faderift | THE FALLOW MIRE

THE FALLOW MIRE

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.

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Beacons and Veilfire Runes

Pel is here in her capacity as a scholar of elven history and magic. She can be seen at each and every beacon, studying and copying it painstakingly by the light of the pale green veilfire.

But before she can study the runes, she has to deal with a particular problem: lighting the beacons attracts demons and walking corpses. While she has an assigned bodyguard for her sojourn in the form of one Maria Hill, there are a lot of demons.

Perfect.

Pel is only too happy to take out all her frustration and anger on some demons. She pulls no punches.

One moment, she's hovering near the beacon. A pool of green light appears suddenly beneath her feet, a telltale sign that a terror demon is attacking. But when the demon appears, it is immediately frozen solid. An instant later, Pel is at your side, ten meters from where she started, having come through the Terror and shattered it into pieces. She is perfectly unharmed.

Fisher's End, The Tavern

Pel eats a bit like a cat--clean and delicate. And she eats slowly, as if each morsel could be her last. She breaks off pieces of bread and dips them in a cup of watered wine to soften them before eating them. The fish is polished off with relish and the cheese is savored. After a long day of hard, wet work, it's freaking delicious.

"Why does anyone live in this Maker-forsaken hellhole? On purpose?" Korrin has to ask herself in a muttered aside that as she trudges through the muck...whether in the 'village' or Inquisiton camp or outside both areas of relative safety, the question is always the same. She's had assignments on the edge of the Mire before, with her own company, but heading into the heart of the area is a new experience. Personally, it's one she could do without. If the Inquisition didn't need everyone it could get, she would have gladly skipped this particular assignment.

The Vashoth mage is more fortunate than most, given that her height means she's not as soaked as some by the mire. Still, the cold, disease-infested water is no picnic to face. She wonders if she'll ever be dry again, at this rate. Frequent mutterings can be heard as she passes or as anyone passes her, usually in the vein of the above questions, sprinkled with some blasphemous comment or string of them. Perhaps the Maker will forgive her for it, if not his clergy.

[The Beacons]

As a mage, Korrin knows she's needed to help light as many beacons as possible. That's a task she doesn't complain about, even as the Mire itself doesn't get a pass. Whoever accompanies her is welcome, though with words and actions she makes it clear that it's a partnership and she's not about to hang back when there's trouble

Upon reaching the next beacon, Korrin peers around before approaching it. "Alright...get ready. You know what's coming." Her forearms enveloped in that eerie green flame, she lights the beacon. Whirling around, she whips out her staff and quickly casts a Barrier spell at the sound of demons approaching.

[Marked Houses]

Killing undead is satisfying and lighting the beacons useful, but Korrin hasn't forgotten about those who actually call this place home. Rather than wait for someone else to do it when she has the time, the Vashoth mage will take an assignment with whoever else happens to be available at the time. The sooner they can evacuate people, the better.

If only she were more familiar with the area. Since the depressing gloom of the Fallow Mire makes much of the area seem the same to her, Korrin is less than certain of her usual excellent direction sense. She frowns while pausing, intently peering around before finally nodding to her right, along a path just barely out of the water.

"That way...l think."

[Random Hunting/Hitching a Ride?]

It doesn't escape Korrin's attention that despite her grumbling, she's one of the luckier agents in the mire. Thanks to her height, the Vashoth doesn't have to worry about drowning or soaking herself in the disease-ridden damp, at least not as much as some. The elves and dwarves in particular have her sympathy, and whenever someone seems to be struggling, she'll pause.

"Want some help?" She gestures up to her shoulders, which have yet to be soaked from the mire's waters. If she's going to be taller than most, at least she can put it to use, right? At least for a stretch; she's a mage, no warrior, so it can't go on indefinitely.

Edited 2015-11-09 20:30 (UTC)

The Inquisition Camp - Zombie Attack!

