faderift | OPEN: The Western Approach

OPEN: The Western Approach

WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: The Western Approach is a terrible place. You should definitely go there.
WHEN: Bloomingtide 15 onward
WHERE: The Western Approach
NOTES: This is open to everyone. Characters who would not happily go to the hell desert probably have to go anyway; it's a war, not a vacation.

Once these wastes were a land of plenty. Can you believe it? The rain came north over the Gamordan Peaks, turning the plains green and verdant for three months of the year. Eight hundred years ago, that changed. During the Second Blight, darkspawn spilled out of an enormous crack in the earth, corrupting it with their foul blood... and it never recovered, even after they were driven back underground. The Grey Wardens built Adamant Fortress to stand watch over that chasm, but eventually even they abandoned it to the wind and the biting sand.

What few of us eke out a living in this Maker-forsaken place do so knowing that any number of deaths await us: darkspawn raids, dragons, bandits—not to mention starvation from the lack of water and game. If we stay, it is because we know there are treasures buried in the bones of this place, ruins from the time when Tevinter ruled, and even earlier. We pass tales around our campfires of the things we have seen shrouded in the dust storms. My favorites are the ones about relics that could restore the Western Approach once more... but I don't believe them. Truth be told, on nights when the wind is calm, I can stand on a hilltop and see for miles in the moonlight over a stark beauty of which no other Orlesian can claim to know the equal. On those nights, I hope it will never change.

—From Lands of the Abyss by Magistrate Gilles de Sancriste

I. THE DESERT

When Scout Harding calls somewhere the worst place in Thedas, that's probably a bad sign. Even when nothing in the Western Approach is deliberately trying to kill you, there's nothing kind or forgiving about the landscape: bare and arid, carved through by sharp-dropped canyons, dotted with abandoned mines and signs of the deaths of lost travelers. Winds sweeping through to whip stinging sand into uncovered faces, and periodic dust storms obscure visibility entirely. It's warm enough to be dangerous but not so hot, at this time of year, that heat exhaustion and dehydration can't creep up on you while you aren't paying attention.

And at any given moment, something probably is deliberately trying to kill you. The food chain in the region is top-heavy, with quillbacks, phoenixes, hyenas, and varghests roaming hungrily and as likely to attack one another as the sparse local prey population. Compared to their natural competitors, the Inquisition's forces look like easy marks. The camps the Inquisition scatters at lookout points throughout the region require constant watch, and going anywhere alone is inadvisable. Not only because of the hostile local everything, but also because it is incredibly easy to get lost. One rock formation looks much like another after hours in the sun or bathed in shifting moonlit shadows, and good luck finding many other landmarks. There are a few: chunks of pillars or arches from some ruined structure, or the occasional odd pillar that might, if someone investigates, prove to mark a trail of sorts.

Plus: the only people who seem determined to survive out here are cutthroat bandits and stray Venatori. Double-plus: a high dragon makes occasional fly-bys, scouring the ground below for anything edible, armored or not.

Some reprieve comes at night, relief from both the sun and the area's primarily diurnal predators. But that's when the darkspawn come out.

II. GRIFFON WING KEEP

Bloomingtide 16-17: Taking the Keep

Only a small force of Tevinter cultists remains in Griffon Wing Keep when the Inquisition arrives, seemingly on their way out the door already, but the sight of Inquisition banners is enough to make them stay and fight. There's no need for siege equipment, but there is call for a little bit of patience. With it, a small battalion is able to evade the mages and archers on the walls and storm the doors with few casualties. Fewer than three dozen warriors wait inside. It's a quick, brutal fight; it only takes a night.

Bloomingtide 18 Onward: Home Away From Home

Once the Keep is cleared of occupants, it's ripe for the Inquisition to… occupy… But with implicit permission, at least. Those who aren't needed for fights elsewhere may be put to work clearing out debris and small animals and the remnants left by the cultists, and within a few days the fortress is a serviceable outpost, much more hospitable than the camps out in the sand. Barracks mean even those who don't have beds at Skyhold may have one here, and it takes less than a week for an enterprising merchant to arrive with ale.

III. THE STILL RUINS

Despite signs of recent activity, the lavish Tevinter palace tucked incongruously into the canyons is quiet and still, when the Inquisition discovers it—quiet, still, but not empty. The ancient ruin is brimming with demons and Tevinters in incredibly outdated fashions, all frozen in place, as they have been for hundreds of years. No one breathes or blinks, but their skin is still warm and alive to the touch.

Beyond the entryway and halls and through the courtyard, there are signs of research and experimentation, and one man stood unmoving with his hand clasped around something unseen.

