THE FALLOW MIRE

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[savethecat]

"Both," Gorse says with a little laugh, though of course when Zevran speaks a bit of the blush comes back.

That's just kind of going to be a constant thing around him now, probably.

Still, Gorse points upwards, through the trees, at the little patch of sky that can just barely be seen through the smoke and fog, where a few stars twinkle dimly.

"I think that's part of Peraquialus. Maybe. I'd need to see more for sure, but 'round this time of year it'd be in the right spot."

[ombranera]

"Of what?" He never truly learned the names of the stars- many things he has picked up over the years but constellations? Not quite so much. Aside from what he would need to know to find his way back to shore while sailing? He knows precious little. Sitting as he is tucked close against Gorse's side for warmth he peers up past the Vashoth and the hood into the sky, eyes narrowed.

"I do not know that name. What is it supposed to be?"

[savethecat]

Gorse wonders if he should put his arm around Zevran to help warm him more, to cut the wind down a bit. Normally he wouldn't think twice about it but ever since Zevran introduced him to kissing suddenly Gorse has been far more aware of himself than he had been before. Should he ask? People tended to be a little touchy about touching, but Zevran was already leaning against him.

"Um, I think it's also called the Voyager - it's a boat. I think those three stars are where the mast connects the sail and the hull."

Well, he's showing Zevran that stars, or at least trying, so Gorse carefully puts an arm around Zevran's shoulders - though quick to pull back if the elf tenses or responds badly to it - so that tehy can find the right angle for Zevran to see them.

[ombranera]

If anything Zevran tucks himself all the closer to Gorse's side, slinging his arm around the Vashoth's waist for more warmth and contact. Given more time and probably fewer clothes he'd be purring. Leaning as he is directed takes little enough effort and all the more reason to press close to Gorse. It works in his favor and suddenly he sees the appeal of stargazing. "Ah. I was never taught much of the stars while in the Crows. Can you see any others?"

[savethecat]

"Just those right now. Maybe out away from the camps there'd be more," Gorse said, he had never considered how needing to sit so close together when stargazing could have an added bonus to that but he was becoming very aware of it very quickly. "All the smoke from the fires and all. Back in Skyhold you can see everything, though. I - I could show you the other constellations I know when we get back. If you wanted."

It wasn't exactly an important life skill, as long as you knew enough of them to navigate.

[ombranera]

"I would like that quite a bit- the view from the battlements on a clear night should offer more than space and privacy enough for a more thorough lesson." Zevran tips his head against Gorse's chest, eyes flicking from the sky to his lips. Everything in him is an open invitation, the cant of his head, the curl of his fingers against Grose's tunic, the softness of his eyes.