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]

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."

[ombranera]

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.

[laurenande]

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."

[ombranera]

"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."