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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Zevran was hardly alone in his complaints, Beleth felt quite similarly. When Cyril and Merrick announced they were leaving, part of her had thought that the idea would be fun. Exciting quests and thrilling fights, working to save the world. Another part, that nasty pessimistic part of her that she rarely voiced, told her that it would be a series of humans being assholes, and trying to save her clanmates from getting stabbed by them, or Merrick stabbing them in turn. It was always annoying when that part proved to be the right one.

But Beleth didn't wander over to Zevran for the purpose of joining him in his complaining. It was his struggle with his tent that caught her eye. As the last time they had spoken had been when Beleth was trying valiantly to keep Merrick from attempting to kill him, she figured that maybe this would be a good step to trying to stay on his good side.

"These things aren't really easy, are they? Here--" She smiled at him, even as she began moving a few pieces, bending a pole a certain way. "It's hard to keep the tension, and not have it flip back and smack you in the face. The aravels have pullouts like this, and they're always a two person job." She picked up a stake, trying to finagle the pole while stringing the rope that was tethering it into place. "My twin and I were usually in charge of ours, and we got ourselves smacked silly several times."

There was a thoughtful pause, as she kicked the stake in the ground. "Though, that was probably because we were trying to get each other hit."

"Easier without gloves and rain and mud." He muttered, sitting back on his heels to let her work. He had had it with attempting to force this thing into it's proper shape, having struggled with it for roughly a quarter of an hour already. Camping was not something he did much of in the past and even back during the Blight- Alistair handled the tent, he handled dinner.

Voluntarily.

Alistair's cooking didn't go so well for anyone involved.

"Such playful antics. It reminds me a little of similar things my fellow Crows and I would get up to- though they often involved more poison and less whacking with sticks."

"My brother wants your autograph, you know." Beleth told him conversationally, as she took over. She didn't mind doing all the work--As far as she's concerned, the clan owes him. She'll make sure the debt is at least partially paid. Even if that just involves setting up tents. "If you ever want to get around to it, his name is Sorrel, and feel free to call him as many synonyms for knuckle-headed nerd as you can think of."

She paused, stepping back to eyeball the tent, and then picked up another rope, looping it through the first one, around one of the poles, and tugging it, the tent canvas slowly pulling up with it. "I, ah. I also want to thank you, though. For how you handled Merrick. And for taking him under your...wing." She snorted at that. Bird puns! She was hilarious.

"Merrick--he's not a bad guy, surely you can see that?" She spoke with more seriousness than Zevran's seen her yet. Though she was focused on the tent, her eyes flicked back to Zevran occasionally. She didn't have a mask for him right now--She needed him to see her openly, so he would know that the subject matter was that important. That true. "I don't think you would train him if you didn't. So many people look at Merrick, and they just see his anger."

This mud made staking hard work, and Beleth had to feel around with the toe of her shoe (while normally she despised shoes, even in winter, the idea of slogging through the mire barefoot made her quickly acquiesce to it) until she found solid enough ground to stomp the stake in. "No person is one emotion. Merrick is so much more than his anger. He's sweet and caring, he's one of the most loyal people you'll ever meet. I hope that you get to see that, when you get to know him."

By the time she'd finished, the tent was looking like an actual tent, and Beleth was finishing the last of the preparation, as she went on. "I think that training with you--It'll give him a focus. It'll help him a lot." Then she turned to Zevran. "Most people wouldn't take a guy that tried to beat their face in and help them out. I really appreciate that you did that for him. You won't regret it. Merrick's our best fighter, and I know he'll prove himself." She put her hand over her heart, ducking her head to him. "Still, if there is anything I can do for you, let me know. Please. Even if it's just...pitching your tent."

She give a wry little grin at that, patting the tent. Innuendo? No, of course not. Her? Don't be silly.

