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

They had talked about it, yes. The Mire. Going. But they had also talked about going together. And then Gavin had disappeared. No explanation, no goodbye. Just the sad, quiet talk - and then gone.

It wasn't until after Maxwell had arrived in the bog, dragging himself through the rain and mud with the latest wave of Inquisition agents to the camp that he even knew for certain it was where the elf had run off too. It was a while later still that he find him.

Gavin probably didn't want to see him, but with the way he'd left, and with what he'd heard since arriving, Maxwell had to see him.

Just for a minute. Just... to make sure.

Then Gavin could back to believing he'd run far enough way.

Gavin was in oddly good spirits, considering everything. Or maybe because of it - the hard, grimy work and the faces of a few friends had been enough to pull him out of his self pity and back to some kind of normal mood. He was humming while he worked, though he was absolutely tone deaf, and throwing all his weight against the shovel as the trench grew longer and wider. He only happened to look up in time to see Maxwell approaching him, which brought a smile to his lips.

It wasn't Maxwell's fault, after all.

(Though he sort of forgot that he'd run off without telling him.)

"I wouldn't get too too close, unless you want to smell like sewage for a week," He warned. "And don't stand downwind."

He seemed to be in good spirits, at least. That was a relief, despite the little drop in his chest.

He did as instructed, coming to a stop a few feet away, close enough to speak, but not so close as to crowd. The smell honestly the furthest thing from his mind. (The whole place stunk of rot and death anyway.)

"Good advice," he murmured wryly, offering a small smile. "Wouldn't want to overpower my eau da corpse."

"Trust me, it can always get worse," Gavin replied. It was only then - seeing Maxwell's small and almost hesitant smile - that he remembered exactly how they had parted. He'd promised he was going to do better, and then he - then he ran away. Oh. Right. So much for better.

But it wasn't Maxwell's fault, and that made a difference, didn't it?

He had the decency to look slightly sheepish as he stuck his shovel into the mud. "I ah - I'm sorry I didn't wait," He said, a slight embarrassed flush blooming, which only helped to highlight the dark bruise across his cheekbone. "Something came up, and I- well, it was better for me not to be there." He fiddled with the shovel, pushing it aimlessly back and forth with the palm of his hand, the other end completely wedged. "I've already been ah, yelled at, for not telling anyone, so I understand if you're angry."

Something. The kiss? The talk? Both? Maxwell didn't know for certain, but what did it really matter. What was done was done.

"...I'm not angry," he said with a little shift of his shoulders and a deep breath. "It would have been nice, but - you're alright. That's what matters."

The dark bruise and the latrine duty notwithstanding.

He touched his cheek lightly. "Harding give you that?"

Gavin looked confused for a moment before he raised his hand to his own cheek, smearing mud across it in the process.

"Oh - No. Not sure she could reach," He said with a sideways grin that was supposed to be disarming but really only came out like something sort of painful. "No, this was - ah - the something. Or somethings, I suppose, but it should all be fine now. Hopefully."

He couldn't just outright lie to Maxwell, as much as a very ashamed part of him wanted to. 'I tripped and fell' was the one he'd been using for others. It was believable, likely, and resulted in less drama. But Maxwell - well, he deserved the truth. Especially while he was being nice, and not yelling.

"Don't worry about it, though, okay? Are you doing alright? Haven't run into too many undead, have you?"

Maxwell's eyebrows twitched, the answer not making much sense.

"Wait, you mean that happened before you left Skyhold?" he asked, the concern that had eased up finding Gavin whole and relatively safe in the Fallow Mire rising again. Despite Gavin's urging not to worry. "What happened?"

Damn. He'd hoped to distract him.

"Ah..." His ears drooped slightly. "I got into a fight." Okay, so it wasn't so much a fight as a beat down, and he hadn't actually thrown a punch, but still. "You know most of the story. Made a girl cry, then got punched in the face, then decided I would be better off elsewhere, at least for a few days. I'm alright, Maxwell, I promise. I can't exactly say it wasn't deserved."

