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

[staysail]

"Wouldn't call it fresh at all, no. And truthfully, I'm one of those at heart. The open window sort. I'm very good at downplaying it, but not tearing at my hair is taking a considerable effort."

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?"

[heirring]

"I began with the other end under my foot. Which was poorly engineered, I'll admit." But she's loathe to undo it, and at first tries to secure it first one way and then another. Eventually, she mutters something rude under her breath and begins unwinding it.

"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."

[staysail]

He gives a little half-smile at any cursing or oaths taken against the foot-wrapping. Quite the opposite of a man on edge, Darras settles back against the rock, his arms folded over his chest.

"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."

[heirring]

"To the Stone, you mean? I believe that's what the dwarves would say, isn't it? It's a real shame we haven't any of them with us. I'll bet Kenna knows a thing or two about navigating a spooky cave." Round and round the loosely wrapped ends of the cloth go. She ties them off at her ankle, then flexes her ankle and wiggles her toes around experimentally. Good enough. Better this than the stockings with the holes worn through the bottoms.

"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."