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

[elegiaque]

She does, coming up on his side with her good hand, catching his elbow— “Does it matter? Come on, there'll be a fire somewhere, you can limp that far.”

She's decided. With her assistance, rather than the dubious safety of his staff and his bloodymindedness.

[overharrowed]

Rather than argue, she lets him take at least a little of his weight. "Will you drop me if I observe it's good to see you more or less in once piece?" he asks, as they start in whichever direction she picks.

[elegiaque]

“Yes,” although she doesn't, steadying him in the direction of the nearest fire to be sat down by. It isn't far, at least, but the way they've clustered and huddled together in defeat means most things aren't very far. Safer that way, she supposes, inasmuch as they can scrape together any safety in the aftermath of that thorough routing.

“You aren't as heavy as my husband,” she notes, doing her best with one reliable hand to help ease him down.

[overharrowed]

She gets a flicker of a smile, but there's no good way for him to sit down that doesn't hurt, and it takes his attention away. He's a little woozy from blood loss, regardless, so it takes him a moment before he can manage: "Have you seen him?" Possibly a question he might not have asked, or at least so directly, under other circumstances.

[elegiaque]

Once he's down, she sits next to him—cross-legged, exhausted but upright by unwillingness to be anything else just yet. She puts her waterskin in his hands, and the bitterly medicinal scent of it speaks for itself, but she says, “Have a little, it'll help. And yes. He looks like shit, too.”

Don't we all.

[overharrowed]

"Well, I suppose I'd be a bit worried in a different direction if he looked pristine," Julius observes as he takes the waterskin without hesitation. On the contrary, he takes a healthy pull - he might have taken a longer one, if he hadn't been stayed by the fact that other people may need it too.

"I think I was looking for someone to bandage the..." he gestures vaguely in the direction of his bloody shoulder. "But I thought I'd healed it a bit more, I distinctly remember it stopped bleeding at one point." And then opened again, as half-healed, very deep punctures are apt to when one is moving around.