Edited 2015-11-17 13:20 (UTC)

"...I'll admit, that is a first." There had been gifts and offers of a night of company and drinks purchased but never an autograph request. That was new. Not even elves of the City held him in such esteem- it makes him wonder exactly which tales it was this clan had heard and how much of it was bullshit. He failed to die. Hurrah. But- he would not be the one to dispel their illusions so readily. They would find out soon enough in the Inquisition that great things are not done by great people but rather those that knew what needed to do and got it done regardless of the demands or thoughts of those around them.

Such was life. Such were heroes, truly.

"It was direct his fury or watch him get himself killed. And much as I think he could learn from a good stabbing it would end poorly for the entire Inquisition. Murder in the ranks is rarely a good sign to potential backers." At this time with Merrick on the other side of the line, it was easier to jest. Would he truly have stood aside and watch the boy get himself killed? Yes. Absolutely. If you are not smart enough, not strong enough to keep yourself out of trouble or end it before your life was on the line? You got what came for you. How many of them knew he truly would permit it to happen he couldn't say.

Merrick, at least, seemed to understand that much. No hero in his eyes was Zevran. That much was refreshing.

"I do not need to know him or even like him to train him, Bella. I merely need to think him capable and he is that if nothing else. That he is more than his anger makes him to be is to his benefit and the benefit of those who keep him in their company." A subtle enough reminder that all the Dalish are judged by their actions, that they need to mind such things. "I attempted to murder the warden and we left on friendly terms. Alistair and I are close friends despite our initial meeting- if nothing else that has taught me the benefit to offering a second chance."

To do otherwise would be to make a hypocrite of him, and he does so try to limit that. "Well. Perhaps you could learn to be a bit more yourself around me, rather than what you think I wish you to be. You do very well for someone untrained, Bella, but- you need polish just as badly as Merrick does."

"He might have been joking. It's hard to tell over letters--especially with him." She shrugged, quickly trying to pull back, before he thinks that she and her brother and probably the entire clan are a bunch of weirdos (if he doesn't already). Maybe he doesn't realize how rare elven heroes are. Not because few elves are heroic, but because history tries to hide them. And they haven't been able to hide Zevran, for all they might wish it.

"But you're right--I was afraid of that. He's our best fighter, so he thinks he can fight out of whatever situation his tongue gets him into. I've tried to keep an eye on him, but. Well." She shrugs, sliding a hand through her hair--or trying to. Everything was damp, including her hair. She gave a little huff of annoyance, just patting it down, instead. If they stayed here much longer, she was taking her dagger and chopping it all off again.

She doesn't know what to say about the next part. He's right, she knows he's right, about the Dalish being judged, and she tries to do her part. She tries to come off as docile as possible, as easy to work with. Most of Clan Ashara were doing a...respectable job at that. But Zevran was right, and Beleth really wasn't sure what to say or do--She couldn't control Merrick. "Either way," She said, finally, hesitantly, "I appreciate you giving that to Merrick. He won't let you down."

The last part, however, left her feeling confused, then slightly alarmed. And unsettled. She doesn't think that he really wants to know what she's like--if he's figured out that he's not seeing it, she's sure that the idea of the unknown is the draw. The real her is nothing special--horribly mundane, mixed with just enough annoying to be unpleasant. But rather than try to explain that, she says instead, "I'm sorry that you feel that way...? But, um. What do I need training in? Do you teach archery, as well?"

"That. That is what I am talking about. Beleth, I was a Crow. Do you think the smiling, lute playing Lothario is all that I am? Do not answer that, the truth is- that is not so. People see what they wish, I gauge that and act on it to keep them comfortable and to keep myself safe. You are doing something similar with half the tools available to you. Come. Sit." He waved her into the tent, not about to take no for an answer. "There is more to you than this and I can tell. Whether or not you wish me or anyone else to see that? Is your choice. But if you are to persist in this I will not have you flouncing about improperly educated."

"I don't even know what a Lothario is." Beleth replied calmly, big eyes blinking curiously at him. Trying not to seem too unsettled. It felt like Zevran was asking her to remove her clothes--or telling her that he could see them, at least, she supposed. Nevertheless, she obediently followed him into the tent without complaint, taking a seat on the ground. For a few moments, she didn't say anything, twisting her scarf thoughtfully.

