closed: untimely demise.

[exequy]

WHO: Anders, Bastien, Darras, Gwenaëlle, Ilias, Iorveth, John Silver, Kain, Kitty, Loki, Magni, Merrill, Sidony, Sorrell, Teren, and Wysteria.
WHAT: This looks nothing like the Maker's bosom.
WHEN: Bloomingtide 18-27.
WHERE: Orlais, Tevinter, and the Deep Roads.
NOTES: There's an OOC post with a lot of info over here! This log covers everything up to the day before they return. There will be a separate log for actually returning, so don't jump the gun.

Baron Deshaies is a gracious host, who graciously shows everyone the entrance to the elven ruins on his property when they arrive, and graciously enlists his serfs to help them set up camp nearby to beat the sunset, and graciously invites them to dine with him in his gardens—the only part of his fairly humble estate large enough to host so many people—before they retire for the night. It's a nice dinner, albeit one that's apparently stretched the capabilities of his meager household staff to a breaking point, judging by their harried manners and how hard one of them is sweating.

They're midway through the main course (and his detailed retelling of how he found and chased away a few suspicious characters who were snooping around the ruins before, heard them speaking in some funny old language, might have been Vints) when the first head droops. Then another. If anyone realizes they've been drugged, it won't be fast enough; weapons are out of reach, the food has been laced with magebane—among other things—and it's only a matter of seconds before everything goes dark.

And that's how everyone died.

No, okay—everyone does eventually wake up. But it isn't a pleasant experience. There are headaches, first of all, and dehydration, altogether similar to a horrific hangover, and it's hot and humid, and they're in the back of one of several possible carts, hidden from view by heavy canvas and packed in close to their fellow captives, being jostled unrelentingly by the stones the carts are driving over. They're also bound—everyone in magic-dampening manacles, mage or not, just to be safe—and gagged. They stay that way for a very long time, until the sun has set, and the captors who have been complaining and gossiping and telling one another to shut up for the last few hours shed their fake Orlesian and Fereldan accents. A border has been crossed, and after a few more miles they feel secure enough to take a break.

They aren't being paid to deliver dead people. So they also strip the canvas back and remove the gags, to try to get everyone to drink some water, and then let them stay ungagged. They're in the middle of Nowhere, Tevinter; even if someone heard them scream, it wouldn't be anyone inclined to risk helping them.

I. ESCAPE! The first and only good opportunity comes on the second day, when they pass within sight of a village on the outskirts of the Silent Plains, and all but three of their captors load into one of the carts—the one containing everyone's accumulated belongings—and head off to see if they can make some extra coin on the side. The three left behind are a nervous young mage who seems to think he's in charge, an armored archer who's having none of that, and a sleepy man with an enormous war hammer. The odds aren't great. But they aren't going to get better.

II. NOW WHAT? After daringly and successfully escaping into the blighted desert with only the provisions they could scavenge and from their captors and carry on their backs, everyone finds themselves in the desert with only the provisions they could scavenge from their captors and carry on their backs. So that's cool.

III. THE SILENT PLAINS. The Silent Plains are as much of a wasteland as they sound, but not really completely silent. Some animal and plant life has returned, with stretches of the desert even verging on becoming grasslands, in the ages since the Blight destroyed the ecosystem. It isn't impossible to find water or the occasional speck of civilization. There are decent odds that those civilized specks contain people who would happily report a bunch of wandering foreigners, however, so forays into villages and farms need to be done carefully and rarely—but it isn't impossible to pull off a trade here and there, or to sneak into buildings at night to permanently borrow supplies.

But that's rare. The majority of the journey is just a camping trip from hell, consisting of days of walking without shelter from the sun and nights spent in total darkness to avoid creating beacons for whoever may be trying to pursue them. Sometimes there are darkspawn.

The landscape improves just in time for another problem to arise: the border is much more heavily populated with enemy forces, and reconnaissance efforts might make clear that they're all on alert, going so far as to make neutral merchants at border crossings remove their gloves. Fortunately—as implied by the darkspawn—there's another way South.

IV. THE DEEP ROADS. In hindsight, a terrible idea. But by the time they realize that the intended path out of the Deep Roads—one that would have taken them to the surface outside of Cumberland, where they could yet find allies to help them get back to Kirkwall more quickly and comfortably—has caved in, they're already a day and a half deep into the journey.