Perhaps someone will discover the cause. Perhaps someone will undo the spell that's been cast over the palace. Perhaps, if someone does, someone will take the opportunity to not immediately murder all of these valuable sources of ancient information, and instead only murder most of them. In the meantime, however, it is unlikely that anyone will ever be able to get this close to a rage demon without receiving a face full of fire. Take advantage.

IV. CORACAVUS

Signs of the Venatori point upward: up the hills, up ladders and towers, and into the ancient Tevinter prison, Coracavus, that was built into the mountainside. The ruin is filled with sand now, with half-collapsed walls and anything not made of stone worn away by winds, and the Venatori are long gone, their hunt for relics from the glory days of the Imperium abandoned when an excavation attempt opened the prison to darkspawn, instead. The darkspawn have retreated as well, but there are signs of their presence. Namely the smell and the half-eaten corpses of slaves—primarily elven and dwarven—who were left behind to their fates when the Tevinters fled.

There's no sign of them now, but digging through their abandoned camps may turn up a name, if anyone would like to see that he pays.

V. ADAMANT FORTRESS

A day's determined walk from the nearest Inquisition camp, Adamant Fortress overlooks the vast chasm—dubbed the Abyssal Rift—from which darkspawn poured during the Second Blight. It stood abandoned for nearly 150 years before the Grey Wardens' recent reoccupation, and it's abandoned again now, emptied out well before the Inquisition's forces arrive. There are signs that the retreat was a hasty one: scattered belongings, opened doors, abandoned meals, and no fewer than fifty bodies left on a mass pyre that only half-burned without anyone to tend it.

The Veil has always been thin here, and it's thinner now, where demons have been pulled through from the Fade. Rifts hang over the battlements and in the corridors, and escaped shades lurk in the dark corridors, siphoning away the willpower of those who linger until they come close enough to attack. Those who visit the Fortress set up camp outside of it rather than within it, wisely.

There are clear signs of blood sacrifice, for those who look: the bodies, blood stains on the stone floors, neat lists of names systemically crossed through. Sorting through documents left behind may turn up vague notes in a mage's runic shorthand or the journal of a trepidatious new recruit (Lourde, a pickpocket, crossed through on the registers). Behind a locked door in the lowest rooms are the bodies of sixteen mages, still in their Circle robes, left lying where they fell when the Joining took them. Mages who were among the rebels in Redcliffe may recognize a face or two as belonging to the hardliners who left with the Tevinters.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"If I go hunting myself, I'm going to wind up eaten by a bear. Do you know how little I want to be eaten by a bear? Because it's very little. Exceedingly little. It's about as much as I'd like to make out with Cullen."

He doesn't hunt except for food wen he's in serious need. Plant life, that's easy to gather and eat. Bunnies are all right. Something large enough for a fur? He's a healer. Solo combat isn't his area of expertise.

"Are you or your partner any good at hunting?"

As soon as Bull's axe has connected solidly Anders is casting again, forcing the sand together into a spike to drive it into the wound, growing it wider and trying to make it tear the creature from the inside out. It howls, nearly covering Bull's grunt, but it's the last noise the thing will make as the axe tears into its neck and Anders joins lightning to the blow, frying the inner flesh the weapon reveals.

The thing jerks and flails, but it's clear the last blow's been struck and Anders breathes a sigh of relief. "When you've had your fill of stabbing it let me know and I'll take a look at where it got you?"

"Oh, you don't need to worry about me none, Lady Ellana," Sam assures her. "I can look after myself! Why I've killed an Orc, you know." Which is true enough, though it doesn't have much to do with whether something could sneak up on him in the desert. "But I'll walk with you all the same. You're right after all; it's safer with two." He's thinking more of her safety than his, which is a bit unfair, as she's so much bigger than he, and hasn't done anything to suggest she may need rescuing. But he straightens his spine a little all the same, careful to take heed of their surroundings as they walk.

It's not the answer she had expected. Cassandra's lips part in surprise - Leliana does not often admit to uncertainty, even to her. And certainly not since their disagreement. She had been prepared to be rebuked, rebuffed; if she was lucky, Leliana would roll her eyes in fond exasperation and deftly change the subject, rather than laughing outright or coldly dismissing Cassandra from her presence.

She is not quite certain how to reply, at first; and then she knows, all at once. Leliana had stood by her through so many of her own crises and instances of self-doubt, a steady, reassuring presence. Cassandra can do no less than the same.

