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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Andraste's perky tits, she was beautiful. And the hair- there was so much of it. He had not been able to see but- this would take time. How fortunate that he did not find himself minding it or the work to come in the slightest. He would have to remove his gloves and this he did quickly enough, pulling a comb from a pouch on his belt. His own hair was not near as long nor had this particular wave- but the plaits and twists he memorized years ago in the cramped cell when all wished to keep their hair out of the way or were forced to lose it. Determined not to be shaved bald, he'd learned, and learned quickly.

Others that had not known offered him extra scraps from their meals or their blankets to learn the skill. While morbid a source, the patterns he recalled would more than suit- after all they were replicas of the fine styles worn by ladies of Antiva.

"Not at all. There is nothing worse than trying to do your work and becoming snagged in a branch or losing some of your hair to a fire. The smell alone-" He clucked his tongue as he began to comb out sections of her hair, parting them with the lightest touch possible. Like fine silk- many a time had he used that comparison for his lovers but this? Like the thread itself, pale and soft and fine in ways he had never seen. "Ah, then perhaps I should not braid and bind it up off your back- if you have not done so in a long while the strain on your lovely neck may give you a headache."

His hands were swift and careful, far more careful than was strictly required. Her hair would not be snagged nor torn by anything as simple as a comb, she had strung a bow with a strand of it on more than one occasion, but that fact alone made it all the more necessary to remove from the fray. His care was appreciated, however, and she marked it silently as he worked. His flirtatious concern was lighthearted and antithetical to this place, it drew a short laugh out of her as easily as his fingers drew through her hair.

"I shall endure," Galadriel assured him gently. "I would far prefer a headache to straining mud and mire from the length of it."

Honestly, she couldn't recall the last time she had bound it up for any reason besides a fleeting whim. She had never been concerned about it in Arda; there were few creatures who could get close enough to her to grab at it, and those who could would rarely waste their chance by aiming at anything besides her throat. The idea that it could be a liability was...unusual.

"And if I must fight, a hanging braid, however beautiful you should weave it, would serve as little more than a noose."

A laugh like music- Zevran knew better than to be overtly lewd. Honestly without some means of categorizing this Lady, for she was a Lady, the best he might do would be to consider her one of the pure souls of Antiva- those not to be touched, to be dirtied.

And he had his hands in her hair. Right. Good job, Zevran. Go team, Hurrah.

"Well...if at the end of a long day you find yourself tense or strained, I do know how to offer a soothing massage. My hands have their own sort of magic about them- or at least, so I am told." Bound and up it would be, he changed the way in which he began the first braid, drawing in hair along her scalp as he worked, winding it around the fine shape of her skull, respectfully keeping distance from the tips of her ears. They were not so large as those of the elves he knew but- that would be a liberty he could not take. "Something Antivan, I think- it will hold it off your neck and out of the way, while framing your face quite nicely."

It was an earnest offer, she thought, despite how his voice lilted. She had promised Adelaide that she would not read the hearts of men, and she was not so petty as to think that the woman hadn't assumed that elves were included in that oath, but she was briefly tempted to examine his motivations. She refrained, of course, for he had done nothing but assist her and such aid did not deserve closer scrutiny. Without pause or hesitation, she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

"A generous offer," Galadriel remarked and closed her eyes. The sight before her was simply the dark of the mire; there was no reason to linger on the woes of these lands, not until she was forced to, and despite the necessity of this, she was enjoying it. She had forgotten how relaxing it was to have fingers threaded through her hair.

"I shall remember it, if it was offered sincerely?" Galadriel added and, while it was certainly a question, nothing in her tone implied that she would be bothered if it had been a joke.

But then, as fleeting as the touch of his fingers to her scalp, a memory glanced through her mind. It was not her own. It was one she had only barely seen, a passing thing, but it was momentarily relevant. So few words were familiar that, if only by dint of novelty, she was compelled to say something.

"Antivan?" She asked. "I understand Antiva City is beautiful, but I know little else of the lands. I recall butterflies, though I cannot say why."

"It was." One did not offer a Lady their services and renege upon the offer. For what was a rare moment, he meant no more than what it was that he said he would give. Something to sooth the ache for she was- there was a purity about her. A grace that he could not bring himself to sully. How it was the red of his hands did not stain her hair as he worked or mar what skin he touched he could not possibly know, but this was something he would be permitted. A moment of her time, of her company, offered without reservation or judgement.

