faderift | closed: untimely demise.

Entry tags:

closed: untimely demise.

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.

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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?"

Edited 2019-05-20 02:26 (UTC)

"I'll have that."

There might be one among them who can use the staff properly, but John's lacking a crutch. And he's lacking someone he trusts enough to lean on. Being in this position burns him; resentment of it sparks in his gut like a hot coal. It has not gotten easier to find himself in positions where he has to rely on others around him.

"At least until we can locate something better for me to lean on in our travels."

Even in the midst of this particular clusterfuck, John still has a moment of curiosity flicker as he holds out a hand for the staff. He's never had one. He's never even attempted to have one, because why carry about something that would draw such attention?

"Do we have an idea of which way we should be walking?"

"South, for starters," Sorrel says, and for a moment grips the staff, not letting it go, "If all you need is a stick, we'll get you one. But if you're a mage..."

He lets the staff go, meaningfully, and turns away. Good enough, shem.

"We're in Tevinter, now: if the Baron didn't mean to sell us to Corypheus by way of the Venatori, he meant to sell us into slavery outright. So. South. Cross the border somehow, and don't get caught. Eventually we'll find a road, or a landmark, and get pointed towards Kirkwall. In the meantime, try not to die of thirst."

"I'm not, but if we're to walk to Kirkwall, I'll need to lean on something," John says finally, before his tone turns more serious. "I think we shouldn't bother with main roads at all. We're a fairly conspicuous bunch as it stands. And we can't be sure once the Baron learns we haven't ended up where he intended, he won't send out some sort of search party."

But Sorrel has a real point. Without any idea of what the Baron was attempting, it's hard to predict what he might do. John suspects he'd do what any fool caught out in a bad plan would attempt: try to cover up the incident by any means necessary.

"I don't suppose any of our number are familiar at hiding tracks in the wilderness?"

Sorrel scoffs, clearly not believing him, but equally unwilling to make an argument of it. "Don't tell me."

If you take a mage's weapon and you're not a mage, just because you don't think we'll pry a bit of wood up for you, you're either a madman, or likely to die for want of protection. John looks pretty haggard, as do they all, but nothing like that stupid.

Or maybe he is; Sorrel stares at him. And keeps staring. Out of a face covered in Vallasin.

"I'm Dalish," He says, as if that is all the explanation anyone needs, "As is Merril, there. And some of these people are Grey Wardens."

There is a moment where John pauses, takes a breath.

Get your bearings, he thinks. He hasn't survived this far by being foolish, and he is not talking to the men of the Walrus. There is nothing to be gained by thinking aloud.

"Right," John says. "Right, of course."

At the least, they'll be able to survive on this long march back. John can't say with confidence whether or not he'd manage it on his own. At the least, he'd have taken a different tack, but—

"I'd say we'd all benefit from some rest, but I don't think that's wise until we've put some distance between ourselves and the evidence of that scuffle."

Right, he says, and jut for a minute there it's all so ridiculous that Sorrel can't help but laugh. It goes on for just a little too long, until he's riding some kind of edge, between sense and hysteria, but only just; he breathes, and comes back to himself.

"Sorry. Sorry, it's just. We've been sold out! And we were all going to die, or be sent to be slaves, or— or worse. And now we're fine!" He kind of want so puke, or maybe just lay down and sleep for ten years. Mostly Sorrel just wants to be home. He misses his bed, he misses his boyfriend, "You're right, though, you are absolutely right. Best see to the others, and the sooner gone the better."

He considers the request before scooting a little closer.

"Depends," Anders whispers back. "One, can you keep it quiet from everyone and take the credit for it, and two, have you got anything long and thin, preferably metal, on you?" Classes from Zevran have unfortunately paid off once before, and he'd really like them to stop paying off. But until that day, he intends for no one to know he's been taught. One day he may very well need that surprise up his sleeve. Even now he might not volunteer the information except he can feel panic rising from the way the shackles are clamped around his wrists and Anders very much does not want to have to deal with an attack of the past right now.

For a moment he has just enough energy in him to be outraged. The next heartbeat is a more rational one, but that burst of anger, of genuine how dare you is enough to sharped his edges, and focus Sorrel on the task at hand. Keeping secrets was less a skill and almost a religious duty, to his mind; it was only with effort that Sorrel refrained from a scoff.

