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

JOHN SILVER / STARTERS

[hornswoggle]

[ alternately just wildcard me, do whatever i'm easy. ]

iii / the silent plains.

[hornswoggle]

It was not so long ago that Israel Hands dragged John Silver's body from the sea. (Perhaps it was. Has it been a year here, dallying with the Inquisition?) John has been thinking of that often as they walk. There is sand in his hair, in his beard, blown into his eyes as they walk.

John has never loved the sea the way some of his men do, but he misses it now as he trudges along in the midst of their sorry number towards what they are all hoping is safety. The odds are not good, though John has refrained from saying so outright. There may come a point where he will see some benefit in mentioning that they are a less than enviable position, but at the moment so long as they moving forward, John is content to hold his tongue.

He thinks often of what he needs to get back to. (His men. Flint. Madi.) He considers the strangeness of having anything at all to go back to.

It's what he's thinking of as he sits up in the dark, listening blindly for whatever might come lurching their way. As someone stirs, sits up, John turns slightly towards them.

"Heard something?"

Doubtful, but who knows. John certainly isn't cornering the market on questionable and well-hidden skills, and he hasn't asked a whole lot of questions about his fellow escapees.

[elegiaque]

“I thought I did.” It's hard to tell what's the sound of something to be worried about, the sound of ordinary nights in the plains, and the sound of her own mind turning itself inside out from the combined stress of the rest. What's awake and what's dreaming when it's so cold and dark that the slip between one and the other is just sort of an unpleasant more of the same.

Nothing happens, in the dark. It's the best of possible outcomes, but it's still somewhat anticlimactic, sat here straining to listen. She exhales, deeply, and rubs a hand over her mouth.

If they were to die out here,

Maker. She'd at least like to have gone out doing something useful. At least she isn't entirely unarmed, anchor-shard set into her left hand where she keeps it tucked up not to provide a beacon in the dark, but it's all so...

Pointless.

[hornswoggle]

"Leave it be," is John's advice. Probably not very good, but he can't bring himself to keep straining to hear whatever the next thing with too many teeth and an inconvenient fixation on their party come lurching into view. When it comes, they can act.

There's possibly no way for them to be any more on edge than they already are.

"If we're lucky," for once on this miserable venture "It'll pass on. Or it'll be someone we can rob for some food and decent weapons."

Should John be expressing that sentiment aloud? It doesn't feel so important to attempt respectability with Gwen. She knows what they are. They've discussed less savory things around a campfire. Plotting to rob travelers is hardly the worst topic their conversation could turn to.

[elegiaque]

Under the circumstances—frankly, under most circumstances, but certainly particularly these ones—it's hardly a sentiment she's prepared to condemn him for. Those are things they need, and an expedient means of acquiring them. There's a reason she's so at ease with the Gallows' pirates, and it isn't romanticizing the lifestyle; it's mainly that she's unwholesomely suited to it.

She had fucking rather be on a ship right now than in this frigid sand.

“Any weapon but this one and its beacon fucking light would be nice,” with a vague gesture of her anchor-shard; useful, potentially, but not the most subtle thing in the world.

(So: on brand.)

[hornswoggle]

John hums in quiet assent. Yes, it would be nice to have a blade rather than something as showy as the shard in Gwen's palm. He understands that they'll make do with what they have, but it would be nice...

A sigh. John grinds the heel of his palm absently down his thigh, stopping just above the wreckage of his knee, where his leg now abruptly ends.

"They were thorough in disarming us, I'll give them that."

But it had been a botched job. John's grateful for it, but still, he can't quite pin down the motivation behind it. Why gamble? Why bother with such a foolish attempt?

"I suppose they'd have to have done at least one thing right. They even found the knife I keep in my boot."

iv / the deep roads

[hornswoggle]

[ This is fucking stupid.

Or rather, it's a good idea but it's miserable in practice. John has never in his life wished to venture beneath the surface, let alone into the Deep Roads. Certainly, this is the best way for a largely unarmed group of fugitives to travel, and it is certainly the most miserable way for them to be traveling.