How often did such fine things come into his life without a price? Perhaps there was one yet to be paid- but if all it cost him was a little time and the work of braiding her hair? It was a price he would pay and pay gladly. "Aaah, you are from beyond this world, then? I should have known. No elf have I met in my travels quite so fair as you- nor as tall. But yes, Antiva City is terribly beautiful, and there is a season for butterflies. They do not linger for the coastal winds are warm and beckon them elsewhere; to make up for their fleeting company many ladies of the courts have ones crafted of jewels and enamel to pin upon their gowns or weave into their hair. Were I to suggest such a thing for you- one made with opals and pearls wrought in silver, perhaps a pale sapphire. Gold would be lost and anything too brightly colored would be garish."

"You have a keen eye," Galadriel complimented, amusement clear in her voice. "I have owned many such things in my life, even a few wrought in the shape of butterflies, and I have always had a fondness for silver."

She had no desire to acquire such things, though, jewelry and decoration were passing fancies and little more. She was fond of gifts, as all people were, but much more so of those who gave them. When one is several thousand years old, sentiment and memory mean far more than riches and treasure, and she has had more than enough of both.

"Have you traveled far through these lands? I am curious about them but, if they are all so sorrowful as this, I will lose myself to weeping ere I see the breadth of them."

"I have picked up odd skills here and there, though I did spend a few months working in a jewlers- not as a crafstman, they would not trust me with the gemstones, but I saw enough to know the patterns to such things and the trends in which they were purchased." Such was the life of a Crow. Do the work, get the job finished, move on to the next bit of cover. But that month had been terribly educational in several ways.

"You are in luck, my Lady, for you have found yourself an Elf that has traveled most of Thedas in his time. Most of what I know is of Antiva as that is where I was born and spent most of my youth, but in the past decade I have roamed far and wide to suit my own desires and curiosity." Though he would have to temper what it is he told her to think of things not quite so...sorrowful. It was terribly sad that he could not think of anything immediately. "Antiva City is a port upon the ocean, the glittering jewel of the country- quite beautiful all the year but in the summer when the wind off the sea is hot and damp and all turn to light, airy silks and linen to compensate? It is a beautiful thing indeed. The air rich with spices and the calls of the shopkeepers, the market bursting with color; I do not know all the secrets of the dyes they might use but I know a blend or two that works quite well with the right silk. Above all else? Antiva City is alive, thriving with warmth and music and art- and for that more than anything else I find myself terribly homesick when camping here. Ferelden is lovely enough in it's own way but- I long for color and the richness of proper fish chowder."

His account was earnest and enthusiastic; her thoughts lingered on his descriptions and the warmth in them, even as his fingertips moved from her scalp and she could feel his work no longer. She was smiling, the expression wide and bright, as he lamented the lack of proper chowders. The fire didn't drown out the sounds of the marshes, nor did the smoke mask the distant tang of death in the water, but she was somewhat renewed by his fondness for the city and his attention to the beauty in it.

"While I cannot say I have partaken of a proper fish chowder, nor even an improper one, perhaps I can help assuage your homesickness in one way or another," Galadriel said, her voice calm and relaxed. "I am fond of weaving and have much experience with silk, whether it be needed against biting cold or to assuage thick summer heat."

She opened her eyes after a brief silence and glanced up at the sky. The clouds were impenetrable but they no longer seemed so dark.

"I have come to favor deepest white, myself, but I did not always prefer it." She tilted her head slightly, but she did not move it much. She had no desire to complicate his work. "Tell me, mellon nin, what colors do you miss the most in these grey, dreary lands?"

"When we return to Skyhold I shall prepare my best approximation of one for you if you so desire. It is difficult to find fish that is not salted within an inch of it's life, but it can be done if one knows who to bribe." Most of his bribery went to those that were in charge of cheeses and wine, as well as those that had dogs. Buying a little extra time for Alistair's joy, while it may seem frivolous- felt right. Even if he could not quite place why that was. Perhaps he became soft in his age or sentiment finally got the better of him. Ah, no.

Such thoughts were not meant to be dwelled upon while in the company of a fine Lady. Especially one that professes an enjoyment of weaving.

"Against the cold- for it is truly biting in this place. I am not meant for the cold and damp- and I am meant all the less for the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks. But that is where I am needed, and as such that is where I shall remain." For better or for worse. Though- that was a fine question. One he had to consider as he twisted this part of the braid around a pin to hold it in place as he started on the next segment. "In general? Cerulean. The deep, pure blue of the ocean at the coast- or the sky above the sea. It is all so grey here, or brown in the mire. Green- not the sickly moss color that abounds here but the rich, vibrant color of the gardens or bottled glass. On myself?"

