faderift | THE FALLOW MIRE

THE FALLOW MIRE

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The Inquisition sends forces to the Fallow Mire to deal with undead, plague, and missing scouts.
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: The Fallow Mire: Inquisition camps, Fisher's End, The Tavern, etc.
NOTES: For more information about the setting and RP opportunities in it, check out the OOC Post.

The trip down the mountains from Skyhold is no walk in the park, and south of the Hinterlands the land turns wet and miserable, subject to seemingly endless storms. Villagers have tried to carve out a meagre existence in the Fallow Mire, but their lives are under constant threat by a tidal wave of undead rising from the murky waters flooding much of the region.

The Inquisition has sent a sizeable force, and travel back and forth between the Mire and Skyhold happens as often and as quickly as conditions allow. The camp is a neat patch of tents on the largest bit of dry land to be found. "Dry" is relative; everything's still pretty muddy. There are several clusters of tents, tucked between rock outcroppings and abandoned buildings, the least leaky of which are being used to store what supplies the Inquisition has managed to haul in over the difficult terrain. Campfires are numerous and fill the area with a constant smouldering glow and low-hanging cloud of smoke that mingles with the morning and evening fogs. It's lovely, really.

Fisher's End barely even counts as a village-- just a haphazard handful of ramshackle buildings perched on the edge of the swamp-- but it does have a single tavern. It's a dreary-looking wooden shack like every other structure in the area, distinguishable only by the lamp still lit above the door and the sign that swings creakily in the breeze. Whatever was painted on it has long since worn away and been molded over. The place is just known as "the tavern" because it is literally the only tavern for miles and miles around.

Inside is dim and smoky from peat-burning fires in the two grates. There are a half-dozen tables with benches, none of which ever seem quite level on the uneven floor. The bar is tended by Thorolf, a grizzled bearded fellow with a local accent so thick he's almost unintelligible. No matter the time of day he serves a simple fisherman's meal of hard bread, salted fish, and a hunk of strong cheese. His cellar is stocked with exactly three varieties of alcohol: one ale, one wine, and one spirit, all of which are strong and dark. There aren't many locals left, but there are usually a few hunched over a mug or huddled around the fire.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Gavin stopped what he was doing as soon as he heard the voice, and looked both honestly relieved and pleased to see the dwarf was at the other end of it. They hadn't had a chance to speak since before Haven, and if anyone could lift his spirits, it was Varric.

"Are you really sure you want to say that it could be worse?" Gavin asked with a lopsided grin as he thrust his shovel into the ground and then tossed the earth back up behind him. "You're going to make me feel like I'm in one of your stories. 'Could be worse,' he said, and then the elf was eaten by a dragon."

Varric stared and, after a beat, recoiled slightly. He recognized the voice, if not the muck covered elf-person responding. He had a witty comeback about narrative inevitability, and another about how not even dragons would eat anything they found in this dump, but he let both pass as he stared, incredulously.

"Well shit, Lucky? Is that you?" Varric asked loudly. He hadn't actually paid much attention to the news about the elf that ran off, just the rumors of a wild tongue lashing and latrine duty. In retrospect he should have expected it was Gavin; this was not because Gavin was cowardly and prone to desertion, but rather due to the elf's penchant for making and exacerbating unfortunate mistakes.

"I couldn't tell. You're just covered in--" Varric paused and shook his head. "I don't want to know what you're covered in, actually, but it hasn't killed you yet."

Narrative inevitability only came crashing down on people if it wasn't ironic as shit...and this was certainly shit. Hopefully it was the ironic kind.

"Leave it to you to get stuck with this job in the Fallow Mire of all places."

The recognition in Varric's voice brought an instantaneous grin to Gavin's lips, and he stuck his shovel in the mud to climb out of the pit. He could take a five minute break. He would just be careful to stand down wind.

"Hey, Varric," He said, the grin as obvious in his voice as it was on his face. "And it's mud, mostly. I think. This time, at least. And someone has to do the dirty work, don't they? May as well be me."

He could pretend he'd volunteered.