It was true, of course. Keeping them comfortable. Keeping herself safe. Making sure that she was likable. While she was not particularly fond of Zevran being able to see all of that in her, she couldn't just turn up her nose at what he offered. She hardly needed to see his credentials, not when it seemed like everyone in Skyhold was fond of the Antivan. Fond, or wanted in his pants, or both.

Usually both.

Which left one question that Beleth needed to ask before she agreed to anything.

"What's in it for you?" She asked, expression cautious. "I'm not going to get into fistfights. Or start anything that risks the Inquisition. Merrick needed that outlet, but I don't. There's no reason to bother with me."

"Have you ever seen someone do something that you are well skilled at, something that you can do better than anyone else, and when you see them do it badly it sinks under your skin like ants? Always the itching, always the irritation. I do not need anything in return other than to make you better than you are. That way you are more in control of how you are seen and I less vexed by your actions. Others have fallen for it and fallen well for they do not know better. In the Inquisition we will be working with Orlesians- players of the Grand game. If you can twist this around on them? You will need to do better." And who better to learn from than a Crow? House Arainai was not overly concerned with such things normally but Zevran in particular made it his means of survival.

"You need to learn better. For your own sake. I can teach you." He shrugged. "Why make it more complicated than that."

Beleth's eyebrows rise up, then fall, expression turning...pretty unsure at Zevran's explanation. Wow. He certainly didn't pull any punches, did he? The last thing she wanted to be considered was some kind of skin irritation, to be taken care of, just because her failure was that annoying. What did he know, anyway. She was doing perfectly fine--what did she need to do with the players of the Game? They were all human nobles.

She had to resist straight up pouting, though her lips did press into a thin line as she listened, eyes focused on her hands.

Once that flare of utter indignation passed, however, she saw the sense that he was making. Zevran was obviously good at this, better than she was. And he was offering to make her better in turn. Isn't that what she wants? To be better at things--and to be able to hold that mask more convincingly? What if she was as well-liked as Zevran was...?

"Alright. Sure. I'm up for it. As long as you're alright with it."

"Excellent. I will begin by saying that for someone with no training whatsoever, you show great promise. You are able to read situations well and shift accordingly. Most of what we will likely discuss and work on is dialing back what you already put forth. You are, in essence, trying a little too hard. With most humans it goes over easily enough, they do not know better. With players of the game, with assassins, with politics as we are going to come into as the Inquisition moves forward? It will not quite be enough." Teaching her from scratch would have been a lost cause- but honestly? They have an excellent frame from which to work.

"The rest is learning how to swallow your reactions to being told something unpleasant, insulting, or distressing. Smiling in the face of it. You were displeased to be compared to a rash, rightly so, and I could tell. It is not something that is easily laughed off. It will take time but- from here on out? I will attempt to inform you beforehand if we are going to work on that during the day, so you know not to take what is said personally, yes?"

Beleth perks up when he praises her abilities, turning to face him. His words take the edge off of her gloominess at the words before, though as he continues, she squints at him suspiciously, before remembering what he said, and her expression wrestles back towards neutral. Was him telling her that stuff some kind of test? Had he said it just to judge her expression? If it was, she had no doubt failed.

If it wasn't--Damn it, Zevran, she was going to be wondering that all day now.

Most people couldn't see what she was doing, and those who knew--how many times had she been admonished to share her true feelings? It was a relief, to hear someone say that they were going to actively encourage her to better control her emotions. That Zevran was going to teach her to do it better.

She nodded when he asked, a smile tugging at her lips. "I understand. Thank you, Zevran. I'll--Um." Try really hard? Make you proud? Try to not be the mediocre and boring loser she usually is? "I'll do my best. To learn everything."

