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

[equanimiti]

Normally, Alayre is far from squeamish. He can handle his far share of blood and gore. He even has the scars and reputation to prove it. However, he does get a tad queasy when handling corpses. Something about having to deal with cadavers makes him truly nauseous. So imagine how he feels having to contend with the undead and having to gather their rotten livers.

Alayre positively looks a tad green now. He's beyond grossed out now. "Y-yes, that...seems fine" The Knight-Commander replies after cutting open another unfortunate zombie. He's been battling these shambling corpses all damn day without much rest and it shows a bit despite how earnestly he pretends otherwise.

"Here's another." Alayre announces as he holds up another maggot filled liver for the elf to examine. "...I pray that we finish this task sooner than later."

[dalishious]

"I think we need to find some fresh corpses next," Merrick replies, taking the maggoty liver as if it's nothing. Then he catches sight of the Templar's face and squints.

"Wait, are you squeamish?" He isn't terribly fond of Templars--not on an individual level, but as an institution--so this strikes him as more than a little amusing. "Aren't you supposed to be used to stuff like this?"

[equanimiti]

Alayre puts on a scowl when the elf asks if he's squeamish. Why shouldn't he be a tad repulsed right now? They're collecting the rotting organs of the undead. Of course he can feel the bile at his throat every time they hack open the dead. This is nothing short of hellish for dear Alayre. The poor man has a strong respect for the dead and he feels sick now.

"No, of course not!" He nearly yells in prime indignation. The Templar takes a deep breath to cool his nerves a little. "...Despite my allegiance with the Order, death is nothing us Templars take lightly." Alayre says as he tries to calm down.

"I-I can kill your demons, blood mages, dragons and even darkspawn but I always been mildly squeamish regarding the Undead."

[dalishious]

Merrick just lets out a snort as he continues along the path, heading to where the dead are being cremated. Hopefully they can snatch a few livers-- So what if it offends people?

"Get used to it," he fires back. "Or go home." For some reason, he sounds a bit irritated, as if Alayre's words are bothering him somehow.

[equanimiti]

That last remark wins a frown from Alayre as he hastily follows the elf. He's become increasingly more aware of the Dalish's hostility towards the Order. Hailing from the far corners of the Deepwoods, Alayre never quite had the chance to run into many elven tribes back then. Therefore, he only has his time within the Inquisition to fall back on, and so far he thinks half the Dalish to be woefully rude.

Then again, what does one expect from a race of people who've faced horrible injustice over the decades? Alayre can't possibly voice his complaints considering the privilege he holds over the elf before him. This is why he isn't offended. Nothing this elf could say could truly offend him. It might annoy him, yes, but never offend.

"Even if I had a home to return to; my duties lie here momentarily. Therefore, I cannot take my leave until the objective is completed."

[dalishious]

It's not so much hostility toward the Order as it is hostility toward everyone, so Alayre ought not to take it personally. Merrick's boots squelch in the mud as he moves toward the pyres in the distance--which, predictably, are drawing the undead out of the water.

Merrick's blades are drawn and he cuts down three in a matter of seconds, a spinning blur in the dim light. He gets splattered with gore, but doesn't seem fazed in the slightest. In fact, he seems to be enjoying himself quite a bit.

[equanimiti]

Unlike the elf who seems to adore the splatter of blood and guts, Alayre is quite the opposite. Templars are typically known to take up a more defensive stance rather than offense but Alayre crushes that notion by being the latter. Wielding two blades, the Knight-Commander efficiently takes down any stragglers with just a few well-timed strikes. He even managed to freeze one zombie that barely made it out of the water with his enchanted Iceblade. He then just mercifully kills the ghoul with the luminous edge of the Melody Moon.

The Templar then sheathes his swords to inspect the thawing corpse. "Harken onto me." He calls towards the elf. "The flesh of this cadaver seems fairly fresh unlike the others. Mayhaps this one shall do...?" Alayre is hestiant to cut the damn thing open but judging from the lack of open wounds on this zombie, its organs should be fairly intact.

[dalishious]

That's--impressive. Merrick had expected Alayre to be a good fighter, being a Knight-Commander and all, but he'd never seen a warrior dual-wield before. He watches in between slaughtering the undead with his own dual blades--which are much smaller and quicker, but they can't freeze things. That is so badass.

