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.

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(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.”

Cullen is no healer, and he's certainly not got the bedside manner that comes from training. He's simply spent a great deal of time with injured soldiers, some of whom will live and some of whom will die. Normally you can see how things will go, and normally, they know it too. Certainly the Templars had been trained to face death with bravery, although when it comes to the moment very few face it with no fear.

He does not think he and Fenris are about to die. Without the potion, it might have been a possibility, but as the elf drinks it becomes clear the potion is taking effect, that the wound is beginning to heal. Cullen is grateful for that, watching the pain ebb from the other's features, it gives him some hope that they will escape this place somehow. He makes a noise of protest as Fenris moves and yanks out the blade, but by then it's too late, the blade is out and there is nothing they can do. He would rather have waited, have an actual mage or healer make sure it was safe to do such a thing.

As it is, all he can do is hold the vial for a moment, keeping a careful eye on Fenris, to try and ensure he doesn't fall back or the bleeding start all over again. But he seems to be out of danger for the moment, and so he takes a swallow of the potion that's left, feeling some of the ache fade from his own wound. It still burns, but he hopes what little there was will do some good. Some is better than nothing.

When he's done, he looks back to Fenris, those burning eyes full of suspicion. In truth, he has no evidence it is blood magic, and since the events of Kirkwall, he's learnt not to suspect mages are the root cause of all their problems, but what else is there? What else could have caused all this?

"I think we should leave," He agrees, getting to his feet and offering out his hand to help the elf up. Healed to some degree, but not all the way, there is still the chance he could do himself more damage. Cullen wants to avoid that. "And we should investigate where we are, and if any of our companions are here. We may not be alone."

Maker, he hopes they aren't.

Fenris doesn’t hesitate to take Cullen’s hand during his efforts to get up onto his feet. His injury is still bad. He can feel the wound threatening to reopen when he twists or bends a certain way. But once he is upright, his legs do most of the work and he’s able to keep his torso relatively static. The first thing he does is glance around their surroundings. The room they are in looks big, like a ballroom of sorts. He spots the door and gestures to it.

“There is the exit,” he points out, beginning to head in that direction. He isn’t sure why, but he gets the foreboding sense that something is off about this place. The architecture doesn’t seem to be Orlaisian, and he’s positive it’s not of Tevinter either. Fereldan, perhaps? Knowing now that his memory has been tampered with, Fenris realizes that he could be anywhere. But Cullen mentioned the Inquisition, so he hopes they are just in some noble’s mansion. ‘A noble with strange tastes’, he thinks as he glances at some of the sculptures.

They exit the ballroom with relative ease, and Fenris feels--something pass over him. It reminds him of a spell fading away or an illusion breaking. He glances back at the party and wrinkles his nose in distaste. Blood magic may not be involved, but it’s otherworldly, whatever it is.

As he looks at the foyer, massive in size but seemingly completely abandoned, he frowns. “I doubt we are going to find any of our companions in this place.” There is a restaurant, he notices, but no one inside. Looking toward the north side of the building, he sees the door leading to the outside of the hotel. It’s pitch dark out, the transparent doors reflecting what little light exists in the foyer.

“There.” He begins heading that way regardless of whether or not Cullen follows. He wants to get as far away from that deranged party as possible.

Fenris might be keeping his exact thoughts to himself but they mirror those in Cullen's mind. He has travelled a reasonable amount of Thedas, although the lands to the North are more of a mystery to him, and nothing he sees here reminds him of anything he has seen before at home, or reflects what he has heard of Antiva or Rivain. But there's many places, townships and kingdoms with different styles. They could simply be... somewhere highly unique.

That is what he hopes, but as they head through the foyer (or is it a vestibule?) he has a sinking feeling that none of this is going to end well.

But he walks with Fenris, keeping close to him, for fear that the potion won't last long, that the wound will open further, and they may have more difficulty finding someone who is able to help. As they're almost at the doors, Cullen spots something behind the empty reception desk and goes to grab it. It's not quite like a healer's satchel, but the strange box catches his eye, and- thank the Maker- it seems to contain rolls of bandages, amongst other medical looking supplies.

"Fenris!" He say,s before the man can leave altogether. "We should take some of these."

Just the idea that someone (or something) could be messing with his memories has Fenris on edge. So when Cullen calls his name, pulling him from the tunnel-visioned retreat from this strange hotel, he gives a startled jerk. He winces, the pain in his side intensifying as he slowly turns to look back at the Knight-Captain. (’Commander, now. Stop forgetting.’)

It’s all worth it when he sees the medical supplies, though. Even just having some bandages could mean the difference between life and death. They have no idea what is waiting for them outside, and the reflective windows aren’t providing any clues either.

He walks slowly but steadily over to Cullen, eyeing the bandages. There is also ointment of some kind, a stitching kit—no elfroot or potions, it appears. But maybe there is something similar.

“I wouldn’t know what to make of that,” Fenris says, gesturing to the tube. He thinks the ointment is called ANTI-BACTERIAL, but he can’t really read it. “If you know what it is, I’d feel more confident using it. Either way, we should probably bandage our wounds properly with those.” He points a gauntleted hand to the rest of the supplies. There could be more things in there, but Fenris doesn’t recognize them. They don’t seem like they’re from any medical kit he’s ever seen before. Where are the herbs? The vials? There’s a few things called BAND-AID (???), but he spots tweezers and scissors as well. At least it’s not all foreign to him.

“I am skilled at bandaging wounds, but I may need…assistance getting the bandage fully around my torso without ripping the wound open again,” he admits reluctantly as he takes off his gauntlets. Underneath is thin black leather that covers most of the top of his hand, but the lyrium markings can clearly be seen on his palms and along his fingers. He moves to get his chest armor off as well, revealing the brown tunic underneath with gold trim, blood stained where the wound on his side is.

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