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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.
IORVETH
[ 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: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.
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.
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there is the oddness for the fact their ex-relationship is an elephant in the room, and iorveth didn't so much as show up to their wedding (even if he watched them from a couple rooftops away). those facts are not more important than keeping gwenaelle warm, or helping her to get some rest in between travels. ]
You should try trees. [ wry, sarcastic. no, don't sleep in trees, it's bad for your health, or the falling out and breaking your neck part is. but as such, iorveth doesn't have that problem. he could sleep on a nail bed, probably. thus: ] Come here.
[ tugging at her, iorveth tries to ease her further onto his chest, so she's lying more on top of him than next to him, which grants him the ground (which he can fall asleep fine on) and her a person-bed, at least. slightly more comfortable, and possibly a napping situation they've had before. ]
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this is maybe not the moment to turn over and over what different things drive them. she lets herself be drawn up onto iorveth's chest, his lap; shifts with him when he moves her to make it easier, for all she's hardly an inconvenient weight. there's no tent, no bedroll, no bed, but it's not entirely unlike other times she's slept beside or on top of him, a clinging little heat-leech, resting her chin near the crook of his neck and hoping to sleep at least a little before his or her turn at watch.
it doesn't escape her that this sort of thing is precisely why it took her so long to join the inquisition at all. join the inquisition, they said. make yourself useful, they said.
make yourself a sad story among so many there's no guarantee you'll even be remembered, they emphatically did not. no one leads with that sort of thing except maybe gwenaëlle. )
When we get back,
( they're going to, what's the fucking point of trying if she doesn't believe they'll make it, )
will you teach me again? With the bow.
( this is a peculiar choice of moment to offer that olive branch, better suited to that brisk handshake, but it's also somehow the most comfortable. probably they will live. definitely she doesn't have to make eye contact right now. )
no subject
damn whatever ill and emotional complication might come from sinking into that feeling again now, but the two of them need each other. iorveth's never been stuck in a dire survival situation with anyone he cared so deeply and intimately for as he does gwen, but when it comes to crawling your way through an impossible task, you need everything you can get. it's rare he'd felt so fired up and alive as he does with this woman, so they'll use it. ]
Of course.
[ he murmurs softly, against her hair, rough hands carding stray strands back and away from her face. ] I shudder to imagine what bad practices you've picked up in the interim.
[ and what other idiots in the inquisition that might consider themselves proper archers took to training her. ]
And we will make it back. [ he adds, determination in his voice, despite how soft it is speaking quietly between them. ] I make a habit never to die when I'm expect to, one I think suits you just as well.
[ literally, there are so many times people have called him definitely probably dead, only to see him cresting a hill on the next battlefield, smirking like the fucking devil. gwen could wear the same look just as well, if not better. ]
escape
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.]
i am assuming we are grouping this IDK
Oh, Creators-
[ She tries to dodge when he swings, but even that slight bit of magic had taken a lot out of her. The hammer lands a blow and she screams, kicking desperately at the mans ankles. ]
hops in to be useless
jdklsa lmfao welp - ALSO YES grouping was intended :B
as the man gurgles and drops his hammer to paw at the blood gurgling out on either side of the arrow, another two arrows hit home - one more in the throat, and as the man turns back to look at him in horror, a last through his left eye. the warrior taken care of, it's onto the mage that's... flopping around on the ground with Anders. Lordt. ]
Anders! Hold him still!
[ not 'get out of the way', because Iorveth knows he's well enough accurate at this close range to hit one and not the other. but if they're jerking around, that'll make friendly fire a lot more likely. ]
no subject
Got him! Hold on, Merrill!
[The enemy mage is saying something now, some sort of pleading, and Anders can't care. He's been held captive again and at least one friend is hurt. It's too personal for Mercy to have any wiggle room here. Now the mage tries a knee, but the angle's not right while Anders is on top.]
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Sorrel slides on the uncertain ground, goes to his knees over Merril, and starts murmuring to her over a different kind of glow. She replies, and the fight is quickly lost to him as he focuses on the thing he can do— help the injured, and stay out of the way.
no subject