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

[laurenande]

Galadriel's gait hitched, then, as she considered how best to answer that question. It did not seem right, invoking the names of long darkened places while they wandered through one that currently suffered. But, this was not Arda and the shadows that loomed in the night were simple shades, nothing more.

"After a fashion, yes," Galadriel admitted gradually and cast a watchful eye toward the water's edge. It was difficult, even for her eyes, to pick apart where the water ended and the mud began. That the dead had not been stirred more often was no small wonder.

"They are different. Each of them is ancient and, save for a few who still remember, they have been lost to the passing of time." The torchlight flickered dangerously as a cool breeze kicked up. It was not strong enough to be called wind and, indeed, was so damp and clammy that it threatened to douse the flame as much as blow it out. Without thinking, Galadriel shifted it to her other hand and, as her ring pressed against the wood, the flame steadied.

"There is a marshland that stretches for miles across the plains to the east of Lórien; the battle that was waged there was great and terrible, enough so that it marked the ending of an Age. The marshes were more bone and body than earth by the end. The dead were beyond counting and they still linger there, staring up from beneath the sullen surface of the water."

Despite the tragedy of it, Galadriel didn't sound all that disconcerted by her own account. For all the sorrow and grief that the Dead Marshes evoked, they were inextricably tied to a great victory. They were neither the most terrible scar left on Middle Earth, nor did they contain the deepest, twisting shadows left in the east. Ultimately, they did not frighten her, nor was she wary of them, they simply were.

"The Dead Marshes are not a fresh wound, not like this place," Galadriel added quietly. "There is a different horror to be found in pestilence and plague, it is far more cruel than combat and the souls it leaves behind are not content to watch and beckon from below."

[gatheringstorm]

Galadriel's delayed reply has Korrin wondering if her flippant comment accidentally touched on a sore subject. She's about ready to take it back, not wanting to cause offense, when the elven woman speaks up and she's finding herself again distracted by her low, lovely voice. That steadying flame is met with some relief as well as wonder. She hadn't thought it would last long, but if Galadriel can keep doing whatever she did, then perhaps they don't need to worry.

The description of the marshland has Korrin grimacing a little, shaking her head in sympathy. Whatever the world, it seems that depressing marshes are a staple, in some form or another. "It sounds like the Veil would be extremely thin there, as it seems to be in a place where great amounts of battle and death happen. Fresh wound or not, it doesn't sound any more pleasant than this mire. I'm not sure if it'd be worse to see it stretch out that far, or to feel as closed-in as I do around here. Honestly, I hope never to end up comparing the two by experience."

As curious as Korrin is about Galadriel and the world from which she hails, she draws the line at trudging through yet another corpse-ridden marsh. There's only so much of that she can tolerate now, and once they leave the area, she hopes never to see the mire or anything like it ever again. It's probably wishful thinking, but she can dream.

"...I hope we find at least some people left, though it's hard to believe anyone might still be alive to assist in all this mess."

[laurenande]

"I am not certain if hoping to find them alive is a kindness, but I cannot bare to do otherwise," Galadriel admitted with a note of caged, tentative sorrow. She wished no further ills on these people but, as they moved along the sunken, weedy banks, there were more than a few disconcerting shadows floating just beyond the reach of their torchlight. She had no desire to dwell on them, but such suffering was not something they could resolve.

In the distance, far out on the water, the shadows shifted and the marshland had heaved a rattling sigh. The darkness drew in a breath and, with it, it gained a dim, emerald outline. She had seen such wraiths before, in Haven beneath the rift, but this one was not so substantial nor as incised. It drifted listlessly, unaware of them or the world around it, and she had no desire to draw its attention.

"In Arda there is no veil," she said quietly. She was only beginning to understand what the veil was, in truth, but the topic was a welcome distraction from their travels. "Not that I have ever known...but there are precious few places where souls linger, disembodied from themselves. The Dead Marshes are merely a scar, little more than a fading memory; the spirits hold no sway above the water."

She tore her attention from the distant wraith and glanced back at Korrin.

"While I would prefer to suffer neither without reason, I dislike this place more, I think." She lifted her shoulders in a light approximation of a shrug. "If you find yourself in Arda, I shall not ask you to suffer the marshes, not even to hear how they compare."

It was a weak jest, but this was not an amusing place.

"Do you think we follow the right road, still?"

[gatheringstorm]

"A world without the Veil...it's so strange to imagine, for me. We were told by the Chantry that the Maker created it before he created mortals, but I don't recall anything said about what the world was like then. Though honest, in this place and places like it, I'm not sure that removing the Veil would do us any favors. Nothing good comes from the mire."

If she's wrong about that, Korrin has yet to see it. She smirks at the faint jest, shaking her head. "Not to worry, I'm curious but being here has killed any desire to travel in marshland ever again. I don't care if it's safer above water or not."

Right, the road. Korrin pauses to take out her map, wishing the sky would stop drizzling for one moment so he wouldn't have to worry about the ink running. "I...think so. The first house on here should be just a little further. The agent couldn't tell me anything about who lives -or lived- there, though."

[laurenande]

"I would not remove the veil, especially in this place," Galadriel replied as they continued walking. "Arda does not have a Fade, so there is little that would necessitate a veil. Learning to navigate yours has made using--" She paused, a bit awkwardly, and resigned herself to using the term. "--my magic very difficult."

It was the reason she carried a polearm at all and, frankly, she was thankful to have it.

"If they lived here?" Galadriel supposed and turned her gaze to the darkness again. It yawned before them, great and foreboding, and a light rain began to patter down from above them.

The mire was not the same as the Dead Marshes, it was not a wasteland, nor had it been before this tragedy. It was a swamp, and still it was teeming with life and growing things. Such places could have fishing, perhaps even creatures valuable to trap and skin, but she had passed too many familiar plants to think that the value of this place was in game.

"I expect they dealt in fabric and dyes," she said and shifted the torch toward the moss slicked rock that penned them in along one side. A flurry of dark bugs scattered into the cracks as the flame neared; it gave them the brief appearance of raindrops tumbling through the air, glinting with the golden torchlight.

"Sadly such arts offer little defense against illness or the sword, however well stocked they may have been."

[gatheringstorm]

Tucking the map away once more, Korrin nods with her mouth set in a grim line. For that she's (near constantly) grumbled about the Fallow Mire and who would be foolish enough to live here, the Vashoth mage has no desire to see anyone suffer, and seeing the aftermath of the plague, then and now, is enough to make her heart ache. But it's easier to focus her terrible mood on the constant damp than it is on the list lost.

"You're probably right; I can't say for sure, as I only traveled the fringes of this land with my company. I didn't care for it then, either, but I didn't think it'd get any worse. Should've known better than to say it aloud, too, now look what's happened."

A weak jest, but that's as much as Korrin can manage while away from a campfire and a mug in her hand. She keeps telling herself both will happen, in time, but she's not going to turn around now. Perhaps other agents would be able to find these people in time, but there's no guarantee. Every moment could be vital.

"If your magic is difficult to use now, then maybe what you need is to learn ours? You're a mage already, so I'd think it would be possible. And we're not lacking from mages to teach you, either."