Looking for a GM interested in a retelling that takes place during the events of Inquisition or Origins with a similar starting stage of the games; we'd be following the road of a runaway elven slave from Tevinter. I'm an advanced-novella writer and will provide writing samples. My aim with this is to be much more thorough and methodical with our storytelling than the RPGs; less whitewashing during Inquisition, etc. Below serves as the loose opener I had in mind for an Origins story, but I'm very much not married to it and will abandon it entirely.
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Dark figures haunted the cliffs around them, hazily falling in and out of sight as they drew close before disappearing into the far distance, what little she could hear from them draining away into the cool, midnight air. Her and her companions had started running into other caravans three nights ago, Duncan’s presence alone keeping them from being absorbed into any of the other troupes even when they far outsized her own. Some decided to tag along, but most decided to keep their distance when they spotted the Qunari, or the blood mage, or one of their elves- especially her. None dared to speak outloud what their eyes said, and, whether they joined them or not, just as few refused to trade words or supplies. The good word from the front was everchanging and plentiful. Many wished to know whether their Lord had arrived and would slink away if Sylvan’s crew had nothing to offer them.
‘What about the skirmish at Fuck-all-Woods? Did you hear anything about a knight with a powderkeg on his shield? He’s my cous, and I fret for him so. My wife ran off to join the Wardens, have you seen her?’
Some of the Wardens would step away to speak quietly with Duncan. Not seeing fit to tell her commander her secrets, she hadn’t bothered to tell him about how keen her hearing was. Perhaps he knew, considering she’d never managed to hear anything interesting. Deaths, mostly. Names she didn’t recognize and sullen looks on faces with practiced, comforting words to stem some of the heartache.
The Wardens had, nearly to a man and woman, stuck around. They littered around the campfires like debris, enjoying one another’s company with the scattered few faces she recognized joining them. Looking for advice, maybe. Wisdom from their elders. Or for whoever had the best beer.
In the distance, her eyes caught the faintest peaks of Ostagar. She’d joined the crowds when the sun had fallen, but she could only tolerate soldiers for so long, and she’d already talked a frizzy haired, pleasantly shaped serving girl two taverns back into handing over a few bottles of the ‘good stuff.’
It was good. Shit at getting her drunk, and barely passable for piss back north, but it teased her taste buds and left a pleasant buzz in her eyes that made the colors on the horizon form into colors she was trying to fall asleep to. They hadn’t succeeded yet, but there was half a bottle left until she could decide she’d been swindled.
-=-
Dark figures haunted the cliffs around them, hazily falling in and out of sight as they drew close before disappearing into the far distance, what little she could hear from them draining away into the cool, midnight air. Her and her companions had started running into other caravans three nights ago, Duncan’s presence alone keeping them from being absorbed into any of the other troupes even when they far outsized her own. Some decided to tag along, but most decided to keep their distance when they spotted the Qunari, or the blood mage, or one of their elves- especially her. None dared to speak outloud what their eyes said, and, whether they joined them or not, just as few refused to trade words or supplies. The good word from the front was everchanging and plentiful. Many wished to know whether their Lord had arrived and would slink away if Sylvan’s crew had nothing to offer them.
‘What about the skirmish at Fuck-all-Woods? Did you hear anything about a knight with a powderkeg on his shield? He’s my cous, and I fret for him so. My wife ran off to join the Wardens, have you seen her?’
Some of the Wardens would step away to speak quietly with Duncan. Not seeing fit to tell her commander her secrets, she hadn’t bothered to tell him about how keen her hearing was. Perhaps he knew, considering she’d never managed to hear anything interesting. Deaths, mostly. Names she didn’t recognize and sullen looks on faces with practiced, comforting words to stem some of the heartache.
The Wardens had, nearly to a man and woman, stuck around. They littered around the campfires like debris, enjoying one another’s company with the scattered few faces she recognized joining them. Looking for advice, maybe. Wisdom from their elders. Or for whoever had the best beer.
In the distance, her eyes caught the faintest peaks of Ostagar. She’d joined the crowds when the sun had fallen, but she could only tolerate soldiers for so long, and she’d already talked a frizzy haired, pleasantly shaped serving girl two taverns back into handing over a few bottles of the ‘good stuff.’
It was good. Shit at getting her drunk, and barely passable for piss back north, but it teased her taste buds and left a pleasant buzz in her eyes that made the colors on the horizon form into colors she was trying to fall asleep to. They hadn’t succeeded yet, but there was half a bottle left until she could decide she’d been swindled.
