( closed. ) we are objects of contempt to our neighbours,

[dashing]

WHO: Herian, Pel & Sina.
WHAT: Following the death of Gwen's mother during a Dalish ambush on their party, the Inquisition sends a diplomatic party to the Clan to open dialogue. Everything is a bit terrible.
WHEN: Shortly after the events of this log, so the beginning of Harvestmere. Gently timey wimey for flexibility.
WHERE: somewhere suitably Dalishy and foresty, Orlais.
NOTES: Reference to violence, torture and murder; this diplomatic mission is going to badly, specific warnings to be updated as necessary.

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THE MEETING POINT

[dashing]

Two Keeper's Firsts, mages of two Clan and another mage as well seemed hands enough, for an initial meeting party. Before they can proceed to meet with the diplomatic party from the Clan, however, they must make contact with one another.

They each of them must come from separate directions; Sina from Clan Ashara, Pel from Skyhold, Herian from the Vauquelin estate. They are to meet at a designated point, Herian to debrief the events that played out, her experience with this Clan in the past. It had been the same roar that tore from the rogues' throats as they made their attack; Grymusseth.

The meeting point seems a peaceful place. A stream to freshen their water, the cover of trees, a grassy slope. There are old stone ruins something long forgotten near the clearing. Leaves are turning to orange and brown in the trees, and air blows cooler, and Herian waits. She is crouched by the stream and filling a flask of water, and her nerves prickle. A mission with two Dalish would be arduous enough, even before the prospect of negotiations and discussion being made. It seems an insult to Guenievre Baudin, these proceedings, but neither was there honour in ignoring the Inquisition's decree that diplomacy be attempted, in this.

For her part, she looks as she ever does, stern and unyielding, no worse off than scrapes and bruises, by some mercy.

[eolasemah]

Having been summoned from her mission with Clan Ashara to deal with this pressing matter, Sina is unprepared but not unwilling. She's borrowed a horse, a small wispy dun who is light of frame but fleet of foot, and arrives at the meeting point after only half a day's journey. Spotting Herian, she hails her uneasily and brings the horse to a stop, where she dismounts and immediately brings her to the stream to help her cool off.

"Any word from them yet?" she asks Herian, keeping things professional.

[mythalenaste]

Pel isn't totally sure why a human, especially one with such close ties to the victims, is involved in the diplomatic efforts here. She doubts Herian will make things too difficult--she's a knight, and knights are supposedly different from chevaliers. They have a rigid code of honor. She does not, however, think Herian will make it easier. Hence, not sure what the point is.

Today, and for the last few days, she has been feeling constantly sick. She is curled up on a blanket with her eyes closed when Sina arrives, and can easily be mistaken for one asleep. It's not that she's incapable of functioning, only that she is catching her rest in the moments she can find it. She will need all her strength for the upcoming negotiations.

[dashing]

"We have received no word from the Clan direct. The Inquisition has confirmed the meeting place." There is no warmth or welcome in her voice, but neither is she cold or abrasive. She simply is, even and steady, though there is a tension across her back and shoulders remarkable even against her usual correct posture.

Approaching the Dalish with guarded neutrality that is far harder to maintain than it should be, she holds out the freshly filled and still unstoppered water flask in offering. They must stand together in this, and it would not be honourable to deny consideration to one so freshly travelled, for all the rage tangled in her.

"There is time to rest as you need before we attend them."

[eolasemah]

Leaving her horse by the stream, Sina comes to kneel next to Pel, unthinkingly pressing the back of her hand over her friend's forehead. "You've eaten today?" she asks, Healing Tent Sina taking over for the moment. She's there when Herian approaches, and thanks her quietly as she takes the flask, holding it to Pel's mouth. "Do you need help sitting up?"

[mythalenaste]

Pel rockets up into a sitting position. "Fine! Fine."

Because the worst possible thing that could happen right now is someone thinking she is incapable of something.

Of course, sitting up too quickly makes the nausea worse. But she is willing to power through, even though her face goes a bit green in the meantime.

[dashing]

What a fine start for their esteemed diplomatic party.

She has done little to address Pel since they located one another, a move she considered largely mutually beneficial. Even so, it would be dishonourable to leave one requiring aid neglected. Moving towards the pack on her horse, she rubs his shoulder a moment before fishing in for some of the rations allowed her when she left the Vauquelin Estate. Supples for the road.

"I've food enough for both of you, should have have need of it." Her voice is clear, and she holds up the back she has just unclasped from the saddle. It lacks earnestness or insistence, but she walks a couple of steps closer, briefly glancing between the two in a silent question.

Marvellous, that the Inquisition had sent a woman that Herian had seen falter from the burden of a shard burning in her chest, and another you might be overcome by anxiety, disease or liquor lingering past its welcome. They clearly thought so highly of these proceedings.