"How are you? I haven't seen you since -- Well, I wanted to check up on you, but--" He cut off, looking a little sheepish at how very ungraceful the question was. How have you been, after your friend was horribly murdered and our hope lost?

"I've been learning to read," he said instead, with a hopeful note to his voice.

Judging by how little the overall stink of the surrounding area shifted, Gavin was probably right about it being mostly mud all over him. That was comforting, sort of, in a purely olfactory way. The black mud of the Fallow Mire was still horrific, but it was pretty mundane once you got past the smell of rot. It wasn't like there were any corpses in the ground around here, at any rate, so the mud was probably all dirt and loam.

Gavin gave him the usual 'Hey, how're you doing?' and had the good sense to look a little uncomfortable about it. Fortunately, before Varric had to generate another platitude about how he was perfectly fine, despite having yet another a dead friend, Gavin moved the conversation sideways to a less awkward topic.

"You too, huh?" Varric asked, gratefully grabbing onto that life-line. He hesitated a moment and, once he remembered that he was already saturated with swamp water, anyway, he clapped the elf on the shoulder. The action made no less than three separate kinds of squishing noise, simultaneously. Some mud slid off Gavin's shoulder and hit the ground.

"At this rate I'm going to have to do an autograph signing at the big Dalish ten year reunion," Varric told him, cheerfully. "If you need any help with that, I'm always available."

He was more than happy not to discuss it - the look on Varric's face as soon as the question had slipped from his lips had been more than enough reply.

Fine. They were all just fine.

"I'm not quite at the literacy level of Hard in Hightown, yet," Gavin admitted with a wry grin. Taking the the clap on his shoulder as sort-of permission, he leaned down to give Varric a tight hug. And then wiped the resulting mud off him.

"And I think the idea that any of my clan has already read it is mildly terrifying. But I would never turn down story time with Varric. Are you hungry? Thirsty? They're feeding me, at least, while they kill me slowly."

Gavin was a friendly kid and he meant well...usually, so Varric tried not to groan too loudly as the elf pulled him into a filthy, bog-laden embrace. He was clearly happy to see him again (and, even in spite of the circumstances, Varric was glad to see him as well), so Varric just clapped him on the back and rode it out. When Gavin pulled away, he was caked in Bianca's weight in mud.

The elf tried to brush some of the worst of it off of him, but since his hands were filthy, all he really just managed to spread it around until Varric had a nice, even coating of muck.

Definitely going to burn these clothes.

"You think it scares you?" Varric asked, incredulously. "I just found out that there's a whole audience I never knew I had. A nomadic audience who are well known for being silent hunters and emphatic in their opinions. Shit, I even hired one of them as my new reader."

But Gavin had offered up food and, despite the dwarf's sudden desire to hike until he found an inn with a heated bath, the idea of sitting down for a few and chatting was pretty appealing. Of course, the food he had was probably the same schlock they all had: bread and hardtack that tasted like damp and algae, and whatever bizarre assortment of cured meats the quartermaster had managed to allot them. Not appealing, but it was still slightly better than eating his shoe. He could deal with it.

"Come on, let's delay your death for a while and sit down for a quick supper. Call it your lunch break."

At least Varric now could be said to be in camouflage - whether he wanted to be or not.

"You did?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. "Okay now I'm curious. Which of them is enough of your fan that they would want to get hired as your reader?" He tried to ignore the little unpleasant voice in his chest at the idea of his clan being tied to his friends. His friends who were supposed to be outside his clan, who were supposed to have nothing to do with them.

It was hardly Varric's fault. Everyone liked Varric. He couldn't blame them. But it did make him feel a little miserable. Not that he let it show, of course.

"If anyone comes by, I'll tell them it was your idea," Gavin agreed, forcing a grin to his lips as he turned and beckoned for Varric to follow him. There was a nice thick log that was serving as some sort of seating, and a fire that was only really embers, as well as a crate of supplies. He opened it up - shifting some of the hay that was in there to keep it all dry - and pull some food out. It was, indeed, the same miserable fare as they had everywhere else in camp. But! He pulled out an old, dark bottle with the label utterly destroyed, and handed it to Varric.

