Entry tags:

tdms

JANUARY 2019 TEST DRIVE

JANUARY 2019 TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to January’s Test Drive Meme! This month's Test Drive's theme is: NEW YEAR'S.

All Test Drive Memes contain at least one clue to the Deerington's upcoming in-game events for the month! Keep your eyes peeled! But...not literally.

Characters may die during TDMs, but you do not need to count it towards a game-canonical death unless you want to. Consider it a freebie. All TDMs can be considered game canon as TDMs introduce minor aspects about the world of Deerington that can be revisited by characters later on in the game. You may also use TDMs for your application writing sample as well as AC.

CW: Mind alteration, alcohol, options for self-harm, knife violence.

Don't forget to tag content whenever necessary. Have fun!

Prompt One
Prompt Two
Character Arrival
Master Navigation

YOU BETTER GET THIS PARTY STARTED

It's party night at the Grady Hotel and the hosts are pulling out all the stops. Champagne, funny hats, pictures, great music, and a wonderful countdown clock that let's everyone know just how much closer they're getting to the end of what has probably been a pretty crazy year for everyone. The glasses never seem to empty themselves and the citizens serving them out to people seem to be making extra sure that everyone has one for themselves. Regardless of whether or not you usually like champagne, anyone with a glass in their hands will eventually be tempted to take a sip, especially the closer it gets to midnight - the bubbles make you giggly, friendly, talkative in a way that you may never have been before. It lifts up just about anyone's spirits, no matter how rough of a time they've had before (or during their time in) Deerington. It doesn't seem to get you drunk, no matter how much you drink, but it definitely makes you more euphoric. Enough so that you might start to think you can do anything; tell someone how you really feel about them, compliment whoever you've had your eye on all night and see if they want to spend more time together, make up with someone you've been fighting with lately, do a magic trick you never were able to master, or even something as drastic as fly when you know you can't. Hopefully you start off trying to jump from a chair, but there is definitely roof access for those who are a little more daring - maybe someone a little more sober will have the wherewithal to stop you before it's too late.

There is also plenty of entertainment happening in various parts of the room. A table with beer pong for the adults who never outgrew their college days, a dart board, card games in the back, and a game called Guess the Candy for those who want to test their sweet tooth. Anyone who wins a round of any game will get rewarded with a small gift from home (no bigger than a toaster). Unfortunately will disappear once you leave the party, so make sure to enjoy it while you can.

The dance floor is also lively, the music upbeat and easy to move to no matter what your personal tastes might be. If you want a random dancing partner, take a dance card! Each one has a random, glowing number on it and it's your goal to find the person who matches. Once you do, no matter who it is, you'll find yourself literally stuck together (hopefully just by your hands, but it can be any body part) and will have to go through an entire dance (or maybe even two) with them before you come unstuck.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Everyone starts to gather around the countdown clock as it nears midnight, and when it's down to ten seconds, obviously you've got to start counting too! Everyone seems to be having such a good time as they shout out each number (10! 9! 8!) and you might not even notice the way some of the people around you have started to get a little... twitchy? (7! 6! 5!) Or the way some are starting to get more handsy, pushing themselves up close to whomever is beside them. (4! 3! 2!) And it isn't until they all shout 1! in unison that the room seems to shift in two very different moods.

If you're lucky, the person next to you will just have the urge to kiss you - and you might even have the urge to kiss them back! After all, sharing a kiss at midnight is supposed to bring you good luck for the rest of the year. And with the way everyone else is starting to act, you might need it. For some, the urge to kiss might be stronger than just a chaste peck. For those who find themselves wanting to get a little more intense, it might be best to try to sneak out the back and head back to your place. The moment you step outside into the cold air, though, the urges seem to disappear - unless, of course, you were in the mood all on your own.

If you're unlucky, there's a murderous rage that runs through you, and there seems to be a table of weapons near by to help encourage a messy time. Various knives, swords, machetes, and other blades are laid out, enough for almost everyone. You might find yourself driven to plunge your weapon into the closest person, or maybe someone you've hated for a long time, and even more - maybe someone you've loved. Whoever it is, the image of their face will be burned into your mind and you'll do everything you can to try and make them bleed. Hopefully they can fight for their life - or at least evade your attacks until they can trick you into going outside. Like the desire for love, the desire for murder will also disappear the moment that someone steps outside, regardless of whether or not they did so on purpose or just to try and hurt whoever they're after.