"I can keep a bloody secret," He hisses instead, "In the hem at the back of my trousers. Might be a pin."

He's used to repairing his own clothing, don't judge him. And don't tell Teren or anyone else. And don't look at his ugly seams.

"What's your problem?" he hisses back. "Do you want help or not?" Is it offensive now to request confidence, or ask for metal things? Is Sorrel embarrassed by possibly having a pin handy? Why is Anders wasting time trying to think of a cause for some teen having a tantrum?

With a near-silent huff Anders scoots to right up against Sorrel to start fishing at the Dalish's pants. Oh. Maybe that's the angry bit - having someone who's little more than a face you see around playing with one's pants.

"I'm married. And you're far too young for me even if I wasn't."

"Shut up," he grits. This is the touchiest mage in Thedas. Sorrel has found him. And now he's being felt up by him, in a way, in a wagon, on the route to Tevinter proper, trussed up like the slave-taker's chattel they currently are. This is the worst day.

"Just. Shut up."

The worst day.

Maybe just an asshole, then.

"No." Anders doesn't feel like being quiet, though he keeps to whispers anyway. The gags are off, and Sorrel's being a jerk. "No one can make me shut up anymore. I've every reason to question why you're being an ass to me when I'm trying to help."

He finds a pin... pointy-end first, and hisses as he yanks his fingers back. Another grab and he has it, and promptly discovers he doesn't have a good angle to even try to get at his manacles.

"Hold still and try not to be more of an ass," he mutters as he uses a finger to try to find the lock on Sorrel's shackles.

"I feel like those men over there could probably shut the both of us up if you keep trying to attract their attention," Sorrel replies, not entirely certain if this is a nightmare or just a bad joke. Really, Anders? You're concerned about politeness, trussed up like a butcher's roast in the back of a slave-taker's wagon?

But he does as he's told and, most crucially, remembers to breathe. It's not particularly calm breathing, or steady, but it's better than simply holding his breath or just screaming, which are the two options he would much rather take, given the option.

"Maybe." He's not the only one making noise, at least, but Sorrel might have a point. On the other hand, Anders would much prefer to be angry than afraid and having magic-dampening restraints on his wrists yet again is threatening to break him down.

The hole is located, and Anders wiggles the pin in, trying to do the work of two sticks with one. The tumblers start clicking... and sticking, thank the Maker, and finally the manacles on Sorrel's wrists fall open.

"You're free," he whispers, barely audible now. "Give them hell and find the key?" Because it seems safe to assume that Sorrel can't return the favor.

"Right," Sorrel replies, grim and nearly-silent. The manacles do not clank on the boards beneath them; Sorrel puts them aside gently, in the corner of the wagon where they're unlikely to jostle and make noise. He gathers his feet under him and— and stops.

He seems to be listening for something, intent, eyes practically glowing in the angular reflection of firelight...

...and then there is a flurry of whispers more audible, and the night explodes.

"Sorrel."

It's said a bit pathetically, and Merrill's voice is tight with pain and barely restrained fear. She doesn't want any of the healers to have to cast, not fresh off the manacles- but she isn't sure that any of them will have very much of a choice.

She's taken a few hits from the warhammer, mostly around her torso and shoulders. She can't walk to Kirkwall like this, which means something will have to be done.

"Ah, Merrill," He replies, going to her side. He barely has to touch her to know the problem; any fool can see that she's cracked ribs and something torn in her shoulder. Add blood loss to that, and it's no wonder she needs help.

"Anders would be so much better for this..." He looks up, to where Anders is tending someone else, "...But I'll just start and if need be we can let him clean up any mess I've made, yeah? Deep breath."

He waits for her to do it, agonizing as it must be, and when the air is supporting her ribs back into place he moves quickly, blue-green glow. Sorrel casts as the Dalish do, hand held so close to skin that the spell hardly seems cast more than simply pressed into the wound, as if to hide the glow. In the darkness, every flicker of light is precious, and he guards his magic just as the craftspeople do their ironbark, or the scouts do the clan's borders. We are the last, and we do not forget, we do not forgive, we do not submit.

