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

PATROL
Sabriel is the first to volunteer for patrol, as it's not something she's unused to, even if she did very little of it before she and her Warden comrades were called to Orlais in the first place. She's useful, as a mage, able to lure dead away with well aimed fire, and it's in this instance she finds herself atop one of the watchtowers.

It's hard to see through the rain, but it's dry, sort-of, and out of the water, which is a relief. She keeps her jar of fire with her, flame small and dim to make it unnoticeable but enough to see by, but it does very little to keep her warm. She misses warmth.

Other times, she finds herself with a group on one of the well-trodden routes, keeping pace with her fellows and keen to follow any orders should an attack happen.

KEEPING THE DEAD DOWN
It's the first corpse pit that does it.

One moment, she's fine, and the next, it hits her like all the breath has been sucked out from her lungs. Sabriel knew death, could feel it lurking at the edges of the water, fuzzy and buzzing, knowing that the very last thing she wanted to do was to step into the water, but she hadn't really known until she leaves the (relative) safety of the camp and stumbled upon the pile of corpses.

She's seen death, and known it. She's a Warden; she took her father's life. But this is different. Needless, pointless, victims of a plague left out to rot. It makes her sick, almost, the bile rising in her mouth and she quickly bites it down.

She sets about burning each corpse individually. Each face turned over sends another shock through her system. It's overwhelming. She's never felt - or seen - so much death before. But diligently, she continues on - body, turned, burned. Repeat, repeat, over and over again.

Someone should probably break that eerie repetitive silence, and it isn't going to be her, so it might as well be you.

TENT ARRANGEMENTS: WHAT GOES BUMP IN THE NIGHT
She had tried asking to be assigned alone. She had tried, on the way here, but had found herself sharing all the same, and was fortunate it was with someone that understood. But with someone who was a stranger, and someone who she had known and called friend... neither of these people should see her like this.

She tries to tell them. But how does someone explain the Calling without explaining the Calling?

The nights are always longest, and it's always then the noise in the back of her head beckons, creeps out of the shadows and tries to lure her away, all the things that help her focus gone. The mire makes it worse. In this small tent with two sleeping souls, it presses on her. In the morning, if it looks like she's spent the entire night curled up on her bedroll between them without closing her eyes, it's because it's true.

Sabriel is not a fearful person, but she does fear this. The night always brings the worst of terrors, and her dreams are even more vivid than they used to be.

She doesn't always remember the nightmares, nor the details, but it's always of darkness, Old God's singing and the darkspawn and dying and death and her father's hallowed face and Clarel saying they must die, and that song, that constant, thrumming song...

By the third night, she screams herself awake, hands pressed over her head as she tries to drown out the images and the noise that is always, always with her.

WILDCARD

Traveling with Sabriel isn't something that Korrin had thought would happen again, prior to their reunion in Skyhold. She's glad for it now, even as the mire is hardly the place she would have chosen for a renewal of their youtful adventures. The corpses of plague victims get to her, too, though she tries not to show it; they need every agent they can get, and she won't be sent back unless it's on a stretcher.

Not about to have Sabriel do it all on her own, Korrin uses her own fire to burn corpses in an attempt to have this be over and done with as soon as possible. Whatever queasiness she might feel, the Vashoth mage forces it down and focuses on what needs to be done. She spares a glance at Sabriel in between burnings, finally speaking up. "Almost done, and then we can move on. Sabriel? Talk to me."

"Hmm?"

Sabriel snaps out of her silence and methodical rhythm as Korrin speaks up, flames roaring towards the body until she waves her hand to bring them back under her control. That doesn't stop the quizzical look she gives to the qunari, as if trying to place exactly why she's there with her, burning bodies.

Oh... right. She came with her, and was here the whole time.

"It's... overwhelming," is all she manages at first. "There's so much of it, all needless. It's hard to concentrate on anything else."

Korrin waits patiently for Sabriel to focus...well, semi-patiently. Any lack on that part is more due to concern than anything else. She's tried to give Sabriel space -mentally speaking- but that time has reached its end.

Sighing, she nods in agreement as her hand comes to rest on the Warden's shoulder. "I know. This place is terrible enough, without seeing death everywhere. I've seen my share, too, but this...this is different. It always is, with civilians."

Death in combat, between armed parties, doesn't faze her in the slightest, not anymore. But none of these people could defend themselves, not against undead and not against plague. It's heartbreaking just thinking about it.