"Offer them what they ask for," she says, but it's a suggestion and not a declaration, her tone and eyes soft and kind rather than impatient or imperious. "Offer them the truth."

"I've heard of it. I've never had one. If I'd not heard of it, how would I have said it to begin with?" He likes the silliness the topic has taken. It's far more relaxing, despite how he doesn't think something will truly go wrong with his staff.

"And meat that isn't squirrel or rabbit isn't that easy to come by for the poor. Chicken and nug are sometimes available, but generally pork is very rare." They may be far enough now, and he glances back at the camp. "I think we may be good here."

She stiffens, wondering if he knows who she is, if he had been warned, specifically, of her. Well, let him be warned. She will not apologize for being suspicious of those who might harm those she had sworn to protect.

"We must be vigilant against outsiders, until they have proven themselves worthy of our trust," she says. An explanation, not a justification. "But no mage is killed in Thedas merely for being a mage. Not by the Inquisition." She knows full well that mages are killed simply for being mages, every single day - that perhaps their worlds are not quite so different after all. But within this small corner of the world, she can at least offer him that small safety. If she can control nothing else, she can and will fight corruption and injustice within the Inquisition itself.

Uncharted territory, away from the Keep and their destination. It doesn't deter Cassandra for a moment.

"Then the only thing to do is to follow them." She frowns, thinking. "We cannot spare many. But a small party might serve, with fighters skilled enough to defend both themselves and those who cannot."

She might be eyeing Sherlock somewhat dubiously as he says this. He hardly has a warrior's bearing or build.

"Are you saying I owe you my life?"

Her tone is light, joking, unwilling to face the more serious truth behind the words - but the smile she offers him is genuine, all the same. "You are right, of course. It is good that you are here."

She scoffs at the praise, one hand resting on the hilt of her sword as they walk. "Ferocious. Many people have called me similar things, and rarely as a compliment." She glances at him, studying him in thoughtful consideration. "Your technique has improved. As has your aim."

"Blights are in that 'evil isn't convenient' category, I imagine. I haven't done much reading on the subject either, but I think the Blight is the reason it's all gone to the void." She wrinkles her nose, shaking her head. "I heard there are old Tevinter ruins, but I mean, surely there are old Tevinter ruins in more hospitable places? Like Tevinter?"

Few people are on Martel's level of shamelessness; he laughs and drawls, "You wound me," sounding not especially wounded by the accusation of being the sort of bad influence that leads to gallivanting. As accusations go, it is both novel and sort of charming, so you know what, he'll take that.

And--

"Well, my dear, now we're seeing you. And I for one am delighted."

"Considering that I'd been encouraged to undertake a Harrowing despite the Seeker knowing that I had no understanding of what it was, I'm inclined to believe you," Hermione murmurs bitterly. She understands that Cassandra more likely than not simply had the best interests of the majority of Skyhold in mind. But throwing a young woman to the wolves while telling her she'll be playing with dogs isn't exactly helpful.

"I had simply thought that I hadn't known what one was because of my status as a rifter. Do they really not tell any mage what they're about to face, despite the fact that they are willfully calling a dangerous demon to come and try to possess them?" She'd heard of surprise tests, but they usually wouldn't result in possession or death.

"... robots with human souls?" Hermione asks, clearly unfamiliar with that one. "I wasn't aware such a thing-... but then, I suppose it shouldn't really be a surprise, in the midst of everything else." Shrugging a little, she adds, "But those are all living, sentient things. If inorganic material can also come through on its own, unattached to anyone else, that's something new, isn't it?"

Unlike the other horned individuals Hermione's met, this one hasn't proven to be overly friendly, and so Hermione is going to do what she can to keep from saying anything that might upset her. So she doesn't say that it's entirely her friend's choice to want to go anywhere to be with someone she cares for, and she makes sure that nothing in her body language says as much, either.

"We don't know what is or isn't possible yet, but a little research should help clear that up. Perhaps these shards act as a sort of passkey to help rifters get back to where they should be. After all, from what I understand, only spirits, demons, and dreamers can actually pass through the Fade, right?"

Bull snorts quietly before starting to fall in step behind her. Atonement. There's a thought, the notion that reparations can be met with death and suffering. Her Chantry roots are starting to show through.

He's got no such ideals. The Qun doesn't value punishment, not in that sense. Fact is that these men are dangerous and need to be put down, for the good of all. The fact that they're assholes is just sort of the cherry on top, at this point. Not often in his life that the bad guys make themselves so obvious.

Indeed, once they see them approaching from the crumbling gates, they seem all too happy to line up for the slaughtering, eager to defend their miserable lives.

