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.

Threaded | Flat

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!"

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!

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!

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)

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!

In all honesty, it doesn't smell that much worse than the fish market in summer on those long afternoons that never end. Different, that's true, but not objectively worse and that's about as much as she can really say about it, if asked.

At least she knows how to move without disturbing the water or losing her footing, hips swinging like she's strolling on the deck of a ship, only cringing in that split second when something brushes her feet or ankles. As much as she misses the water, she's got absolutely no desire to go swimming in this muck.

tents;
It's miserable. It is absolutely miserable - why does anyone ever go camping? No amount of huffing in the world helps when the cold ground (hard but at the same time squelchy and she imagines the whole floor of the tent writhing around on the backs of worms) steals all her warmth. She'd sit and sharpen her blades but that's probably not the most sociable thing she could be doing in all honesty.

Where her pillow, or what passes for a pillow, should be there's instead her fox, nose tucked neatly under his tail, radiating heat without the decency to share.

"Hammocks. Oh my kingdom for a hammock just out of reach of corpses," she mutters to herself unless anyone else is awake.

zombie cats with lace
Even after being asked, she's still not sure of the scout is seeing things or not - she wouldn't blame them, not really, if she's stuck here for too long she'll start seeing things too but the undead have all been human. Or human shaped. It gets hard to tell when they shrivel up with the clothes rotted off them and most of their ears gone too.

Still, a cat? Really?

"Probably some nasty thing with a missing ear, a bad eye and mange," she complains, spinning her rapiers to keep her muscles from seizing up thanks to her damp clothes sticking to her. "Undead cats, nonsense."

wild card
[Patrols, bumping into her somewhere, getting some pointers on how to keep your footing on this sort of terrain? Go for it!]

Resources and the like
Gorse is familiar with the bogfishers. He doesn't take part in hunting them because he's only an acceptable hunter and a bit too much of a bleeding heart - better to let the actual good hunters handle things. Instead he keeps to the riverbanks, watching the craggy skin lumps slide in and out from under the water as they muck about.

Their jaws are fearsome things and they won't hesitate to take a bite of you, but if you don't piss them off they're quite docile unless they're starving. The ones here don't seem to be starving, whatever plague is happening has not affected them, and bodies are plentiful.

Gorse kneels down on a few slippery rocks at the edge of the water, careful with his balance as he reaches down to grasp the dawn lotus peeking through the safe little pond at the edge of the river, just downstream from a campsite. It's where you can usually find them.

Still, careful as he is while he cuts the dawn lotus to get as much of it as possible without disturbing the water, his eyes drift back up to the bogfishers milling about in their own mucky bliss.

"Huh... undead don't seem to care about them, do they?"

The undead are quick to dredge themselves up when their still waters are disturbed by the living, but apparently even they don't want to tangle with an annoyed bogfisher.

Building Bridges (Closed to Krem though feel free to watch the display of manly guys doing manly things)
"Oh, this isn't so bad!" Gorse says, hands on his hips as he looks out at the decaying bridge in dire need of repair. Much of it has rotted away from lack of upkeep, and what hasn't has taken quite a beating from undead. There's an arrow sticking out of a part of it.

Gorse would say it didn't look so bad even if the thing was currently on fire, however. He was an eternal optimist.

"Tie some boards together and do some hammering after we clear off all the rotted parts and it'll be good as new."

He was pretty sure the water wasn't deeper than his waist at the deepest.

Of course, staying out of the water might be a bit of a (big) problem.

Campfire
Okay

Sure it's raining.

Sure the smoke makes a perpetual fog over the camp.

Sure they've got undead bearing down on them at all hours if you get one toe into the water.

Sure everything has gone all kind of kitty-whumpus and it's possible one will never feel dry again.

That's no real reason to be a sad sack about things though!

Gorse is sitting next to the closest fire to his tent after a long day's work, chewing at the last of his meal before he turns in for the night. He's got one of the hoods modified to fit around his horns - cute little holes fastened with smart little buttons - so he's sort of slightly dryer but he doesn't mind the perpetual dampness as he squints up at the sky.

"Oh! Hey, I can sort of see some stars up there!"

He'll always find a bright side.

Edited 2015-11-12 10:19 (UTC)

PATROL
Undead and demons abound. It's a delightful place, and if the Inquisition forces opted to stay in the tavern in the relative dry, she would understand.

Harding is the first to volunteer for patrol, squelching through the mire with a fierce tenacity and unmatchable drive, but that just doesn't change the fact the mire is very reluctant to allow patrols to, well, pass through it. Often, she and her comrades wind up helping each other out of the mud, and when crossing the dead infested water is the only option... well, not only are the dead infested waters a problem, but the fact that she's a dwarf, and when the water comes up to just below your neck, that's not very desirable. Little help, here?