In some places Blight crawls up the walls like black mold. Those not lucky enough to be immune to it have to cover their mouths while traveling and be careful not to leave any wounds open and exposed. Here and there the path forward gives way to chasms that have to be circumvented or crossed using improvised rope bridges. And there are more darkspawn, more frequently, but perhaps not so many as there should be.

If the provisions from the surface run out, then dinner will be roast nug.

V. THE MOUNTAINS. The last stretch of tunnel gives way to sky on the northern side of the Vinmarks. Not the southern side. Not even the top. Being able to walk the last stretch of the journey downhill instead of first climbing some mountains would be too easy.

Comments

MAGNI STARTERS

[villieldr]

or you can hit me with a wildcard eh

I. ESCAPE - feel free for this to end up as multiple threads or group thread, if you want to jump in

[villieldr]

( She can’t reach out to the spirits for help. It is an unpleasant realisation, though not a jarring one. The manacles might keep them from her awareness, but that did not mean that Korth had forsaken her, even in this disparate landscape, and it did not mean the spirits would be unreachable again in time. Patience would serve her better than panicking, although she couldn’t say she was without concern for those others here. Time might not be on their side to allow for too much patience, either.

Going to the sleepy one with the hammer would make sense, if he woke up the reach could do a lot of damage. The mage was skittish, and with their magic wielders and other abilities seemingly contained, that limited their options.

She nods to someone next to her, hoping they follow her lead, as she stands up to face their captors. She’s too looming to stand much chance of sneaking behind any of the discretely, but she can hold their attention. )

Please, they need help. ( With a nod to the person next to her, who’s she hopes is playing their part. ) Do you have any herbs, potions— anything?

II WHAT NOW? / III THE SILENT PLAINS

[villieldr]

1. What now?

( Only when they have gained some distance, some semblance of (brief, very brief) shelter, does Magni break her silence. Anyone who needed help to run she’d have gladly hauled up. Rough as the treatment the past few days had been, she was still fearsome strong. )

I think… better we travel at night. Use the stars to guide us, let us move when it is cooler.

( It’s not perfect, it could slow them down and might not be the safest option for other reasons, but it could help their visibility at least. The problem would be finding appropriate cover that could be hidden away in during the daytime. )


2. Permanent Borrowing;
( You know one of the reasons the Avvar aren’t popular in Fereldan? Other, of course, then that Fereldens are whiny bitches? It’s because the Avvar unrepentantly take things from the whiny bitches, and are very good at it.

Granted, they have the advantage there of striking in winter, and of having parties that have worked together a long time and are used to relying on one another. Here, they’re weak, have been travelling with limited resources for days, and Magni has her doubts as to how sharp any of them might be given the circumstances.

It’s dark, and she and those who agreed to come with her, are here by the wood stack of residence that has seen better days. It has inhabitants, though, a well and supplies, and she’s crouched down low, drawing a layout in the dirt that sets out the positions of the well, the house, the smokehouse, the sheds.

She sighs. )

I don’t think we can get in and out fast enough. ( She speaks very softly, that same roughness that is always in her voice exacerbated by the conditions.
There are dogs, who could sound the alarm or make an attack, and they can’t afford to take more hits, or the household raising an alarm that could tip off their pursuers. ) We have to choose one, maybe two.

( Water from the well, food from the smokehouse, other supplies from the house, maybe tools that could double as weapons from the shed. )


3. Wandering.
( If only they could get some great sheet of cloth, some canvas, she’d volunteer to be the tentpole as they kept walking with it held over all of them. It’d be a worthy sacrifice to give them all a break from this unrelenting sun, but alas. Aside from the lack of materials, if anyone caught sight of the spectacle it could make it all to easy for them to be re-captured.

She doesn’t have much left in the waterskin they managed to pilfer, but she slows her stride a little to fall back to another member of the party, and holds it out in offering. Maybe she is monitoring these things. )


4. Wildcard.

IV. THE DEEP ROADS.

[villieldr]

( Ah, the Deep Roads.
It would be an opportunity, something fascinating and reverent, if not for every single thing about the circumstances. A chance to explore, to try and access one of the old Thaigs and see if she could find something significant or of value to give Varmas to take to Orzammar, something that should be restored to Korth’s children still living and not lost to the night-gangers. This was not an opportunity for restoring precious things to their rightful honours; it was a desperate bid to keep their skins on their own persons, and the breath in their lungs.