Character Arrival

You can read how all characters arrive in Deerington here.

There is not a collective "all these characters showed up at the exact same moment" occurrence in Deerington. Since characters fall asleep, die, or pass out at various times throughout all their worlds, it wouldn't make too much sense if they arrived in game all at the exact same time. There should be some discrepancy between character arrival, whether by a couple minutes, hours, or even days up to a week.

The players are entirely in control of how/when they want to play their characters arriving in Deerington. For TDMs, you can play it like your character has just arrived and that can be maintained as your game canon, or you can wait until game events for that moment. Or you don't need to acknowledge it at all. The flexibility for character allows a bit more of an organic feel to the character arrival situation, so please play it to whatever feels right for you.

If you are interested in having an "arrival" introduction for one of your TDM prompts, you are more than welcome to explore that option.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Let's Get This Party Started

Cullen doesn't know how he got here. He was in the woods, there were Halla, of some sort. They dragged him through the leaves and mud, and then... then he was here. He doesn't remember, but perhaps that's because of the glass in his hand. He doesn't drink, not usually, not unless he trusts those he is with, but he also hates parties.

At least he knows he isn't in Orlais, as no one is wearing a mask. The clothes are unfamiliar, but he can't say he's visited every corner of Thedas.

That's why he's stood against the wall, watching the happy crowd. It reminds him all too much of the Ball at the Winter Palace, although here he sees no familiar faces. But sooner or later, and without realising it, he finds himself sipping at the fizz in his glass. And again, and again. Until he feels like he's floating on those bubbles, and he steps out to socialise.

He must be a little drunk to do so willingly, but he'll never discover where he is or how he got here if he doesn't speak to people.

Happy New Year!

Cullen doesn't know what is going on, having had... well, the glass isn't empty, so he can't have had very much to drink. He feels like he has had a lot. But not enough to completely dull his senses, and he knows something is wrong. The atmosphere is choking, despite the air of excitement as the crowd shout numbers. What they are counting down to, he has no clue, but it can't be good. There are too many people, suddenly, too many creeping and there's a flash of a blade.

He need to be armed, quickly, but his sword is not at his side and as the crowd scream "ONE!" he feels a searing pain in his back as a dagger is buried between his shoulders and then pulled free. He's a trained soldier, enough to know how to turn and get the bloodied weapon from his attacked, twisting their arm and using his greater bulk and strength.

Then he feels himself turn the blade on them, plunging it into their chest, feeling it nick bones before it punctures the heart. The blade is drawn free and the body crumples, and then Cullen turns, the party now a battlefield. He can feel the blood hot and wet sticking the clothes to his back, and he needs to escape.

The Mage finishes a dance with his assigned partner as they sweep across the room til the song changes. He'll bow as they disconnect and he'll immediately toss the card with a glowing number to a table or something to be rid of it. It was fun at the start but when he kept being passed from one person to the next for hours he needed a break. He'll be crossing through the crowd towards the table with drinks when the shock of blond and the flash of a familiar maned, red cloak catch his eye.

At first he's certain he's seeing things because Cullen would not be mingling... How cruel would it be for this place to play such a game on him. Letting him see ghosts of his friends from back home. His curiosity gets the better of him and he's quickly slipping through the bodies until he spots him again.

He has to be real.

"Cullen!" The Altus quickly catches up to him and out of reflex puts a hand on his shoulder if only to prove to himself he wasn't a mirage.

"Maker's breath, Commander...I have such mixed feelings over seeing you here." He missed having familiar faces but he doesn't wish this place on anyone.

The voice is so familiar that Cullen looks up, startled. He had only seen Dorian that morning in the library, although for all he knows that could have been a long time ago. Weeks even. He really can't be sure.

The hand on his shoulder makes him uncertain, a little weary. He's never know Dorian to reach out and touch him when they talk. He crosses his arms, strokes the spines of books, leans over the edge of the gallery but never touches him. Is this real?

"Dorian. I..." Cullen begins but he has no real words to describe his own surprise or the churning feelings inside him. "Where are we? Is this the Fade?"

It seems stranger to him than any other place he's visited, but nothing like the reports he's read from those who ended up inside the Fade after Adament.

