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

Her hands ball into fists, but she's torn between staying angry and feeling sorry for him. In the end, she has to resist stamping her foot in the mud.

"I will never understand you, Gavin." Her voice has gone quieter as she looks at his drooping ears. "With some things, I do. We're alike in those ways... but in others? It's like you're a stranger. Did you ever consider talking to someone about how you feel instead of just running off?"

He shuffled somewhat awkwardly, glancing away.

"Talking is what started this whole mess," He said a little forlornly. "And you try talking to Merrick, when he wants to punch you in the face, and see how far that gets you."

"Merrick wouldn't be my first choice," she says, exhaling a breath and coming down from her anger a little more. "He gave you that bruise, didn't he?" And really, talking to anyone in the clan wouldn't have worked. They all knew what he'd done to Pel in the past.

"You could have found someone else. Someone not in the clan who was just willing to listen. The less they knew about you, the better."

He just looked at her for a moment, before the shame cleared slightly and his brows furrowed.

"Is that why you think I left?" He asked, quietly. "Because I had no one to talk to?" It wasn't quite anger that was hinted at in his voice as it was disbelief. "You think I came here to - what? Pout?"

"I never know why you leave," Ellana points out. "But I thought maybe you wouldn't have if you just talked about what you were feeling." She shakes her head. "I know what it's like to have thoughts in my head and worrying what people will think if I share them. But you I could always tell. And I've told Cyril some things too. It's helped over the years, so I didn't always feel so alone. Couldn't you just try it next time, to see if it helps? To see if saying what you're feeling out loud curbs the urge to run?"

Oh, yes, she says 'next time' because she knows there will be one. Gavin's default solution to his problems isn't something that will change.

There's a weird spark in his chest - an urge to argue, which had been smothered with the people he should have been arguing with, and was surfacing now when it would do absolutely no good. It wasn't Ellana's fault. And being upset that she didn't somehow innately understand was ridiculous.

"I left because that option was better than staying," He said, a little more bluntly than he meant. "And because I don't actually like being punched, interestingly enough, but I like fighting even less. Better to get away and let everyone cool down until my face didn't immediately warrant a violent reaction."

Ellana's eyes narrow. "It always is with you," she mutters. Not quite defeatist in tone yet, but getting there. He's a part of the clan, and she can't give up on him just yet.

"No one said you had to stay around us, who know what you're like, but Skyhold is big, and full of people from all over. The fact that you'd take off rather than stay around those who don't even know you just goes to show that you won't even try."

"Why, so more people can figure out what I'm like?" He asked, the tone turning bitter. He didn't look at her, throwing himself behind his shovel instead, and getting back to work.

"No, you're right. Why try doing that when I can go get myself killed in a bog, instead, for absolutely no reason."

"That certainly seems to be your plan!" she retorts, her anger bubbling up again. "You have people who care about you, despite your best efforts. And I bet you could gain more friends in the Inquisition if you didn't run away at the first sign of something not being fun."

"Because what I really want is to be liked despite myself!" He snapped, before instantly paling. He never snapped. Especially at people who didn't deserve it. His face scrunched up, angrier now with himself than he was with her, and he threw a hunk of dirt out behind him with his shovel.

"I have plenty of friends, Ellana." He looked up at her, pulling in a breath to calm himself. "I have good friends, here. And I've lost good friends, here. I don't need to be told how to live my life. Not from any of you."

Her face flushes and she presses her lips tightly together as he speaks. In that time, she manages to calm herself down too, at least enough that she doesn't rush to yell back. But more than her anger is the feeling of disappointment in him.

"Fine. Then keep digging yourself in that hole. And I mean that figuratively too." She'll just leave him to it, since he's made it clear he doesn't want any advice from her. Turning away, she considers the conversation over, and can feel in her heart that something else is over too. Gavin's not going to be the one she runs to anymore when she wants to share something exciting.

He doesn't call after her. Doesn't try to get the last word in. He knows exactly how much of a shit he is being, in that moment, and the fact that he can't seem to control it is only making it worse. So he lets her leave without a word, and then when she is gone, he kicks the side of the trench so hard that he stubs his toe.

THE FALLOW MIRE

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