It shelters them from the sky, but they are now exposed to a whole different manner of danger. )

1. A THAIG / SHELTER FOR REST.
( The ruins they have found shelter in offer respite, but leave a feeling of longing in Magni’s heart. She takes some time, though does not move as far away from the group as she might prefer to - she’s not an idiot, there is safety in their proximity, and she wants to close her eyes to pray.

Barely audible murmurs, one hand resting against the ancient stone archway largely destroyed, head bowed in respect as she prays to Korth, the Mountain Father, he who brought the dwarves into being and gave the the gifts of the stone. )

Come to this place, Mountain Father. Free your children’s home from the night-gangers.


2. KEEP MOVING.
( The flow of molten rock casts an orange glow upwards, flickering over their skin as they walk. It’s oppressive, even to one who has spent so many hours working at the forge, and they are all struggling.

One problem: what was once a bridge over the massive river of lava has crumbled. A thin, thin strip of rock remains, but Magni looks uncertain as she assesses it. )

Ah.


3. WILDCARD
Darkspawn attack? Roasting lizards over the fire? The options are endless.

V. MOUNTAINS.

[villieldr]

( Mountains, at last. Not her mountains, not even close, but there is a familiarity that she is grateful for. )

We can breathe easier, now.

( There’s a long way to go, there will be a long way to go right until they are at the Gallows, but at least now there is something like freedom. )

(Or like, wildcard whatever. )

Teren Starters

[doneisdone]

Capture & Escape

[doneisdone]

I. CAPTURE

When the first head dips, there's a jolt of attention: then the second, and Teren is on her feet to shout "BOLLOCKS" as the rest begin to go down. She's at Anders' side immediately, gripping his shoulder while her other hand reaches for Kain, but before she can grip him her legs give from under her. She's been drinking from her own flask, eating as little as possible-- this is par for the course ever since their stay with Those Wardens-- but it would seem that wasn't enough, not this time.
"Stay awake," she commands them, the world swimming around her as she draws her knives, slashing out at any unfocused motion of their hosts-turned-captors, drawing as much blood as she can, making their jobs harder in spite of knowing she's been had.

It takes a few of them to subdue her entirely, the experience much like trying to clip the nails of a five-foot-eleven cat whose balance problems only make it angrier, but once a proper dose is forced down her throat, Teren goes down for good.

II. ESCAPE

As a result, she's asleep even after the others have begun to wake up, lying thin and pale and fragile-looking without all her leather armor and blades, her braid half-down and her face framed with bruises. Anyone who didn't witness the fight would think she's been brutalized separately, but no doubt some will know better.

Now What & The Silent Plains

[doneisdone]

I. Pick a Little Talk a Little

Still groggy and sour, angry about her boots in particular being gone (left just in her undershirt and trousers, which are hardly enough to protect someone from cold nighttime winds in the desert), Teren is at least making herself useful by using her hairpins to pick the locks on the cuffs of anyone who needs it. She's shuffling around, looking strangely matronly without all her accoutrements, scowling and working and snapping at anyone who tries to be cute.
It's not the worst situation she's ever been in, but it could be a whole lot fucking better.

II. Quartermastery

Her years with the Wardens have made this a little less painful than it could be, but camping on the whole is easier when one has.. camping... equipment. And resources. And shoes.
Rather than have an angry meltdown, Teren begins to take inventory of all the supplies they have, heaping them together by type and mentally attempting to divvy things up. Anyone who tries to make a run on blankets or other supplies will be promptly yelled at and possibly cuffed upside the head, because they have to be civilized about this.

III. Baby It's Cold Outside

Being of the mind that she can survive just about anything with the power of sheer spite, Teren has ceded blankets to those of weaker constitutions (mostly so they won't bloody whine about it), and each night is spent trying her best to conserve body heat when she isn't keeping watch.
And Watch would be much easier kept if they didn't have to be on the move during the day, which is miserable in itself. As it drags on, she keeps herself busy and awake by helping out where she's needed and spurring the others along, even when she feels like she's going to collapse at any moment.
Could it be that her age is finally showing? Maker, don't let it be so.

Sorrel Starters

[writteninblood]

Capture, Escape, Aftermath

[writteninblood]

I. CAPTURE AND ESCAPE
If Sorrel were honest, and he'd prefer not to be, he would have to admit to a certain bout of undignified panic, when first he'd woken, bound and gagged and stripped of his access to magic, along with all the rest. It's humiliating, really; cut him some slack, it's only his second time being kidnapped. But it wasn't until he heard them speaking with Vint accents that he really started to panic, albeit in a much quieter and more terrible way; this was, after all, much worse.