He'd like to have taken his chances above ground. Is this entire experience designed to illustrate that he'd been better off on the sea? He thinks about how perhaps he could have done something with his magic that would have made their passage easier and yet—

No. Some secrets are worth attempting to keep.

At the very least, they can have a fire. Small comforts, even in the Deep Roads. John levers himself down carefully across from his companion, laying the borrowed staff across the floor beside him. ]

It's beautiful down here, I suppose. In a terrible, ominous way.

[ John at least sounds sincere, if incredibly begrudging. ]

But I won't mind never coming back again, assuming we make it back above ground without further incidents.

[ Fuckin' darkspawn. ]

[chainlightning]

It is beautiful, [ Merrill agrees, looking up at the rocky ceiling around them, the ancient stonework that only darkspawn enjoy now. They've found a spot without the Blight clinging to the walls to camp, and unlike many of them, this isn't Merrill's first time in the Deep Roads.

She can be strong for her friends, even though she's injured. Someone has to be. The Wardens are anxious, paranoid, the scurry of the darkspawn crawling along their senses. Merrill can't feel it, and so she pushes positivity, hope, because quite frankly? Someone needs to have it. ]

It must have been spectacular, when the dwarves still traveled these places. Lit up with fires, sparkling.

[hornswoggle]

[ There's some light in Merrill that refuses to be dampened by blight, darkspawn or the relentless south-ward slog they've embarked on. John admires it, though he feels no particular pressure to affect a similar optimism himself. Treading that line between hope and pragmatism can fall to John and the rest of them. ]

I heard a lot of stories about dwarves in my travels. But you don't find a lot of them on the open sea.

[ Which John had, at the time, chalked up to good sense. Now he's not so confident in that assessment. ]

You know, this whole disaster is going to eclipse any story I ever heard about dwarves.

[ John is fully, fully prepared to embellish accordingly to be sure of that. ]

[chainlightning]

Not a lot of Dalish on the open sea, either, [ Merrill giggles, careful not to let it ring too loud in the caverns around them. ] But then, this is also probably the most Dalish that have ever been in the Deep Roads at one time.

[ All two of them. The clans had enough trouble above the surface; they didn't need to add Darkspawn to the list. ]

Varric will be terribly disappointed, [ she continues, ignoring the pull of sadness at her heartstrings and refusing to think too hard about what Varric must be thinking during this. ] He loves a great big story about- well, him. Not so much other dwarves.

[hornswoggle]

[ John almost tells her: there's elves enough on the open sea. But there's a difference. He understands it, and he avoids the misstep. But still, he thinks about Merrill on the sea. The men would like her, he thinks, though he likes Merrill too much to actually extend any offers to board the Walrus. ]

I can't imagine anyone being disappointed to miss out on being stuck down here. Even a dwarf.

[ Even on that sounds like the kind of dwarf John would like to have at least one drink with. ]

Regretting having come along in the first place yet?

[ Because John kind of is. In spite of everything he's said about being helpful, about furthering the cause, he is slowly coming to regret being this helpful. ]

[chainlightning]

Oh, he'd hate the actual dark and the Blight and such, [ Merrill confirms with a laugh. ] But a chance to brag and be the hero? Not so much.

[ They all want some bragging rights though, don't they? A little bit of heroism? Just enough to settle the part of them that thirsts for it. Wasn't that, in part, why Merrill was here? ]

There are plenty of things that I regret more, [ she settles on, having mused over John's question for a moment. ] Though being hit with that warhammer was- not fun.

[hornswoggle]

[ So this dwarf sounds like he'd do fine among the pirates of Nascere. Good to know. (It also sounds like John and Varric should never meet.)

But less good...regrets in such a visceral sense. John had meant it in the immediate, but there's an implication in Merrill's response that suggests something bigger. Something that requires looking back beyond this mission at what he's left in his wake. John exhales hard. His broken thumb has mended, braced and bound, but the scuffle on the cart had taken it's toll. ]

I'd wondered if it was smart of me to go off in the first place, with so much happening.