There's no real telltale difference between the day and night here in this miserable stinking swamp. The Chantry often comments on how the Maker's gaze is averted away from Thedas but this is the first time Alayre truly believed such a bold claim. A faint slither of fear passes through his usually stoic gaze once he hears a sound in-between the endless rainfall. Nearly soaked to the bone and quite on edge, Alayre briefly tells his men to keep close watch of the camp as he surveys up ahead. The muffled shuffling of the ghouls that lurk nearby deny the Knight-Commander of any peace this evening as he tries to navigate through this mud soaked land upon horseback.

His white steed, Durandal, couldn't look any more miserable as it trudges through all the grime and muck. Eventually the horse refuses vehemently to go any further and Alayre is forced to disembark. He climbs down the saddle carefully as he tries to find his footing along this slippery path. A grunt of annoyance escapes the Knight-Commander as he takes a moment to survey the land. The brooding darkness that clings to Fallow Mire truly puts the Templar on edge.

"One would find very little to call 'home' in such a putrid den of muck and pestilence." He grumbles bitterly as he wanders just a little further. With his hands firmly placed upon the hilt of his swords, Alayre pauses once a sickly groan reaches his ears.

"TO ARMS!"

Miserable stinking swamp was right. The gloominess of the Mire was even getting Sam down, finding himself smiling a bit less and more easily tired. He certainly was glad to be out of Skyhold again, but Fallow Mire certainly was not at the top of his list. The Storm Coast would have been much preferred, even with all the rain it often had. That he could deal with, that reminded him of home.

The yell "TO ARMS" does get him jumping to his feet though, dashing away from the fire they had at the camp towards the direction of the yell. Stopping just short of the water, Sam draws his staff, eyes searching for the Knight-Commander. Where was he?

Where is here? Well just look for the incoming legion of zombies trudging through all the mud and yuck. Alayre is a little further away from the campsite, a good few sixty yalms northeast to be exact. The Knight-Commander wanted to get a better look of the land in hopes of spotting their missing scouts. Instead of find them, Alayre finds himself facing off against scores of shambling corpses.

This swampy land provides nothing in the form of stability. It's uneven footing here which makes combat quite difficult when you're slipping and sliding. However, Alayre seems to make due well enough to run this one ghoulish fiend through the skull with his blades. The zombie's screeching cries eventually cease once its blackened blood dribbles down its bloated face. The Templar struggles briefly to free his swords but eventually he manages.

There's a clear look of disgust upon his face that Sam will undoubtedly notice as Alayre makes quick work of another zombie. "The Maker himself cares not for this hellish den." Alayre grumbles as he streaks down another corpse.

"This is nothing short of a nightmare." Take a guess as of who has a fear of zombies? The complaints will cease once this accursed mission is over.

Ellana has to shake her head at Korrin's question, because it really makes no sense to settle here unless every other option isn't possible. Or there might be something special they don't know about this place.

"The only thing I can think of is that the weather wasn't always so bad and the fishing must have been plentiful. The corpses weren't always here, right? After things turned sour, people were probably so set in their ways, they didn't want to move elsewhere. If fishing is all you know, you might wish to cling to it."

Upon getting her assignment, Korrin looks around for the one she's supposed to be paired with. Sigrun, was it? That name isn't familiar to her, but that's not a problem. As long as she's willing to work with a Vashoth mage -one who won't be able to stop complaining about this place, of course- then they're good to go. She places her staff upon her back while heading to the supply wagon, glancing around in the gloom to see who joins her.

Edited 2015-11-11 01:25 (UTC)

As someone who's always been on the move and never attached to any one place, Korrin can't grasp that mentality. She just shakes her head, utterly puzzled. Humans confused her at times anyway, but this was on a whole new level.

"Yeah, but there can't really be any fish left in those waters now, can there? It's just a corpse-ridden, disease-infested mess. We can't drink it or wash with it, it's only good for destroying any chance we have of ever feeling dry again."

a) Tents - for Gorse and Alayre

Eirlys had never been camping before, and the only tents she'd seen were the ones set up for the wounded in Skyhold's courtyard. She's set up her few belongings in a corner and sleeps curled up like a cat - there's little enough room in the tent to start with, and she doesn't want to inconvenience her tent-mates. But between the cold wind blowing through in the middle of the night, making her shiver and the canvas flap loudly on the poles, and her constant fear that the undead of the Mire are going to rip through the fabric and kill them all, she doesn't sleep well, jumping at every little noise and wishing she were back behind stone walls.