APPROACHING THE CLAN

[dashing]

Going to meet the Clan in their camp would be both presumptuous and foolish. When the Inquisition contacted the Clan via letters, they agreed on this meeting point, a small grove lined with ancient birch trees, gnarled with age. Their leave shimmer in the breeze, and Herian would personally feel more at ease with less trees and less Dalish, but she knows well enough to keep her mouth shut, though her gaze is watchful. If she speaks too sharply, too harshly, voices her suspicions, than she will have committed less than her full energy to this. That will not stand. That cannot be.

This is beyond her own rage, and she will remember it.

The horse and her staff at left at another point, as a precaution born of habit, so rather than a flaming staff all that she carries with her are a sword, standard issue, and the hilt of her Spirit Blade at her side.

There is a large, flat stone in the centre of the clearing, or near enough, and beside it there stands four Dalish.

The first, a woman of some years and hair that is more silver than the golden blonde still visible in it, her vallaslin a dark blue dedication to Dirthamen. She holds a mages staff, and stands before all others.

Beside her is another mage, a young man with golden eyes that watch attentively, his vallaslin black and of Mythal.

Two others stand with them, one an archer and another with a sword at his side. The archer is closer to the age of the Keeper than the other mage, her hair black and drawn back in a complex braid, the vallaslin of Elgar’nan mapping a pattern of dark green thorns onto her skin, while the warrior wears the vallaslin of Sylaise over his left eye and stands taller than all the others gathered with them.

It is the elder mage who steps forward. "Andaran atish’an," she starts, though there is an air of reserve in it, rather than simply neutraility. "I am Neasa, Keeper of Clan Grymusseth, come before you with my kin."

She makes no move to introduce them further, yet, waiting to see who claims leadership of this party.

[eolasemah]

Perhaps unexpectedly to Neasa, it's the youngest and most diminutive who steps forward to do so. "En'an'sal'en," Sina greets, and stops just in front of the stone, hoping that the Keeper's welcome to a place of peace isn't simply a figure of speech. Perhaps it's just nerves, but the stakes of the situation push Sina to try a little harder than usual to impress. What Elvhen she knows emerges, fluently enough, though her knowledge is as limited as anyone's.
"Ar ame Siuona, Dahlasanor as'var sael," she continues, and, gesturing to the others in turn, "this is Pel, formerly of Clan Ashara, and Ser Herian, both trusted agents of the Inquisition. We come to discuss the death of a laimsa at the hands of your people." That was, perhaps, a little less graceful than it could have been, but Sina's doing her best. She tries not to let her hands shake visibly.

[basic translation: "Blessings. I'm Siuona, Dahlasanor's First." "Laimsa" is a placeholder that I used to indicate 'city elf' bc I couldn't find anything better, though technically it translates to "oppressed/former slave". Juuuust roll with it]

[mythalenaste]

"Andaran atish'an," Pel says when it is her turn, standing poised like a statue, staff in hand, as if she's a great brute bodyguard at her diminutive height. But a tiny body can house a lot of power, and that is what she intends to convey. Her staff is in hand, the end planted firmly in the earth, and while she holds it like a prop she does not lean against it. There is no weakness to her, not even the sheen of sweat or the green tinge of morning sickness that plagued her earlier. It still plagues her now, to a degree, but she is focused. It has no mastery of her. So far.

[dashing]

The warrior, young and giant as he is (by elvhen standards, at least, he looms) interrupts before Neasa can reply.
"The Inquisition insults us, sending two little girls and a shemlen? Masal din'an. Keeper--"

"Calm yourself, child." He is silenced by her look, though not especially chastened. "You must forgive Kelvyn. He lost a sister to the attack on our lands. I am glad to meet each of you. With me stand Pryderi, who was my Second and now stands as First. Aithne is our lead hunter, and a finer shot you'll never see. Kelvyn is a fine warrior, and very concerned by Inquisition invasions on our land... as are we all."

Her smile is pleasant, though. That's good.

"Keeper," Aithne starts, gently, and continues only at a nod from Neasa, "the death of a single flat ear pales in comparison to our losses. Our hunting party was slaughtered, but it is some city slave that troubles you?" Her tone is concerned, rather than accusatory.

Herian meanwhile, is silent. Furious and silent. This is terrible.