[ There had been a chance Flint would have need of him. There was their business in Llomerryn. There was the running of the Walrus. Plenty of reasons to stay put rather than go traipsing out into the world, and yet— ]

But it seemed important to be useful. I hadn't expected the baron to be so duplicitous.

[ John's oversight. He'd have to consider that at length sooner or later. ]

[chainlightning]

[ None of them had expected the baron to go to the lengths he had. That had been the problem, of course; a problem that Merrill expected they would solve when they got back. ]

The ruins are still potentially important. And we didn't actually die, so... I guess their trap backfired.

[ Something positive to latch onto, accompanied with the idea of returning to the baron and smashing his face in with her staff. ]

If it hadn't been us, it would have been someone else. Maybe in a worse way.

v / mountains

[hornswoggle]

[ Ah, fresh air.

And...an entire fucking mountain. ]

This is more of the countryside than I ever cared to see.

[ John sounds flippant, but he is truly at the end of his patience. This entire venture is bordering on the ridiculous. Scaling a mountain.

He'd just wanted to get rich. How had such a simple plan led him to this point in his life? ]

[indissection]

You can certainly say that again.

[ Sidony looks ragged. She looks nauseated and she breathes out sharply, her dress dirty and hanging around her, hair tattered. She wants to brush her hair, she wants to take a bath, and she is particularly unimpressed with the nature of this entire journey.

She rubs her hand over her face and sighs softly. ]

Do you think there is much left to go?

[hornswoggle]

[ John doesn't look much better, but it also matters less to him. Certainly, he'd like to wash the grime from his skin. He'd like to trim his beard. He'd like to have a proper meal. But he's lived through worse than this. At the very least, he's alive and he's moving towards the place he's supposed to be. That's far better than some of the worse moments he'd found himself in. He stretches his free hand out to pat Sidony's back lightly. ]

More than either of us would like, I'm afraid.

[ Not that John actually knows. But they have an entire mountain to navigate. ]

But it'll go more easily now. And food won't be as hard to come by.

[ And he'd take the mountains over the wasteland of the Silent Plains any day. ]

With any luck, someone will stumble over us while we make our way back. That's better than our chances before, isn't it?

[ Optimism?? Merrill's better at it, but John can consider their improved odds pragmatically while still resigning himself to a further march towards Kirkwall. ]

[indissection]

[ Anyone that has known Sidony for even half a moment will know that appearances matter a great deal to her. She was raised on it - raised to be bold, to be proud, to know how beautiful she is and hold her head high because of it. Being covered in muck and sweat and blood and, shamefully, tears does nothing for her image, her arrogance or her confidence. She's only glad certain people are not here to witness her shame. ]

That is not the answer I was hoping for.

[ The pat does soothe her a little, like a frustrated cat, and she sighs softly. ]

Do you think there might be scouting parties? Surely the Inquisition hasn't entirely given up on us.

[ There are some rather important people in this group, after all.

Surely someone would come, surely - Byerly would - or - someone. ]

[hornswoggle]

[ What a question. It's innocent enough, but it lances at a very particular set of concerns John has been worrying at as they've traveled. (What are his men doing? What is Flint doing? What has Madi been told, if she's been told anything at all?) There's nothing to do but speculate about what's occurred in their absence, and it had been an easier thing to ignore in the dark, trying to keep from falling into a crevasse.

Now, out in the open air, he has to consider the weight of Sidony's inquiry. ]

With any luck, we've passed right beneath them.

[ Unless there had been no search. John doubts that, but he isn't sure what they'd have come up with. What clues had they left behind? It had been a mess, and then they'd all but vanished. Even the most dedicated scouts have their limits. ]

I know there's a few among us who would be too greatly missed for anyone to give up on.

[ No indication of whether or not John counts himself among that number. Is he invaluable? As a figurehead, as what Billy's been fashioning his name to mean, John's likely just as useful dead as he was drawing breath. ]

[indissection]

[ There's something that burns in the back of her throat, something that makes her feel like tears are tickling at her eyes - she doesn't want to give into that kind of weakness, not here. She can't do it, she refuses, because she must appear far stronger than any average noble lady might. She is a member of the Inquisition now, after all.