He crackled a laugh, working along her scalp with delicate twists of his fingers. "I have been told that crimson as deep as blood looks best on me, and I have not yet found any tailor in Ferelden that can quite capture it."

"Have you ever seen the blue of ageless ice?" Galadriel asked, almost distractedly, as she combed through her memory for the materials such colors might require. There were a number of plants, of mushrooms, and insects that could serve her purpose. If they existed in these lands, or if some cousin did, it would not take much to find them.

"I have only seen it once, glittering in the dawn light, but it is the boldest blue I have ever known. It is the solid sea, wreathed in clear crystal and frosted white." It was a grand description but, at the time, the sight had been impressive enough to cut through the weariness and woe of that journey. "I do not love the cold either, I admit, but that sight was one I have remembered for long ages."

She peered out into the darkness of the mire for a long, silent moment and studied the shapes of the trees and the shadows that gathered along the water's edge. To search by night would be pointless, but she knew what to seek out for dyes of dark red. If such things grew anywhere in Thedas, this place was likely to have them.

"Crimson is not so challenging, and there is some luck to our meeting here, of all places," Galadriel said. "I expect I can find materials enough to create a brilliant red before we leave. Were we still in the mountains, it would have been a much more difficult task."

"I am afraid not." Ageless ice? Like glaciers? He had heard sailors speak of such things but the only ice he knew of was those in the mountains and that tended to be more white or grey- or red depending upon the situation. Not blue.But something like that? Seemed a bit like the sky twisted in on itself- again, so he had heard. But seen for himself? Alas, no.

"Now that does sound like a marvel." One he might have to seek out provided he could find himself a warm bed afterward. Perhaps Isabella would be up to the challenge, she did so love new treasures. Though the both of them tended to prefer those you could exchange for coin, such sights were well worth it all the same.

Now he began a third plait, working it into the others, slowly winding the mass of them around this Fair Lady's head, anchored by other segments of the braid he wove. A little like working a basket, if one thought that way, but it needed to take up the length of her hair and there was so much of it.

"It is one of the colors I never learned to craft. If you wish a periwinkle or a lovely shade of violet? I am your elf." But Crimson was tricky. "And what might I offer in return? More braids and massages- or more tales of brighter shores? Or all of the above, I am happy to do so."

"If you would like to learn, I would show you how to make it," Galadriel offered as she stared at the rain-soaked landscape in the darkness. With a purpose, even one as idle and frivolous as seeking out dye, the Fallow Mire seemed that much less dreadful. Her revulsion to this place was unfounded, truly, and it shamed her. She didn't relish reminders of mortality but they were not burdens she had to bare; such places desperately required light and she had no desire to keep it from them.

"These lands are strange to me," she explained. Beside them, the fire crackled loudly and a flurry of harmless golden motes rose into the air and vanished with the smoke. "Each new soul I meet makes them less so, and each friend I name is a stay against a tide of grief and loneliness."

"I offer my gifts freely, I need little and have always had much, but I would not refuse such poetic tales nor the aid of kind and nimble fingers."

"In my life very little has been offered without expectation, spoken or not, of repayment of some sort. I try to make a point of knowing the expected currency before agreeing to any exchange." It was said lightly, gently, not to remark upon the exchange offered but rather his reason for needing to give something in return. Being indebted to anyone was not something he relished the thought of, not even so fine and kind a Lady as this. The finer and kinder, the more reasonable the request seemed at first blush.

The worst came after.

"Both I shall offer to you whenever you wish. I know much of this world and am glad to speak on it- not all of Thedas is so mired in sorrow." The world was a dark place, true, but there was beauty and life to be found even in the deepest of shadows. If Zevran did not believe that he would have gone mad long, long ago. "I would know the name of my new friend, and offer mine in turn. Zevran Arainai, my Lady, at your service."

His suspicions were warranted, even Galadriel could not deny that. There had been a time where she had acted similarly, when she had been harsher and more shrewd with her gifts and machinations, but time and treachery had taught all of Arda a painful lesson about the cost of such behavior. Mortal races forgot easily but the Eldar had a long memory.

The weight of the ring on her hand was a perpetual reminder of what could be wrought in a world where knowledge and gifts were bound exclusively to specific purpose.