In the morning she feels awful that the others have been lumbered with her and all her nerves, venturing out as soon as its light to take the choicest bacon and the largest eggs from the supplies to make Gorse and Alayre an apology breakfast.

b) On Assignment - for Jamie (and Gorse and Alayre at the tent)

She's in the tent when Jamie arrives to collect her, sat in her corner scraping the layers of mud off the plants she's managed to collect. Their mission isn't one she'd expected to be given, but she's glad to be of use, even if she found it a little sordid and disrespectful to the departed. She's also glad to be paired with someone she knows, even if she's still a little wary of the people who came here through the Fade.

"Hello," she smiles up at him as he enters. "You don't mind if I finish this up before we head out, do you?"

c) Gathering Resources - OPEN

Blood lotus is abundant here, and Eirlys gathers as much as she can, knowing it would be of great use to the Inquisition. However she does so rather half-heartedly, with nothing like the enthusiasm she shows when gathering the herbs and plants she's used so far at Skyhold. Blood lotus has no healing properties, and she'd have to use it for offensive tonics and grenades. She'd had plenty of experience in making those, but that had been under Wellow's orders and the threat of being beaten or having her wages docked if she'd refused, but now that she was her own mistress she wanted to heal, not hurt. Her compassion and her duty continues to war within her as she pulls up yet more lotus stalks, stuffing them into a sack that's now close to overflowing.

"Would that their beauty could be left to grow, that it didn't have to be uprooted to aid in the ugliness of war."

d) Tending to the Sick - OPEN

House calls are where Eirlys feels most in her element. She'd attended countless bedsides in the alienage, been one of the few authorities when it came to disease and healing, though she felt very outmatched by the other healers in the Inquisition, who'd had the chance to learn from books and anatomical dissections and even magic that removed illness almost instantly. What she lacks in theory, however, she makes up for in her experience of sitting up in the small hours with the frail and dying, doing what she can to make them comfortable and to prevent the spread of disease, and give them what little hope she can.

The reactions here are mixed. Some of the villagers are grateful for any help at all, hanging on her every word and offering their scant possessions in return for the potions and poultices she had for them, something Eirlys strongly assured them was not necessary. Others were far more wary of this new-formed Inquisition sending an elf to tend to them, looking at her in scorn and suspicion, and needing the assurance of a human healer that she wasn't secretly trying to poison them with her medicines. It's a bit of a gamble as to which reaction she's going to get.

e) Wildcard - OPEN
If you'd like a different starter for your character, let me know and I'll write something up for you!

The eerie stillness of the night didn't do much to lull the Templar to slumber. Alayre spent most of the evening wide awake except for those rare minutes he did manage to rest. He knew prior to this mission that he would be unable to truly rest until after it's said and done. Fallow Mire is a horrible and terrible place but it would be less horrific if they weren't in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

The constant threat of the undead kept Alayre awake more than it should have. Just the thought of seeing those shambling corpses again ruined his sleep. Thus by the time morning arrived, Alayre found it difficult to remain awake. Combine the restlessness of the night and every other night he spent at the hold and you have a rather exhausted Knight-Commander who might be a tad terse today.

Obviously fatigued and unwilling to part with his swords, Alayre readied his armor and grabbed his cloak as he makes his way out the tent. "Now where did she wander off to?" He grumbles in mild annoyance. Of course the person in question is the little elf maiden who shares their tent. While he hasn't spoken much to Eirlys prior, Alayre is honestly a tad concerned about her.

"This is no place for one like her. Too delicate." The Templar grumps huffily. That lack of sleep makes this one quite grouchy.