THE CAMP
Harding is everywhere. She sits by the campfire and shares encourage words, makes light of the weather and the mire's perpetual rain and quasidarkness, re-pitches tents, distributes rations, draws and redraws maps of the area as patrols come and go, makes sure the healers have what they need and makes lists of what they don't, listens to complaints and resolves disputes. Wherever you are in camp, it's likely that you'll stumble into Harding at least once (perhaps literally, due to the fact that getting away from the damp ground and the sensation of it sinking down below you is just one that doesn't go away, and it's entirely inescapable, particularly the further in you go).

She keeps herself busy with no time to lament the Inquisition's current soggy predicament - they have a job to do, and she has a job to do, which is keep the camp organised and try to keep its spirit's up.

TENT ARRANGEMENTS: MARTIN AND NAHARIEL
Aside from initial introductions, Harding isn't the most conversational of tent co-inhabitors. She claims a corner, leaves a small pile of things with her bedroll - folded and refolded letters, a quiver stuffed to the brim with arrows, along with the actual bow and quiver she uses at night, and that's about it. When she's there, she sleeps. When she's not, she's busy with patrols herself, or organising the camp. It's very late when she gets back to the tent, and it's very early when she gets up again. But she's quiet, and she doesn't snore, so that's a plus.

Perhaps if you do want to speak with her, you should catch her in the hours where she's reading private correspondence, legs tucked beneath one another as she sits atop what was once a squeaky clean bedroll (it's a good thing it was always brown), or when she's retiring for the night and setting off about her day. She always has time for her tentmates.

THE CAMP: MESSAGE SENDING
In the evenings (or as much as 'evening' that the mire gets), Harding sits among the crows and pens reports. Reports for Leliana and Cullen to keep them appraised of the situation in the mire, updates on the scouts and their progress as a group solely for Leliana, what supplies are needed for Josephine, and so forth. But there's more than just official duty as each of Leliana's ravens has a message attached to their leg and takes flight, as she also writes other things, personal messages to friends, and long enough letters describing the delights (or lack thereof) of the Fallow Mire to her mother, and the places she's been and the things she's done - leaving out most of the life threatening parts, naturally.

Occasionally one of the birds returns with a message for her, and sometimes, she can hear her name called from her sending crystal, too.

WILDCARD?

Edited 2015-11-12 22:31 (UTC)

PATROL
Sabriel is the first to volunteer for patrol, as it's not something she's unused to, even if she did very little of it before she and her Warden comrades were called to Orlais in the first place. She's useful, as a mage, able to lure dead away with well aimed fire, and it's in this instance she finds herself atop one of the watchtowers.

It's hard to see through the rain, but it's dry, sort-of, and out of the water, which is a relief. She keeps her jar of fire with her, flame small and dim to make it unnoticeable but enough to see by, but it does very little to keep her warm. She misses warmth.

Other times, she finds herself with a group on one of the well-trodden routes, keeping pace with her fellows and keen to follow any orders should an attack happen.

KEEPING THE DEAD DOWN
It's the first corpse pit that does it.

One moment, she's fine, and the next, it hits her like all the breath has been sucked out from her lungs. Sabriel knew death, could feel it lurking at the edges of the water, fuzzy and buzzing, knowing that the very last thing she wanted to do was to step into the water, but she hadn't really known until she leaves the (relative) safety of the camp and stumbled upon the pile of corpses.

She's seen death, and known it. She's a Warden; she took her father's life. But this is different. Needless, pointless, victims of a plague left out to rot. It makes her sick, almost, the bile rising in her mouth and she quickly bites it down.

She sets about burning each corpse individually. Each face turned over sends another shock through her system. It's overwhelming. She's never felt - or seen - so much death before. But diligently, she continues on - body, turned, burned. Repeat, repeat, over and over again.

Someone should probably break that eerie repetitive silence, and it isn't going to be her, so it might as well be you.

TENT ARRANGEMENTS: WHAT GOES BUMP IN THE NIGHT
She had tried asking to be assigned alone. She had tried, on the way here, but had found herself sharing all the same, and was fortunate it was with someone that understood. But with someone who was a stranger, and someone who she had known and called friend... neither of these people should see her like this.

She tries to tell them. But how does someone explain the Calling without explaining the Calling?

The nights are always longest, and it's always then the noise in the back of her head beckons, creeps out of the shadows and tries to lure her away, all the things that help her focus gone. The mire makes it worse. In this small tent with two sleeping souls, it presses on her. In the morning, if it looks like she's spent the entire night curled up on her bedroll between them without closing her eyes, it's because it's true.

Sabriel is not a fearful person, but she does fear this. The night always brings the worst of terrors, and her dreams are even more vivid than they used to be.

She doesn't always remember the nightmares, nor the details, but it's always of darkness, Old God's singing and the darkspawn and dying and death and her father's hallowed face and Clarel saying they must die, and that song, that constant, thrumming song...

By the third night, she screams herself awake, hands pressed over her head as she tries to drown out the images and the noise that is always, always with her.

WILDCARD

Aide the Locals

Well this was going well. Adelaide felt fit to knock her head against the barred door before them, the headache that would result would pale in comparison to the migraine this had become.