Pressing her lips together, she hesitates for a moment. ]

I wonder.

[ Breathing out, she glances up at John for a moment, stepping a little bit closer, ignoring the knots in her stomach and the twist of her hands. ]

Maybe so. Perhaps we will simply inspire a celebration when we return.

[hornswoggle]

[ John hums softly, indecisive. He's aware of her drawing closer and abandons the hand on her back to offer her his elbow. Is this not how gentleman do it? John's seen it done, but though he's passed himself off as many things, a gentleman has never been one of them. He can affect some passing resemblance, though how high can the bar be? She knows he's a pirate, and they're ragged, dirty and half-starved. ]

I hadn't thought very much about it.

[ There's a pause, before John amends— ]

I've thought of my crew, of course, but what the inhabitants of Kirkwall would do...

[ The idea of being included in that doesn't settle so easily. Worse, they'd left on such a fractured note. What did they even call their group now?

And John knows so little of reunions. For much of his life, when he had left, it had never been with the intention of returning. Now he finds there are faces he wishes to see again.He thinks of Flint, coming up over the hill, heralded by blood and gunfire. He thinks again of Madi, and the way she had clutched at him, how soft her face had been beneath his fingers. He thinks of his men, cheering and yelling. John hasn't contemplated anything more than that. ]

Well, any excuse for some levity in these trying times. I wonder if some new catastrophe has occurred while we wandered our way back.

[ Little does John know: they are the catastrophe. ]

[indissection]

[ Sidony accepts his arm without hesitation; her fingers sink around his elbow and she leans on him, just enough that she can take some of the weight and tension on her own shoulders, but not so much that it might upset his movements or his walking. She knows enough of his leg from glancing to know that it might tip him one way or another if she pushes too much.

Looking up, she sighs. ]

I doubt they would notice my absence too terribly. They have other healers, more important than I am. I am sure they might miss Anders more.

[ There's a knot in her stomach as she thinks about it, feeling a touch uncomfortable at the notion. She terrible knowledge of being known, but also not wanting to be known. Horrific.

Laughing softly, she shakes her head, hair falling around her shoulders in soft, black waves. ]

I'm sure the world itself has ended.

[villieldr]

( She laughs at that, but only quietly. Well meant rather than cruel, as she looks back to Silver. Truthfully she wasn't sure if she could call him friend, should call him friend, but he'd played into a desperate bid for freedom and had been ready to work with her with little time to prepare. It may have been necessity more than trust, but it had paid off in either case, and she appreciated it. )

I— don't want to offend. You are a capable man.

( That was proven already, but now they are more travel-worn, more tired, and she grew up in the mountains. Assumptions don't usually serve anyone well, and even so... he is missing a leg, and is decidedly not from the mountains. ) If you desire aid in this, I am—

( A tilt of her head. Here to help, she means, but talking at length with people other than those she is very comfortable with is not her strength. )

[hornswoggle]

[ So they have arrived here. Here being a place John has learned to anticipate over time, though it is harder to accept the offer of care from those outside his crew. (It's hard to accept even from his crew.) Time will never truly quiet the part of John that balks at the idea of depending on the people around him, bristling under the way he is now perceived.

But John is not a fool. If he topples down the mountain, then the entire miserable march through desert and darkness will all be for nothing. (And he must return to his crew, to Flint, to Madi.) This entire venture has been an exercise in leaning on people he'd much rather not have exposed any weakness to at all. ]

I'm beginning to think all of this happened to humble me.

[ Which is a joke. Hah. ]

I'm not offended, [ John reassures her, leaning his weight onto the mage's staff he's managed to keep hold of. ] It would be foolish to get irritated with someone trying to keep me alive, wouldn't it?

[villieldr]

( She makes a sound of acknowledgement, her expression one of understated amusement at the humbling. Magni likes this Tevinter pirate, which is a terrible idea, and she is going to make sure she doesn't trust the Tevinter pirate. )

Foolish, maybe. ( Tone says: but not unheard of. )

Up there, it's steeper than it looks.

( These aren't her mountains, but she knows mountains. ) I can carry you up there.