faderift | 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

"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...."

THE FALLOW MIRE

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