It's been a strange few months and there's a small part of him that reached for Cullen as if expecting him to just disappear, perhaps hoping the grip on his shoulder would be enough to keep him in this world. If only long enough so they can speak. If Cullen sees him, talks to him then wakes up back in their world aware of this one? Maybe he can get free.

"Not the Fade, no, but something close to it. This world is some kind of permanent dreamstate." Dorian seems to be more aware of himself by now and slowly removes his hand.

"I've been trapped here for months now. I even missed Satinalia." He's very upset by this.

Cullen looks around, the people and their surroundings look real enough, he finds it hard to believe it's some sort of dream. "How is that possible? Is it the work of Corypheus?"

He's not sure what is and is not possible for a Magister that would declare himself a god. But that doesn't explain the Halla in the woods, or the fact that this seems like nothing in Thedas. The clothes and furnishings of this room are utterly strange to him.

He takes another sip from his glass without thinking, unaware that the place itself is compelling him to do so. And then his eyes widen in disbelief, "Months? How can that be? You were in Skyhold with me this morning."

"I...don't think so. If that were the case I'd imagine more of us would be trapped here." Maybe even the inquisitor. There's no telling what might happen to any of them if Corypheus knew they were asleep. Of course, as far as he knows, time isn't moving while he's stuck here, so that certainly wouldn't help their enemies any. It's the one small comfort he has that nothing is happening to the people of Skyhold or Thedas while he sleeps.

Dorian is a little surprised as the Commander sips his champagne, he just... didn't seem the type, not that he could blame him in this sort of situation. Between the awkwardness at parties in general and the discomfort of where they are, he can imagine an alcoholic beverage would be comforting for anyone. Speaking of which... someone walks around with flutes finally, so Dorian snatches one for himself to sip.

"Yes, this is uhm.... this celebration is their way of leading to First Day. They call it New Years Eve." He considers for a moment, "I... woke into a dream here in Frumentum--Harvestmere that is--at least, I think that is when it was. I apparently was lost for a time before awakening once more, by then it was past Satinalia and well into Umbralis, er Firstfall. apologies I'm so used to the Tevinter names for our months." Three full months he was trapped here, in and out of dreaming.

"It's been... confusing at best. But we've enjoyed some peace and I've grown no closer to figuring out how to wake us up."

Edited 2019-01-21 11:01 (UTC)

Cullen can hardly believe what he's being told. It seems incomprehensible, all of it. He tries to deal with it in small portions of information, trying to make sure he understands all of this in his mind.

"A dream world." He repeats, "But if this is a dream..." He doesn't know how to continue the whirl of his thoughts. This isn't the Fade, he will trust Dorian on that, the Mage will know much better than a Templar who has long ago butchered his connection to magic and dreams. "If this is a dream, how can time be passing? How can it have been Harvestmere and then Firstfall in a dream?"

He shakes his head, and then looks to Dorian with more concern. "What do you mean some peace?" This is a dream, and perhaps there are some nightmares, but the way the Mage speaks makes a shiver run down Cullen's back, something that he can not explain and it frightens him in a way he can not articulate.

Dorian shrugs, "it's difficult to say, this is another world, another reality, but in a dream. Perhaps time isn't really moving but it's only appearing to with the rise and fall of the sun like night and day. Perhaps only... appearing to change, so we get a sense of time passing when it's not. And this world seems to carry on through seasons and their own celebrations. There are others here, not just us, a strange peoples that move about this city, but they almost seem to have a hive mind, its eerie at best."

A sigh, "Yes, This has been a fairly peaceful month for us. There has been a lot of celebration. It seems many cultures of the world this one is based on have multiple holidays that sort of overlap. And now it's going into the new year. Everyone has been in a fairly good mood, giving gifts and enjoying themselves while they can. Apparently I slept through some horrible things in Harvestmere, things like the streets running with blood or people turning into monsters. The worst that has happened to me thus far is I woke up as some... strange, toy version of myself. From what I've been told from others who've been here a lot longer, things tend to take a turn for nightmarish pretty quickly."

"None of that is reassuring, Dorian." Cullen replies, hoping that the words might stir the mage into revealing some boon, some positive. He has said that he is trying to work out a way out, and from that Cullen can only assume there is no obvious way, no quick way, to return to their very urgent work in Skyhold. Or at least, somewhere that does not seem so nightmarish.