So he shut his mouth, and resolved to say nothing at all. Didn't scream, or moan, or protest as he woke, only drank what he could, wishing all the while that he'd paid more attention to the light-fingered rogues in his life.

"If anyone were to know how to pick locks, now'd be a convenient time," He whispers, to the nearest shadowed lumps, the shape of a captive in the overcrowded heap of Inquisition unfortunates.

Unless anyone wanted to try blood magic for a lark.

II. AFTERMATH
"Well," Sorrel says, offering the Tevinter Mage's staff to someone who could put it to better use, "That could have gone worse."

And it could, too, have gone better. Heat and supply aside, most of their company is without the accustomed shoes, and the rest are at best half-armed. Sorrel wipes the blood on his face, more smearing than cleaning, looks at the desert around them, and considers himself satisfied with the results.

"We'd better get walking, sooner the better. Anyone injured that wants help?"

Plains, Roads, Mountains

[writteninblood]

III. THE SILENT PLAINS
The silent plains, really, weren't so bad. There wasn't a lot to eat, or drink, but the at least the nights were completely frigid and devoid of windbreak or hide in which to put a fire or shield from the glare. They huddled together like ptarmigans in winter, little brown-blanket lumps on the sand. It made for a strange, half-unwilling intimacy, out in the scrubby desert. More than once, Sorrel simply sighed and gave in and let himself be pressed by an upsettingly overlarge human, just looking for warmth. He resolved not to complain, and by dint of aught else to talk about ended up saying almost nothing at all.

Well enough, when his throat felt no wetter than the ground they were covering. Still, one night, when they've had the luck of food stolen, and enough to fuel some semblance of sleep, Sorrel finally relents and puts a hand out to touch the person next to him.

"Let me help," he says, croaks with a parched, thirsty voice, "Let me help you."

And with careful focus, Sorrel begins spreading warmth from hands into the blanket itself. It's delicate work; too much and you simply set the thing on fire. Too little, and there's nothing useful to come of it; even so, it's not much at all. But today, every little bit counts.


IV. THE DEEP ROADS
"This is a stupid idea," Sorrel muttered grimly, feeling the weight of stone above his head, miles and miles, pressing down with all its impossible weight, and the only thing keeping it up the too-wide walls and their spindly columns, "Oh, this is such a stupid idea."

He'd been saying so for some time now. Not because he liked to complain, really, but because the quiet, anxious mantra was all that was keeping him sane. It was dark, and close, and hot, and the tunnels writhed with an unpleasant acrid smell. The only consolation was that there were at least a couple Wardens with them.

"This is such a stupid idea," he whispered to himself, once more, looking up again at the ceiling, as they continuing on. The closer to the middle of the group the better, and the Wardens a consolation only in that they might have some warning, before they're all killed horribly.



V. THE MOUNTAINS

The magnificence of the view is like a slap in the face after so many hours in the stifling dimness of the Deep Roads. Or maybe they were the High Roads... as however Deep they went, the exit here was certainly above where their entrance had been. Sorrel took it in without satisfaction, then turned and looked up the mountain, footsore and hungry, as were they all.

"Creators beyond the fucking veil, this is a bad joke."

Kitty!

[rathercommon]

i. escape

[rathercommon]

[ In most circumstances, Kitty is confident to the point of brashness. But these aren't most circumstances. She's been arrested before, been cornered by slavering beasts looking to tear her apart, even been lost in the Fade - but each time, she's been able to act. To do something. The helplessness, though, is new. Even when fighting against impossible odds, she was able to fight. But now...

So she's clearly worn to the edge by the time the captives are left on their own. She's haggard, and tired, and the desperation and frustration is showing itself in her eyes and the set of her mouth. Someone who looks this reckless is likely to be a liability. Indeed, when the first stirrings of rebellion make their way amongst the captives, Kitty says, softly - ]

I can take the mage.

ii. silent plains

[rathercommon]

[ There's a town nearby, and - well - they need provisions. And Kitty isn't exactly proud of it, but one of the things she's best at is stealing stuff. So she's wrapped her face in a strip of salvaged dark cloth and rubbed the deep red mud on any exposed skin, so that in the dark she hardly seems more than a shadow. Her salvaged knife is tucked into her belt, and - well - that's all the supplies she has.

