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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.
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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"Just seems strange, I reckon, praying to the mountain sort when you're deep underground."
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Slowly, she exhales, taking comfort in the cool of the stone under her touch. A glance over her shoulder, then. "Your ilk are too busy joining the night-gangers to bother fighting them, anymore."
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That's actually kind of interesting, at least in terms of things Teren didn't know, which even she'll admit constitutes a lot of things. But then there's a word-- a word for her?-- that stops her, with an odd look to Magni.
"The what now," she says, gruff as ever, but probably not too offended.
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A moment, and she looks to the ceiling as she stands from her kneeling position. Maybe it was tiredness that herded her vernacular back to the familiar. "What my people call the darkspawn."
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Though normally she isn't this talkative, perhaps it's simply because they're stranded, constantly on the verge of death, and utterly without their comfortable fighting gear. Perhaps being imperiled puts Teren in a better mood than usual, or at least a more social one. She doesn't seem to have any concept that she might be bothering Magni.
What kind of crazy person prays in the middle of the Deep Roads, anyway?
"Right you are. But should any darkspawn cross our path, you'd still best cover your mouths and leave it to those of us equipped to handle them."
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Those who travelled with the Hero of Ferelden (what a title) had survived in the Deep Roads, with only two of them being Wardens, and the dwarves had been fighting darkspawn endlessly for generations. They had a resilience, yes, but even so.
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Teren slowly cants her head to one side and raises an eyebrow, almost amused by the defensiveness of that response.
"Well," she says, measuredly, "the armor what got stolen off the lot of us is better, and I expect we'll all be working hard to prevent anyone's arms getting torn off."
She angles herself toward Magni a little more, expression shrewd. "...so unless you don't mind getting the Blight, pretty, I'd suggest keeping behind us. No need to go proving yourself."
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"Would you say that to the Nightingale? Tell her to hide behind the Wardens?"
Of all the lowlanders, the Nightingale seemed a shrewd, practical woman. One that she might not understand the nuances of, but one she appreciated the skills of. Not the Avvar way, but a very Orlesian one that served well in a war.
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She shakes her head, rolling her eyes. "If she'd been running about with naught between her and the darkspawn but a layer of fabric, I expect she'd have been wise enough to listen, even."
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The opinion of a Warden interests her little. A faint twist at the corner of her mouth, smirk almost imperceptible as she shakes her head and starts to walk away.
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