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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.
elbows in further
[ is John's blanket contribution. Uncertain if he is directing it towards Teren or Bastien, or both of them overall.
In contrast to Teren, John is bothered. Or he was bothered but now he's simply tired and unsettled. Observing everyone's conversation is better than thinking about how he might die down here though, so. ]
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[ Kitty folds her arms, chin thrust into the air. She is the absolute portrait of contrariness. To be fair, she's pretty much always the portrait of contrariness. ]
Look, I don't plan to die - I don't expect you do, either - [ That's addressed to Silver and Teren, whom she generously(?) lumps in with herself - ] And since you're sticking with us - [ Bastien - ] You'll not have any excuse to die, either.
readies my elbows also
( Some of them needed to sleep, if only so the people who were on watch could eventually sleep as well. She doesn't anticipate all (if any) of them will listen, but pragmatism demands she say something. )
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I do not need an excuse, [ he says, ] and none of us needs a plan. Very few people who die out of bed have planned to do so, and when people do plan to die they often don’t manage to do so as intended. The Duke Olivier de Chalons once arranged seventeen suicidal duels after his lover broke his heart, in the Tower Age, and inadvertently killed seventeen different opponents. [ He scoots closer to the fire. ] So he recovered from his heartbreak, took another lover, and choked to death on ham the very next year.
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[She's staring at Bastien with a look both tired and very judgmental.]
I'd rather face a lifetime of darkspawn than one fucking Orlesian blueblood. [With the fire sufficiently stoked, she tosses the stick in with a satisfying little crackle as it catches.
Magni's comment yields a little smile to herself, but she doesn't address the woman-- no need to poke the bear.]
Tell me then, you morbid lot, [she adds, amiably enough, as she sets their tattered stolen kettle over the flame for water to boil,] since we're not going to die-- not down here, if I can bloody help it-- how would you prefer to do so, given the choice?
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( Her tone might indicate how how her regard of the Grey Wardens in.
Tip: it's a little lower than an ant's ankle height.
She doesn't contribute beyond that quiet offering, keeping her gaze sweeping the terrain about them. )
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Woman, will you kindly climb out of my arse?
[She doesn't fully turn to look at Magni, just angling her head, exasperated.]
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But he does know how to shut up, especially when he finds himself surrounded by people who seem as if they’re going to huff and argue and disapprove of anything he says or asks, so he does that instead. ]
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I don't think she was being disrespectful, Magni. I mean, not beyond the usual...
[ Y'know. Kitty doesn't know Teren all that well, but even so, her gesture is able to encapsulate the woman's general Teren-ness. ]
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( because she likes Bastien's stories, stories are important. He is Orlesian, yes, and thus absurd but he is doing his utmost to rally their spirits in a grim situation, to the best of his abilities. Ultimately it means she ranks him fairly highly in terms of People She Appreciates on this misadventure. Not to mention, Orlesians are oddly fascinating, with their bizarre ways. )
I'm sorry your stories were interrupted. What is your favourite to tell?
( And she looks to Kitty, then, eyebrow raised a little. Quietly, gently: ) Intent does not define all things. I think you know this already.
( Perhaps disrespect was not intended, but it was there all the same.
And none for Teren Wieners, bye. )
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