"You are wise to be cautious, Zevran Arainai, and I will not fault you for wisdom of all things," she agreed and did her level best to pronounce his name as he said it. She did well, though the weight of the Z in his name was a bit off--she had learned the letter when she learned khuzdul, it was dwarven to her but not entirely alien.

"But I am old," Galadriel said with a light, almost rueful laugh, as a mortal might have announced their age to an eager youth. "I grew weary of things and riches long ago. Joy is far more precious to me and I would spread it when I can. The world has too much shadow to mete out light in trade."

His open ended offer was appreciated and she hazarded disrupting him to cast a smile at him over her shoulder. To know that not all of Thedas suffered so was something she dearly appreciated--it was something she could have assumed, of course, but to hear it stated plainly was invaluable.

"It is not my way to make such introductions seated, but I would not undo your kindness by standing ere your work is finished, so I beg you forgive me," she stated and there was a jangle of chainmail as she pressed a hand over her heart.

"I am called Galadriel. I serve as the Lady of Lórien, heart of elvendom in Middle Earth."

In the comfortable, companionable silence before she spoke his name, Zevran worked to weave an intricate crown of the braids around those he already plaited along her scalp, doubling and tripling them over to accommodate for the length. At least the Lady's hair was fine- were it much thicker the delicacy for these twists would be quite impossible. When she moved his hands moved with her head as easily as anything- not at all disturbed though he did slow in his weaving to return her smile. It was a lovely smile- rather than stirring desire it warmed something higher in him. That small, shivering thing that yearned for approval, that he fought to ignore. Here it seemed safer to let it uncurl. To be pleased by her pleasure.

After all to know he has brought joy to one that wishes to do much the same out of weariness for age- and he would not remark upon age as he knows better than that, so much better- it was not something normally in which he would take pride. But pride was taken none the less.

"A pleasure to meet you, Lady Galadriel. I must say that had we one such as yourself guiding the Dalish things may be quite different in Thedas." But, alas, they had no leader. What they had were tribes and bitterness and- no. He thought no further of it, twisting each braid into place and securing it with a skilled twist of his wrist and binding. Once he was done? The braided bun sat neatly against her head, twists of a smaller sort framing her face and delicate ears. "Had I a mirror so you might see- oh wait. I do!"

He crackled a laugh and pulled not one, but two mirrors from a pouch. Normally they were used to start a fire or for signaling others at a distance but he had been known to use them for minding his apperance.

She had not expected he would have a mirror of all things, nor one of such fine material as silvered glass. When he held one before her and one behind, she was startled. It took her a moment, staring at the reflection before her, to realize that she was seeing herself. She rarely bothered to check her own reflection in Lorien and, indeed, preferred memory and the indistinct nature of watery reflections to this. Seeing herself so clearly was jarring, it would have been regardless of the setting or how harrowing the years had been, but it was especially strange with this place all around her and clad as she was.

It was lamentable, really, that she saw herself like this, but she managed to preserve the majority of her smile.

The way he had wound her hair was masterful and, if only because of its artful nature, her smile perked up again. She turned her head slightly to see better the back of it and delighted in how he'd woven it atop the back of her head.

"How skilled you are!" Galadriel exclaimed quietly and, as all people did when placed in such a situation, reached back to run light fingers over the bound shape of the bun. She turned, then, and ignored her reflection in favor of looking at Zevran.

"I am certain, in all my life my hair has never been dressed so beautifully." The praise was honest and the compliment true. She had rarely ever bound her hair, let alone binding it up, and on the few occasions she had, it had never been so intricate. Celebrian, perhaps, had drawn her own hair into more complicated arrangements than this, but Galadriel had never before bothered.

"Thank you, Zevran Arainai," she said and, given the night around them, felt justified in adding: "Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."

"Well I did spend my youth tending to ladies that liked having their hair done up prettily- and more than a few summers as an attendant for ladies of the court now and then." Usually while trying to find ways to kill their husbands or their sons but- that seemed like a thing not to bring up for the moment. Instead he sits back and lets her see and feel the braided bun, greatly pleased that he'd managed to do SOMETHING with all that long, fine hair.

It will hold and hold well as long as she had need of it.

"You are most welcome, Lady Galadriel." He'd been told he'd done well in the past- by lovers, by masters, by the whores that raised him- but Galadriel's praise settled into the smallest circle of esteem he had. Those that he fought with in the Blight. It warmed him through in a way he did not wish to look at too closely, more than content to simply smile in return. "I am happy to be of service."

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THE FALLOW MIRE

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