the stewards (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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agentleooc2019-01-03 11:30 am
thestewards) wrote in agentleooc2019-01-03 11:30 am
test drive 01
So you can feel stronger, you can know peace
► All TDM threads may be considered canon provided both parties agree and are accepted into the game.
► Canon threads may be redeemed for influence and reputation, depending on how you solve the issue at hand or how you engage with the prompt.
► Feel free to switch up your character's Jewel from thread to thread. Get a feel for how a Birthright Jewel may limit or enchance your character's abilities.
► Canon threads may be redeemed for influence and reputation, depending on how you solve the issue at hand or how you engage with the prompt.
► Feel free to switch up your character's Jewel from thread to thread. Get a feel for how a Birthright Jewel may limit or enchance your character's abilities.
GOOD MORNING, DRAEGA
The psychic summons comes with the first light of dawn, waking you from a dream of home. It takes you a minute to remember where you are (a warm, comfortable room in Queen Fayura's residence) and then a moment longer to parse the words.
*Your presence is requested in the training field behind the Queen's Residence. You have ten minutes to get your ass out of bed on your own, or ten minutes to decide you want to be up to your neck in ice-cold mountain water. Your choice.* Gray power flavors the voice. Ah, you recognize that psychic touch. Allairavar, the Master of the Guard.
You remember, too, that he warned the household at last night's supper: if you live in the Queen's Residence, you practice with the Queen's court. You…
i. Drag yourself out of bed with an aching groan, dress with the bleary-eyed confusion of one too suddenly forced awake, and amble onto the training field to avoid the promise of a much more shocking wake up call. Or maybe you make your way quickly with a skip in your step and a twinkle in your eye. You haven't realized yet that Allairavar does not like morning people. Even so, you don't want to get dunked in ice water in the middle of winter.
ii. Roll over and go back to sleep. The Master of the Guard isn't really going to carry through with his threat. In your defense, he doesn't. But one of the First Circle does. You're not sure how you got from your room to a large barrel full of water that could freeze open flame, but here you are, soaked and shivering and very much awake.
Regardless of how you get to the training field, Allairavar pairs you with another Stranger and puts you through your paces. It's barely above freezing, but you're going to need a shower when you're done.
BUILD BETTER BOMBS
There are three rows of four tables set up in the Tinker Guild Hall's auditorium, all heavy laden with materials. Bits of wires, buttons both small and large, ticking clocks. A tank full of goldfish. Sand, canisters of gasses, a strange viscous liquid in a bowl of lead.
"Handle that with gloves," Master Tinker Mari warns you with a wink and a grin. "The bowl, I mean. Don't handle the liquid or you'll lose your hand." She waves her hands at you.
This is supposed to be a crash course in bomb making, and in a way it is. Master Tinker Mari crashes into person after person, pushing them into pairs. She shoves someone up to you. "Blow my mind!" she whispers dramatically, and then she vaults the table, making something in a vial smoke, bubble, and pop.
Around the edge of the auditorium are four chalkboards, each with several diagrams on them. Presumably, these are schematics for you to follow. Smoke bombs, flour bombs. Fireworks and sparklers. Water bombs—maybe she means water balloons? One schematic requires a hamster wheel.
You might as well give it a go.
Note: Master Tinker Mari won't let anyone blow themselves up (or blow up the building). In the event Strangers make something truly dangerous and not just inconvenient, she will hurry over with a much more serious demeanor and disarm the bomb they've created with a suggestion that they take her advanced course.
CHARITY IS AS CHARITY DOES
You were sent here to help, so help you have: by letting the Ebon Council auction off three hours of your time and the power in your Jewels to help with local troubles. Maybe someone's cold box has lost its cooling spell—that's basic Craft and you can help with that—or maybe someone needs you to fetch their cat down from a tree. Whatever it is, you're here to take care of it.
The stage you stand on creaks beneath your feet as a polite older witch bids on you and your partner (the Ebon Council would never let you work alone, no, the landens are too dangerous for you to be out on your own!) with three jars of pear preserves. No money exchanges hands here, just items like non-perishable foods and handmade clothing or blankets.
