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closed: dead end.
WHO: Adasse, Byerly, Inessa, Isaac, Kostos, Matthias, Nathaniel, Six
WHAT: A for Effort.
WHEN: Bloomingtide 21-24.
WHERE: Orlais, Tevinter.
NOTES: There's an OOC post with additional info over here!
WHAT: A for Effort.
WHEN: Bloomingtide 21-24.
WHERE: Orlais, Tevinter.
NOTES: There's an OOC post with additional info over here!
I. ORLAIS. The site of the abduction (as it's told to them) is the camp near the ruins, and it certainly looks like something happened there. The ground has been stamped to bits, with horse tracks and footprints both visible; several tents are collapsed or askew; and the supplies and some of the missing party's personal belongings are scattered in the mud. The Baron and his staff saw nothing, heard nothing, from his estate several miles away. They had everyone for dinner and saw them off in the evening, and in the morning, they were gone.
But there is a trail to follow—one that changes, after a few miles, in the number and size of the horses involved, the type of cart wheel, merging with an entirely different trail that came to that point from another direction. Mysterious. But regardless of the cause of that, the trail proceeds northwest around the worst of the front and highest concentration of Orlesian and Inquisition soldiers, then northeast into Tevinter.
II. TEVINTER. Tevinter requires some improvisation, both to cross the border and intermittently along the road that winds through the Silent Plains, when traveling traders bringing supplies to and from the front join them for stretches of the road or to set up camp at night. Neutral Antivan merchants, Free Marcher mercenaries, slaves and the assholes looking to sell them—the story can change, between encounters, but those with anchors need to keep their hands hidden, and the elves probably shouldn't give anyone too much lip.
The good news is that everything requires less in the way of tracking skills. The specific signs of the group they're following disappear under the plains' shifting sands and the heavy traffic along the road, but it isn't a place anyone voluntarily takes the long way through, and along the shortest path to civilization, they'll receive information from the Inquisition instructing them to meet one of its contacts in a trading village just north of the desert.
III. DESPAIR. The contact, Livia, is a slave from Minrathous, trusted both by her Venatori master and by the Nightingale, who she's been feeding information to for years. She meets them in an abandoned farmhouse with a bag of ashes, bones, and belongings, some terrible news, and her genuine regrets—and then she's gone, quickly, before her absence from Minrathous becomes so prolonged she can't explain it away.
It is not what anyone was hoping to bring back, but it's all they have.
But there is a trail to follow—one that changes, after a few miles, in the number and size of the horses involved, the type of cart wheel, merging with an entirely different trail that came to that point from another direction. Mysterious. But regardless of the cause of that, the trail proceeds northwest around the worst of the front and highest concentration of Orlesian and Inquisition soldiers, then northeast into Tevinter.
II. TEVINTER. Tevinter requires some improvisation, both to cross the border and intermittently along the road that winds through the Silent Plains, when traveling traders bringing supplies to and from the front join them for stretches of the road or to set up camp at night. Neutral Antivan merchants, Free Marcher mercenaries, slaves and the assholes looking to sell them—the story can change, between encounters, but those with anchors need to keep their hands hidden, and the elves probably shouldn't give anyone too much lip.
The good news is that everything requires less in the way of tracking skills. The specific signs of the group they're following disappear under the plains' shifting sands and the heavy traffic along the road, but it isn't a place anyone voluntarily takes the long way through, and along the shortest path to civilization, they'll receive information from the Inquisition instructing them to meet one of its contacts in a trading village just north of the desert.
III. DESPAIR. The contact, Livia, is a slave from Minrathous, trusted both by her Venatori master and by the Nightingale, who she's been feeding information to for years. She meets them in an abandoned farmhouse with a bag of ashes, bones, and belongings, some terrible news, and her genuine regrets—and then she's gone, quickly, before her absence from Minrathous becomes so prolonged she can't explain it away.
It is not what anyone was hoping to bring back, but it's all they have.
no subject
When it seems she's done with the cup, he'll hold his hand out for it once more. And if there's anything left within, he'll drain it, and suppress the face that he so badly wants to pull at the taste.
Only then does he let himself nod (with as much gruffness and dignity as possible) toward the mabari.
"What's it called?"
no subject
"Garahel, after the hero of the Fourth Blight. He won't jump on you if you don't want his attention. He's been trained to behave himself, and knows there's a time and place for playtime."
Mabari-talk is an easy subject to latch onto and while it's not her usual happy rambling on the subject, just now it's more than what she's said during the past few hours, in total.
no subject
"I've not actually seen one up close. Dogs, yeah, regular dogs--I don't like 'em much, is all, and, y'know. Even if I did, s' a bit like saying you've seen a lizard when you're looking at a dragon. Or not that dramatic, but still." Mabari are mabari. At least she's said well-trained. "You must've had him for ages if he's all trained."
no subject
"I wasn't particularly a dog-person either, growing up. Between the alienage and then the Circle, there was never any opportunity for it. I didn't think that would ever change. But...the breeder heard my Fereldan accent, and thought to persuade me. I held the pup appease him, thinking that would be it...but the little runt of the littler imprinted on me. He chose me. I...couldn't walk away from that."
Garahel, lets out a huff with an air that could be termed as smug, wagging his tail as she gave him a side hug. "It's hard to believe this wall of muscle was once such a wee thing, not thriving very well." Maybe that's why he was given to an elf, rather than a lord. Inessa didn't care if racism was a factor, he was hers now.
no subject
"He thought he was being funny, giving a Fereldan a dog, eh. But now you've got a monster, so I s'ppose you got the last laugh there." He pats, again, carefully. "I wanted to be a Grey Warden as well. For a bit. S' good stories, in being a Grey Warden. A bit iffy, everyone's always half in awe of you--not a bad way to go. S'ppose too a mabari could do worse'n being a Grey Warden's dog. You're both equal parts lucky."
no subject
She turns her gaze back to Matthias as he mentions that past interest in being a Grey Warden. "I had more than stories; they saved my Circle from destruction. After seeing them rush in heedless of the danger, without any promise that there was anyone left alive past the barrier...I was in awe, too. I didn't ever expect to be one, but when I had the chance, I had to take it." She watches Garahel's tail wag happily.