EVENT: TRUTH BOMB

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone
WHAT: TRUTH BOMB
WHEN: Bloomingtide 15-17
WHERE: The Gallows
NOTES: OOC information. Use appropriate content warnings in your subject lines, please.

It’s an ordinary day—so not a very pleasant one. The weather is dreary and muggy, and the day’s lunch is a soup that’s a little too watery and bland. The griffons are being their usual level of noisy and swoopy. The work is its usual level of urgent and difficult.

But in the storage rooms, something wiggles. Then it hums. Then it pops.

Outside of the storage room, there’s no actual sound, no shift in the wind, and no visible sign of a change. But the pop might be felt—like the moment something finally clicks, or two ideas suddenly fit together, except the opposite. In the heads of everyone in the fortress, something is suddenly not connected quite right.

The first sign of what’s gone wrong is that someone immediately stands up and tells the cook how bad the soup is.

A lot of people’s days are about to get exponentially worse.

Comments

charles vane ; comment here for probably-insults ig???

[sclavus]

PROJECT OFFICES;

[ while Vane wasn't particularly close to the bomb, he was middling enough that the truth bubbles up in his head, along with the vague compulsion, but despite the fact it doesn't feel very pressing, vane also makes zero effort to hold the words in.

so, as he goes about his work in the project offices, occasionally, he might pass people in the halls, and that's when the fun occurs. ]

You're a fuckin' prick and I hate how slow you walk in the halls.

[ he says to a man collecting some papers from the Research office to run it up towards the Scouting office. the man looks offended, but too shocked by the sudden offer of the commentary to say anything, and Vane paces on, until he turns a corner and nearly runs into someone leaving the Diplomacy office. ]

That hat makes you look like a pretentious, hightown cunt.

[ he's making all kinds of friends.

if you're about to pass him by, there's a good chance you're about to get his personal opinion of you blurted out as he wanders along. ]

ADDITION FOR NELL;

[ at some point, he's done charting some courses on the maps in the once naval presence office now that room he and flint sit in office, ready to head back to the docks for the rest of the day, and it's the mage girl from the Venatori ship thing that's pacing the opposite way down the hall.

of course, when she passes, the truth curse flares up, and out come the words - ]

You were a badass on the ship raid and your hair's a nice color.

[ a pause, and vane frowns. well, that wasn't an insult, and it's much less satisfying to blab out at a stranger. Then again, hey, nice hair. after a thoughtful frown, he smirks, then lets out an amused snort. ]

[altusimperius]

[Well as long as people are being insulted with connections to Hightown, Benedict is going to give this one a wide berth. He offers a decidedly unsubtle sneer as he glances over the man, making it quite clear what he thinks of him, his behavior, his wardrobe, and probably his lineage.]

office drive-by

[coquettish_trees]

I am a pretentious Hightown cunt.

[ there goes Alexandrie, in her lovely spring hat, sweeping by. It looks as if she meant to deliver and continue walking, but this damnable business has her slowing to a stop six steps farther down the hall to look over her shoulder. ]

Or, at least, the latter two, although I take residence in Hightown only temporarily.

wildcard-ish

[katabasis]

It's what he'd do, were he in the position to make such decisions. But that doesn't change how it galls coming at it from the other side of things: the folding of the project in tight under Force's wing is as irritating as it is perfectly sensible in light of the Kirkwall contingent's departure from the Inquisition's official ranks. Even now, as they sit reviewing the chart books and maps between here and Brendel's Reach, Flint can't help but feel the prickle of Coupe's metaphorical shadow looming in the doorway.

"We'll need both Reaper and Walrus, and at least a dozen Inquisition" --or whatever-- "hands to be divided throughout," he's saying. Strategy, even with regard to a fucking Qunari dreadnought, is the safest topic of conversation for any number of reasons. "Which means the best we can hope for in keeping this secret will be for Kirkwall to burn to its foundations before anyone can get soused enough in some Lowtown public house and tell the closest ten people about what we have."

Faith in humanity at a real all time high today, apparently.