She looks to her companion, who's going to be helping her with the thievery. And she asks, resolutely - ]

Ready?

barges in with a wildcard

[villieldr]

( The Deep Roads are dangerous, it goes without saying. Magni carries with her the warhammer from the man at camp, a few extra things they have managed to loot on the way. The night before as Magni took watch by the fire, she used not the hammer, but sharp flint she managed to shape to an edge. Slowly she works on something in between her watch, and the next day she rubs charcoal from the fire into the etching before polishing it off.

Later, as they wander, she falls into step alongside Kitty. )

How are you?

( Quiet, grave. She has spent time in Orzammar, true, but so long in the Deep Roads makes her crave the open skies. As much as she favours Korth, as the mountains as his very embodiment, she is not one of his children alone. She is of the Sky Lady as much as of Korth, and for all the strength she admires in the stone, these are parts of the stone that have been denied even to the dwarves. )

Kain

[in_death_sacrifice]

1. Now what?

Everything had gone from bad to worse, from the moment he'd felt his consciousness fading at dinner, to waking up all tied up and captive. Not again... Kain had felt rather pessimistic until they'd finally managed to escape. Now, they're wandering across the desert, which means they're… at least somewhat better off? Maybe? Kain pauses for a moment, wiping away sweat from his brow as he takes out the waterskin that he's ended up with, looking at it for a moment, before just as hastily setting it back again. No… he has to stay cautious with that and keep rationing it off. He doesn't feel too good though, and the heat is definitely getting to him. He feels really light-headed.

"Did I stop? Oh. Forgive me… Let's… let's keep going." He takes a deep breath, continuing to trudge on again. Or trying. He looks almost dead on his feet right now, but there is no way he's going to let himself stop now.

2. Silent Plains

They've set up camp for the night, or whatever passes for camp. It's not as if they have a full set of Inquisition-supplied equipment here, after all. They're just making do with whatever they've got. At least they'd managed to find some water nearby to refill and replenish their supplies. They'll be able to fill up first thing in the morning, as well, so that's a good thing. They have to take what they can get.

Kain is settling in to try and sleep, but he's finding it difficult to get settled. He just barely drifts off, when something wakes him up, his senses on high alert. No... that's most certainly not a good feeling… but it's a familiar one that other Wardens can confirm too.

"Darkspawn!" he looks around wildly. "There are darkspawn nearby!"

3. Deep Roads

Well, so far no one has had to be put down due to taint, aren't they fortunate?! Kain doesn't have high hopes here, as these tunnels are especially infested with Blight, and of course, plenty of darkspawn...

Now, they're brought up short by one of those massive chasms. Kain stands on the edge, peering into that deep darkness.

"There's no telling how deep it is. Any ideas on what we should do?"

From the sound of it, they're also very much not alone, as more darkspawn are making their way toward them... being stuck between them and this chasm definitely won't be a good situation to get stuck in...

4. Mountains

It's a relief to breathe fresh air again. The moment he steps outside and sees the mountain looming ahead, Kain suddenly seems much more lively than he's felt this whole journey. He's worn and weary, and it's been a long ordeal, but this… this is an environment he knows and normally enjoys, a place he practically considers home. Sure, it's the wrong actual spot to be in, but it's a lot better than where they were.

"At least we've got a sky above us…"

IORVETH

[aenseidhe]

ESCAPE; Iorveth Fucks Up His Joints, Merrill does some Blood Magic, We all atacc, ota anyone else

[ with each thud of the cart rolling over rocks and bumps in the road, iorveth’s been smashing his hand back against the side of the cart, sharply just over the rise of his thumb joint. Finally, on the last thud before the rolls to a stop, the joint gives and pops out of place, but not without a small gash that’s opened up on the side of Iorveth’s hand. One that’s only made worse when he drags the cuff off his wrists and down past his knuckles, now that they’re narrow enough to fit through.

Those laid in around him and the slight girl pressed against him will hear the two whisper:

”Is it okay if i use some of your blood? I don't like to use anyone’s but my own! It's super frowned upon anyway but- “

“Yes, yes, it’s fine, I consent - do it.”

If you were hoping to seize an opportunity to escape, start getting ready.

Merrill can be heard muttering a spell, and seconds later, there’s a flash of red light, the strangled cries from the three men left to guard them as her Blood Magic rends them from the inside, giving a long enough distraction for Iorveth, now with his hands unbound, and the heavy chain as a weapon, to throw back lurch up and lunge for them. The archer is the first one he goes for, chain and free manacle hitting him hard and sharp across his face just before he’s tackled off the wagon, sending them toppling several feet (out of range of the man with the warhammer). ]

Take the mage! [ he’s shouting, as he uses the chain of his cuffs to strangle, then viciously snap the archer’s neck. that leaves Warhammer over there free, so everybody better get their dodging pants on while Iorveth’s getting his hands on this dude’s bow and arrow. It’ll only take a few seconds, but a lot of bones can break in that time. ]

SILENT PLAINS; Closed to Gwenaelle

[ they took what they could from the cart - iorveth with the archer’s bow and quiver at his back, but otherwise passed on the armor, allowing others more likely to be in the fray to take it. There’s the canvas, though, and when night time hits, they try their best to form some near-tent like structure with a cactus looking thing and rocks. Enough they don’t wake up covered in sand.

Someone else takes the first watch, and iorveth settles himself down, next to gwenaelle, who’s been sticking close to him since this entire debacle started. Out on the plains, nearly a desert, it gets frigid at night, and he curls close in against her, trying to share his warmth.

Still, they know getting to sleep like this is going to be a task, so he murmurs to her, quietly. ]

Did you get enough to drink? We’ll get more in the morning.

DEEP ROADS; ota, nug roasting

[ this is shit for witchers. For the probably twelth time since the beginning of this year, iorveth’s cursed geralt for not being here. Once they made it further into the Deep Roads than any of them would’ve liked, black mold crawling up the walls grossly, the canvas was ripped up and used for bandages or masks - Iorveth still with the open wound over the knuckle of his thumb, even if the joint’s been reset by now.

They’re low on energy, on water, and nearly out of food entirely, not to mention, the whole lot of them fucking stink. Maybe that’s just as well, being in the deep roads. Perhaps they still smell better than the darkspawn - of which some of them may still be partly covered in the guts of. They’re too large of a party to stealth their way through, but starting to get too weary to defend themselves.

Iorveth refuses to stop for camp where the blight is crawling up the walls, so they walk through what they think might be a night, until they get to a higher chamber, where nugs are hopping about and life seems to be a thing that’s possible again.

But not for the nug that gets slapped down in front of whoever’s manning the fire, Iorveth reaching to pry his arrow free, hair hanging loose and in his fast with his headscarf taken by their captors. ]

Dinner. Or Breakfast. Wherever we are.

WILDCARD;

[ hit me ]

silent plains.

[elegiaque]

( the night temperatures here are miserable, and gwenaëlle thinks she's never so sincerely longed for her home and her bed and her stupidly extensive menagerie of night-time foot-warmers. she misses the cloak that she'd left with, which is fuck only knows where now, pressed into the side of iorveth with her cold hands tucked between her thighs for warmth. times like these are the only ones she sort of wishes she had more impressive breasts or that sabine was here with hers, for practical rather than aesthetic reasons; tucking her hands under them would have been very warm. and probably more comfortable.

and she'd look top-heavy and silly at this height, but she'd be warm.

it's a lot easier to think about this than the fact that this is the closest she's been to iorveth since before ghislain. it isn't the way she'd have planned to try the shaky ground of their new normal—maybe if she'd been speaking to him before then this wouldn't feel odd enough to avoid in her own head. they'd have started with a firm handshake and worked their way back to casual disregard for personal space,

not that the need for warmth is casual.

or for water, and she drags herself out of her own internal monologue long enough to finally say, )

I'm all right, ( which she would probably say if she had a sucking chest wound, because that's who she is as a person. her cheek rests against his shoulder, which is just more comfortable than not doing it. then, wry, ) I have enough trouble getting to sleep in a fucking bed.

escape

[justice_is_blond]

[It's the color of the flash that gets him worried more than anything else, but there's no time to see if Ilias and Loki are watching. Anders can only awkwardly jump-rope his hands to his front, get up and grab a rock to hurl at the mage. Magic-canceling manacles are beyond a nuisance and he can only hope that Merrill or Iorveth can help him get free of them.]

Watch the hammer asshole!

[The rock didn't do a lot. It's one rock. So Anders hurls something a little larger at the enemy mage: himself. He slams into the guy, knocking him to the ground before doing his best wrestling-like-a-fish impression. Everything is so much easier with magic.]

