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

[salvatore_underfoot]

"I... Yeah. Sure." He scrambles for a second to find something to talk about, his head still thick with sleep. But she said anything, and he realizes it probably doesn't matter what he says. He starts rambling on about his trip from Perendale to Skyhold, how they had to camp off the road and ration the food. How one of the Templars went off and caught a couple of rabbits to cook one night. How one of the mages and one of the Templars got into a heated discussion, which turned into an argument, which nearly turned into fight before the men were separated. The next morning, the mage was gone. He left behind a note, so they moved on without him....

[paperwing]

The words don't matter so much as the fact that his voice is something to hang on to, something else than the singing. It's noise, at first, not really paying much attention other than picking out Perendale and Skyhold, but by the time he reaches the argument, her breathing slows to normal, in and out, in and out.

"Did he ever arrive at Skyhold?" she interjects, words slow, but clear. She does want to know, yes, but she's calmer now, back in control, focused. That's the clue.

[salvatore_underfoot]

His tumble of words falters and he stares at her a second. "Uh..." He's relieved to see her breathing better, to hear her voice. He's also forgotten what he was saying. He thinks back, and shakes his head. "Uh, no. No, never saw him again. He mentioned family in his letter, though, and I know he had some in Redcliffe." He leans in a little, clearly worried. "Does this happen often?"

[paperwing]

"I see," she says, somberly. It's not the first time she's wondered of what became of those in Perendale, and though Sal's group was only a few. And if the mage did go to Redcliffe, she only hopes he wasn't taken by Corypheus.

"Not every night," she decides, after a moment. "But the nightmares are there, every time I go to sleep. What's causing them... that never leaves."