faderift | The Twiblight Saga

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The Twiblight Saga

WHO: Colin, Malcolm, D'Artagnan, The Priest, Daniel
WHAT: A traditionally anti-Inquisition Revered Mother is asking for help with darkspawn attacks. Let's go play hero and earn some goodwill! (OOC post here)
WHEN: Early Solace
WHERE: Churneau, northern Orlais
NOTES: Darkspawn creepiness, inevitable talk of war

Churneau, just northwest of Ghislain along the Highway, is a city that has seen better days. It appears as any other Orlesian city, with perhaps less of the flair and more Nevarran influence in some designs of buildings and roads, long since recovered from the Third Blight that so ravaged it Ages ago. But even approaching the city, you can see signs of recent neglect. And attack.

What doesn’t help is the thread of panic almost palpable once you hit the city limits and walk the streets yourselves. It’s not a steady stream, but you can follow a line of people heading for the chantry near the center of Churneau, those fleeing from the fighting, the encroaching war from the Anderfels, as well as those seeking refuge from the darkspawn attacks you know have been taking place beyond the borders of the city. Orlesians, Nevarrans, even Anders trying to avoid the conflict; men and women and children, young and old. Locals seem afraid to even be outside their homes, hurriedly doing their business and then heading back inside.

Best to follow the refugees in and speak to Revered Mother Riccarda.

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The trip is by no means a short jaunt, with a wagon for supplies and for anyone who can’t otherwise ride a horse, so you’ve got plenty of time to get to know each other. Rifters in particular might need informed or refreshed on the horrors of darkspawn and the Blight they carry (or at least as far as those not Wardens can explain). But at least travel is along the Imperial Highway--once you get there from Kirkwall, that is. Well-worn, much-traveled, relatively safe save for the places it’s worn down.

And some will neither ride nor submit to being carried in the wagon with the baggage. Horses are too large, too strange, too beastly for comfort; thus the Priest has made the journey largely on bare feet, keeping up with the party at a tireless trot. Not a pace congenial for conversation but that is just as well: The Priest would rather listen than speak in so uncertain a situation.

Now and then at a lapse in conversation the Priest steps off the road onto the planted verge, vanishing briefly to return with some small item of prey in hand. One such return coincides with a break to rest horses and riders alike and the Priest seizes the moment to speak: "These darkspawn will spread the Blight however they can. Say what is done for those who catch it."

Don't mind the fact the words are underscored by the Priest jointing a rabbit to add to their supplies. Grisly accompaniment.

D'Artagnan sends a wary glance in the Priest's direction. She's been a strange companion, unwilling to ride and insisting on walking on feet that aren't even shod. If she isn't blistered and half-crippled by the time they get there, he'll be amazed. Still, she makes a relevant point.

"I'd like an answer to that, too, he says, glancing at their native companions. "Particular if one of the infected is us. Is there a way to protect against it if that happens?"

There's no use in them turning up to help only to become part of the problem, after all.

Malcolm, from atop his horse, glances over at Colin before giving a weary shrug. "To my knowledge? Those who contract the darkspawn taint have only two options of treatment. A swift and merciful death, or to be locked away in quarantine until they die. Or become one of them and then be killed."

He's seen what happens when someone is stowed away by their beloveds because they couldn't let go. What that girl had become in that basement...

"Take care not to touch their blood if it can be helped."

"Prevention," Colin pipes up. "Suit up like a butcher if you can. Long leather gloves, a shield for your face. Don't touch them or their blood. If it happens, scour the area as immediately as possible. If you contract the Blight, the only cure is to become a Grey Warden, which is its own curse, especially now."

Not that Anders was clear about what Wardens do to cure the Blight in themselves, or become immune to it after. But Wardens are prone to being taken over by Corypheus right now, in addition to fighting another war--a war that will never end.

"The only medical treatment is palliative."

Of course, the problem with all of this is that every battle d'Artagnan's ever been involved in has been bloody. He finds it notably difficult to avoid that, and generally judges the success of an encounter on whether or not he managed to bleed less.

This is going to be a problem.

"Not exactly reassuring," he says, dryly, masking his very real concern. He glances up at the Priest. "We just have to stop the Darkspawn, before they infect anyone else. If there's no cure, that's all we can do."

"Make sure they don't infect you, either," Colin says flatly. He will gladly comfort the sick, but here, he would rather prevent than comfort. "The Blight spreads from infected to infected. If you are infected, you can spread it."

