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

[slipshot]

"Quick, drink!" Gavin said, as if that was obvious. Quick, get Maxwell drunk before he thought better of it.

"I thought I was supposed to be the idiot among us," He said, frowning, shaking himself as Maxwell pulled him back upright, and then thrusting the bottle into the man's hands.

"Never- never better," He said, as solemnly as he could manage. Which wasn't particularly solemn. "I am - alas - a little inebriated. Drink."

[hugeinorlais]

Maxwell's comment about playbills was so inherently moneyed that Varric couldn't actually stay the derisive snort of laughter that bubbled up in response. He didn't know the man, of course, maybe he just made unfortunate comparisons out of habit. Not everyone grew up in Kirkwall, after all, and there were much lower odds on getting stabbed and robbed in the rest of the Free Marches. Varric really had no room to comment, let alone judge him...

And yet he still threw a look at Gavin that silently amounted to 'Really?'

Later, he'd blame the liquor...and if he offended the noble, maybe, I don't know, he'd send a fruit basket. Or something.

"Okay, I've got it," Varric said as Gavin tried for a disaffected and casual air. "He wants you to catch up, Poncy. No fun being the sober man out, so take a pull and join the party."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell's eyes danced back to Varric, an eyebrow raising at 'poncy,' but before he could comment, Gavin was pushing the bottle - roughly - on him and he grabbed at it before it could spill all over him. Which, considering the smell wafting up the neck might have been the only thing worse than drinking it.

"But having a sober man means there's someone there if one of you falls in the water and gets eaten by a bogfisher," Maxwell muttered, lifting the bottle to watch what remained in the bottle swirl about. He couldn't deny some curiosity though, and gamely he tipped it back to take a small - testing - sip.

The reaction was almost immediate; the bottle jerking away, Maxwell's cheeks bulging slightly as he fought to keep it in his mouth and to swallow.

"...Sweet Maker--" he coughed. "...The deadly plague is starting to make more sense."

[slipshot]

Gavin laughed - not unkindly - and leaned over to give Maxwell a hard pat on the back.

"See, there you go," he grinned, "Come and join us, the bogfisher fodder."

Content that he was not the only one that was going to be pissed drunk - and having had enough to ensure that he would be so - Gavin himself was done drinking, and was content to simply enjoy his inebriation until he would later pass out.

"Would you fellows like a song?" He asked - an offer he almost only ever made when he was too drunk to remember that his singing voice was absolutely awful. "I would offer to dance but I don't think I'm quite that willing to endanger my life for your entertainment."