"What?" Maxwell blinked, eyes widening, tone deepening as it teetered between surprise and angry and concern. "What happened with-- led to a fight?"

Lead to Gavin getting hurt.

"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't they come see me?" Anger, he leaned into. The sheer stupidity of it; as if they were hormonal teenagers - or drunk mages and templars. "And how exactly did you deserve it? Did you promise Pel you would never be with anyone ever again after her?"

Gavin withered, faced with Maxwell's anger, averting his eyes as he pulled the shovel out of the muck again. If only to give his hands something to do.

"No," Gavin replied, answering the last question first because it was the easiest. "I hurt her, Maxwell, that's the point. It wasn't - If it was just - if it was just the kiss, it probably would have been fine, but she was upset, and I tried to fix it, and I made it worse." Like he always somehow managed to. His brows knitted together as he thrust the shovel hard into the ground and tossed the dirt out behind him again. "You don't need to make promises to hurt people. Especially not if you're me." He thrust the shovel into the earth again, but paused before pulling it out, looking up at Maxwell.

"I'm sorry. I told you I was going to do better, and I just - immediately trudged a good league backwards."

"So striking you was the answer? More hurt?" Maxwell's frown was deep, his eyes squeezing tightly closed, but he took a deep breath and tried to will the hottest parts of his emotions away.

He could do nothing about the fight itself. He just had now.

"I would have liked to have known, Gavin. A goodbye, at least, just to know you--" He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. "But I'm just glad your okay. That's what matters."

"Sorry," Gavin said, and even though it was a single word, it was still weighted with an honest apology. "I wasn't - I didn't really even think about it," he admitted, his ears still drooped. At least he was looking at Maxwell, now. "I just needed to not be there, and I knew we were coming here, and that there were already scouts here, so I thought--" He cut off with a sigh, before digging out another shovel load and throwing it behind him. His muscles were sore, everywhere, but that was part of the point of the punishment.

"It's been made very, very clear to me that I'm to actually talk to people, next time. And not just leave. Trust me. But for what it's worth, I... I'm specifically sorry, that I didn't say anything to you." His voice grew a little quiet as he looked up. "Considering."

That made Maxwell pause, chest tightening with something that had nothing to do with anger.

"It's alright," he replied softly, after a moment. "You don't owe me anything in that regard. I - understood."

"Maxwell, at the very least, you're still my best friend," Gavin replied, offering the man a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, the tone someone nervous. But not unsure. He'd never used the phrase before, but it was true. Maxwell was the best friend he'd ever made. "You don't have to lie to me and tell me that you don't deserve better. I promised you I would be, and I- I will be."

Don't give up on me.

"At least until you tell me to piss off, anyway."

You're still my best friend.

Maxwell's eyes lifted, meeting Gavin's, a small part coming to his lips. He'd been so afraid, after that quiet, uncertain talk, and Gavin's disappearance, that he'd ruined everything.... That one kiss might be all he could have, but to lose his friend entirely....

"Unlikely," he said, voice suddenly a little rough, blue eyes blinking. "You're the best friend I've ever had, Gavin."

Gavin visibly relaxed, his smile widening and becoming much more easy. At least that part, he'd set alright.

"Careful or I'm going to call upon that spirit of friendship to help me build this latrine," he teased, nodding toward a spare shovel.

He glanced over after Gavin, mouth pulling slightly, heavy to one side.

"Or you could just ask," he replied.

"Would you be so kind as to lend your aid to my faecal matter related endeavour?" Gavin asked, the grin widening. Creators, but he had missed Maxwell. Had missed him more in the last few days than he had in the four years before, and hadn't even realised it.

"At the very least, you could give us a song."

Maxwell sighed, heavily and hard-done by (though the corners of his eyes crinkled handsomely, the dimple in his cheek flashing). "You owe me some sight-seeing."

But slipping off his coat and hanging it from a low, scraggly branch, he went for the shovel.

"Okay, stop me if you've heard this one...."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

THE FALLOW MIRE

After

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject