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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.
no subject
Look for weapons or waterskins. ( Food and water will only last so long, but supplies that can help them secure and keep that in the future? Magni taps her knuckles against the dirt twice, nods her agreement, and starts to move for the smokehouse. There's not a lot of cover, but at least it's dark. )
no subject
The sand against the soles of their shoes makes a soft scuff, a whisper of noise. The smokehouse is a dark square against the darker sky, which stands vast and open above them. They're halfway to it when one of the dogs lifts its head, ears pricked. It's cooler in the night, out here, and the dogs left to keep watch are doing so mostly in a huddle. Some of the others now lift their heads as well while the first dog wuffs, a deep warning, and rises to its feet to stand poised and attentive, scenting the air.
Darras slows, but doesn't halt his approach entirely. His eyes flick over to Magni. They've come this far. No use in turning back when the door is only a few feet from them.]
cw gore
They need to survive. They need this win, even if only for morale. Tact may no longer be an option, but she'll cling to it as long as possible.
The head of the Tevinter mage is a prize she'll not give up, but she does cut the ears from it with a rough gash, and tosses them to the dogs. Maybe enough of a distraction, a matter of interest, that they can carry on without chaos breaking loose. )
no subject
But it works. The dog sniffing at the air turns almost immediately, ears lifted even hire. As Magni chucks the ears, the beast darts forward, grabbing one right out of the air. The other dogs are scrambling to their feet now, snuffling in the dirt, sniffing at the air.
Darras, meanwhile, is staring with some uncertainty at the bloody head that Magni has just pulled out and carved up. What has he gotten himself into?
But again: the door is right there, there's not a lock on it, just a crude wooden latch that he lifts, easily. The smell of the smokehouse is better than what that head must surely smell like (he's not close enough, he doesn't know, it doesn't look in too terrible a shape yet, but...).
Meanwhile the dogs in the yard are tussling over the ears. The lead dog--big, rangy, scruffy especially in the chin and shoulders--has kept hold of his prize and is lifting his head to keep it away from the others, while the other ear is bandied about by two smaller dogs. There's starting to be a bit of a commotion.]
Anything more to cut off of that thing or are we moving to meat now.
[--In a careful undertone, but any telling sound would be well-covered by the dogs, and damped by the walls of the shack, and by the slabs of smoked meat hanging from the ceiling. Darras shakes open the bag that he'd brought, and lifts his crude knife, to hack at the bottom part of the nearest slab. He tosses it to Magni as one of the dogs outside growls, loudly.]
no subject
Tall as she is, she has to duck a little around some of the lower hanging hooks for the meat, and she hops up to grab one of the cross beams. Rather than making the pirate keep hacking, she unhooks some slabs of meat, reaches for a wheel of smoked cheese, starting to pass the goods down to him.
And then she spots the prepping area, a collection of knives, cleavers and hooks. None in particularly good condition, but they're better than nothing, and she jerks her head towards them. )
Those.