Welcome to the life of the insecure and constantly suspicious. Every compliment, every slight must be gauged against the benefit it would bring the other person and what it is they wanted. If she truly wished to embrace living like this, it was better for her to know what it was she would be stepping into.

Every word would be suspect from here till the end of days.

If that was what she wanted? Zevran would teach her.

"And I will do as best I can to teach you what you will need to know. Moderation, more often than not, is the key. Play it light until you know what it is you are playing against and alter accordingly."

Beleth's already been living half in, half out of that world, spurred on by a constant anxiety. Maybe her best friend actually hated her and got tired of her complaining, maybe her brother was glad she was gone. Maybe, maybe, maybe. She didn't see herself removing the thoughts--at least Zevran was offering her tools to deal with it. Yes, she was sure this was the right choice. If she was like this anyway, she wanted to be good at it.

So she listened to his words, nodding along.

"That makes sense. You said that untrained humans would fall for it--what about dwarves, or qunari? Is there a difference in reaction between Orzammar dwarves, and surface dwarves, or qunari following the Qun or Tal-Vashoth? I've only met a few Tal-Vashoth, and a handful of surface dwarves." Particularly curious to her were the qunari of the Qun, for she had only heard a few things of their religion. Snippets and gossip, teasing the flat ears that fled the slavery of the humans for the slavery of the qunari. Certainly, she had never met any of them.

"Which is part of why you must dial it back. Dwarves are canny bastards and Qunari find us strange but are too observant for their own good- Orzammar dwarves know less of us but have their own games of one upmanship so a slip can be covered easily. Surface dwarves tend to be twice as canny due to the merchant's guild and their shenanigans. We shall cover them all, I assure you." There was a whole, wide world to fool and many masks to take. He could walk her though the basics a little each day until she had the bones of it.

She nods, listening as he explains. There really was a lot that she didn't know--That she wouldn't have learned, staying with the Dalish. There might have been no cause to learn it, if she never did leave the Dalish, but here she was. Outside of the clan, and her comfort zone. She'd be able to return to it once this was all over, but in the mean time...

She held out her hand, face intent.

"Alright. I'll do this with you...Ghil-Dirthalen, I think, would suit you. Hahren, if you were older."

"That one is new- what does it mean?" Elvish wasn't something Crows picked up. They couldn't pretend to be Dalish- too much of the city about them and every attempt at stealing Dalish Children ended in quite a bit of death. Brava to the Dalish of Antiva.

"Someone who guides another down the path of knowledge." Beleth explained, shrugging her shoulders. Well, now Zevran had a genuine Dalish--several, in fact--who he could groom to become powerful assassins. "That's what you're doing. Teaching us." Another shrug for good measure, as she pulled her legs closer to herself.

"I can teach you more Elven, if you want. More stuff about the Dalish. I think...elves should have access to that knowledge. No matter what. Although, Pel knows more than I do. She's the smartest one of us here, I think. Which makes sense, she's the Keeper's First. And favorite." She twisted her lips slightly at that. Thanks, mom, for making sure Beleth always knew where she was on that list.

Edited 2015-12-06 08:58 (UTC)

"I suppose I could make it official." Gather resources, walk all that would learn through the art of being roguish and not getting killed. How to fight, how to taunt, how to sneak, how to survive. It could be done. He would probably be of greater use to the Inquisition if he could do so. The trick would be finding the time and the space. The stables had been working well enough but- they would make do.

With winter upon them to lessen the brunt of the falls, it could work.

"To be honest I am less curious about the traditions of the Dalish than most- but the language? That I can have some use for." Another code to work in, another way to hide directions and commands from those that did not know and did not care. That twist of Beleths lips took his mind from the practical lesson at hand and he reached out, catching her chin in his. "Well, you are my favorite fledgling, Bella. We will give you wings yet. And when we are through? Oh how you shall soar."

"Zevran's school for would-be assassins? 'Learn how to maim, mollify, and murder. Must bring own daggers, Zevran's school is not responsible for any deaths incurred during lessons.'" Then, because her terrible joke wasn't terrible enough, she laughed at it herself, just in case Zevran wasn't already beginning to question his decision to take her on.