"I think it's some sort of alcohol," He said with a chuckle. "I gave it a sniff, it isn't sour, but it's definitely not fine wine. Found it while I was lost."

Varric settled in on the log and, in a mostly futile effort, gave the guttering fire a jab with a nearby stick. It crackled miserably but, to its credit, it didn't go out. The bottle Gavin lifted up was dark and dusty, which was odd given how damp the marsh was. At some point it had been sealed up with wax, which was either a very good or a very bad sign, and Varric examined the label in the dim firelight.

"Garbolg's Back Country Reserve?" Varric read aloud and cocked an eyebrow. "That sounds promising."

With a name like Garbolg, how could they not make quality liquor? Honestly, it was that or become a mercenary, not many other professions would tolerate that sort of name.

Varric twisted the cap off of it and, without pausing to do something as ridiculous as smelling the liquid contained in Garbolg's Back Country Reserve, threw back and mouthful of it. He lurched forward almost immediately, eyes wide, and just barely managed to keep from dissolving into a flurry of sputtering coughs.

The effort that it took to keep from laughing was so much that tears sprung to Gavin's eyes, grinning so wide it hurt. Finally he couldn't help himself any longer - and outright laughed, shifting over so he could pat Varric's back, in case the dwarf starting choking on him.

"I can't tell if this means it's spectacularly good, or spectacularly awful," Gavin teased.

"Funny, I can't tell either," Varric told him, his voice strained and a little wheezy. He examined the bottle and sucked in a sharp breath through his nose--that, unfortunately, was a mistake and Varric grimaced as the residual flavor of...whatever Back Country Reserve was, came back at him.

"Definitely not fine wine, though, you're absolutely right about that one."

If nothing else, a swig or two of that was guaranteed to kill any mold, parasites, or what-have-you that had found its way into their food. A swig or four would probably kill either of them, though, so moderation was probably best.

In a moment of idle curiosity, Varric pressed his thumb against the lip of the bottle and sloshed a bit of the stuff onto the embers. The reaction was immediate, dramatic, and had him leaning back on reflex. The plume of fire had been pretty impressive; Garblog, apparently, could have also had a promising career in either arson or grenade manufacturing. After a moment of silence, he passed the bottle back to Gavin and nodded.

"Yeah, that seems about right."

He took the bottle with a nervous laugh, face still hot from the the sudden column of fire, and swirled the liquid around in the bottle as he looked down into it.

"Alright. Two things: If I drink this, I am absolutely not allowed to talk to Maxwell, or anyone approaching his height." (Good rule, though he had no idea if Varric even knew the man - not knowing him was probably better).

"And two - no matter what I say about disliking my trousers, I am absolutely not allowed to take them off."

"Agreed," Varric said with a sagely nod, "Hawke rules it is."

For a given value of Maxwell, that is. Varric had no idea who he was, nor how tall he was, but preventing Gavin from making an ass out of himself (insofar as was possible) was pretty standard fare when it came to drinking buddies. The pants thing was also a time-honored trust, especially when one drank in places as questionable as Kirkwall or the Fallow Mire.

"Try not to taste it and, whatever you do, do not inhale until you've swallowed." Varric stared him down for a beat and then frowned speculatively. "If you do that...eh, it's not so bad."

On the other hand, Gavin had a pretty good idea of who Hawke was, and since basically all humans had the same height (or near enough to not make a difference), he nodded sagely.

He took a deep breathe, let it out, held his nose and tipped his head back to take a much bigger swig of it than he should have.

'Not so bad' was clearly a dwarven thing.

He started to cough, and then laugh, which caused him to cough more, nearly choking on it. When he managed to get a hold of himself he just kept chuckling, rubbing away the moisture in his eyes.

"Good old... good old Garbolg," he said a bit breathlessly as he handed the bottle back.

Varric chuckled fondly as he took the bottle back and clapped the elf on the back. Gavin was wheezing a bit, scrubbing at his eyes and, to his credit, trying not to breathe too hard. He'd taken a healthy slug off the bottle and, had it not been the sort of thing Sera filled flasks with for combat, he'd have had a healthy buzz. As it was, Varric had drank less and, already, he couldn't feel his teeth.