The Churneau Chantry is deceptively large. It reaches for the heavens, and perhaps in the past, it would have even been impressive. Now other buildings and spires dwarf it, and though it’s still constructed with Orlesian sensibilities in mind, ie decorative and elaborate, it still serves its purpose well. Even from outside, you can spy some stained glass, only made more apparent once inside. It’s roomy enough that it seems to be housing a great deal of refugees, though whether from the fighting or merely fervently praying for an end to the darkspawn attacks was impossible to tell by sight alone.

Sun filters between buildings through some of the stained glass, not in every window, but a few impressive depictions of Andraste, casting the pews and floor and people in color. It’s clear that this place is also being used as something of a temporary hospital, people with bandages and slings laid out on one side of the chantry, and a faint if lingering smell of blood from somewhere not immediate. Perhaps the more serious cases lay in other rooms. Or came here to bleed before being sent back out one way or another. It certainly looks filled near to the brim, and you realize that many of the people you passed are just going to have to rough it on the streets.

Upon being noticed, some might even recognize you for what you are. Inquisition. Some might recognize the telling green on the hands of Rifters. There has been sound and low talking and murmuring this whole time, but now some conversations become more fervent, insistent.

Asking after the Revered Mother will get you summoned toward the back to what seem to be her private chambers, and a Sister who introduces herself as Elloise (with a big smile and assurances that your help is both timely and a gift from the Maker) gives a sharp but polite knock on the door, informing her that agents of the Inquisition have arrived, as asked for.

Revered Mother Riccarda is a heavy-set middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair and a severe demeanor. Her eyes are steel-blue and her mouth is thin, though she bends over one of the more serious medical cases so mysteriously absent in the main hall. She looks up at the group’s approach, hands halting over the bandages she has placed, looking on each member as if expecting them to explain themselves and why they have interrupted her.

“Well?” she says pointedly.

D'Artagnan isn't altogether sure where to start with all of this. He glances at the others, and then turns an uncertain smile on the Sister that he assumes is actually the Mother Superior. If that's what they even call them here. He moves to bow slightly, pushing his cape out behind him.

"Reverend Mother," he says, lifting his head again. "My apologies for the interruption. We are the group you expect from the Inquisition. I'm d'Artagnan."

A brief pause.

"We've come to provide what aid we can."

Though a rifter, d'Artagnan was accustomed to wearing gloves long before he used them to hide his shard. It means the telltale green light is not so easily discerned in his particular case, but anyone looking for it may see its hint all the same.

"What aid you can," Riccarda echoes stiffly. "You most certainly took your time getting here."

It might not be wise to argue with her on that point. Her sharp eyes look over the members, and she gives a disdainful sniff. "I have enough on my plate without having to baby the fully capable group the Inquisition has seen fit to send me."

Elloise, from behind them, gives a wistful-sounding chuckle but doesn't add anything to the conversation at present. Riccarda's thin mouth thins even more, which doesn't seem physically possible. "The darkspawn attacks were bad enough," the Revered Mother begins again by way of some base explanation. "Now this war is bearing down on our heads with no one to stop it. If you five can at least fix one thing, I would at least appreciate that you rid us of this darkspawn curse. Before we end up abandoning this city to the coming forces."

On being ushered into the room, the Priest had eyes only for the wounded individual under Riccarda's care. This is surely the greatest sign of Churneau's world upended: The religious bloody their hands among the injured with no one else to tend for them. (Leave aside that Thedas is not even so ordered as the most disorganized and male-bound hive of djur; the sight is viscerally disturbing.) Distraction at the sight shortly gives way to study of Riccarda herself, a faint thing like a smile twisting the Priest's lips at her obvious displeasure. One did not need pheromones to read that obvious sign.

So: It is an emergency and the woman has no patience for fools. Best be straight to the point. The Priest's hand--left, shard-badged; it is lying to hide what one is--lifts, touches breastbone in a salute to an equal. "Revered Mother" is a clear misnomer for one who will never bear children; this is another Priest and therefore, questions are licit. "They do not have you surrounded yet. Do they come from only one direction? Are there caves within day's march?"

Riccarda has most certainly taken note of at least the obvious rifters in the room, and for the space of a heartbeat and a half, her eyes never quite drift to the Priest. But at last she acknowledges, as if actually focusing on the Priest for the first time.

"No caves within any reasonable distance. Many of our darkspawn-wounded have come in from the farmlands to the east or around that area." Though she has never left the side of the wounded, her attention finally is drawn back to him. He seems to not be conscious right now, but whatever state he's in, it's uncomfortable, fitful. Riccarda's voice lowers, though it loses no sharpness. "We have people who have fled the area here under the Maker's care. They may be able to give you more specifics. To my knowledge, none come from the west. The land becomes marsh the farther you go; I imagine it would be difficult for them to tunnel up through the ground from there."