As Dorian continues, Cullen feels another shiver run down his spine, but he finds himself ignoring it, taking another swallow from his glass again, a glass that doesn't ever seem to run dry. He feels... he feels unlike himself, but the realisation doesn't seem to reach his mouth or his limbs, which continue on regardless. He feels unpleasantly social, so rather than trying to leave and find out how to escape this place, he's content to remain here and talk.

"Seems we shall have to make the best of it, then. It sounds very much like Kirkwall, in truth. There's no doubt some explanation for it, I am sure we will get to the bottom of it. We can gather a force over the next few days and search for a source of Red Lyrium."

The Altus sighs, "Yes, well, I think we should both be fairly used to unsatisfactory information by now. All the looming possibility that things can go badly at any moment."

The bubbly beverage he's been consuming may make him feel lighter, as if those very things are far away and don't bother him as much as they probably should. But that doesn't make it any less true. It's that bubbly laissez-faire that makes it so much easier to admit and speak of, even if it sounds dire.

"Indeed, we must enjoy ourselves while we're able." He sips his wine then ponders over the next idea.

"You believe there could be some here? I'm not so sure. This place is based off a world called Earth." Very basic name, he knows.

"It does supposedly thin the veil, which... could play a part in what brought us here, but that..." He shakes his head. They are supposedly dreaming even if this feels real.

"We are essentially projected from our bodies so if this were the work of red lyrium, or demons or spirits or something of that nature it would still be connected to the physical world. Our world. But, I don't think this place has anything to do with anything we're familiar with. This isn't the fade. Something else has brought us here for one reason or another." He frowns.

"Besides, Red Lyrium would be dangerous. I sincerely hope it does not exist here on top of all the other horrors I've heard."

Cullen can't help but chuckle. He wouldn't, in any normal circumstances, do more than crack a smile at such an ominous turn of phrase. Surely if things were to go wrong, or more so than they already were, they certainly will do so now that the Mage has invited bad luck on them. But instead of finding that concerning, he finds the very idea of it amusing. Maybe it's the drink.

"Earth," Cullen repeats, as he knows nothing of the place. How can there be another world other than Thedas? The Maker made only the one World, every child knows that. Still, if Dorian knows more he will encourage the man to share, if only so Cullen can try to understand what is happening to him, to them.

"If the Veil is thin, and that is how we came to be here, can we not force our way out? If you are asleep and you realise you are dreaming, doesn't that stop the dream? Surely we would wake now, if we were truly dreaming."

Dorian no doubt has a much better understanding of the Fade and how this place works, he seems familiar with it. But unfortunately he is no expert, and his suggestion regarding Red Lyrium proves it. He's grateful that Dorian does not scoff, merely explains why it would not be the case. Still, Cullen feels decidedly out of his depth here.

(no subject)

nottevintersoldier - 2019-02-01 20:04 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

knightcommander - 2019-02-02 20:08 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

nottevintersoldier - 2019-02-03 12:36 (UTC) - Expand

Another new face! X'rhun is rather interested at the amount of new folk here in Deerington, and he wants to get to know them all. But alas, with so limited time on his hands, he has to choose.

And the Miqo'te makes his choice, heading towards the blond man with his tail held high and flicking from side to side every now and then as he walks. When he stops, he bows from the waist, grinning. He might have had a little too much champagne.

"Good eve!" As he straightens back to his full height-- not considerable, when he's much shorter than the other man, though this doesn't bother X'rhun in the least-- his ears are wiggling. "Would you mind a companion for a while?"

Cullen is from a place with more than just humans. There are several intelligent, self-aware races besides humans: elves, dwarves, qunari. There are demons, which although evil clearly possess some sort of devious intelligence, and then there are darkspawn, although to call them intelligent is a stretch.

But throughout Thedas, he has never heard of a creature such as the one that bows in front of him now. Bowing in return seems the best response at present, until he can work out if something more is required from him.

He's a little taken aback by the enthusiasm, but that's probably because he feels quite dazed at the moment from his recent arrival and the strangeness of this place.

"I'd be glad of a companion if they could tell me where I am, and why, ser."

If the man had to ask... well, X'rhun believes he's stumbled upon someone who might not have seen the basket and its contents when he left his house. Not that he minds, he's used to such.