Darras Rivain

[staysail]

II. - NOW WHAT?
"Right, I've got..." Squinting in the harsh sun, Darras jostles the burlap sack. Its contents shift and clank dismally. "A tin plate--might be useful as a very, very small shield--and a fork to go with it. Weapon and armor of a sort, that's worth something."

The sun is like an oven, and their ragged train are like ants crawling along the floor of that oven. Traveling by day is foolish--might be better to cross the shifting sand when it's cool and dark. That's wisdom, but there's enough of them that they don't always follow it. The real wisdom is in not dividing the company, so make peace with it all--and the wisdom in pooling what resources they'd managed to steal and scavenge in their escape. This manner of cobbling that Darras is offering is one of necessity.

Cheerful for someone who's only recently escaped captivity, out of that frying pan and into this fire, Darras grins as he holds open the bag, so anyone might peer into it. "And a bit of flint--and then that right there is either more flint or a chunk of bread--some canvas, must have been meant for a patch--and tent pegs. Seven of 'em. What can we do with these, d'you think."


III - SILENT PLAINS.
The farm was apparent first by the low fences that surround it. They're the crude sort, only the occasional rough post girded by wire, which then runs along to the next post, marking out the borders in glimmering silver. Like a kind of magic, the way it catches on the sunlight.

There's six goats, rough little things, huddled together in a knot around a water trough. Three tall poles support a sheet of canvas, which casts a haven of shade for the poor beasts. And then there's the house--bunched low to the ground, blasted stone bleached pale by the sun. A spindled fig tree forks up beside it, branches raised like skeletal fingers toward the hard blue of the sky.

This is all observed, easily, from top of the dune. Darras is tucked so low to its crown that he's all sand, crusted in his beard and sticking to his sweaty skin. He's chewing, disconsolately, at a bit of root, to distract himself from the pinch of hunger deep in his belly. It's a half-forgotten feeling, not entirely unfamiliar to him, certainly unwelcome.

One of the goats bleats. Darras narrows his eyes at it, marking out the distance.

"It'd take nothing at all. Go down, grab one of 'em--get water, while we're at it. If we wait for nightfall, that might be worse. Sun's high now so they'll be indoors. What d'you think? Not exactly Inquisition approved--we could pass it off as a requisition, like, if the farmer comes seeking reparations."


VI - THE DEEP ROADS.
This is a terrible idea. Finer, better minds might say it. The danger is in the cuts behind the jagged rocks and in the thick blooms of lava, in the crumbling chasms and deep places, all that yawning darkness. Finer minds might tell Darras he's a fool for feeling that old itch of excitement, but then those minds were never a poor spit of a kid in a seaside town, waiting for something bigger. The Deep Roads are big, that's for bloody sure. If he ever gets out of here, they'll make for a hell of a story.

They've got to make a kind of camp to rest, laying down meager bedding in whatever safe places they can find, set up a perimeter guard to keep watch, keep their fire banked low lest the light attract any darkspawn. Hideous creatures, not something you want to meet half-asleep. When it's his watch tonight, Darras leans back against a bit of rock, studying the ceiling of the cave above them.

"Seems like there ought to be stars," he says, to whoever he's sharing watch with. The smell of roast nug is a greasy sort of smell, sticks to the fingers. Darras scratches at his beard, restlessly, and gives a grin he doesn't quite feel at the darkness above them. "Doesn't make sense, does it. But I keep looking for 'em."

iii

[hornswoggle]

"We might as well take our chances," John agrees, though he's hardly volunteering. There's specific things he's useful for. If they'd asked him to march up to the front door and make a case for a voluntary donation of goat, John would have been their man.

As it is, he's hardly going to object to a bit of petty theft if it keeps them alive. He's no stranger to hunger, or to scraping by on what you can get your hands on when no one's looking. Perhaps he hadn't expected to find himself in such a position again after being consumed so entirely by the affairs of Nascere, but he finds himself resigned to his present state. They managed to escape those blasted carts. John doesn't plan on starving somewhere in a barren wasteland after everything else he's survived.

"If we do it quickly enough, they won't realize they've lost one until it's too late."

Carefully, John pushes himself up just a fraction, trying to get a better look at the lay of the farm. No one's visible. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything, just that whoever goes down there will have to be ready to crack someone over the head before they can scream.

ii.