Demons. Despite the dangers that came with them, it was almost comforting to be back to fighting such a known enemy. There was nothing mysterious about demons or their goals, no claims of godhood or strange red lyrium. They appeared, she killed them. Simple. Even if the crackle of magic in the air coming from someone not actively fighting against her was a somewhat new twist to the familiar battle.

A demon to her left exploded in a shower of ice crystals and Maria shifted her attention to the right. Bash demon with shield, stab demon. Repeat. Check on mage- mage doing fine. She began walking forward as she attacked her current target, herding the demon towards another one and it's gang of undead friends. Once they were both in range, a pillar of divine light finished the pair off. She'd brought a decent supply of lyrium, no need to hold back when there was a mission to be completed.

1: I'm not lost, you're lost.

Beleth had always loved wandering the forest, identifying her way around with landmarks and directions. She could travel far away from the camp, and always reliably make her way back. Thus, when she went scouting, she had thought it would be child's play to make her way back. She hadn't even bothered setting trail markers. However, she quickly encountered some major problems.

The first was that it was nearly impossible to tell direction. The sun is a hazy, distant thing, she can't see any stars, and with the constant damp darkness, moss grows in abundance in every direction. There were a half dozen ways she could tell directions without a compass, and none of them were working here. The landscape doesn't help either--It's all bog, all lumpy rocks that had no particular features. Even the occasional corpse floating in the water wasn't much to distinguish.

Beleth only starts worrying after the third time that she passes one of the only landmarks she can find--some large stones arranged in a pattern she can't discern, but was very obviously purposely placed to form an odd little tunnel. After a moment of staring at it, she gives a sigh, and walks to the bog, stomping a foot in the water as she pulls out her bow, and calmly shoots the corpses that emerge.

"Maybe the corpses can be arranged in an arrow." She suggests--Either to a companion, or herself. Feel free to be lost with her, or stumble across her in a valiant rescue attempt.

2: I am not drunk enough for this (but I'm trying)

Beleth has claimed one of the tables, and is staring contemplatively at the mug of ale in her hands. It's her second one, and she's definitely feeling it--Almost enough that she doesn't feel disgusting with the damp and cold that permeates everything. Almost. They should bring this ale back to Skyhold, she thinks as she does her best to drink it as quickly as possible, before she can taste it. It would make a better cleaning solution than anything else they've been using.

This place was so depressing. If anyone asked for her opinion, she'd suggest setting the entire place on fire and leaving it. Take the miserable lot of locals that still lived here and relocate them. Crestwood was almost as awful as this place, according to what rumors she's heard, if they have to be some place appropriately miserable.

She sighs, and finishes the current mug.

"...Best out of three." She decides, until she stands up, and all that alcohol rushes right to her head. "Mmmaybe out of two." She's buzzed, it's determined, and upgrading that to full out drunk might not be a great idea.

3: Tent arrangements (for Salvatore and Sabriel)

Ugh. Ughhhh. It was hard to believe that she had been put in a tent with two people that she hardly knew. None of the others got shuffled with complete strangers. And one was a man, to boot. But it wasn't in Beleth's nature to complain to the people in charge--Instead, she would just quietly grouse about it and try to arrange the tent so that Salvatore's things were as far away from hers as possible.

When either came in, she looked up, and politely bobbed her head in greeting. No need to make a poor first impression by being rude. "I am Beleth Ashara, I'll be in a tent with you. I hope it's alright, but I made a few arrangements for the tent...if it's not alright, then I'll be happy to rearrange it to suit you, of course." And possibly just take her stuff and crash with one of her clanmates and their unfortunate tentmates.

4: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and then...? (for Sam)

Beleth couldn't make less of an amused face if someone had offered her sovereigns for it. Her lips set in a line, she stared at the massive pile of damp ashes that had once been damp corpses that had once been damp humans. She was beginning to think that perhaps there was a Maker out there, because surely there must be some divine hand at work here, making her life as hard as possible.

There were people out there thatching roofs and catching cats, and she had a pile of plague-infested ashes to take care of.

The Dalish didn't have this problem. The Dalish didn't burn their dead, without bothering to wonder what they might do afterwards. Everyone was buried, given a walking stick so their soul could journey off, and a sapling planted so that their death could give life to something new. Never did they leave behind...this.

