW

"Reading over folk's shoulders, pretty shitty habit." This one is on him for not putting his back to a wall, but a calculated risk. Not as if he's hunched over the paper with quick glances.

"Especially when you're on the wrong side."

Come on, he has a gaping weak spot. He put a shiny thing on it. He winks at people with it. Stay in the blind corner and brush your teeth and at best he might hear you. Misleading odds in the way of good, but teensily better odds. If one is rolling the dice with what the Iron Bull knows or doesn't know. He'd say, not good to act too vigilant, but keeping the curious on their toes makes people squirrelly. Squirrelly people make squirrelly noises when they try it on his bad side later. Get 'em with the double whammy. Makes people wary of the bad side too.

Squirrelly. "Could be reading dirty letters." Dirty letters that look on closer inspection like a tax complaint.

"Someone else's dirty letters." What an asshole they'd be for reading over his shoulder while he is reading someone's laundry. People have surely been pitched out bar windows for less. The note stays where it is, wide open, only lowering when he turns his head. A little farther when he reads something not on page.

"What's the face— you need to talk?"

III. WILDCARD

wreck him, idk. hit him with your car.

II, change stuff around however you want im easy

[boeric]

She's on the wrong side. He's right about why: Standing in a blind spot is a bad way to be seen. A good one to be stabbed —

"Yes." They need to talk. She speaks Trade when they're in company, accent mangled of it. But they're alone now. In Qunlat, "Hissrad, we need a decision."

Bull, among Riftwatch; as she is Sennara there. Less foreign to the Southern ear. She plucks a letter opener from the desk, and scrapes it along the wall, feeling for a catch. Antiva's all secret passages and schemes.

But the servants are gone, the mistress and the bodyguard too. Simone Palmio is dead broke, poured all his capital into lucrative Tevene trade, until last year the king declared war. The profiteer's ships never turned back from Qarinus. His goods were seized in port. His estates have been steadily repossessed, save this narrow city house, and he's pled for Riftwatch's protection in the only currency he still owns. Information. The names of collaborators, the details of occult ritual.

None of it's surfaced.

"Half of this city wants to kill him," Creditors. Lovers. Small elves, standing here in this room right now. "We need to choose who."

Antoine | DAV (happy to use prose or brackets, I'll follow you)

[wontknowwhen]

I. Rift and/or Aftermath

Riftwatch agents have plenty of reason to be wary of someone, at a glance, wearing Warden gear. But if the agent takes a second glance, it will be obvious that the gear is much-mended, without the shiny luster that Venatori-controlled Weisshaupt favors.

It is also possible that there will be time to sort that out later, after the demons have been dealt with. There are quite a few of them at this particular rift, mostly rage, and it may be a surprise that the slender elf holds his own so ably. While he mostly relies on his bow, a bomb or two grants him flexibility.

Once all is calm and the rift is sealed, he says, "Thank you for the assistance," the Orlesian accent marked. He makes his way over, almost a little jog, and says, "I have seen the effects of these rifts before, but I admit, it gets your attention to have one open over your head!" He has a slight graze to his left arm, but he doesn't seem to have noticed it.

II. Kirkwall

"No, I am telling you, I need rope that specifically will catch on fire. I know it is an unusual request, but surely if you cannot supply it, you can suggest someone else who might?" Antoine cannot be said to be arguing with the merchant in the stall before him, because his voice is still pleasant and genuine. He seems to truly believe the gruff man simply doesn't understand, and that when he does understand, he will certainly help.

When a Riftwatch agent catches his eye, Antoine turns and says, "Ah, look. Maybe you can help me. It seems like all the rope in Kirkwall has been made fire-proof, but it cannot be all of it, surely?" The merchant may hope he is being let off the hook, but it is probably not that simple.

III. Sending Crystal

Hello, Riftwatch!

[Aside, as if to someone else present:] This is an ingenious device, is it not? So convenient!

[If the other person responds, it isn't immediately audible. When he resumes, it's clearly to the network again:] I hear you have a griffon eyrie. I was wondering if you would allow us to take a look. Supervised, of course; I understand we are new arrivals. And if not, would you tell us of them? I've heard only the legends.

IV. Wildcard

[Hit me. (But not him, look at his face.)]

2. Kirkwall

[corpsestuff]

Emmrich smiles politely at the elf until the words register and the smile slips into a little confusion. He tilts his head, and the small person slightly behind him tilts his own head to match. The little being's shape is heavily obscured thanks to a hooded robe, gloves, and boots, hiding basically everything except for what looked like slightly glowing spectacles.