He's a little dizzy, when he's done, but presses on faithfully, hands cold and slightly numb as he manipulates her shoulder. More painful than hurt, it seems— there, one-handed now, and again. The wave of dizziness is more profound this time, enough that Sorrel is breathing hard and shaking.

"Ow," He explains, intelligently, "Sorry. Better?"

The closeness of his hand, the familiarity of healing magic being applied in this way, helps Merrill relax; some of the tension of being captured and injured leaks away, and she is better able to focus on breathing and letting Sorrel work. Perhaps she should have been paying more attention, though - his breathing changes and she lets slip a startled noise, easily mistaken for a cry of hurt.

"Don't hurt yourself," Merrill manages when he's done, reaching out with the arm that isn't still feeling echos of pain to try and steady him. "Come here, sit down."

And, after a moment, "But- yes, thank you. Better."

Not complete, not whole, but better.

"Sorry," He says again, feeling the silence where the lack of complete healing would be. Sorrel likes to think of himself as recovered from the imprint of his mother's hand, but the reality is that once a tree grows bent, it can't really become straight again, only stronger.

He sits, heavily, rubbing at the rawness of his wrists.

"I'm going to..." Huff, puff, "...have to ask Adasse for lockpicking lessons, when we get back. That... was embarrassing."

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Merrill tells him, firmly. At least, there's nothing in this instance for him to apologize for - there's still the sting of the blood mage comment, soothed only slightly by his confession right after.

She shifts slightly, tilting her head back on what remains of the wagon. They're regrouping, now; no need to move just yet. Conserve energy for what is going to be a long walk.

"It wasn't fun." Agreement, of a sort - though quiet, more subdued than Merrill's usual. "At least we're out now."

"Right, well. Yes."

He sits for a little while longer, letting it lapse into silence. At first he's only feeling his body, all the aches and places where the bindings rasped at skin, where bruises are forming. His stomach hurts, a little dehydrated, and though it's mostly his imagination, Sorrel thinks he feels the last nauseous remnants of the poison that put them all under leeching out of him. His feet are bare— but at least that's normal, for him. The humans will have trouble, on the walk back...

"So, that's blood magic, is it?" He hasn't had a lot of experience with the stuff, and his voice is very quiet, even intimate. He doesn't know if it still counts as a secret or not, but he won't be the one to shout about it, "I dare say we'd all be done for, if not for you. That was absolutely terrifying— and then it was that too, but in a good way. Thank you, Merrill."

The humans will have a lot of trouble, Merrill thinks. Even the most hardy of them is used to shoes and not walking for miles upon miles. The Dalish are, and even though she and Sorrel have had fairly comfortable lives in comparison to the nomadic clans they came from, she has faith that their bodies will remember what to do.

"You're welcome," she whispers, sighting softly. "I wasn't sure it would work, with the manacles... it nearly didn't." Had Iorveth not been bleeding already, had Merrill not poured every ounce of desperation into it, it probably wouldn't have. She's certain it wasn't as strong as it otherwise would have been - but it had been enough.

She lets her head drop, careful not to jostle either herself or Sorrel too much. After another moment of silence, she adds, "I won't ask you to lie about it."

"That's stupid," He says, bluntly, "Of course I'm going to lie about it. It's none of their business."

Because the only ones who'll have a real problem with it are going to be, firstly, shemlen, and secondly... people who don't know Merril already. Sorrel isn't inclined to think of either group as being owed his honesty or his loyalty. In truth, he's not sure he even thinks riftwatch is owed all that much of either, in most cases.

"Besides, I'm not wearing this vallaslin just because I like the look of it, you know. I know who my friends are."

Oh, Sorrel. Merrill is in pain, but it doesn't stop her from shifting and reaching out as best she can to draw him into a tight hug.

There are plenty with vallaslin who would judge her just because it was her, turn her in when they thought they could to make her Someone Else's Problem. But Sorrel says he won't, and she believes him.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Sorrel tolerates the hug with all the grace and patience of a feral cat, and then, gently, pushes her away. His ears are pink; he's not used to the attention.

And creators, he wishes Adasse were here. Not in the situation they're in, of course, but... here. Maybe riding over the horizon with a rescue party.

"You should... keep resting. I'll see if there's aught else I can do to help."

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closed: untimely demise.

Capture, Escape, Aftermath

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