"We can't dump it in the water supply." She started, holding up a hand, and beginning to count off all the things that they couldn't do on her fingers. "With them being plague victims, it'd be bad. I'd suggest we bury them, but I don't know if you can even dig in this ground without the hole filling up with water. We can't give them to the wind, not with the ashes soaked, and not this much of them." She turned to Sam, the unfortunate companion in this unfortunate quest.

"And we're going to need something to transport them in, if we do anything not in the immediate vicinity."

{ a } At base camp, in her tent, etc.
It certainly isn't the most cheerful spot in Thedas, but Ellana is determined to do some good here, wherever she's needed. Sitting by the fire, she puts her long hair into a side braid to keep it out of the way and keeps a cowl handy in case she's called to head out into the mire. She eats some rations, commiserates over the situation with others, and retires to her tent with Krem and Korrin at night. In the mornings, she waits for an assignment before heading out, sometimes alone, sometimes joining with another. If it's the latter, she tries to make conversation to keep their minds off the miserable conditions.

{ b } Gathering resources + fighting undead
The task is simple enough and Ellana is happy to do it. The Inquisition needs herbs for potions and metals for weapons and armor. The former she can gather in a satchel easily enough, while the latter can be energized and carried behind her, much like the firewood she used to carry back at the clan's camp. It's while out gathering these items that she comes across the undead. Their appearance is horrifying, but she reminds herself that they're not the people they once were. They aren't those who once dwelled here in the Fallow Mire, earning a living by fishing and raising their families. They don't have memories of those lives, or names, or anything. They are corpses looking to kill her, so she takes her staff off her back and begins to fight them off, keeping her eyes moving around to make sure none are creeping behind her.

{ c } Wildcard
I'm open to other scenarios, just let me know what you want to do!

"That's true, but they probably aren't used to just packing up and moving. Maybe they don't own a horse or other animal that can pull a wagon, and there are bandits out there on the roads. You and I are used to a life on the move." Though Ellana's was spent avoiding settlements and humans.

"I do wish for a mug of something hot and dry feet." She stretches out her feet, looking at her wet boots.

"And I want a griffon, but we're just as likely get it as the dry feet. The tavern's just barely worthy of the name, but maybe they'll have that other wish of yours. I can't say it'll be drinkable, though."

She opens her pack, determined to change into something relatively dry and clean. Used to camp life, there's not much modesty in her, so she doesn't think twice about stripping out of her gear. Her own sodden boots are right next to the entrance, so they don't drip all over the place.

"The best thing the Inquisition can do is evacuate everyone from here. Hopefully they'll take the assistance so we don't have to return."

Ellana doesn't really care one way or the other. To her, she felt the aravels were too cramped to change in, so she had always stayed out in the open, but somewhat behind an aravel to change. What Korrin was doing wasn't a big deal to her, and Ellana untied her boots, toeing them off.

"Having our support should be enough to convince them that this place is no longer livable."

Honestly, he's a bit surprised that before burning the bodies they hadn't thought of digging a hole to put them in so that they could bury the remains afterwards. Perhaps it would have taken too much time - but this was taking up time too - or maybe the ground was just unmanageable? Whatever the reason, the pile of ashes has Sam leaning most of his weight on his staff.

Beleth is enjoying this even less then he is, and he watches with interest at the variety of faces she makes while she tries to come up with ways to get rid of their problem. "Well if they were plague victims maybe we should start off with getting some masks and gloves. We can separate the ashes into piles and then... I can freeze them? Would be easier to carry them elsewhere and bury them away from the village."

"The sooner, the better. You can't step into anything deep than a puddle without those Maker-damned corpses popping up, and even then, I swear that happens even if I'm only near the water, not in it. I can't wait for us to find the rest of those beacons so we can finally avoid that shit."

Sure, it attracts demons, but Korrin doesn't actually mind that since they're good targets on which to take out her hatred of the place. She sets her armor aside, planning to clean it in a moment, before first changing into a fresh undershirt and pants that aren't sodden past the knees.

Travel to the Mire & tent time

The march out had been soggy but fairly familiar. The terrain? Not so much, but long walks to thankless tasks and mysterious danger- that he recalled with great fondness...until he actually had to make the walk, make camp, set up tents and sleep on a too flat bedroll. He didn't complain so much as much as quietly mutter under his breath when he felt no one else was paying him much mind. "Join the Inquisition, I thought, it will be fun, I thought. Wynne would be proud! Wynne isn't here and this is-"

The rest was a long string of Antivan, wry and annoyed as he fought with the tent he intended to use for the night.

Dispose of the Dead

While he wasn't a terribly devout sort, Zevran did make an attempt to speak words over the bodies of the dead. They weren't long and they weren't horribly sincere- do something twenty times in two hours and you slowly lose the ability to offer more than a token eulogy as you patted down pockets and pouches for anything useful. Or valuable. Again, this was not horribly unfamiliar. The burning, the praying, the looting. So much all at once? Would turn his stomach if he had one left to be turned by such things. Death on this scale was rare for the Crows, it was rare even during the Blight- but better he to do this than one of the greener members that might be troubled.

Or find the better bits of jewelry and gold before him. "I think that is the last for this batch. Nothing of note on them, not even gold teeth."

Patrol - Fighting the undead!

You know what was difficult? Finding somewhere to gain solid footing in a bog. And then trying to fight while waist deep in water. That. That was difficult. There was the odd stump or half submurged log to help his case- a faint path to higher ground was off to one side but between here and there? More undead. Soggy. Scrambling. Violent undead. Waterlogged and swearing under his breath Zevran readies his knives and attempts to make a bridge to higher ground-

with their bodies.

Working the roof - With Salvatore

"Well this explains the lack of grain." And bread without mold. And food that wasn't soggy. If the storage building for foodstuffs had a hole in the roof with the raining and the birds and the potential for famine? He had been tasked with patching the hole and while he is quite handy with a blade- not many of them had been saws. "I do not suppose you know how to mend a roof?"

Wildcard!

[ Choose your own adventure! ]

Edited 2015-11-11 07:33 (UTC)

She blinks at the idea, eyes widening as she turns to Sam. "That's--That's a really good idea. I didn't even think about masks for ourselves. Do you think we're at risk...?" They're probably trying to kill her, aren't they? Maybe not, but she's still not too thrilled with this. Eyes still on the ashes, she heaves a sigh, running a hand through her hair--Then spending a few moments tugging out the knots, because thick curly hair and unending dampness don't go well together.

"Well," She starts, frowning up at her hair as she attempts to detangle it. "If we made the piles smaller...We could probably make small enough holes. The issue is that this ground is soggy. Permeated with water. "It'll be hard to dig in, but if we have small enough holes...We can probably do it." She glances at Sam, giving him a haphazard smile as she let her hair drop. "I think that's the solution. Thank you."

Good idea. Yeap, that was him. Sam the sneaky blacksmith mage who surprised you with deep and/or helpful ideas. Sam cannot help but snort a bit in amusement at the look Beleth is giving him - it's cute. "Honestly? I'm not sure. Burning bodies is supposed to help get rid of illnesses or plagues... but we don't know what caused this. If it's magic then it could be harder to deal with. Why I'm suggesting the precautions."

Somehow Beleth manages to keep the smile on his face despite the dreariness of the bog and their situation - what was she doing with her hair? "We'll just have to figure where we're burying the ashes. Can't go too far, but better not to bury it near the water supply."

Rescuing Gavin

He'd left without any word, save a vague notice to Harding about having to 'check on something'. The dark bruise that framed his cheek bone hadn't even truly begun to darken, then, but by the time he found his way to the Fallow Mire it had. It had taken several days hiking by himself, but he was used to it - enjoyed it, even - and had been intending to meet up with Ned's team and make himself as useful as possible.

