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

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."

IV

[doneisdone]

"It always is," comes the knowing reply of an exhausted, freezing Warden, whose solution for her bare feet has been to shred stolen clothing and wrap strips of leather around them for want of boots that fit.
"What's a good idea is shutting your bloody gob before you wake up all the deepstalkers."

[writteninblood]

"I'd really love to," Sorrel replies, honestly, clutching what's been passing for clothing a bit closer, "But it's mostly what's keeping me from screaming, or throwing up, which I figure is worse."

This is, he seems to think, a fairly practical mindset. He's seen Darkspawn before, and they're no joke; Sorrel himself was never much of a combatant. He's no Merrill, nor even an Anders, just a middle sort of person who tends to get in mediocre sorts of trouble. He never has been able to keep from running his mouth.

And now, this.

"Sorry."

[doneisdone]

"You can busy yourself by looking around," comes the brusque reply, "and keeping observations to yourself until there's a reason to raise the alarm." She doesn't sound angry, per se, or at least no angrier than usual: Teren is visibly tired and actually, inconceivably, trying her best to not just yell at the lad.
Let's just say she has experience with Talkers.

[writteninblood]

"Sorry," He says again, and tries to do as instructed. Sorrel isn't naturally given to obedience, but he was trained to it, well-used to subsuming his desires under the ambitions of another, able to bear up without complaining for years at a time.

He's gotten... a little rusty at it, though. Kirkwall will do that to you.

"...D'you... have any idea that we're going the right way?"

Navigation seems impossible, down here. At least to Sorrel.

[doneisdone]

"Roughly."

Teren has never been in this part of the Deep Roads, or if she has it was a long time ago-- but the nice thing about being a Warden is having the sense for where the Darkspawn are in relation to oneself, and as long as they are Not Here, the party might as well be going the right way.

iii

[heirring]

The worst part, Wysteria thinks, is how hot her face is still. The burn on her cheeks and the back of her neck has trapped all the heat in the world under whatever bare bits of skin have been unfortunate enough to be bare in the day; even here in the night with the temperature having plummeted and every other part of her shivering, she can feel it bubbling merrily away. Ouch, ouch, ouch, say the tender parts of her in the dark.

"Oh that's perfectly--" she begins to croak, all weather worn and exhausted enough that she hardly registers who is touching the flimsy blanket edge tucked across her side. And then stops as the slow, murmuring spread of warmth begins to sink past the fabric into the parts of her that aren't agonized from the hours in the sun. "Ah," -- a soft sigh -- "that's lovely actually."

She curls a little tighter, all but murmuring against her own knees: "It's funny, isn't it? That there are two different kinds of being warm and one is awful and the other is the nicest thing you could imagine." She's blathering, mouth wandering on a long line ahead of her brain. It takes a few seconds for those to link together too.

She sharpens faintly under his hands and opens one eye. "That" --the prickle of magic spreading from his hands-- "is rather clever."

[writteninblood]

He's expecting a thank you, which would be very polite indeed, or to be ignored, which would be normal. Sorrel would not even be surprised to be shaken off, truly; but the compliment does surprise him. He doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't even occur to him that a thank you of his own is well enough and done with. To tell the truth, he isn't even sure the compliment is genuine! He could have done it sooner, after all.

"Well," Sorrel demurs, carefully, "It might be a Dalish thing."

He's always surprised to find the edges where the Circle never taught people things. Some applications are so basic, and mundane, he assumes everyone with magic uses it that way; more the fool, he.

"Never let them tell you the Circle has the only right way of doing things."

[heirring]

"I'm not at all surprised," she croaks. "A lack of formal education often is the source of all kinds of little bits of cleverness."

Which, if said in a particular way, is almost certainly an insult. But the girl under the blanket scrap isn't saying it like that at all. Exhausted and sunburned, her attention is nonetheless very keen - something bright like the dregs of enthusiasm, in her eyes. "It's very inventive. Must you be touching something to do it? Or can it be done from a distance as well? I've been conducting a study, you see."

This all said in the meandering, absent tones of someone at the end of a very long day.

[writteninblood]

Oh well now that is very rude, regardless of her tone. He's been the subject of enough politely-couched insults to be equally sensitive to an insultingly couched politeness; Sorrel withdraws his hand.

"I've been formally educated," Sorrel replies, less coy now than cold, "Just not by the Circles. Dalish are trained by Keepers; it's a much longer tradition, and better."

And he doesn't care who hears him. Certainly Anders, at least, isn't going to defend the Circle, if he does overhear, and if Loki wants to make a fuss about Tevinter methods, he can weave his pride into a better blanket, for all the good it likely to do him.

"It's delicate. If you use too much effort, you'll set whatever-it-is on fire. If you use too little, you'll only tire, and do no good. But if you can get it right, you can prevent a lot of suffering, and at no notice. You can use the same with frost to hold onto hot things without burning your hands."

[heirring]

Ah, hedgewitches. They're always so delicate about their tutelage. But could any one of them write a proper paper outlining their methodology and its backing magical theory? Well, she's never met one with any publication credits whatsoever. That she has met very few is irrelevant, particularly here in Thedas.

The principle though, she thinks, has some apt parallels. No, the college is nothing like a Circle and no, Dalish are very little like any country witch, but maybe it is simply a requirement of people everywhere to be a little testy over the haves and have nots.

"Quite a neat little bit of finesse, I agree." The blanket still has some residua heat, all strange and tingling, and she draws it more closer about her. It is very nice, though if she concentrates she can feel the energy draining out of it like water from a leaky bucket - dissipating on the cold evening air. Sand through fingers. Something she knows, but can't quite figure out how to touch-- "The better question, I suppose, is whether it's an enchantment or is it something you must channel physically?"

[writteninblood]

If only she should ask, she might learn that, by Dalish standards, she is little more than an uncultured, mostly illiterate barbarian; not that Sorrel is any wunderkind among his people. But still.

"It's not an enchantment," He replies, a little puzzled. What an odd person; what a very odd way to speak. As if she doesn't know the first thing about the Fade, or magic, or how any of it works— Ah. He sees it now. Despite her fine highborn accent, she's only a Rifter. That explains it; he relaxes fractionally.

"And if we had enough lyrium for that, I doubt we'd be stuck out here to begin with, and none of us are dwarves," He continues, doubtfully, and only then answers her half-asked question, "I do it myself. Any mage can, it's as basic as anything, you only need to focus."

[heirring]

"Oh, yes. Forgive me. I suppose what I meant was-- could it be spun into a glyph or something like it? A time delay. Something that doesn't involve your direct presence?"

She rubs the edge of the blanket between her fingers. There, Wysteria thinks. That's the last of it gone - all the residue of the spell work gone dry in the chill night air.

[writteninblood]

"It could," He says, meaning by the doubt in his tone that he is terrible at glyphs and hoping that what it says is more competent in nature, "But then it'd glow, and there might be evidence left, after. If we wanted to attract that much attention, or leave more of a trail than we already are, we'd be better just lighting a fire."

Which they have, as you can see, refrained from doing, for obvious reasons.

"Dalish often have to hide. And since we don't lock all our mages indoors, even a scouting party will have someone with them who can cast, every now and again."

[heirring]

"It's a shame then that the glyph could not be obscured," --This said in the absent tones of a tired young woman clearly ranging between talking to him and at herself. "Someone should sort out how to do that. You know, that's what I find so interesting about the sort of encha--er, magic you lot do here. It's all very flexible until it isn't, isn't it?"

She stifles a yawn behind her hand. "Oh, excuse me. I do go on."