He splashes over to check out the body.

"We need freshly dead," he huffs in reply. "We've got the undead ones already."

[equanimiti]

There's perks to having an enchanted blade, that's for certain. Very rarely does Alayre go all out in battle. He honestly doesn't need to in minor skirmishes like this. The zombies are nothing more than mindless drones at best. They're predictable enough that Alayre doesn't need to use his actual skills as a Templar against. Apostates, however, are a different story.

"Freshly dead...?" He cannot help but frown more. This mission of hunting down cadavers honestly has him a tad creeped out. Alayre would much rather bury the dead than do some mess like this.

"We would better off searching the village, I say. Many of the villagers are dying due to the plague." A sad truth if any.

[dalishious]

"That's where I'm headed," Merrick replies, giving Alayre an impatient glare. Fleet and sure-footed, he leads the way, following the narrow strips of land through the swamp waters.

They make it to the pyres, where a very haggard-looking man is piling up the dead.

Merrick walks up to him and passes him some coin. "We need two of these bodies. Give us the village idiots or something."

[equanimiti]

A scoff escapes Alayre as the rude little menace rushes off ahead. His growing dislike for Merrick is growing. Despite how sympathetic he might be towards the Dalish in general, Alayre cannot help but dislike this impatient young elf. Merrick lacks any finesse with words despite being grown enough to know you can lure more bees with honey rather than vinegar. This is why he's so morbidly appalled at how Merrick addresses the withering old man. Clearly this brat doesn't know how to talk to others.

"Show some respect for the deceased." The Knight-Commander grumbles as he steps forward. He all but brushes Merrick aside so he could speak with the man himself. "Forgive his impatience but we seek two victims who've succumbed to the illness." He explains respectfully as he casts his gaze briefly at the pile of corpses nearby.

"It's for research purposes."

[dalishious]

The undertaker doesn't seem fazed by Merrick's attitude. He pockets the coin and shrugs.

"Do what you like," he says gruffly. "Ain't like they're gonna complain."

Merrick ignores Alayre's scolding and seeks out one of the corpses that hasn't been thrown on the pile yet. It's a man. Merrick looks down at him, and feels sudden nausea creep into his stomach and up his throat.

With sudden ferocity he takes his dagger and slits open the man's belly, exposing still-pink organs and spraying blood all over his hands and forearms. He shoves his hands inside, searching, trembling from head to toe.

[equanimiti]

Alayre swore he could see the elf tremble as he cuts open this fresh cadaver. It takes all of his willpower to keep the bile at bay. While he's certainly accustomed to killing, something as cutting open dead bodies sickens him. It's odd. Alayre has killed many in the past and Fate conspires to have him kill again for the sake of the Inquisition. However, what they're doing here honestly wins his ire. This kind of chore ill fits someone of his standards.

"Steady your hand." Sauveterre all but grumbles. "You will damage the organs with that uneasy blade of yours." While he's trying to be somewhat helpful, Alayre realizes there's some spite in his words. Bitterness, even.

[dalishious]

Merrick barely notices the tone of Alayre's voice, nor what he's saying. He realizes he's searching around too high up on the body, so he pulls his hands free and stabs open another hole.

This is strange.He's killed before, and it's never pretty. But there's something about this corpse--the stature of the man, small and rather slender, and the way his head is lolling back and forth while Merrick jostles the body, the stink of blood and innards all around him...

He stabs another hole. And another. And another.

[equanimiti]

As this disturbing scene continues, Alayre finds himself close to sickness. "Stop." The Templar grumbles angrily. "Ça suffit !" He nearly yells as he lunges forward to grasp the elf's shoulder. The Orlesian has a habit of slipping into his native tongue when truly angered or frustrated.

There's something just fundamentally wrong about this whole ordeal and it has Alayre sick to his stomach. The blood of this man is too red and the flesh too pink for his liking. It's too much for him to take."We have what we need, don't we?" Alayre asks as he forcefully tries to yank Merrick away from the corpse.

"Stop desecrating this poor man's corpse! He is already dead and we have what we need. Just leave him at peace, please!"

[dalishious]

The corpse is well on its way to turning to pulp when Alayre reaches him, but Merrick hasn't snapped out of it. He struggles in the templar's grasp, shouting, limbs lashing, dangerously close to stabbing the human if he doesn't take action immediately.