Tonight was going to be interesting, of that he was absolutely positive.

"To Good 'ol Garbolg and his fine, Back Country Reserves," Varric toasted and Gavin weakly raised a hand in agreement.

Not one to let a friend get entirely drunk, at least not without him, Varric took a longer pull that was strictly advisable before lowering the bottle. Now that he knew what to brace for (there were no words, if only because Thedas had neither jets nor fuel to compare it to), Varric was able to swallow and complete his drink with only a seethed his and a few choice expletives.

The Fallow Mire was still a dank, muck-filled cesspool of despair, but Varric had to hand it to them, they made a mean brew.

"Andraste's Ass, this could kill a Qunari," Varric cursed and blinked rapidly as he lowered the bottle toward Gavin.

Gavin scrubbed a hand over his face, chuckling to himself because he was, at least, much warmer than he'd felt before, and indeed felt that he could quickly resemble a dead Qunari.

In the deadness, at least, if not in the, you know. Size. Or Horns. Had he said that outloud? Yes, apparently he had.

"You know what I mean," he said, waving a hand vaguely as he took the bottle.

He leaned back against the log as he took his second drink - which was just as bad, if not worse, than the first, but he cared quite a bit less than he had originally. He didn't cough, at least, though he did wheeze quite spectacularly. "Least now I... know how we could make sure the whole army got a good night's sleep," He said, chuckling again, though really it was turning into more of an unrefined giggle.

He reached over to pat Varric's thigh in a manly sort of way and raise the bottle in a toast. "To latrines and the dwarves that make us dig them," he said, taking a third swig (oops) before handing the bottle back to Varric.

Varric chased Gavin's toast and shook his head as the swig settled in. His normal fare wasn't quite as strong as this and, unless Gavin had taken up hard drinking with some Grey Wardens recently, he'd put coin down that the elf wasn't accustomed to draining colorless liquor directly out of the bottle. He had no intention of cutting the kid off, after all it wasn't like Varric was all that known for his restraint in regards to alcohol, but he held onto the bottle for a bit while the half pint or so they'd downed burned a proper trail down their gullets.

"Somehow I'm thinking you're not going back to work tonight," Varric said and, while he had control enough that he wasn't about to start slurring or swaying, there was a certain telltale lengthening to his vowels as the minutes crept by.

"Just as well, really," he added with a shrug. "This whole place has already gone to shit, digging a latrine is more for show than anything else."

"It's an endless job," Gavin admitted with a sigh, his fingers feeling fuzzy. And his toes. And his head, really, but that had been the point. "I've been a lot of places in the world, Varric, but this--" He raised both hands, gesturing vaguely out to the bog beyond.

"This surely - what is that human phrase... Takes the cake? Creators, but that makes absolutely no sense." He shook his head, which had been a bad idea, the world immediately deciding to spin faster than it needed to, which had him giggling again.

"Why would anyone give cake to a - to a place like thiss-"

"Condolences, probably," Varric answered flatly and leveled a calculating look at the bottle of Ol'Garbolg. They'd tucked into it but it was still better than half full. He was pretty sure that once it settled, he was going to have vertigo and the kid might actually flail or giggle himself to unconsciousness.

As far as drinking things out of suspicious bottles went, he figured this counted as a win.

"You want another pull off this, kid, or should I cap it off and save it for another rainy, bog-filled day?"

They spoke of calling it a night, and as if on cue, the door to the rickety tavern creaked open and the now infamous Maxwell appeared. Hair slicked with rain, mud splattered on his armor and caking his boots.

He was wet and chilled to his bones, and he'd spent the better part of the day poking around in a fishless fishing hole looking for the source of the Mire's mysterious plague. All he wanted now was to warm his outsides by a fire, and his insides with whatever this place called food while he waited and bet with the Maker on whether or not he'd managed to pick up the illness while trying to help.

Pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his belt, he started for one of the low, smokey fires and just happened to spot the flushed looking familiar face out of the corner of his eye as he leaned toward the grate.

