TEST DRIVE MEME!

[faderifting]

Guess.

go on, guess.

Maybe the Inquisition sent you, maybe you came seeking the Inquisition. Maybe you fell out of a rift into this world last week and are still just trying to find your feet. However it happened, early fall finds you in the Hinterlands. Tucked between Ferelden's massive Lake Calenhad and the icy Frostback Mountains, the Hinterlands are a hilly region covered in patchy forests and small farms trying to eke out a living between the boulders. Though somewhat remote, the area is rich with game and minerals and home to Redcliffe, a bustling town on a busy trade route.

Lately the Hinterlands have also been full of mages and templars and rifts, all threatening to turn once-peaceful countryside into a dangerous warzone. The Inquisition has set up several camps and sent personnel to restore order to the region, unwilling to let it slip into chaos. There's a lot to be done, some of it straightforward killing bad things, some of it weird and nebulous morale-building.

1. BEARIED ALIVE

You have turned the wrong corner, forded the wrong stream, crested the wrong hill, entered the wrong cave. Maybe you are far from camp. Maybe you are in camp. Whatever has happened, wherever you are: you are being chased by bears. Did you provoke the bears? Are they huge? Babies? Fade-touched? Mage-controlled? What are they chasing you away from? What are they chasing you into? What do you plan to make out of their hide if you kill them? What do you think they'll craft out of your hide if they kill you?

2. NICE PLACE FOR A SPOT OF CAMPING

If there were an inn, which there's not, there wouldn't be room for you in it. Traveling with the Inquisition means carrying your own bedrolls, putting up your own tents, and sleeping alongside whoever you've been told to share with--no matter how much you hate them or how loud they snore. If you really can't stand it, the alternative is sleeping outside. On the ground. With the bears.

3. A BIG CRAZY LIGHT IN THE SKY

Not everyone thinks the Breach was a bad thing. In the southeastern mountains, a burgeoning cult has taken up residence in Winterwatch Tower to wait patiently for the Maker to reach through the tears in the veil and gather the faithful to his bosom. They're a little kooky, maybe, but harmless, and they're happy enough to share their wine and lager with travelers in the area. The demon-spewing rift behind the Tower, on the other hand... Too bad the Herald didn't close that thing before she bit it. Watch your step.

4. TROUBLE IN THE DEEP

The Carta is everywhere, but it's here in force, occupying dwarven ruins in a chasm behind a waterfall. Inquisition forces have already cleared most of the smugglers out of the hold, but there's still a vault to break into, bodies to loot, and old texts to search through for anything worth adding to the Inquisition's growing archives. Also: darkspawn. Sorry.

5. CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE

Hunt game, kill demons, gather herbs, track bandits, haggle over the price of armor, fall off a deceptively tall rock, get lost circling the same hill ten times trying to find a way up to the weird glowing skull on a stick you can see is up there, climb trees or abandoned towers, rummage around in empty homes, run from a dragon, cry over how cute that fennec fox you just shot was, set up camp and chat around the fire, knock yourself out (figuratively, or even literally if that's more your speed)-- the Hinterlands are your Frostback Mountain oyster.

Comments

[thetyrant]

"Tell me who you are!" Logan insisted, his hand white-knuckle tight around the grip of his sword. He was half-wild, a kind of unfocussed look in his eyes, and he was sweating, despite the comfortably moderate temperature. His voice was steady and clear, though. "I am the king of Albion and I demand to know what is going on!" It didn't occur to him that pulling rank may not be the best solution. It was the only thing he could currently think to do, his thoughts a mess of darkness and panic and cold, oozing sludge.

[rowancrowned]

"Thranduil," he allows, and really, there has to be someone better suited to dealing with a madman than himself. Cassandra, perhaps, but she's nowhere to be found when her fancy title might be waved around to do a bit of good.

(Personal bias.)

"We are not in Albion." Not the best thing to say, but from personal experience, anyone bandying about a title usually doesn't deserve it. "Sheathe your sword. Waving it about is more likely a way to get an arrow in you than to intimidate anything." After the demons, the archers have itchy fingers.

[thetyrant]

Logan at least stopped moving and lowered his sword a little -- low enough that he probably wasn't going to attack with it, but high enough that he could still bring it up to defend himself if needed.

"Where are we, then?" he asked, voice still sharp, but he was starting to calm down a little. He was working hard to contain himself, even though it didn't outwardly show.

[rowancrowned]

He was faster, if it mattered- and he did hope it wouldn't- he had his reputation to protect, and there was no chance that a situation like this would be spun in his favor once word came back to Skyhold.

"Thedas. You have come from your home to this one through a tear in the fabric of what is." None of this is particularly calming, he knows that, but this one, this man- he is already near-unhinged, the quick and jumpy movements more suited to a sparrow, or a mouse- Thranduil isn't responsible for him.

[thetyrant]

Logan took a moment to process this, his expression shutting down into something cool and neutral, a little imperious. He took a few measured breaths, then decided there was probably little risk of immediate death -- the sun was shining, and it was comfortably temperate. He sheathed his sword and ran his right hand over his hair, though the left stayed clenched tight on the grip of his sword.

"Forgive me," he began. "I...This is rather startling," he said. He was still jumpy, but more or less under control for the moment.

[rowancrowned]

Good.

Thranduil inclines his head, not quite shifting into a pleasant mood, and sheathes his own sword. "'Tis understandable." The violent shock of no longer being where you were to suddenly being here- it had provoked worst reactions, and this Man had stepped down before any real harm could be done.

"Now that you are more yourself- come to the camp. A healer ought to see to you." And possibly treat him for shock.

[thetyrant]

"Yes, that..." Logan was still skittish as hell, more than most new rifters, but he took measured steps toward Thranduil. "I'm unhurt," he started over. "But that might be wise, all the same." Another soldier standing near reached out to pat Logan on the shoulder or something, some harmless touch, and it was only with monumental self-control that the flinch he gave was small.