That had turned out to be somewhat difficult. For a start, the scouts were not where they were supposed to be. In fact, Gavin couldn't find them at all. Moving by himself he managed to avoid most of the dead, but there were several times where he was forced to just run away as fast as he could. That was fine by him. Running was far better than being dead.

Eventually he ended up camped out on top of an abandoned hut - cold and wet and covered in mud - sending flaming arrows down at the dead whenever they got too close. He had hoped he'd be able to spot Ned's scouts, from here, if they came past, but all he'd seen were endless dead and bog. Of all the places he'd been in the world, he decided that this one was probably the most miserable.

At least he had a couple days left of stolen food. Even if he was having to pick the weevils out of it...

After the Rescue: Latrine Duty

They didn't name him a deserter. He was glad, for that. He hadn't even really thought about it, before he left - he was so used to doing so - but he'd forgotten he was part of an army, now. Desertion was... well. A little different than just wandering off from his clan. He'd had a long and angry verbal reprimand, and now had perpetual latrine duty. Or, at least it felt perpetual.

He couldn't even really bring himself to mind. The work was hard, yes, and smelled foul (really, awfully foul) but it kept his mind off himself. He dug the latrine pits, dealt with the sewage, and lost himself in the rhythm of the spade.

It did make for fairly stinky greetings, however, whenever someone came to check up on him.

Or, you know, yell at him for taking off in the first place and almost getting himself killed. Same difference, really!

Korrin doesn't know the exact details behind Gavin's leaving or his rescue, but she certainly aware of what he's doing now. No one ever wants latrine duty, and the fact that her accident-prone friend had been assigned it certainly spread around. And while she isn't eager to go anywhere near that particular area, the Vashoth mage nonetheless feels the need to check up on him.

Spotting Gavin ahead, Korrin makes her way over and does her best to stand downwind, though the entire Mire stinks anyway. She crosses her arms, staring at him for a moment before speaking up. "Gavin, what the hell happened? I heard you almost got yourself killed out there." She sounds more annoyed than sincerely angry, but there's an undercurrent of concern as well.

Though Korrin has just enough tact not to say it aloud, she's rather grateful to be a 'qunari' in the Mire. The bog is still annoying and depressing and awful in every way, but the disease-ridden, corpse-flesh infested water doesn't reach nearly as high for her. Granted, her feet and lower legs feel as though they'll never be dry again, but at least the rest of her isn't suffering with them.

Reaching Zevran's side, she just shakes her head at the undead bridge in progress. "Efficient, if gross. You know, I could just carry you across, right? I know it's not as dignified, but I won't tell anyone if you won't. Or do, whatever."

Varric had some sympathy for people who begged off of armed service (not too much, mind you, but it was a veritable wealth when compared to most of the Inquisition), and the longer he spent slogging chest-deep through fetid water and general fallow mire, the more sympathetic he felt. After couple of days spent in corpse-infested, putrid muck, stopping to chat with the guy digging out new latrines threatened to become the highlight of Varric's day.

"Well, at least it's slightly drier here," Varric commented as he stopped a reasonable distance from the edge of the trench. He peered down at the elf in it and, as he seemed both cheerful and likely to empty the contents of his stomach, his expression was best dubbed: vomoptimistic.

At least the area with the privies had to, by necessity, be placed on reasonably solid ground. There was a great deal to be said for not sinking shin-deep into black, rotting mud. Varric was pretty sure he could write an ode to solid ground, he might even do it whenever they got back to Skyhold.

After he burned these clothes.

"And largely free of the walking dead," Varric added almost merrily. "Could be worse, right?"

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THE FALLOW MIRE

Pel Ashara

Korrin Ataash

Alayre Sauveterre

Re: Alayre Sauveterre

no subject

no subject

for Sigrun

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Eirlys Ancarrow

a) Tents (Morning)

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Beleth Ashara

Ellana Ashara | prose or brackets

no subject

no subject

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4: Hey I didn't just meet you, and this is crazy, lets mess with ashes maybe

no subject

Zevran Arainai

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Gavin Ashara

Latrine Duty

Patrol

Latrine Duty because that's clearly a great first meeting.