Malcolm takes a moment to pipe in. "If I may, I have one request to make." She makes no indication of whether she has recognized him as a Seeker, or how she feels about that given the situation, but says nothing to interrupt. "That we stay here in the chantry, with you and the refugees."

Though Riccarda opens her mouth, it's Elloise that pipes up with a giddy clap. "Of course, of course! And Eileen spoke unto the masses, 'My hearth is yours, my bread is yours, my life is yours. For all who walk in the sight of the Maker are one.' We can always use more hands, and we can put a roof over your heads, isn't that so, Mother?"

Mouth still open, Riccarda seems to work her jaw a little before finally setting it. Her features don't relax as such, but there is something softer to it. Care? Resignation? "It is as you say, Sister. You are welcome to stay for as long as this takes you, of course. So long as you are pulling your weight and not getting in the way of people who need our space. If there are no more questions, I would like to focus on my patient."

It's almost unsettling, how similar their sentiment is to that of Christian nuns. D'Artagnan smiles and bows, retreating a little, before turning to his companions.

"Then we begin in the east. With luck we may be able to draw them away from the city. Thank you, Sister. Reverend Mother."

He has no more questions, unless the others do; a place to start had been enough for him, and it's clear not everyone is comfortable with their presence here. If they can do something to help these people, that might change.

Colin has been waiting quietly for the initial talks to finish because, when faced with a plain-talking person, he finds he will be directed if he shuts his mouth and listens. His parents were both like that. He does, however, pull his satchel in front of him and start rooting through for what he wants. His status as a mage is, unfortunately, unavoidably apparent. Despite wearing normal street clothes and not robes, he does carry a staff. But he does not draw from his bag any magical apparatus, but a flask of tincture he made himself, which he moves to pass to the revered mother.

"For pain," he says quietly, so as not to disturb anyone but her. "I'm a healer. What happened to him?"

Elloise is all too happy to escort the Inquisition around should they wish to, though she also indicates that she has her own duties to attend to. Her demeanor isn't forced at all, and it might cause one to wonder if she's really that content or if the severity of the situation might have somehow passed her by.

With Riccarda, that Colin is a mage has, of course, not escaped her, and she hesitates in taking the flask. But she must decide that a healer is a healer, which they could sorely use, and at least takes it from him. Whether she'll use it or not is another matter.

"A survivor of the darkspawn."

Is all she says, a tired edge finally creeping into her voice as she lowers her eyes to the patient. A survivor could just mean injured from the attack. But he's also separated from the rest of the injured, the rest of everyone under the roof. Nor does she specify what kind of injuries he sustained.

Colin gives a respectful nod to her, to show she is in charge of this hall, not he. But it's the patient he addresses, looking down to him with his hands folded before him.

"May I examine you?" He'd asked Anders for the rundown of the early signs of the darkspawn taint before leaving. While he assumes Riccarda knows what she is doing, he would like to know what he is dealing with.

The darkspawn haven’t made it into the city proper, just raiding the outskirts. The buildings are fewer and farther between, some abandoned by choice, some abandoned by the tell-tale signs of being attacked and losing the fight, and some still clinging on despite the dangers. Farmland, mostly, providing for themselves and the city. Some fields seem to be dying in spite of the season, or overgrown with no one to care for them.

There is little safety out here, and attack could come from anywhere at any moment. But you’re safer during the day when they seem to be less active. That doesn’t make them less dangerous if caught unawares, though. Fighting off any would-be attackers or waves of raiders is what you’re here for, as well as to find a way to secure the city from this onslaught before they overrun Churneau before the war ever reaches them. It might be best to figure out where they’re coming from, though, and stop it altogether.

They're tracking the darkspawn out to the east, following the trail as best they can. D'Artagnan, who grew up on a farm, is strongly reminded of home by this landscape, and the sight of how sickly it all looks gives him an unexpected ache. He pauses by the side of the road, his eyes on one of the fields.

"Does this blight affect the land as well as people?"

It's unsettling. This is summer; this land should be thriving, even if its farmers have had to leave. He wouldn't have expected to see it like this. With any luck, that's a sign they're getting close, but he still hadn't expected it all to look so empty. This whole place looks as if it's dying.

[to follow up with riccarda and wrap up once we know how this plays out]

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The Twiblight Saga

on the road

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chantry

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out of town

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aftermath