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

[writteninblood]

"South, for starters," Sorrel says, and for a moment grips the staff, not letting it go, "If all you need is a stick, we'll get you one. But if you're a mage..."

He lets the staff go, meaningfully, and turns away. Good enough, shem.

"We're in Tevinter, now: if the Baron didn't mean to sell us to Corypheus by way of the Venatori, he meant to sell us into slavery outright. So. South. Cross the border somehow, and don't get caught. Eventually we'll find a road, or a landmark, and get pointed towards Kirkwall. In the meantime, try not to die of thirst."

[hornswoggle]

"I'm not, but if we're to walk to Kirkwall, I'll need to lean on something," John says finally, before his tone turns more serious. "I think we shouldn't bother with main roads at all. We're a fairly conspicuous bunch as it stands. And we can't be sure once the Baron learns we haven't ended up where he intended, he won't send out some sort of search party."

But Sorrel has a real point. Without any idea of what the Baron was attempting, it's hard to predict what he might do. John suspects he'd do what any fool caught out in a bad plan would attempt: try to cover up the incident by any means necessary.

"I don't suppose any of our number are familiar at hiding tracks in the wilderness?"

[writteninblood]

Sorrel scoffs, clearly not believing him, but equally unwilling to make an argument of it. "Don't tell me."

If you take a mage's weapon and you're not a mage, just because you don't think we'll pry a bit of wood up for you, you're either a madman, or likely to die for want of protection. John looks pretty haggard, as do they all, but nothing like that stupid.

Or maybe he is; Sorrel stares at him. And keeps staring. Out of a face covered in Vallasin.

"I'm Dalish," He says, as if that is all the explanation anyone needs, "As is Merril, there. And some of these people are Grey Wardens."

[hornswoggle]

There is a moment where John pauses, takes a breath.

Get your bearings, he thinks. He hasn't survived this far by being foolish, and he is not talking to the men of the Walrus. There is nothing to be gained by thinking aloud.

"Right," John says. "Right, of course."

At the least, they'll be able to survive on this long march back. John can't say with confidence whether or not he'd manage it on his own. At the least, he'd have taken a different tack, but—

"I'd say we'd all benefit from some rest, but I don't think that's wise until we've put some distance between ourselves and the evidence of that scuffle."

[writteninblood]

Right, he says, and jut for a minute there it's all so ridiculous that Sorrel can't help but laugh. It goes on for just a little too long, until he's riding some kind of edge, between sense and hysteria, but only just; he breathes, and comes back to himself.

"Sorry. Sorry, it's just. We've been sold out! And we were all going to die, or be sent to be slaves, or— or worse. And now we're fine!" He kind of want so puke, or maybe just lay down and sleep for ten years. Mostly Sorrel just wants to be home. He misses his bed, he misses his boyfriend, "You're right, though, you are absolutely right. Best see to the others, and the sooner gone the better."