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

[chainlightning]

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Merrill tells him, firmly. At least, there's nothing in this instance for him to apologize for - there's still the sting of the blood mage comment, soothed only slightly by his confession right after.

She shifts slightly, tilting her head back on what remains of the wagon. They're regrouping, now; no need to move just yet. Conserve energy for what is going to be a long walk.

"It wasn't fun." Agreement, of a sort - though quiet, more subdued than Merrill's usual. "At least we're out now."

[writteninblood]

"Right, well. Yes."

He sits for a little while longer, letting it lapse into silence. At first he's only feeling his body, all the aches and places where the bindings rasped at skin, where bruises are forming. His stomach hurts, a little dehydrated, and though it's mostly his imagination, Sorrel thinks he feels the last nauseous remnants of the poison that put them all under leeching out of him. His feet are bare— but at least that's normal, for him. The humans will have trouble, on the walk back...

"So, that's blood magic, is it?" He hasn't had a lot of experience with the stuff, and his voice is very quiet, even intimate. He doesn't know if it still counts as a secret or not, but he won't be the one to shout about it, "I dare say we'd all be done for, if not for you. That was absolutely terrifying— and then it was that too, but in a good way. Thank you, Merrill."

[chainlightning]

The humans will have a lot of trouble, Merrill thinks. Even the most hardy of them is used to shoes and not walking for miles upon miles. The Dalish are, and even though she and Sorrel have had fairly comfortable lives in comparison to the nomadic clans they came from, she has faith that their bodies will remember what to do.

"You're welcome," she whispers, sighting softly. "I wasn't sure it would work, with the manacles... it nearly didn't." Had Iorveth not been bleeding already, had Merrill not poured every ounce of desperation into it, it probably wouldn't have. She's certain it wasn't as strong as it otherwise would have been - but it had been enough.

She lets her head drop, careful not to jostle either herself or Sorrel too much. After another moment of silence, she adds, "I won't ask you to lie about it."

[writteninblood]

"That's stupid," He says, bluntly, "Of course I'm going to lie about it. It's none of their business."

Because the only ones who'll have a real problem with it are going to be, firstly, shemlen, and secondly... people who don't know Merril already. Sorrel isn't inclined to think of either group as being owed his honesty or his loyalty. In truth, he's not sure he even thinks riftwatch is owed all that much of either, in most cases.

"Besides, I'm not wearing this vallaslin just because I like the look of it, you know. I know who my friends are."

[chainlightning]

Oh, Sorrel. Merrill is in pain, but it doesn't stop her from shifting and reaching out as best she can to draw him into a tight hug.

There are plenty with vallaslin who would judge her just because it was her, turn her in when they thought they could to make her Someone Else's Problem. But Sorrel says he won't, and she believes him.

"Thank you."

[writteninblood]

"Don't mention it," Sorrel tolerates the hug with all the grace and patience of a feral cat, and then, gently, pushes her away. His ears are pink; he's not used to the attention.

And creators, he wishes Adasse were here. Not in the situation they're in, of course, but... here. Maybe riding over the horizon with a rescue party.

"You should... keep resting. I'll see if there's aught else I can do to help."