( translation note: masal din'an is apparently a vague but untranslated threat??? )

[eolasemah]

Though she's reassured by the Keeper, Sina can't help but glance warily at Kelvyn, looking him up and down as one would a young and aggressive stag. Not necessarily a problem, but perhaps unpredictable to a stranger.
"Aneth ara," she says quietly after both are introduced, listening carefully and pausing a moment to measure her words before she answers.
"Invasion is not our intent," she says, with a sweet smile for good measure, though it quickly turns serious again. "My own clan was nearly wiped out by aggressive shem'len twenty years ago, and has yet to recover. Dahlasanor well recognizes your losses. And your anger." Despite feeling the eyes of not just the warriors, but Herian, fixed on her in judgment, Sina does her best to maintain a pleasant and sympathetic demeanor.
"However, we have found joy in accepting among our own elvhen who flee the cities, who wish to know the old ways. As we should, for they are as we are. The Creators watch over all their children, even those scattered and subjugated and mingled among the rest of the world." She speaks with earnest passion, her youthful voice all but singing as determination fills her. "We ask not that you suffer the Inquisition's continued meddling in your lives, but that you simply... respect the loss of one of our own, and recognize that her family seeks justice as vehemently as yours does." She takes a breath, but isn't quite done: "If you assent to... just trying to reconcile the losses, to enacting justice on your own terms, we can do the same. And there will be no need for more bloodshed."
Looking a bit winded, Sina glances at Pel-- did she do okay?

[mythalenaste]

Pel's face is impassive. In her opinion, Sina offered too much too quickly, and should have left something on the table for bargaining. But that can't be taken back, and she is not going to compromise Sina's position by trying to do so. And maybe the Keeper will be swayed by the gentleness of the request. Sina's instincts for that sort of thing are likely better than Pel's.

She gives Sina a slight nod, but says nothing, seeing how this will play out.

[dashing]

It is easier to feel calm, be calm, in the face of violence or battle or another's rage. It gives her a point to counter. This calmness when such anger wells in her chest is less comfortable, for all that it remains contained.

She does not dread an outburst or fear it as a possibility; she will not give them the satisfaction.

"May I speak, Sina?"

It is not permission she requires, but she has sense to know that undercutting Sina'z authority will do them no favours.

CAPTIVITY IN CAMP

[dashing]

Whoever wakes first is met with Herian's form slumped before them, mouth a bloodied mess and thoroughly unconscious, face pressed into the dirt. Pel and Sina, but contrast, have the dignity of being sat upright against two wooden posts, hands tied behind their back and around the post, though both were stripped of their staves and Herian's sword is gone.

From not too far away, the ambient sounds of camp carry on, a normal day. It is far later in the day, though, and far cooler, and the fire that burns is close enough to cast an orange glow on their skin but not enough to lend them any warmth.

For the moment, at least, it seems to be just the two of them, and sleeping beauty, over here.

[mythalenaste]

Pel's vision blurs briefly after her eyes open. She must have been hit with a spell that still hasn't completely worn off, because her eyes slide shut again and the first words out of her mouth are complete gibberish. She struggles a little with her bonds before slumping back and forcing her eyes open.

This is going to suck.

"Sshina?" she calls softly, head swinging back and forth looking for the girl.

[eolasemah]

The stench of salt and ozone, a green sky, a black sea. It's the same beach as always, but now Sina is secured to a jetty, the thrashing and soupy water rising and falling, never quite up to where it will drown her, but high enough to periodically douse her head and rush into her nose.
Dark shapes stand looming half-hidden beneath the water, illuminated every ten seconds or so by a blinding flash of neon green lightning, invariably followed by a violent and deafening crack of thunder.
The demons are interested. They always have been. But something has changed, something is near. There's opportunity here.
Emerging from the waves directly in front of her, a Terror rises, rises, towers, grinning down with its horrid skeletal teeth. It can free her, she knows. It's offering. It would be so easy, and all she has to do is give in.
Just give in.

At the sound of her name, Sina awakens with a jolt and a small yip of surprise. She looks around with a strange mix of relief and dread: there's no sea, no demons. But she is still bound. And she's not alone.
"Pel," she weakly responds, the day's events slowly returning to her, "...this is my fault."

tw: mention of possible miscarriage, brief scare that quickly passes

[mythalenaste]

"No," Pel mutters. She bumps her head against the post she is tied to, trying to shake the sleep from her head. "Ugh."

What actually makes her suddenly alert is the thought that something could have happened to the baby. She can't tell what sensations she is feeling, but she knows she has had a lot happen to her. A squirm makes the fear pass, though, as she feels nothing sticky or tacky between her legs when she moves. Good. Sina is alive, Herian seems alive, and so far the baby appears not to have noticed anything is different.

"We can work with this," she whispers, looking around. "Yes. We're going to be fine. This is nothing, da'len."

She speaks with more confidence than she feels, knowing it is vital to keep Sina calm and focused. All the same, it could definitely be worse.

