MOD PLOT ↠ NONE TO RETURN

[faderifting]

WHO: All characters signed up to participate in the Battle of Ghislain
WHAT: The Inquisition regroups and heads home
WHEN: Covers the period immediately post-battle (11.28) through the journey back to Kirkwall (11.29-12.1)
WHERE: North of Montfort, Orlais, and on the road to Val Chevin
NOTES: This is Post #2, covering the immediate aftermath of the battle and the journey back to Kirkwall. It's a free-for-all. Post #1 covers the battle itself. More info on the OOC post.

The Inquisition and Orlesian armies eventually limp to a halt along the Imperial Highway north of Montfort, where wide fields and gentle hills offer clear lines of sight and a sparsely equipped fortress provides some shelter and fortification. It's a soundly strategic location—if Ghislain is lost, Montfort is the last major city between the invaders and Val Royeaux—but among the rank and file there may be too much chaos to appreciate it.

For the remainder of the day and well into the night, the fortress and surrounding land are a frenzy of activity. The wounded who were not left on the field must be triaged and tended to with limited supplies, while many healers and surgeons out of commission themselves and the remainder worked to the bone. Scouts, soldiers, and even support staff in sturdy enough condition to keep working may be tasked with assembling camp from the few remaining supplies, taking reports on known casualties or acquired intelligence, or further fortifying the new location. The Orlesian army sends one of its battered cavalry units toward Ghislain to attempt to provide some warning, and from the Inquisition's number a few patrols are sent back toward the battlefield or toward Ghislain, with stern orders not to re-engage, only to watch for signs of pursuit, and to direct any stragglers.

Those who remain in the fortress are in for a long, miserable night, with meager rations and makeshift bedding, if any of either, while the wind shifts directions and grows colder. By morning a number of the wounded have died, but attempts to build a pyre are hampered by the sudden swell of a storm that starts with freezing rain and then transitions to early and unpredicted thick, heavy snow.

For a few hours that morning the two armies attempt business as normal, but it soon becomes clear that the storm is getting stronger, and they risk being snowed in with more people than they can feed. Many, including the Inquisition's Gallows contingent, are ordered to disperse. Many crowd into wagons, with any transportable wounded receiving further attention en route and neighbors hunching close to preserve heat whether they like one another or not, while those able to do so follow on foot or horseback over the rough, flash-frozen highway toward Montfort and then west toward Val Chevin. The storm doesn't abate until they've nearly reached the city, but once there they're able to stop, eat, and spend a few hours indoors thawing out before proceeding home.

Comments

[hornswoggle]

That particular afterthought makes John laugh. It's so very familiar, and wouldn't have been out of place aboard the Walrus, not to mention so many of the other places and company John had tipped through in his life. His fingers tighten momentarily, pressing the fabric against her palm.

"I didn't realize there was a use for those, beyond the way the rifts react to them."

Perhaps someone, somewhere, on Nascere would have come up with a shard of their own. John can't help but think that most of their problems could have been solved if there had been a shard-gifted person available. But then, it wouldn't have mattered. The toppling of the Archon and the disaster of events in Minrathous would have changed everything no matter what they'd done.

"What do you plan to do about it, if this war continues to drag on?

It's an intensely personal question. John's eyes lift to her face, watching for her reaction.

[elegiaque]

Do about it.

Her gaze travels up from her hand to John Silver, steady. Steady in a way that must be honest, because everything about her is; because she is so fucking easy to read that there's slim chance she could have suddenly in the past thirty seconds developed the ability to conceal a stronger, different emotional response. One eyebrow raises, very slightly.

“That's an interesting question.”

It is.

“I think that if this war continues to drag on, bearing this anchor-shard will continue to be necessary.” It seems as if that's all she's going to say, at first, winding bandage into place carefully, but: “When Trevelyan bore the anchor whole, she could close a rift under her own power. Just her. No one here can do that—it always takes at least two. Better three, better more. I don't know that anyone reported her using it to do anything else, but I imagine if she could have, it'd have been stronger, too.”

A better shield; a harder blow.

“And she wasn't any more special than anyone else at the wrong place at the right time. Necessity made her brave. A lot of people are brave, now. And we need them to be. I wonder how many would still be if they knew it to be possible to rid themselves of the anchor-shard. I wonder how many rifts we'd close.”

[hornswoggle]

There's nothing in her assessment that John disagrees with. Most compelling is the implication of what happens the moment these people are given a choice about their involvement here. John often wonders about how committed these people can possibly be. Often, there's a flickering of discontent that would have given John cause to worry, had this been his crew rather than the sprawling, loosely bound hoard of the Inquisition.

Of course, this is very much a situation where like recognizes like: John is not so committed either. John is committed to the point where his goals are being met. When they aren't, he will press Flint to gather their men and leave. He sees no benefit in the noble and glorious cause here; that has never been John's way.

"I suppose it would depend on their investment in this cause," He says, and seeing no reason to withhold his skepticism from her, finishes, "So very few, I'd wager."

Trevelyan is a creature more legend than human. John had heard of her in bar tales and rumors as he'd traveled. She was magnificent and powerful, but she was gone. There is no figurehead here. One of the things Billy had been very right about: troops needed someone to rally behind.

But the Inquisition doesn't seem to be built that way, for better or for worse.

"Do you include yourself among that number of those who would go if given half a chance at it?"

[elegiaque]

“Well, if we're going to be so generous as to assume they aren't just the kind of fuckwits who think the sky is something they can run away from,” are they? her tone doesn't particularly suggest she's inclined to give the benefit of the doubt, but for the sake of argument, “then we have to suppose that people who can't be bothered to shift themselves to do something about the matter must be supposing someone else will.”

Someone; just not them. Her smile is the winter morning,

“Do you see anyone else coming to save us? Did you see anyone coming to help on that battlefield? If I die, it's not going to be because I put all my faith in these idiots to get it done by themselves.”

'No' would have been a shorter answer, but it wouldn't have given Gwenaëlle the opportunity to ruthlessly drag everyone around her, and where's the fun in that.