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

[fleurdesel]

"As I said before. If I must go down I am taking every sensible mage with me." She huffs a soft laugh, while it had been said when she was quite drunk it is no less true now. Politics are not her game and if she is to be a player? She will have a team she knows she can trust to be honest.

[gatheringstorm]

"Fair enough. But you never know, hating the mire might be a good bonding exercise. Nothing brings people together like shared loathing of something else." In her travels, Korrin has seen that often enough. If there was a shared enemy to focus their ire on, people could often put their differences aside...at least for a while.

[fleurdesel]

"You would think the hole in the sky and demonic armies trying to kill us would be enough, but no. This bog is what truly brings us together." People are strange and she wearies of wondering after their peculiarities this far at the end of the day. At least Korrin understands.

[gatheringstorm]

"Even better, there are other places to hate aside from the bog so it might not just end with this. Who knows, we might end up visiting all of them." Please, no. Korrin has a list of places she'd rather not revisit, though admittedly the mire is among the top of it. Most are better, though marginally.

[fleurdesel]

"Knowing our luck? We likely will." Their good fortune can only extend so far as the plague not spreading too far beyond the Mire. Though how long that might be the case? She can't say. "Is that not how all the tales go? Through burning desert and frozen tundra, off to save the world?

[gatheringstorm]

That makes her laugh, a little. "I suppose the bard in Herald's Rest needs something appropriately dramatic for her songs, or Varric for whatever book he's going to write about this. Though next time, I'll be at least moderately content if it's not damp and drizzling everywhere."

[fleurdesel]

"Somewhere in the mountains. Somewhere dry. I will happily take ice and snow and chill over damp and muddy. At least then we might pull on more layers and not be made ill by them." Unlike here, where every layer for warmth or to keep dry ends up soaked and muggy.

[gatheringstorm]

"Yes, please. Though in that case, I'll have to actually pack some horn balm, too. The dry air tends to make the bases itch. But I'll take it over the all-pervasive swamp-scent in my armor. If you know a cure for that, let me know." The thought of living with it or ditching commissioned armor...neither are especially pleasing.

[fleurdesel]

"Horn balm?" Something for the skin near the bases, she supposes. "How does one make that?"

With what Vashoth members of the Inquisition they have, it feels prudent to learn how to create it if possible.