You'll help the little old witch who needs some rocks moved from the fields just outside Draega's walls, but it occurs to you that only the Blood were at this auction, and only they will reap the rewards. That's hardly charity… but that's also not your problem, is it? Maybe it is. You could always ask that landen couple hovering just to the side of the stage what they need (their roof is leaking, and the man's right hand is crippled, twisted into a rigid claw). Or maybe you won't. They don't have anything to offer, and everything has a price, even your time.
HIT AND RUN
Chill winter air doesn't keep anyone inside in Draega. Stalls line the streets of the Old Town Bazaar, and vendors hawk their curious wares. Blood and landen mingle here, each a little wary of the other but with the affect of those who have accepted they must live alongside their enemy. Expressions are shuttered, but marks are marks no matter who hands them over. No shopkeeper denies a customer just because the money comes from someone they don't like, not in times like these.
As you make your way through the Bazaar, perhaps in search of something or someone or a place to eat (the scent of meat pies is thick in the air), you hear a shout and a cry of pain. People peel back as one, revealing a group of young landen men carrying clubs and wearing cruel sneers. At their feet, a young boy sprawls across a puppy in the muddy slush that covers the road.
You catch the flavor of his psychic scent: he's half-Blood, one of those pitiable creatures accepted by neither the Blood or the landens.
"Y-you can't hurt him!" the little boy cries, curling around the puppy. "P-Prince Verim will stop you!"
The young men laugh. "Prince Verim isn't here," one spits, raising his club.
You could step back. After all, this isn't your problem. You could just alert the First Circle and call it done; they patrol the area, one of those males will surely be here soon. Or you could step in. Everything has a price, and the price of attacking a helpless child and a puppy is a tussle with you.
WALKIE-TALKIE
Catch up with a new acquaintance you met at the Queen's Residence or simply pause to listen to the news playing in a store you're passing through. Far-casters come in all shapes and sizes, from the held-held device that's a bit clunky to the radios that stand at a man's height in some restaurants. If you're spinning the dial and listening to some radio programs, you'll hear…
etiquette with evandra and aren.
[A woman's voice leads. It's a little bit rough and a little bit husky, the kind of voice that gives bad ideas to young men and headaches to fathers.] …just as well. Since you don't want to die for offending a Warlord Prince's lady, what do you do, Lord Aren?
[A man's voice, chipper and bright. He sounds more like an eager boy than the full-grown man he is.] Apologize immediately to her, but meet his gaze so he knows the apology is for him as well. Remember, dear listeners: a Warlord Prince's lady may be all that stands between you and a violent end. Make sure she likes you!
[The woman laughs.] Or at least doesn't think killing you is worth the trouble. If we all learn a little more about each other, we can learn to live together. As always, I'm Evandra.
[With great gusto, Lord Aren says:] I'm Aren, and you've been listening to…
[Together:] Etiquette with Evandra and Aren! [Jaunty outro music plays, a complete tonal dissonance with the fact that the two were just educating landens on how to avoid murder.]
the weather
[A soft-spoken man's voice rumbles out of the Far-caster. He's pleasant to listen to, with a soothing cadence to his voice.] …rain tomorrow with overcast skies through the morning and afternoon. Landen weather devices indicate a decrease in sky-pressure, so those of you who suffer from migraines may want to talk to your Healers or Medicos now.
There's possibility of snow later in the week from the northwest. Questions about snow removal? Reach out to your local Transport Guild rep or your Ebon Council chairperson.
the news
…Blood family of four found murdered in their homes. The Queen's Court assures Draega that no payment for the murders is being asked for at this time. [The man speaks at a brisk pace, hurried and harried as though he has too much to say and not enough time to say it.]
That's right, Garret. [Another man, nasally in tone. He doesn't sound rushed so much as put upon.] Preliminary investigations do indicate the Hunter Guild may be responsible for the deaths.
