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.

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"Probably a dozen or so under the surface. Not needing to breathe makes it the perfect hiding place. Were I attempting the same I'd need to use a reed as a breathing tube." Ah, that had been a fun mission. Mud on his boots, weights on his belt, weeds in his hair.

Never again.

"I have your very fine back covered, then, have no fear!" A fine back, a fine voice, fine hands- right. Thoughts for after they're somewhere warm and dry.

That gets a low chuckle from Korrin, who tries to keep it quiet so as not to attract attention from their surroundings. "You have my gratitude. And perhaps you can see more of that very fine back later...out of this hellhole."

Sad to say, festering swamps don't really put her in the mood. But that isn't to say that the promise of something later is unwelcome or lightens her mood just a little bit. "Don't tell me you've actually been here before, with that comment about breathing tubes. I'd hate to think I'm alone in being new to this hellhole."

"...Remind me to double down on finding a proper bower once we return to Skyhold. Perhaps someone will have managed to find actual beds for the rest of us." And then he could share it with her in every manner possible. How's that for incentive to get back in one piece?

"Well...here not so much. A similar sort of bog? Yes. There was a troublesome merchant prince that needed to have his brother killed and he was known for fishing in a particular area. I waited below for about an hour before I was able to kill him."

"Oh, I'll remind you. Have no fear." It's perfect incentive for them both, after all.

Picturing Zevran in that situation, Korrin lets out a soft huff of amusement. "I bet that one hour now seems a paradise, compared to this. Especially if it lacked undead...."

Speaking of which, she now has to cross slightly deeper waters, so her pace is slower, more careful. "Alright, now I need that extra pair of eyes more than ever. If they're too close for us to avoid, let me know."

"Stinging nettles, however. So very many on the climb out." All over, in his hair, in his ears, in his leathers- he'd needed a whole new set afterward.

"I am on it." His eyes flick across the surface, gauging what ripples are caused by them and what are currents below- thusfar? It is all from Korrin. And then something shifts to their right- something in the muck coiling. A serpant? "Right, ten paces. It will rise in a moment."

Her face set, Korrin nods and casts a Barrier spell over them both. "Right, get ready to show off then." She automatically slips into a more defensive stance, but does it smoothly so as not to throw Zevran off-balance. He isn't the first person she's had on her shoulders, in the mire or elsewhere. And when that thing rises, she'll be ready with a blast from her staff.

"With pleasure." He braces himself as best he can on her shoulders- easier than it would be for any other woman he's certain, and unslings his bow from his back. The water shifts, burbles, uncoils with the rattling of bone made wrong by rot and muck, the first- for there are others he can see rising behind- popping it's head up like a morbid daisy.

Ugh, that smell. The corpses rising from the disturbed waters of the bog would be enough to make Korrin gag, had she not been exposed to them already. She's smelled worse, to be sure, but that's small comfort at the moment.

"Fucking corpses, should just burn the whole mire and be done with it...." Korrin's grumbling in no way hampers her productivity, and as she vents, the mage casts Winter's Grasp on the initial one, freezing it in place long enough for Zevran to take advantage of it while the closest of those nearby are chilled, their pace slowing.

"If anything would take a flame I would be happy to do just that." A moment to brace himself, to draw- Two arrows loosed in rapid succession, one through the eye and one through the throat, their hard tips shattering the undead's frozen flesh. "I think that is a point for me and for you, if you do not mind sharing."

The banter is comfortable and easy enough to continue while he looses another volley at the second undead rising.

Korrin smirks, admiring his aim and precision, and perhaps making a mental note to brush up on her archery later. Not for actual battle, just for fun. "Oh, so we're keeping score? That might be skewed in my favor, you know. You're probably going to run out of grenades and arrows before I run out of mana."

They'll just have to find out, though, and the Vashoth mage has no issue with something to keep them occupied other than complaining about the sheer awfulness of the mire. She then launches a salvo of lightning blasts from her staff to home in on the cursed thing. It might be overkill, but Korrin really doesn't care at this point. She needs the outlet.

"You never know, I may surprise you." And then, of course, she fries the next few quite effectively. Zevran winces as their eyes pop in their skulls from the spell. Maker, but he will never get used to that. Another wave, another volley, he has to clench his legs around her shoulders to steady himself for the right angle for his shots. "Three for me- five for you, I think?"

"Please do, Zevran." Those legs around her shoulders would get a suggestive comment, but Korrin sadly has to focus. She wastes no time in casting Chain Lightning next, smirking a little as it arcs from corpse to corpse, taking care of the things faster than she can individually. "Seven, now. Better keep up!"

"I would call cheating- but we have laid no rules!" Arrow, arrow, flaming arrow, two more down for himself to get up to five but she is quite skilled. "Winner gets to be on top?"

That was how his wagers with gorgeous, dangerous women usually went. Either way- he wins.

That provokes a laugh from Korrin as she casts Winter's Grasp, freezing a corpse in place for her or Zevran to take down at their leisure. "You're on! And no, no rules. Let's not make this complicated." She's in dire need of entertainment, and is certain he's in the same boat. Rules would just complicate everything.

Another shared point! He shatters it with a well placed arrow and shifts from quiver to belt, pulling a pin and hurling the grenade in a high arc to another group. The one it struck was engulfed in flame and stumbled, those around it burned but did not quite die. "And that is seven for me."

Well, those around it clearly just need more fire and Korrin's happy to provide that. Not standing around to admire the fire, she casts Immolate, triggering an explosion underneath those still standing. That takes care of some, though one remains stubbornly standing until Korrin finally drops it thanks to firing away with her staff. "...and that's ten. Stubborn asshole."

"I think that is the last of them." He leans up as best he can to peer into the surrounding water but- as far as he could see? they were now in the clear. "We are ridiculously awesome. My final count was eight."

So to her go the spoils. Which is him. Hurrah!

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THE FALLOW MIRE

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