[eolasemah]

"I could have..." Sina begins, but then closes her eyes, forcing her mind into her usual level-headedness. This is no time to whine or panic. She'll think about the attack later, because right now, all that matters is getting out.
Of course, it's a bit difficult to concentrate when she feels like someone is gently pulling at her chest, and she winces as she rests her head back against the post. Her breaths come evenly, but not easily.
"There's something wrong with the shard," she whispers, "I'm afraid it will go off." And if it does, she won't make it out of here regardless. Glancing again at Herian, she bites her lower lip and then closes her eyes, pressing her hands flat against the ground.
A small growth begins to poke out from the bottom of the tent, then two, then more, a slow and sinuous patch of brambles making their way up the post.

[mythalenaste]

"It won't go off," Pel says lightly, "because we're not going to lose you. Just relax. We'll be out of here soon and getting a drink at the Herald's Rest in no time at all. I know exactly what I am doing."

She has no idea what she is doing.

A flick of her fingers has a shard of ice growing rapidly in her hand. Her time making ice sculptures with Adelaide is paying off. The edge of the shard is razor-sharp, and she quickly cuts through the cord binding her hands, eyes darting to and from the faces of their captors, ready to stop if one of them glances this way. Her heart races as the last ply is cut. The shard evaporates, and she ties the cord into a looser loop and slides it back over her wrists an instant before the Keeper glances their way. She sends up thanks to Mythal, and more than one promise conditional on their survival.

"Herian," she murmurs, reaching out with her bare feet to touch the knight on the shoulder. "Herian, wake up."

ESCAPE

[dashing]

Pel fade stepped away, and not for the first time Herian wished she had any kind of affinity to ice. Fire is what guides her, lightning strikes with her temper, but ice has never been her gift. It doesn't matter, now: all that matters is to run.

Running is another thing that doesn't come naturally to her, in her head she has sworn she would never be made to run from the Dalish again, but this is not a moment to indulge her ego nor forget her duties. She runs, carrying Sina as she goes, and ignoring the lance of pain from a still partially unhealed arrow wound and the shreds of her ear and all else. She cannot imagine the sight she must be, now, and it doesn't matter. Nothing matters save to see Pel and Sina safely back to the Inquisition.

She is seen by hunters, and a couple move to follow her before the reality of demons demands their attention moreso, and Herian just keeps running, running past old ruins and hiding behind them in moments of suspicion before carrying on, until she reaches a point where Pel might stand a chance of finding them and will not leave them in danger.

[mythalenaste]

Pel fadesteps until her mana is utterly depleted, and then she runs until she can fadestep again, and again, until she is breathless, drenched in sweat, and leaning for support against Cow. She has never loved this animal so much as she does now. Quickly she unbinds him and Herian's horse, hoping the other horse has the sense to follow because Pel's little gelding can't carry everyone. Mounting one-handed, especially when that hand is shaking and slippery with sweat, is a problem.

Only briefly does she think, I am safe now. I can go find the Inquisition camp and they can send people to rescue the others. I have to protect my baby. Only briefly does that come to mind, and she angrily pushes it aside.

But the next thought is I can't do this alone. I will die. Elves always die. You know what fear does--it keeps you alive. It thwarts the Child. Embrace it. Let it empower you.

Cyril's pale, sweaty face comes to mind. Screaming at some unseen thing following her. Merrick quietly asking her why a demon is following her. How close she clutches her fear always, even to the point of giving it a name.

No.

She grits her teeth and takes Cow off at the quickest speed he can manage. Herian's horse follows just as fast. The jostling causes agony in her hand and head, but she fixes her eyes ahead and puts the pain out of her mind. Shortly, she sees Herian and slows to a stop beside her.

"Quickly!"

[eolasemah]

Though mostly unconscious, Sina stirs occasionally; with a flutter of her eyelashes and a small, pained sound, she wheezes in a deep breath and relaxes again, then repeats several long seconds later. The shard has calmed itself since they ran from the rift, but she is clearly still struggling to breathe, woozy and weak from shock and pain and lack of oxygen.

Swift follows the other horses easily. Maybe there's food where they're going.

[dashing]

Herian has exactly zero faith in Sina to stay on her own horse unaided. Instead she swiftly heaves the Dalish up onto Herian's own horse, lying on her stomach for a moment while Herian swings herself up onto his back, and then lifts Sina so she's sitting in front of Herian, better to keep her held in place. Quickly need not be said - she moves with as much haste as she is able, only pausing to look to Pel, a silent question to see if she needs anything else, if anything need be done or seen to.

And, if the returning look does not suggest it? Then she is ready to go at the first suggestion of it.

[mythalenaste]

Pel gives Herian a nod and speeds her horse to a canter, then a gallop, making a beeline toward the Inquisition camp. They have these animals, but the Dalish have halla. They need to move.