[Garret:] Indeed they do, Wilt. Evidence at the scene supports the use of Breakers on the family. Turning now from the grisly murder to the surprising way the Queen's Winsol gift to the city is being used to benefit both Blood and landens.
sorta wildcarding, sorta fortune tellering, you know, as you do
She's had plenty of people around, sure. But the problem with strangers is you can't trust a single fucking one of them, and she really needs the Mighty Nein on her side if she can hope to make her way in any world, let alone an unfamiliar one.
However, that's not quite what she's thinking when she hears those words in that lilting, somewhat familiar tone address the unfortunate passerby who has stopped to look in surprise at the man addressing them. Addressing a person who also happens to be the person whom Nott is currently trying to cut the buttons from the back of their coat with a table knife. And while they stop in their tracks in momentary confusion, Nott's immediate reaction, after blinking a couple times and going through about six or nine or twelve stages of grief in the span of a few milliseconds, is to shove the person as hard as she can out of the way.
Taken by surprise, the stranger stumbles, and Nott sees a person she has not seen in months. Not since burying him by the road he died on, using that technicolor coat he wears as his gravemarker.
She stares at him, shell-shocked, and the first thing she says to Mollymauk since she saw that giant glaive pierce his chest months ago is,]
WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING HERE!?
[The stranger, sensing immediate problems if they actually try to get their fortune told, takes the sensible solution to an awkward situation and just books it out of there, leaving a little, hooded goblin girl to gawk publicly at a bright purple peacocking tiefling in the middle of this tavern. If Nott were fully in her capacities, she might be very aware of the fact that a few people seem to be giving them curious glances due to her outburst, but they are in a tavern and she is Nott the Brave. Naturally, she's at least a little tipsy.]
i'm crying.
Nott?! [And then:] What the fuck do you think I'm doing here? Trying to... run... something. [He almost said something vaguely incriminating about what he was trying to do- fish for information and maybe con a few folks- but all eyes are on them now, and that's dangerous.] I would've brought you in, but I didn't know you were here.
[Molly is also pointedly avoiding the dead triceratops in the room. He knows the last time Nott would have seen him, he was being stabbed to death on a road during that ill-fated raid, and that for him this is basically his fucking afterlife. And-
And then his face journey finds another path- deep-rooted despair. He doesn't know how it all ended at all, does he? Did Nott die too? Are any of them left alive? He grips the edge of the table and swallows a sudden surge of bile.]
shows up 15 days late with starbucks like sup
So when he reacts... a little too normally, immediately she realizes she has absolutely no idea if he even remembers dying or not. Then she realizes she has absolutely no idea how he could be here, alive, now. Then she realizes that even if he did remember dying, there would be no way he'd be truthful about it. He always took issue with even addressing inconvenient truths.
She squints her eyes at him, trying to will the truth out of a historically stubborn conman, removing her mask almost as an afterthought, almost as encouragement.
And then she realizes... Gods, it's been months. The Mighty Nein has been the Mighty Nein without him longer than it had ever been with him.
And that's about when he makes that awful face. For a professional liar, he's awfully bad at being convincing. Nott sobers slightly and, rather than doubling down on her initially incredulous reaction, starts to fidget with her claws.]
I... That's not what I meant. Uh... Did you... get our letter?
[She has noticed that he seems to recognize her. Which is... already an immense relief. One even larger than just the vision of him sitting in a bar, playing with his cards like nothing happened. Because who knows who that guy is until he proves he's still Mollymauk?
He's had a history with such things, you see.]
i'm still gonna tag this because i can
[His tail twitches underneath his chair like Frumpkin's might do when the familiar is uncertain about something, and he tries to connect the dots on this. If they wrote some letter, then they must have survived, because that seems like a shitty thing to do when you're about to die. "Here Molly, just in case you pop up out of the ground like a daisy again, we're all dead. Sorry, man."
So that's one mystery cleared. The rest he's still sorting out. You can almost see the algebra woman meme in his facial expressions. When the answer comes- or at least, an answer, he barks an incredulous laugh.] ... Did you people seriously pin a note to my corpse?
[Well, at least someone can laugh about it. If he doesn't laugh, he'll panic.]