[chainlightning]

Some might be irritated by the cheer. Merrill latches onto it, offering him a grin of her own as she inspects the contents of the bag. They have something. It may not be a lot, it may not even be immediately useful, but it's something.

"Could use the tent pegs as knives, sort of," she muses, delicately picking one out so that she can expect the edge. "Not very sharp knives, but they'd hurt if you shoved them between someone's ribs."

vi

[heirring]

"It's a very awful, cavernous sort of dark isn't it?"

It doesn't sound like she thinks it's particularly awful, though given the strain of the last few days and the proximity at which they've all collectively suffered through them, surely everyone must know by now that the girl's tone and temper and the length at which she carries conversation doesn't actually indicate much of anything beyond a willingness to run her mouth. She talks while bound hand and foot; she talks while trudging through the desert; she talks here, in the yawning dark as she winds a length of tattered fabric about her bare foot. Her thin shoes, waiting now by her knee to be put back on, haven't taken kindly to their long walk and it's time yet against to reinforce what she can.

"I imagine it would be very hard to be one of those people who doesn't like the dark or going into closed spaces. Or for people who always want to have a window open. There's air, certainly, but I wouldn't call it very fresh. Would you?"

A pause. She contemplates the end of the fabric strip and how to tie it, then begins to tuck one piece under the other. It would be easier with a pin, she thinks.

JOHN SILVER / STARTERS

[hornswoggle]

[ alternately just wildcard me, do whatever i'm easy. ]

iii / the silent plains.

[hornswoggle]

It was not so long ago that Israel Hands dragged John Silver's body from the sea. (Perhaps it was. Has it been a year here, dallying with the Inquisition?) John has been thinking of that often as they walk. There is sand in his hair, in his beard, blown into his eyes as they walk.

John has never loved the sea the way some of his men do, but he misses it now as he trudges along in the midst of their sorry number towards what they are all hoping is safety. The odds are not good, though John has refrained from saying so outright. There may come a point where he will see some benefit in mentioning that they are a less than enviable position, but at the moment so long as they moving forward, John is content to hold his tongue.

He thinks often of what he needs to get back to. (His men. Flint. Madi.) He considers the strangeness of having anything at all to go back to.

It's what he's thinking of as he sits up in the dark, listening blindly for whatever might come lurching their way. As someone stirs, sits up, John turns slightly towards them.

"Heard something?"

Doubtful, but who knows. John certainly isn't cornering the market on questionable and well-hidden skills, and he hasn't asked a whole lot of questions about his fellow escapees.

Bastien.

[cozen]

A. THE SILENT PLAINS

[ At midday on any day of the walk, when the sun is at its worst and they collectively stop to rest, Bastien is easy to find: sprawled out on the sand, in whatever shade they’ve managed to find if there is any, shirtless and barefoot and progressively toasted as the days have worn on—like a lump of Orlesian dough that’s avoided being cooked, specifically, for nearly twenty years, because the lump of dough isn’t fond of other Orlesian dough lumps asking if it isn’t possibly Antivan dough that’s been mislabeled, but has now finally been dumped into an oven and is trying to accept its fate with grace and minimal toast lines.

The dough is also very thirsty. Always. But trying not to whine about it, with great success.

Instead: ]

The Black Fox was once lost in the desert, for nearly three months.

B. THE DEEP ROADS

Do you think they are searching for us?

[ It isn't too dark, where they've stopped. One of the sections of the roads that are eternally lit by lyrium, layered into the columns of the wall by enterprising ancients. The glow was keeping him awake, so he put his shirt over his eyes. Then thoughts kept him awake—and his dry tongue, and the way the weight he's shed make his bones press into the ground beneath him with unfamiliar sharpness. So he's given up on sleep, and wandered uninvited to sit or stand with whomever else is upright. ]

They could be just overhead.

[ Unlikely. But it's a nice thought, or could be a nice thought, for someone more certain they’re missed. ]

C. WILDCARD

a

[heirring]

The what?

[This, panting, from a similarly poorly appointed scrap of shade in which Wysteria is shifting around, in search of the ideal balance of not touching the hottest parts of dirt and sand and not simply curling into a sweating ball. Any other hour and she might be more keen or follow the lead or not sound like so much of a gormless idiot about asking. But her feet are tender from the heat of the ground radiating through the thin soles of her shoes and she smells and she's thirsty and--

Well, what can you do? She peers toward him from under the screen of her hand and sweats emphatically.]