But she stops when he grabs her chin, and switches for staring at him in some mixture of surprise and reverence. He's getting those big doe eyes again, but this time, it's sincere, as she tries to sort through the disbelief at what he said. His favorite. She's never been anyone's favorite...anything. An afterthought at best.

She knows that it's probably stupid to get so worked up about it, when she's pretty sure the only other contender is...Merrick. But it's also that he seems convinced that she is going to be good at this. Confidence in her, even when she might not have it herself. All she can really do, after trying to force herself into addressing him, is quietly mumble.

"Ah--Sure. Whatever you want, Zevran."

"For rogues. Assassin skills would be taught later provided they've the mind and temperament for it." Still- it will have merit. It could be worth doing. For that alone he tucks the notion away for further perusal upon arriving at Skyohld. He would need space and some tools but- another time. For now there is the student and the matter at hand.

There it is. There's Beleth under the wry lips and the half painted masks. How could no one she knew see what she was below her protestations? A girl that simply wished to be liked. To have approval.

It is a dangerous thing to be- all too easily manipulated. It wouldn't take much for Zevran to take advantage but she needs to learn to master her masks. To hide that spark that would be her undoing. Above all else, that is why he has chosen to train her. "I want what you want. And you want to be better skilled, yes? And so you shall fly and fly well."

"Good point. I don't know if I'd really be cut out to be an assassin..." She pauses, glancing to the side thoughtfully. If Zevran could drill the skills into her, maybe. The killing wouldn't be hard--Beleth has killed people before, she'd kill people again. Humans, she could probably kill for less reasons than 'do it or you'll die'. Hadn't they been killing the Dalish for arbitrary reasons for centuries?

But Zevran's assessment was right. Beleth has led a lucky life to this point--with her brother and her clanmates to protect her, she'd never been at the mercy of anyone trying to take advantage of just how badly she wanted to feel...wanted. Approved of, accepted. And it seemed that good luck would continue. She nodded at Zevran's words, trying to make herself look more neutral--though she's still startled, when he tells her that he wants what she wants.

She does want to be more skilled. She's got one foot in, one foot out, in this world of deception. Taking both feet out wasn't an option, so if Zevran helped her get all the way in? She'd do it. "Yes, that's what I want--Thank you. Again."

"You aren't. And there is no shame in that." He pats her cheek before sitting back, hand dropping away. "You are better served a little further back from all that stealth and death. But I can teach you to mind yourself and your masks, to perfect them for your own benefit and that of those around you."

"I'm not some--I mean, I'm not afraid to kill people." She told him, feeling more like a pouting child than an adult trying to assure someone she was assassin material. "I have killed people. Not just corpses--real people." It's not even that she wants to be an assassin--she just doesn't want someone like Zevran to think that she's weak. That she would grow faint at the idea of taking a life. For the most part, someone viewing Beleth as such a delicate creature served her well, but Zevran was different. She wanted him to know that she was capable.

But his offer was still kind, still almost overwhelming. Beleth hesitated for a moment, then moved, crossing the small space in the tent to plant her lips on Zevran's cheek, if he would allow it. A token of her feelings for someone who was willing to help her, and make her even better than she was.

For someone who believed that she was worth something.

"Thank you, again. I don't know how I'll ever repay you for this."

"There is a difference between fighting and killing- and honing your every skill to the singular task of murdering your fellow man." She didn't have that mentality and that? Was for the better. He could not think her incapable, not in the slightest. Anyone was capable.

Enjoying it, now. The work was bloody and the means cold. Beleth did not seem the sort to him.

Especially when she kissed his cheek. It was sweet- kind. Reverent, perhaps, and his mind skittered away from that possibility. He was no hero, he was no one worth revering. She was glad for the attention and the instruction. Nothing more.

"By not getting yourself killed, ideally."

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THE FALLOW MIRE

Tent time

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