"Aye, well, this world is called Deerington, and the building? The Grady Hotel, a sprawling establishment for people with finer tastes or mayhap in need of a luxurious vacation." Then the Miqo'te shrugs. "If the lobby desk were manned more often than not, that is."

Then he shakes himself, tail flailing out with the motions as he does. "But you're in luck, my friend! Tonight of all nights is special, given the turn of the new year is upon us."

It's unfortunate that Cullen doesn't recall much before he came to this... hotel. He remembers the forest, in a distant sort of way, but if he was anywhere else in this land between there and here, it has escaped his recollection. It's quite possible, the withdrawal from Lyrium can have many unpleasant effects, including memory loss, intense and inescapable nightmares as well as the more mundane symptoms of recovery from addition: headaches and tremors, sickness and dizziness. Thankfully, most of those Cullen now takes in his stride, or at least keeps hidden from all but his closest associates.

"It's First Day?" Cullen says with some surprise. There is such a holiday in Thedas, where the previous year is looked back on, the coming of a new year celebrated, family and friends gathered. But it is not for several months yet, at least it should not be for several months.

But then something clicks into place from the other's speech, and Cullen's wonder at the time of year passes into something approaching concern, even fear. "What do you mean, world?" This must be part of Thedas. Simply a part he is unfamiliar with, perhaps part of Antiva or Rivain. He hasn't travelled there, and this could be some small city-state with little to trade outside it's boarders.

"Mrrrm?" X'rhun is momentarily distracted by the glimmer of champagne from a tray nearby, and claims the untouched glasses for himself, holding out the other to his companion, tail swaying from side to side in his eagerness to drink.

"Oh! I do mean world, indeed. I know not where your homeland is, but Deerington is some place else entirely."

Then his eyebrows raise in his sheer earnest desire to keep the man as calm as possible, because it dawns on the Miqo'te that this is likely a distressing situation. He's been here so long that he's almost forgotten the feeling of shock, of waking up in a bed not his, in a house he never bought but discovered was in his own name.

"A world separate from all other worlds, I would say... Whose people are taken from others, like you and I."

(TW: Language)

Fenris isn’t sure what drew him to this party in the first place. He remembers trees—and being dragged. He remembers the black-tipped pine tops that seemed so high they’d scrape the moon. At first, it had all seemed like a dream, shadows and specks of starlight passing above him. His arms were above him, his shirt was riding up. He remembers slowly being able to hear the scrape of his blade against the rocky ground. He can still feel the way sticks and branches sliced at his skin. And he remembers a Halla—a strange looking one. And a voice. But nothing else.

He’s here now, somehow. There is an empty wine glass in his hand. It’s hot in the room from simply how many people are crammed together, dancing. Fenris is on the outskirts, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. Green eyes scan the crowd. These are all strangers to him.

And then, as the countdown begins, he’s moving. He thinks he saw a familiar shock of blond hair.

”Ten! Nine! Eight!”

It can’t be. Is that--? Fenris surges forward through the cheering crowd, head heavy from the wine that he likely drank in excess. Something in him is desperate for that familiar face. Desperate and angry. He has to be near him before the countdown ends.

”Seven! Six! Five! Four!”

Fenris smashes his wine glass on a nearby table, the shard in his hand still glistening from the vintage red. His thoughts are turning sharp, and all he can see is an explosion. He can feel the heat on his face and hear the screams.

”Three! Two! ONE!”

And it’s chaos. All around him, people are trying to kiss or trying to kill each other. But he only has eyes for Cullen—the Templar bastard who couldn’t stop the corruption right beneath his nose. And he knows that there is something wrong. But it feels like a nightmare he can’t wake up from, and whatever is compelling him knows all the right buttons to press. He sees Cullen trying to make his way for an exit, a dead body left behind. No one Fenris knew. He stalks after the man, not far away now.

“Knight-Captain. Or should I say Commander now? Leaving so soon?”

His markings flicker a ghostly blue as he quickens his pace. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he has to reach the templar before he gets to an exit. Otherwise, he’ll get away—and he’ll get away with it. With all of it. Kirkwall and the entire bloody affair.

Edited 2019-01-23 05:16 (UTC)

It's been a long time since Kirkwall. Not long enough to repair the physical damage, Cullen knows that well enough from Varric, but the mental and emotional damage left by the events of the last decade are keenly felt by all. Cullen won't say he was the worst affected, but as the lyrium had started to leave his system and the nightmares had flooded in, the faces of Kirkwall's residents have become familiar themes in the most terrible dreams.