Well. In that case.

With a shrug, Bull promptly slides the heart-shaped glasses into place on the bridge of his nose. It looks a bit silly, obviously, particularly over the one eyepatch, but he still looks her way and raises an eyebrow as though to ask her opinion just the same.

"Is it my color?"

"Not at the moment, no, but not standing downwind helps." Korrin takes another couple of steps back, hoping that will mitigate it somewhat. "We should clear this prison, anyway; there doesn't seem to be much else to do or find here." And the Tevinter assholes who are responsible for all this are still at large. That thought alone is enough to keep her going, hoping to join in bringing them down.

He can respect that about her fighting style. She's obviously skilled, and in control of herself on a battlefield to the point that she can be trusted. So he doesn't worry about her as much when he goes charging up to a ladder, hoisting himself up, in order to close in from the side.

One poor sod gets his face slammed with the pommel of his axe, and goes toppling over the side of the fortress.

"Nothing."

He wouldn't be the first. A number of people have posed questions to him that would be more fitting to ask one of the priests. Sometimes he humors the requests, sometimes not. Now? The answer's a pretty simple one to give.

"The Qun's more a guide for living than a religious fairy tale about how the world started, or how we're meant to be punished for our sins, or crap like that. You kill darkspawn. That's pretty much all anyone needs to know."

"Easily spotted high ground's a perfect place for an ambush." Bull shrugs quickly. "Might not be. Still. A little too tempting for them not to have even considered it."

There's a pause, and a slow curl at the corner of his mouth. "And don't think I missed that bit about going bare-chested, either. Kind of impractical for you humans, but it does paint a nice picture."

[ Well, he can definitely see why she's Dorian's friend. Shaking his head, he still manages a smirk before beckoning with the crook of his finger. The rope needs to find its way in three solid knots, at least, before lowering her down. Spreading the weight evenly means less chance of snapping, or hurting her.

Even if she is barely a wisp of a thing, isn't she?

He's still gentle with the knotting, tilting his head consideringly before giving her belt a testing tug. ]

Think that ought to about do it. You sure about this?

Edited 2016-06-01 13:58 (UTC)

"Eh. Hurt myself worse than this fooling around in bed."

As the creature sinks to the sand, Bull steps back, glancing down at the slash across his rib cage. Better than a belly wound, and while it's bleeding pretty freely it doesn't hurt as bad as it could.

That's going to take exactly one burst of wind carrying sand across the wastes before it changes.

All things considered, Rachette isn't wrong. The Hansen men have always had a penchant for the dramatic, really. His father got torn apart by darkspawn, his brother was disgraced, his son disappeared on a mission.

Really, Herc should have died in that cell, if he wanted to keep up tradition. Herc batters one of the shades, and between the two of them it is going well. Being sound of body isn't the same thing as having kept up training, though, and between the time in the dungeon and all the time he waited before getting Anders to treat it when he felt so tense about magic, Herc's not at top form. One of the shades rushes him and he falls, landing awkwardly on his shield.

It'd be a lie to say Herc's at his best. He put off letting Anders treat him for as long as possible - maybe made him feel uneasy in the wake of Adamant, and the thought of magic and spirits being involved with stitching him back as he should be rubbed him the wrong way. The result of a month in a dungeon and a month of no training and moving stiffly on top of that means that he's lost condition, even if he's in good health. Experience can only carry you so far.

Still, experience lets him round the corner on the archer and whack him in the face with a shield. Messy, not clean and quick as he'd like, but it'd do.

"Ellana!" he calls out. "Watch out!" From where he stands he can see another archer aiming down at her, and that one is definitely out of Herc's reach.

"Now there's a sport I'd like to see: Venatori-tossing!" Seeing a vint go over the side like that gets a smirk out of Korrin, appreciating that maneuver being done in her line of sight. Sadly, there are still more to go so she can't just sit back and enjoy the show. Her style much-reminiscent of Vivienne's, with a few adjustments for someone of her size, she quickly takes down the nearest with her glowing blade.

"You don't believe in the Fade?" Most people speak of the Fade as a real, tangible thing, and Hermione has come to think of it as the land just beyond these rifts. It's often made her want to fight past the demons and try to climb into one instead of closing it, but without knowing for certain what would happen to her, she isn't exactly eager to climb into a hole out of which demons had cropped up.

Cracking a ghost of a smile, she adds, "I don't think I look much like a wraith, and yet that's where I'd apparently come out from. I'm not sure what that says about the way our worlds are connected, really, if one can only travel between them through rifts in the Fade."

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OPEN: The Western Approach

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