"Gavin?" His eyes moved over Gavin's red features, then flicked toward the dwarf beside him and the bottle still in hand. "Find something good, I take it?"

"One more drink," Gavin was in the middle of saying, reaching over to take the bottle. One more drink to make sure he went past giggly and into well and truly drunk, and then he would tuck it in and maybe suggest Wicked Grace - but as he was taking said drink, Maxwell appeared, and Gavin nearly choked.

Spluttering, he wiped his mouth and handed the bottle back to Varric.

"Maxwell!" He said, all happy surprise, having already entirely forgotten what he had made Varric promise. "Thirsty? I wouldn't say is- wouldn't say it is good eggsactly--" He patted the ground beside him with a grin.

Varric wasn't sure what the consequences of inhaling this sort of liquor would be, but he was positive that it would be better not to find out. Gavin sputtered as he was throwing one back and Varric shot him a worried look. The bottle was promptly thrust back in his hands and, in that moment, Varric was faced with the full weight of his drinking buddy responsibilities.

Well, the partial weight--Gavin hadn't actually rejected his pants, yet, but the night was still young...or, more accurately: dreary and perpetual.

"Maxwell?" Varric repeated and glanced at the human. In short order his expression shifted from confused to surprised to horrified.

"Hey, now," Varric interrupted and nearly rose from his seat. As much as he was certain Gavin should not be talking to Maxwell, he was also certain that Gavin wouldn't want Maxwell to know that he shouldn't be. It was a convoluted thing, drunk logic, but Varric knew the paths well enough.

"Why don't you--er--pull up some...sodden log?" He recovered from his surprise rather more slowly than usual but, as quickly as he could, charming-and/or-friendly Varric was back in practice. "Wouldn't exactly call Old Garbolg's Back Country Reserve good, but it's certainly something. If you're feeling bold, you're welcome to a swig."

He offered the bottle to the human but made certain to do it well outside of Gavin's reach.

"We're pretty sure it's not poison."

Looking at the pair of them, Maxwell was fairly certain he'd missed something - come in late and missed the plot setup. Or maybe they were just both really drunk. Or both.

"I'm--" he eased toward a seat, the words drawing out as if giving them time to change to change their minds, "--not familiar with 'Old Garbolg's.' But pretty sure will do, I think, all things considered."

If he'd caught the plague while playing in the pond, poison would be kinder.

"Is pretty much dragon's piss," Gavin said with a solemn nod, frowning as Varric led Maxwell away. He got up, staggering forward a bit, which only illustrated just how drunk he actually was, as the world immediately tried to reach up to swallow him. His hand snapped out, grabbing Varric's shoulder for support as he got the world to stop spinning.

"Not even as good," He said, "But better than bog water. Probably not poison. He tried stepping past Varric but just sort of stumbled forward, and sat down on the ground before it ate him, reaching out to tug Maxwell's pant leg and get him to sit, too.

Varric tried to keep Gavin from faceplanting directly into the fire, he really did. Fortunately, the flame was so measly that even a full on flop directly onto it probably wouldn't have burnt him. As it was, Gavin almost did a pirouette as he got up, staggered, leaned on Varric, and spun about. In the end, he came to sit between the two of them by dropping down and almost curling his legs beneath himself.

Maker's balls, the kid was so clumsy he'd come back around to being graceful again. It was like watching a swan...that was at risk of being set on fire because it was soused out of its mind.

Varric watched the elf warily for a moment and then turned back to the human.

"Try to avoid tasting it, you'll be fine...but...if you have to spit it out, try to aim away from the fire."

Maxwell had known Gavin for a while, and had seen him in a variety of conditions - had even drunk with him, and he'd always straddled that gracefully clumsy line, but this was something new. He reached for Gavin reflexively, heart lurching as elf staggered toward the fire.

"And this is what you've been drinking?" he asked, arching an eyebrow at the dwarf as Gavin tugged him down toward the ground.

So, maybe not a poison, but certainly killing something.

THE FALLOW MIRE

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I can't believe I forgot about their CR. Silly me.

no worries :')

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