In the sea of faces and the fog of alcohol, Cullen can't say that he remembers seeing Fenris' face. He'd more immediately remember the face of Hawke, or Bethany, or Knight Commander Meredith, but the voice roaring behind him is familiar. And of course, as it calls him specifically, he slows his stumbling run and turns, trying to breathe through the growing pain.

The slender Elf with his lyrium tattoos can hardly be mistaken. Cullen forces himself to stand a little straighter. He can see the look in the other's eyes, it's something he's seen before on battlefields and during the Harrowings. It's bloodlust, a madness that it hard to escape and takes a long time to overcome. As he recalls, Fenris had already had the stirrings of it in him before, anger almost as potent as the anger that drove Anders to wholesale destruction and murder.

"No, it doesn't look like I am," He replies, shifting his grip on the handle of the short blade he'd wrestled out of his attacker's hand. He has so many questions about this place, what it is, why they are there. But they will have to wait, it seems.

"I don't want to fight you, Fenris."

For Cullen, it may have seemed like a long time ago, but for Fenris, it was like yesterday. He never liked Anders—or he’d never admit that he liked Anders—but he never expected something on that scale. And the ramifications… The whole mage and Templar war was started right where he and Cullen lived and breathed, and they could have stopped it. The conclave--maybe even the breach.

He’s never thought of Cullen as his enemy before. More to the contrary as the man was always level headed when it came to controlling mages. But Fenris feels a foreign and yet familiar fury overtaking him, and he’s not about to stop just because Cullen won’t fight.

There’d be a whole lot of people alive today if the man had fought. Or so something is telling him. It’s the same something that causes him to grip the glass shard tighter, slicing his hand in the process, as he edges nearer to the commander. Cullen really shouldn’t have turned around. He should have kept running, left as fast as he could to get away from this madness—

No. Fenris has him right where he wants him. Face to face now, only about five feet from each other, Fenris stops. He bares his teeth, getting into a battle stance. It seems he’s ready to take this man on, even if he’s only holding a piece of glass and Cullen is holding a sword. If that isn’t a sign Fenris is out of his right mind, he doesn’t know what is.

But just before he’s about to lunge, he feels pain blossom on his side. A dagger is sticking out of him, blood pooling onto his leather armor. He whips his head around to see someone covering their mouth and running away, as if horrified at what they’d just done. Fenris growls, turning icy eyes back to the knight-commander. And he goes anyway. He lunges for Cullen despite the dagger, trying to slice his neck, but the pain is making him dizzy and inaccurate.

If Fenris had said any of this to Cullen, if he had grabbed him by the lapels of his furred collar or jabbed a finger into his chest, screamed at him the long list of Cullen's sins, the ex-Templar would have agreed with all of it. He knows that he didn't act when he should have done when evidence of Alrik's crimes. He could have done more than he had about Samson. Maker, he could have reported Meredith's increasing delusional behavior to their superiors.

He knows all of this. He knows he failed the people of Kirkwall and he has to put that right. His work with the Inquisition is to atone for some of those sins even if it will never bring back the people who died. But the truth is the Breach would have happened all the same. Corypheus was already on the move. The war between mages and Templars had already been brewing since before the Blight. He knows all of this. But it does not mean that he does not blame himself for those events.

He expects Fenris to charge. He has seen the man fight and steals himself for it, despite the fact he has no shield and the blade he has is more self-important bread knife than sword. Injured as he is he does not expect to be able to deflect it. But the Maker must smile on him even here although the relief is bitter. He sees the blade sink in deep and he expects Fenris to sag.

Fenris does not. He carries on, although his limbs seem leaden, his progress slowed. Not enough, but perhaps enough to even the odds. As it us Cullen just manages to escape the slice of the blade and turn, moving as quick as his own injury allows behind the elf. He grabs Fenris as best he can, breathing hard and holding the knife to his thoat.

"Drop the blade. You need a healer and so do I."

And see, Fenris knows all of this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows that Cullen is doing all he can to make up for Kirkwall. He knows that the breach would have happened regardless. In fact, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his. It’s theirs. Hawke, and the rest of the crew. They’d thought they killed Corypheus, and the guilt of realizing they hadn’t is what drove Hawke to Skyhold in the first place (despite Varric’s vehement protests).

