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

[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."