Sabriel hesitates, visibly. She looks down, away, and up to her friend, wrestling with a concept. "I can sense it." Or an admittance. "I don't know how to explain it. But it's more than just seeing, or how I feel. But I knew this pit would be here before anything else told me. And the mire itself... death is caught here, somehow, and it shouldn't be."

It's never been a concept to wrestle with, how she's always been so aware of death, so knowing. But it's hard to explain something that she's always had, that most of her family line did, to varying degree.

Edited 2015-11-15 20:37 (UTC)

Mulling over that, Korrin furrows her brow as she stares down at the pit. "That last part makes sense. I was talking to someone more sensitive to spirits than myself, and she said the Veil is very thin here. I knew there was something wrong with this Maker-forsaken place."

That last part is muttered more to herself than anyone else but still audible. Then she frowns in thought and raises an eyebrow. "Is that an extension of being a Grey Warden, or part of Nevarran training?"

"Neither," Sabriel says, shaking her head. It's not the same as sensing darkspawn, that much she does know, but being so aware of them wasn't as much of a surprise as it could have been. It was keener, sharper, but not unfamiliar. "It would be easy to say it was Nevarran, or related to the Mortalitasi in some way, but I think it's blood. Those of the Abhorsen line have always had it. Maybe that's why one of us always has to be a Warden..."

Though she'll be the last, most likely. Maybe sooner if the temptation in her head gets its way and she succumbs. At least when she's doing something, it's not as much of a bother as it could be.

She reconsiders what Korrin said about the Veil, rubbing her forehead. "If everything passes through the Veil, spirits and the dead..." ... is it the Veil she's being receptive to, or just the dead? Neither's helping matters.

Though Korrin's unfamiliar with bloodline powers, she simply nods and trusts in Sabriel's explanation. She sighs , shaking her head. "That's quite a gift...and a price. I'm not sure I would bear it as well, and no offense, but I'm just as glad not to have it."

She's never had trouble fending off spirits and demons before, but if she were more sensitive to such things, who knows? It's not anything she wants to dwell on, that's for certain.

"...not to mention the Veil in the south has been torn to shit, thanks to the Breach. Just because the latter's now fixed doesn't mean the Veil was fixed along with it. We're still finding rifts all over the place. In here, where it's already weak...it's the perfect storm."

"I would not wish it upon another," Sabriel says, with a smile. "I've never thought of it as a burden, but the knowledge of it all... that is enough." She wonders how her father lasted, alone without his Warden brothers and shoulder to shoulder with merchants. Did he ever tell any of them? Was that why he turned his back entirely on the Mortalitasi? Did he shield her from the worst of it, feeling his daughter had enough of a burden to know she would one day be a Warden?

All questions she will never know the answer to, and perhaps that is best.

She sighs. "A door opened is not so easy to close." Korrin is right, of course - the Breach has ruined the stability of the Veil, and the nature of death and spirits enough already. Especially spirits and demons, tumbling through where they should not, and bringing those from other worlds along with them. "Everything has rippled out, past the Breach. I wonder if places like the mire will ever return to how they used to be."

Maybe. Maybe, a long time in the future. But anything that ravages a land leaves a mark. You need only look to a Blight for that.

"Have you heard of those artifacts that strengthen the Veil? Ancient elven make. I don't know how they work, exactly, just that it's what they're supposed to do. A couple of them were found in the Hinterlands. If we had them here...it'd still be a mess, but perhaps then it might help against it becoming any worse."

That's Korrin's only idea at the moment, though, short of setting the entire mire ablaze once its citizens are evacuated. But that fantasy wouldn't solve anything, other than give her an outlet for her frustration. She sighs, shaking her head. "Maybe there isn't anything we can do at the moment, to actually fix it, but at least we can save what's left."

"I read of something similar, but before, there was never something like the Breach." There were always tears, but never a hole so large it swallowed the world around it and destroyed, because the waking world and the Fade could not co-exist together. "But perhaps if there are more, then what could become tears could be prevented, in the future. I wonder if the scouts have seen anything like that, here."

"I'll pester them all about it, if I must." Korrin can be very, very stubborn when she needs to be and it usually pays off in one way or another. Granted, it's tends not to be in a diplomatic fashion, so it can ruffle feathers among those not familiar with her blunt nature.

"If this place keeps getting to you, tell me. Alright? We can go kill things together, or see about doing those supply runs they always need, so that you're not stuck here constantly for the next several weeks."

(no subject)

paperwing - 2015-12-07 16:19 (UTC) - Expand

Keeping busy in the Mire means Sal sleeps heavy and hard. He had grown used to an uncomfortable bed in the castle, and the tent is not much worse. It is a tad warmer, with all three of them crammed in a limited space.

