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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.
Darras Rivain
"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
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.
no subject
"Then I'll be certain to be quick," he says, and pushes to his feet. He keeps low, even when he's standing. It helps that the sand shifts under him, sliding him down a bit on the dune. "What's our choice? You stay here, keep watch, give a whistle if you see anyone coming down the road or any sign of someone in the house--or we walk up and give a knock and a story? How good are you at stories?"
looks directly at you
"I'd say we're in luck. I'm fairly good at stories."
An understatement. Just ask any of the Walrus men. (Thinking of them sparks a twinge of...regret? Longing? What are his men doing at this moment? What word has traveled back to them by now?) John eyes the little farm with renewed interest.
"I think I can affect a suitably pitiful tale to keep everyone busy while you pillage their stores. Or convince them we're poor merchants in need of some supplies to tide us over on our journey."
Lying, John's one true skill.
"So I suppose the question is, how much excitement are you hoping for?"
listen
A sad inevitability, that. He drops his chin to his chest, takes a moment of silence for the trials to come. It doesn't last very long.
"But, if you're pitiful on your own, and after you've left, they find they've been pillaged... they'll remember the injustice and indignity of that, and forget your face. So I suppose I'd go for the first option, if you've no argument to make?"
He offers a hand, ready to help him to his feet so they can run this little scheme.
no subject
But Darras knows what he's doing. Just like John does, who lies as easily as he breathes. And at this point, he's especially motivated. Anything that helps them get back to Kirkwall can't be passed up.
"Give me five minutes to be invited in," John says, confident, as Darras helps him up. "I'm sure it won't take any longer than that."
After all, who wouldn't help a poor, legless man? It's probably helpful that they all look a complete mess. John scrapes fingers through his beard and a small shower of sand falls from it. He certainly looks the part of a merchant fallen on hard times.
"Can you do this on your own?"
Do they need to enlist one of their peers? John doesn't sound especially keen on that. Do they really want to get someone involved who may have a stronger moral compass than the pair of them? Arguing about what's been done after the fact is one thing, but John doesn't care to waste time beforehand.
no subject
He touches his fingertips to his temple, a sort-of salute. There's hard times, and there's those that make the best of those hard times, no matter the price or the circumstances.
"If you hear any bleating, do your best to keep their attention on you. Don't know how much experience you have with goats, but by reckoning, I've always found 'em to be powerfully independent-minded, and not often tempted by bribes." But they can be led off and astray, and Darras is already unknotting the rope that he's got about his waist, serving as a loose belt--more out of convenience than any need to keep his trousers in place, and thank the Maker for that one. There's a crude pouch lashed to it, for the essentials, but he's got no need to keep it on his person. It can be looped about a goat's neck for a bit.
He loops the rope about his hand and sinks back down to a crouch, and grins up at John. "Go on, then, poor soul. And if you can squeeze out a few tears, I'll demand a whole leg goes to you for your trouble."
no subject
"Give me five minutes to get started, and whistle when you're done," John says, miming a tip of his hat before making his way down the dunes.
No one's stopped him, so John makes it all the way to the front door. He's sufficiently pitiful, enough to be brought in and given some water while he relates his woes to the graying couple within. John's accent is sufficiently mutable. And he's happy to burst into woeful tears to distract from any noise that may be drifting from the paddock, loudly cursing his ill-fortune and the black-hearted thieves that have robbed him of his trade.
John's not really trying to keep it down. Enjoy the distant sound of lies, Darras.
ii.
"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."
no subject
Darras shifts the bag around so he can pick out one of the other available tent pegs. Each of them comes to a mild point. When he presses his thumb against it, it's more of an inconvenient feeling than anything painful.
"Knew a fellow who'd raised one from birth. He kept it in the corner of his tavern, and it'd go for you if he said the word. Only he was very old, so the seal was old as well, and it was missing its teeth. Its bite hardly felt like anything. Sort of a gumming. That'd be the equivalent, I imagine. Unless we sharpened 'em up."
The Dalish aren't well represented in the coastal towns and villages that Darras has spent most of his life in. That open air of their forests would make his skin crawl. But he's no stranger to the new, to meeting people he's not seen before. The sea takes all kinds. Means he can carry on a conversation--especially with someone who grins back at him.
no subject
She has sailed more than almost any other Dalish, Merrill knows; between her clan traveling to the Free Marches to the backwards and forth with the Inquisition, she has been on several ships. She still gets seasick if she's below deck and she's never been allowed to go out among the sea creatures, seals among them - but someday, she thinks, she would like to.
"I think we could sharpen them. Or at least bludgeon people with them, if we had to." A pause, and then, "Oh, I hope we don't have to..."
no subject
That said, Darras moves on to the next point, and the consideration of the need for defense. He hefts one of the tent pegs thoughtfully, testing its weight in his hand. Not very weighted. Not much to it.
"Might have to," he says. "Depending on how things go. It's a long trek back to where we've come from. Are you that opposed to a bit of bludgeoning?"
no subject
Still, Merrill doesn't drop the peg. She tests the point of it with her thumb, frowning at the lack of bite.
"But I suppose we don't have a choice. I can at least do magic without a staff, though it's less controlled." And Creators know that she's run into enough bandits with mages that their group shouldn't stand out too much... aside from the Dalish and the one-legged man and the giant Avvar woman, she supposes.
vi
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.
no subject
Not that you'd know it to look at him. A testament, perhaps, to how good at downplaying he is. He's also good at conversation, and bearing with the incessant stream that a chatty person might offer. Like Wysteria, who he'd learned quickly (they'd all learned quickly, really, some with more tolerance than others) is definitely a talker.
Well and good. Better talking than sullen silences. Better some sort of normalcy while they're far below ground, especially, where the echo of their voices can sound like a crowd. Darras rolls his head back a bit farther, to stare up at that far-away ceiling. Then he rolls his head around on his shoulders, so he can contemplate what she's doing. A puzzled smile comes to his face.
"Why don't you knot it about your ankles?"
no subject
"Anyway, I wouldn't worry about the ceiling of the tunnel. These places were built by the dwarves and they're very keen engineers. Why, they have stood this long with no maintenance whatsoever. We would have to be very unlucky for it to pick now to come down around our ears. No," she says quite brightly while beginning to rebind her foot. "If anything, we'll just get lost. Now that is a proper nightmare for you."
no subject
"We do seem to be very unlucky. If you've not noticed. Or of a capricious luck at least, coming and going at the whim of the Maker, or whoever pushes us about on the grand scheme of fate." That's a bit of a difficult word; Darras can feel his mouth twist on it. He rubs his forefinger at his forearm to distract himself, feeling the prickle of gooseflesh under its pad. It's significantly cooler down here. All shirts are worn again, doubled up as their supplies permit. At first it was a welcome feeling, after the blazing heat of the sand. The chill is starting to grow old. "D'you have anything we can sacrifice to the ancient cave gods? I bartered away all my good stuff too early. Not a planner, me."
no subject
"In any case, I'm sure the ancient cave gods are an understanding sort. They can't very well expect destitute travelers to bring them things plated in gold and silver, now can they? That's just a recipe for disappointment and what proper god would do such a thing to themselves? I should think we can get away with a few heartfelt words or, I don't know, praying to the nicest looking rock. That one you're leaning against seems admirably sturdy."