”I have to go, Fenris. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try.”

And so Hawke went, and left Fenris behind. Why? Weren’t they all friends? Wasn’t it their job to have each other’s backs?

And somehow, the grief of that couples with this illogical war in his mind against Cullen of all people. It’s warped and twisted, he knows something is wrong, but he can’t stop the way he dives for the kill. His injury is the only thing that causes him to miss, making his movements sluggish. A furious growl escapes his lips, and he tried for another maneuver, but he’s simply too slow. He’s losing blood, and the world is starting to blur.

He barely even registers when Cullen grabs him, deflecting his attack. Suddenly, there is a cool blade pressed against his throat, and he really thinks this is it. This is how he is going to die—at some party he can’t remember coming to at the hands of a man who he thought was in a completely different country.

Wait—

Cullen’s voice clears a bit of the fog, and Fenris takes a deep shaky breath. With a pained wince, he drops the glass shard from his hand, blood crusted onto his palm. But he knows he needs to leave the dagger in place.

“If I take the dagger out, I’ll bleed to death.” He says, and it’s the first coherent thing he’s said all night. There is still a twinge of anger and restraint, but his survival instincts are kicking in now.

"That is why you need a healer," Cullen says, the sharp edge retreating a little from Fenris' throat.

As much as he hurts, Fenris is quite clearly far more injured than he is, and something has to be done about it. He doesn't think of the elf as his enemy, he doesn't want him to die. They have a much better chance of getting back to Thedas if they are both alive and able to help each other, and Maker only knows how far away they are or what they will have to do to get away.

"We need to lay you down before you fall down." Cullen says, moving the blade away completely, and kicking the shard of glass as far away from them as he can. He doesn't know if the bloodlust in Fenris has passed or if this is a ruse, but all he can do it give him the benefit of the doubt. He can't see any other weapons to hand, aside from the one in his side, and he can't imagine Fenris is so keen to stab him that he would kill himself in the process. He might have been an associate of Hawke, but he never seemed to be quite so full of bravado or quite as foolish as Kirkwall's Champion.

Of course, Hawke had offered their services to the Inquisition, and the rest of them had stayed hidden away. Maybe they tried to help in whatever corner of Thedas they were hiding in, but Cullen knows that they could have done more, they could have stood with the Inquisition and stopped before so frightened for their own skins. But this is not the time and the place to berate Fenris for his choices.

Cullen will support him as best he can, his own shoulder still incredibly painful, the wound stretching and pulling as he moves. But all he can do is ignore it, trying to shed the great furred robe that sits on his shoulders, so he can put it to better use as a pillow for the man who tried to kill him. He doesn't know if there are any healers here, he doesn't know if he can do anything to save Fenris from the injury, but he must try.

“A healer…” Fenris replies, his words a mix of wary and confused. It’s the first time he really casts his eyes around this deranged party. There are people scattered, some injured on the ground, others kissing for the New Year—

New Year…

“What year is it?” He rasps. “Where are we?”

The last thing he remembers is reading Hawke’s letter. They couldn’t have left for Skyhold longer than a week prior. Fenris was—somewhere outside of Kirkwall, hunting slavers. When he’d gotten the missive, he had crumpled it up in a fit of rage, throwing it into a nearby river. He’d had every intention of following… But he had to return and gather some supplies from the mansion. Aveline told him he wouldn’t be able to stay there much longer—the tax collectors would be after his head…. But she could spare him a few days to get his things in order.

So Kirkwall. He is in Kirkwall.

But this is definitely not his mansion. It isn’t Kirkwall. He isn’t even certain it’s the Free Marches.

This realization causes growing anxiety to build in him. His body is trembling. Whether it’s from this discovery or from the pain isn’t certain. It’s probably both. But whatever it is, it makes him much more complicit. He allows himself to be laid down and the glass shard to be taken from his hand. Whenever Cullen touches his skin, he hisses, the markings stinging. They flicker a few times, mostly in the area around his wound, which is strange. They’ve never reacted to his injuries like this before.