Pinching the bridge of her nose she spoke, again, slowly. Clearly. With the shreds of her patience. "For the last time, we are not the undead come to claim you or your children. We are not demons. We are not plagued. We are members of the Inquisition come to escort you safely from your home to where there are fewer undead and to tend to your ill or injured."

For a moment? Silence.

Perhaps they would listen this-

"You're just articulate undead!" That was it. Adelaide gave up. She slumped against her staff and looked to whoever else was about, jaw clenched.

"...You. You talk sense into them. I cannot."

Tending the Injured

"Next." Adelaide waved- well. Whoever else was in line forward. As much healing and tending to the ill of the Mire that needed to be done there wasn't anything a Spirit Healer could do for the plague. Sit and hold hands and make people comfortable while they died? There were potions and tonics for that. Those not yet ill and battling with the undead, those bruised and scraped- those she and Compassion could yet help. Every cut and bruise and broken bone set was one thing they could manage in light of a larger problem. Her hands were swift, her skill certain, and her temper- well.

Shorter than usual. All the spirits and undead in the bog kept murmuring, kept following when she ventured beyond the camp. It did not make for restful sleep in the slightest. "On a scale of 'I've hit my thumb with a hammer' to 'Sweet Maker my eyes are boiling in my skull', how much pain are you experiencing?"

By the Campfire

Some time in the tavern, some time speaking to the locals that weren't ill- and all of the rest spent by the fire in the evenings was how Adelaide ended her day. Sometimes with a warm bottle of wine, most often with tea, always looking over notes taken over the plague patients, the undead, and a few rough sketches of landmarks she'd taken note of on her few excursions beyond the main camp. For the most part she seemed- tired. Not quite haggard, but exhausted all the same. Perhaps the tea would help.

Wildcard

[ Choose your own adventure! ]

Merrick's crazy corpse killing contest

As usual, Merrick's energy is without limit, and he'd arrived at the Fallow Mire with boundless excitement. It doesn't matter to him that the Mire is dark and filthy, and that the trip here was long and tiresome-- It's an adventure, and he intends to fully enjoy it.

Of course, that means killing as many things as possible.

He's on the waves of undead like an elf-shaped bullet, springing about as he slashes down corpse after corpse after corpse. It's a little difficult to find footing in the mud and sludge, and he ends up covered in both, but this is fun. He'll even challenge any other fighters to a little contest to see who can cut down the most. Can you keep up?

Gathering them corpse livers with Alayre

When Merrick was a child, he was the first among his clan to skin a deer. He remembered the other children having a visceral reaction to the blood and gore, but he hadn't flinched once as he removed the skin and cleaned the animal almost perfectly. He'd then been tasked with all the 'gross stuff' the other kids didn't want to do, which was fine by him. To this day, he can't recall a single time he'd ever been grossed out by anything.

It's helpful now, as he slices open the abdomen of the corpse he just killed and yanks out the slimy liver with his hand. He examines it for a moment before signaling to Alayre.

"Does this seem recent enough to you?"

The tavern

Of course Merrick locates the tavern quickly, and heads there often for food and booze. He has yet to get used to the heaviness of human food, so he wolfs down small portions at a time, washing it down with the strongest alcohol he can get his hands on.

While drunk, it's much easier for him to loosen up and talk. Or fight. Whichever.

Even when he finds himself alone in the tent, Salvatore keeps to his side of it. Being the only man, he doesn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. (Though he suspects there’s more to it than that.) He takes advantage of the relative quiet, tuning out the camp outside the thin walls of the tent and laying back on his bedding to read.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone entering the tent except to wave with a hand not holding the book poised over his head, thinking it must be Sabriel, or even Beleth.

one. Herb Gathering
[As terrible as the conditions in the Mire are, those same conditions also allow the growth of certain plants and herbs that the Hinterlands and Skyhold couldn't provide. One could never have too many herbs, which is why Bruce has decided to go out and start gathering them so that he could bring them back. Perhaps with luck some of them could thrive in the climates of Skyhold, or he could ask a mage to help with recreating the conditions to allow them to grow. Having to constantly bring the resources back and fourth wouldn't really be a good long-term viable option after all.

He can be found in places where the plants are plenty, picking as many as he can and placing them all in a basket to bring back to camp to properly sort out later. He pointedly tries to stay out of the water too, although some times he really can't quite help it when a Dawn Lotus is just a little too far from the edge...]

two. body collection
[The work on curing the plague was making headway, but if they were going to progress even further then they were going to need something more substantial than what they currently had. There was only so much theorizing and dead (well, deader) samples could provide.

And so Bruce had taken it upon himself to get that something 'more substantial', even as dangerous as the process would be. But there was no real way around it.

Pulling on his gloves Bruce gives himself a once over, making sure he was properly equipped before glancing back to the others that had obliged to follow him. After all everyone now knew what happened when you went into the water, but unforturnately that was where Bruce needed to go. Otherwise the research into the plague wasn't going to go anywhere.]

three. Wildcard
[Feel free to make up stuff, etc.]

Threaded | Flat

Pel Ashara

Korrin Ataash