"You want rope that will catch on fire? Doesn't that rather defeat the purpose of having rope?" There's obviously a reason for the request. The issue is if the reason is reasonable, or if he's meeting someone like the one student who suggested catapulting temporarily possessed skeletons into dangerous situations was safe and tactical.

steve rogers | mcu

[paramus]

(ooc: despite appearances, steve's canon point is pre-infinity war! i'm taking advantage of dream humanization to make him skinny again, at least for the tdm.)

i. the archives

Much like the Retreat was back when he first woke up, quarantine is useful for getting brought quickly up to speed on the basics of his new world. Steve is as attentive and diligent about learning Thedas as he was the 21st century, and Riftwatch is doing the best they can to provide him with the information he needs, but he knows from experience: the basics aren't enough to help someone settle into a change like this. It's not Riftwatch's fault they can't offer a more comprehensive education—they're so small, and they're not throwing around any kind of Stark money—but that just means the rest is up to Steve.

That's alright, he's old hat at this by now.

In the Archives, he peers at the shelves, then down at the list in his hands, then back to the shelves. He squints. Frowns.

"Damn, I miss the internet," he sighs under his breath, and looks up at the sound of footsteps.

"Pardon me, do you know if I can find—" one last look to make sure he's got the title right, then a dubious tone, "Hard in Hightown here?"

He's getting ahead of the pop culture bs this time, damnit.

ii. the rookery

Good morning, Riftwatch. My name is Steve Rogers, I'm a recent arrival. I got the basic rundown on the situation here in quarantine: what we're fighting, who the major players are, how not to make an ass out of myself—and I'm grateful for that. This would all be a lot harder if I was left to search all those answers out on my own. Now I'm cleared to leave the Gallows, I'd like to know more than the basics.

I've got a list of things to look up, events and people and pop culture that I gotta catch up on. It's pretty short right now, so—got any suggestions for me? Nothing's too mundane, promise.

Also, since it seems like I might not be the first—if the Avengers Initiative means anything to you, I'd like to talk.

Thanks for your time.

iii. the training yard

Of all the weapons Steve's trained with—a frankly ridiculous number, honestly, between the SSR and Bucky and then Nat and SHIELD—no one's ever slapped a sword in his hand before. When he'd been asked if he could fight, and if yes what with, he'd mentioned the shield, and the outfitter had just assumed that and also a sword was implied in that sentence, and dropped one of each in his hands, without giving him a chance to clarify. He'd considered giving it back anyway, but, well. The shield doesn't feel right at the moment, and he's not about to fight wizards and orcs (or close enough to) without some kind of weapon, so...

In the training yard he hefts the sword in his hand, considers the weight of it, the balance, the reach. It doesn't take long for him to set it aside. He's used to combat knives, if he has to use a bladed weapon, and the length of a sword feels almost restrictive in comparison. He'll see about getting a knife or a dagger instead.

The shield the outfitter gave him isn't as big as Howard's shield, and Steve can immediately tell that this metal is not strong or absorbent enough to be flung around in the same way as vibranium. Still, a shield is a shield—he sticks his hand through the grips and approaches one of the other fighters in the training yard.

"Mind a sparring partner?"

iv. docktown

The op they have him on now is, in theory, fairly simple: escort another agent through Docktown, make contact with an informant, leave an update at a drop-off, then make their way back to the eluvian without drawing any Venatori attention. It's the kind of thing Natasha would drily insist is a milk run, Rogers, a baby spy could do this. She'd probably be right, even here—spy business can't be that different, world to world, they just have fewer gadgets here—

except in Tevinter, they keep slaves, and Steve is finding that a very difficult thing to ignore.

He and the agent he's escorting walk at a purposeful but relaxed pace through the streets of Docktown, which gives Steve plenty of time to notice. There are panhandlers on nearly every street corner, largely ignored by passers-by. Four elves carry a lazing human by on a litter, sweat wicking their brows. Two harried-looking humans speed-walk down the street, snapping at each other in tense conversation, and the sun glints off the collars around their necks. Criers announce an auction of some dead magister's estate, to include all his slaves.

Steve's jaw is clenched so hard he can hear his teeth grinding. His hands are balled into fists at his side so tight it almost hurts. If he looks around for too long he's going to do something that would earn him a very tired lecture from Natasha about timing and doing more harm than good.

"Where are we supposed to meet your friend?" he asks the agent walking with him, voice almost a growl.

ii.

[portalling]

[ Normally Stephen might have headed this off at the pass, but the thing is, he’s been busy lately. Being Head Healer means he spends more of his time in the infirmary or his personal office these days, and less of it popping into the library to recognise and scoop up wayward rifters. So he misses the fact that Steven G. Rogers has arrived, until he hears a new voice over the crystal and those two very familiar words finally make him tune in: Avengers Initiative. ]

Oh, lord. Which one of you came through this time?

[ The tone is faux-exasperated, but beneath it: a faint thrill of actual delight, straightening in his seat and leaning closer to the crystal, eager to hear more. Home. A piece of home, if he could just grasp it with both hands. ]