Grunting, he moves his arm to reach around to one of the pouches on his belt. He’s obviously in pain as he searches, but he will not allow Cullen to help him dig through his personal belongings. Stubborn. He’s being stubborn, but he needs to do this and reassure himself that he isn't about to just let himself die here. Though, he could be in the blasted Fade already for all he knows.

Finally, after several moments, he pulls out a health poultice and sighs, slumping against the ground. His eyes flutter shut, and his grip on the bottle is weak.

“I only have one…split it. Should be enough—“ He grimaces as pain blossoms further from his side. He’s shivering now. “There has to be a healer close—can’t get there if we’re half dead.”

The poultice certainly won’t heal both of them to full strength, especially if they split it, but it might just close their wound enough for them to escape this place and figure out where in the Maker they are. He feels a twinge of apprehension, letting go of his only potion. But then—how does he know it’s his only one? He doesn’t, but he can just feel it.

Cullen frowns, the questions seemingly pointless in view of the state that Fenris is in, life seeping out of him slowly. It's all he can do at the moment to apply careful pressure at the site of the wound, without moving the blade or hurting the elf too much. He can feel the other's breathing change, becoming more and more agitated as the madness seems to leave him, the vacuum filled with anxiety and fear.

"It is 9:42 Dragon, Fenris. It was... it is, until someone tells me differently, the twelfth day of Drakonis and spring is upon us. There are flowers slowly blooming in the lower passes around Skyhold, most of Fereldan is free of snow. This place, wherever it is, seems to be on a different calendar completely."

He knows the chatter is pointless, for a start he isn't sure how factual the information is at all, but he needs to try and distract Fenril as best he can. He starts when Fenris' hand moves to his belt, but it's clear that nothing he says or does will prevent him doing what he wishes, and Cullen himself is in no fit state to argue. As the potion is pulled free, he can see exactly how weak Fenris' grip is, and as stubborn as he might well be, Cullen at least has more strength in his muscles.

He doesn't attempt to take it but momentarily releases the pressure on Fenris' side to close the warrior's fingers around the bottle and hold it, pulling the stopper lose.

"Have what you need of it." He instructs, very much used to being obeyed. He's seen enough Templars and Mages die, more so than he'd like to dwell on, and he's not inclined to witness another one now. Fenris is far more hurt than he, he can cope with a smaller amount of potion, or none at all if he must. "And then we get out of this Maker-forsaken place."

9:42 Dragon.

It’s 9:42 Dragon. Fenris suddenly doesn’t know if the cold he is feeling is from his body slowly shutting down or the realization that he has somehow lost nearly a year of memory, according to Cullen. As the former Templar attempts to calm him by going on about the weather, Fenris can only feel his anxiety mounting further. Is all of this some magister’s cruel trick? Did they mess with the lyrium and alter his memory on purpose?

And Maker, what about Hawke? The rift? Corypheus?

All attempts to question Cullen further are impossible in his current state. Labored breathing and grunts are all his body can manage. He feels Cullen take his hand and flinches, involuntarily. His nerves are frayed, and his green eyes are trying desperately to look around for some sign that this is all an illusion. Is Cullen even real? He certainly hopes the poultice is real, at the very least.

He sips it slowly, the first bit the hardest. But as he sips, swallowing becomes easier, and the world no longer seems as freezing as it was before. Sensation returns to his extremities, and his eyesight—which he hadn’t realized had been spotting and blurred—returns to normal. He feels the skin around his wound trying to knit itself up, and he uses a burst of strength and adrenaline to wrench the dagger out of his side. The cry that leaves his lips sounds more like a wounded wolf than a human, especially with the determined growl that follows as Fenris finishes his part of the potion. He takes a little more than half, grimacing guiltily. He holds the rest to Cullen and motions for him to take it. Fenris’s wound is still dire, but the bleeding has stopped. Taking the dagger out while it was healing was a risk, but it’s given him some semblance of a weapon. Looking at it now, though, it’s more of a steak knife than a dagger. Oh well, it will have to do. He isn’t sure it is wise to try and lift his blade right now.

He slowly sits up, watching Cullen drink. He is ready to get out of here, the madness from the countdown completely gone. And where there was anxiety and fear before in his eyes, it has been replaced with anger and drive.

“It seems my memory has been tempered with. I suspect blood magic,” he spits the words as if they’re foul. “Let us be out of this building so we can find further healing and, if we are lucky, whoever is responsible for this.”