He dreams of trailing after restless spirits in the fog, until someone screams. He searches for them, even as the dream dissolves. But the screaming doesn’t stop. Confused, he rolls over.

“Sabriel?” More awake by the second, and not sure what to do, he sits up and leans toward her. “Sabriel, can you hear me?”

Sabriel doesn't realise she's screaming until Salvatore speaks.

It's a challenge, really, a final I cannot bear this as she attempts to drown out the noise in her mind with noise of her own but it doesn't work. She snaps her mouth shut, the scream dying instantly. She doesn't recall waking up, but his words ground here in the present, in a tent, in the Fallow Mire.

Gratitude for being alive, but fear of what's to come. It's a difficult line.

She shudders, arms still over her head, and Sabriel doesn't trust herself to speak, but she tries to say something, anything, voice hoarse.

"I can hear you."

He inches closer, but leaves plenty of space between them. He can't see her face through her arms, and it's too dark still besides. If anyone outside the tent has been alerted, he can't tell, and he's not paying attention. He reaches out, but his hand just hovers in the space between them.

"Are you..." Dumb question. "Can I do anything?" Maybe also a dumb question.

The offer hangs in the air, but she struggles to think beyond the nightmare, beyond the dull song that echoes in the back of her head, even here.

"Can you... talk? Tell me something. Anything."

"I... Yeah. Sure." He scrambles for a second to find something to talk about, his head still thick with sleep. But she said anything, and he realizes it probably doesn't matter what he says. He starts rambling on about his trip from Perendale to Skyhold, how they had to camp off the road and ration the food. How one of the Templars went off and caught a couple of rabbits to cook one night. How one of the mages and one of the Templars got into a heated discussion, which turned into an argument, which nearly turned into fight before the men were separated. The next morning, the mage was gone. He left behind a note, so they moved on without him....

The words don't matter so much as the fact that his voice is something to hang on to, something else than the singing. It's noise, at first, not really paying much attention other than picking out Perendale and Skyhold, but by the time he reaches the argument, her breathing slows to normal, in and out, in and out.

"Did he ever arrive at Skyhold?" she interjects, words slow, but clear. She does want to know, yes, but she's calmer now, back in control, focused. That's the clue.

His tumble of words falters and he stares at her a second. "Uh..." He's relieved to see her breathing better, to hear her voice. He's also forgotten what he was saying. He thinks back, and shakes his head. "Uh, no. No, never saw him again. He mentioned family in his letter, though, and I know he had some in Redcliffe." He leans in a little, clearly worried. "Does this happen often?"

"I see," she says, somberly. It's not the first time she's wondered of what became of those in Perendale, and though Sal's group was only a few. And if the mage did go to Redcliffe, she only hopes he wasn't taken by Corypheus.

"Not every night," she decides, after a moment. "But the nightmares are there, every time I go to sleep. What's causing them... that never leaves."

There was duty and expediency, doing what was required even if it was unpleasant. And then there was leaving an entire population to rot in the open. Not only disrespectful, but also fodder for whatever spirits roamed this cursed place. So there's nothing to do but go to help the mage, though she ties a cloth around her mouth and nose first. Duty was one thing, suffering for the sake of suffering was another.

She can't assist with the magic fire, but she can reach out and get her hands under the shoulders of a body to move it into place. Unless there's protest.

"Need help?"

Sabriel's lost to the task, enough that for a moment she didn't register the company. Though that's not so surprising; she has, and has never had, quarrel with a templar, so the presence of this woman is familiar, even if she does not know her.

"I would be thankful for any assistance," she says, lowering her hands back to her sides before raising them with the intent of performing final rites.

Maria nods and moves the body in place, then stepping back to allow the other woman to perform her task before moving the next. They go some time in silence before she speaks again.

"How long have you been doing this?"

Sabriel keeps going, spilling fire over each corpse and saying Chantry rites - she'd say her own variant, but these people were Andrastian and this is what they would want, not talk of crossing into death and to not return.

She hesitates at the question, closing unseeing eyes but not lighting the next pyre. Honestly, she isn't sure. "An hour?" she guesses. "Longer than that, I think."

"Half an hour more, then you need to rest."

If she makes it a statement, maybe it will just be accepted rather than argued. It works with some soldiers.

"For a little while."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

THE FALLOW MIRE

Sabriel Abhorsen

Keeping the dead down

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

Tent

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

walks in late with starbucks (and keeps the dead down)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject