closed.

[propulsion]

WHO: Ellis, Lukas, Mhavos Dalat, Tony Stark Rhodes-Potts
WHAT: Do you remember finding those obscure drawn maps in Dragon Age: Inquisition of waterfalls and shit and getting very angry attempting to decipher them? Yeah.
WHEN: Harvestmere.
WHERE: On the way to and within the Planasene Forest.
NOTES: They anticipate at most three nights of camping, with some supplies to stretch that if somehow necessary, but likely no one wants to waste more time than that on this. Warnings TBA but probably not.

It's the bottom of the barrel as far as Riftwatch priorities are concerned, but eventually, someone has to check it off the list. It is a map and a report on its circumstances, found and compiled who knows how long ago, and by map and report-- the childish drawing of a mountainous range with arrows and circles and an X marking the spot, along with the barely legible half-assed note along with it, only barely count as either thing.

But here they are.

The map is not a bird's eye view depiction of rivers and roads and territories as expected of maps, but drawn from a ground-level perspective, presumably, and will likely only make any sense once they get there.

The report describes something about a researcher, Bernardo Kesoro, having taken a hermitage in the foothills of the Planasene Forest, and the map that was found on his unfortunate rotting corpse. It speculates as to the likelihood of valuables to be found at this location, and the frustration they personally had in attempting to decipher the map themselves before giving up. They suppose: rare texts, alchemy supplies, a cache of gold, or perhaps nothing at all.

Maybe someone will have better luck than they.

Maybe these are those someones.

Comments

ota. all over the place.

[propulsion]

JOURNEY OUT;

"So if we have Scout, Research, and the Force represented, does that make me Diplomacy?"

See. Tony is fitting in.

They're coming up on the tree-line as he brings this up, apropos of it's just what his brain made his mouth do out of pure unmitigated fucking boredom. It's a means of curbing complaint, anyway, despite that use of horse for actual unironic transportation is way more exhausting than sitting on something else and making it do all the work has a right to be, and besides that, he's happy to be here. In that he isn't in the Gallows, and that's great.

He's dressed for the occasion, having sourced tougher stuff than the hand-me-downs he'd been tolerating. Light armor, if not of a familiar kind -- leather and quilted fabrics, gloves, a cloak. All parts of him that glow are concealed, which is nice. "I was the face guy in my old team," he adds, in case anyone was worried. "Actually. So don't even sweat it."

CAMPING;

This forest is beautiful and Tony hates it and wants to die.

Not all of these things are related, but it's how he feels by time they have stopped to set up camp. Every bone in his body is nagging his muscles about what the fuck just happened all day, which seems a little hyperbolic of them. Charitably, he can blame that on new kinds of rough treatment in place of the kind he is used to, and it doesn't help that he's working with spry millennials, either.

He's dressed down for the evening, some, sitting on Obligatory Forest Log By The Fire and digging heels into the damp earth as he unbuckles a glove and tugs it off, revealing the faint sheen of green light embedded in his palm, made brighter as the night above them quickens. It is not the most unusual part, however. As of discovering the whole communal bath situation and how most of everyone in this organisation is also an insomniac, Tony's given up trying to hide the nightlight embedded in his chest, and now, cool blue light radiates as a defined circle from beneath his shirt, no flicker or glimmer, just steady.

The other glove comes off, and he presses both palms into his eyesockets. Hrrgh.

"Anyone bring a nightcap? Or a muscle relaxant."

WILDCARD;

[ Literally anything else! Except that, I'm not that kind of girl. ]

journey (don't stop believin').

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is not riding a horse. He has discovered many things since joining Riftwatch, and one of them is that Mhavos and horses are not friends. No, he's sitting on the edge of the cart a beleaguered mule is pulling, idly jotting information down in a book. One third of it seems to be in code. The second third of it also appears to be in code, but a different one. Joy.

"So you have a diplomatic mien," Mhavos murmurs. "What of your personality?"

[propulsion]

The sound of shifting leather, a laboured exhale, and then booted feet landing on packed earth as just beyond Mhavos's periphery, Tony dismounts. The end result is he's fallen behind by some feet, but it's easy to make up as he winds horse reins around a hand and moves to walk pace.

Better. At least for now.

"What was that?" he is asking, meanwhile, his voice always a clap for attention at the best of times. "Can you speak up when you're being snide? Otherwise my feelings don't know to be hurt." He does not sound even remotely bullied, for the record, tone brisk but-- friendly, inasmuch as his friendliness is an acquired taste. Hi Mhavos whatcha readin'.

He steers the horse from trying to veer off towards where lush grass is still coming up in patches alongside the road. "I'm amiable," he tells him, in addition.

[murderbaby]

In the same even tone, "only if you'll quiet down when you're being facetious." He writes another line in his book, encoded as well. One of the codes looks like normal writing, except the letters do not form intelligable words. The other looks like normal writing, except the words do not form intelligable sentences.

The readable passage is simply an account of their position, supplies, goals, and progress.

"You are gregarious," Mhavos corrects. "Not amiable."

[propulsion]

Dang. Owned by a Christmas ornament.

Neither request nor correction play into any deep-seeded insecurities hitherto untapped and it doesn't sound like they were designed to, so Tony kind of smiles crooked to himself as he walks along with the cart, hitching the long tether to his horse up over his shoulder to drag the mount along behind him. (He has thus far interacted with these animals a little like he has done so enough times in the past not to be entirely awkward, but once on top of 'em, stiffly endured the ride like he's expecting it to roll.

He should also be more afraid of the potentiality of getting bitten, but, when is he ever.)

"First of all, touché. Second of all, people change. Grow into things as the situation demands." Taking out ever-present sunglasses from a pocket, flipping them open, installing them onto his face-- "As far as adaptation goes, I've done great."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos' comebacks are rarely acknowledged as, well, worthy. Most of the time, people either snap at him, huff, or somewhere in between (if they can't think of a better riposte themselves). Mhavos' expression brightens a little at the acknowledgement of his own wit, and he looks up from his logbook.

"Are we speaking in a general sense, or simply for the span of this expedition?"

[propulsion]

"Uhh both. Call it an optimistic 'so far'?"

Braces, then, against the next wall of cold wind, discomfort locking stiff up his shoulders. This is more wilderness than he is ordinarily comfortable with tolerating and it's just going to keep happening. But, you know. Cabin fever. Even in a massive prison-fortress-island.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos gives a slight shrug. "You haven't been here very long, and I don't know much of your world. Honestly, I'm in no place to judge."

Just to be judgmental.

He holds open his book, letting the pages face the wind as it comes in, drying the ink. "I don't think one should be in the habit of self-evaluation, though."

[propulsion]

Tony places a hand on the edge of the cart, an easy cheat towards propelling him along. Probably few minutes and he won't be able to keep up this peace without needlessly tuckering himself out, but it's good to get his limbs moving, returning blood flow through certain critical areas.

"Maybe your world should consider inventing therapy," he says, mild exertion doing nothing to slow the ready tempo of his words. "Then I wouldn't have to. And correction: you know exactly jack about my world."

[murderbaby]

"Perhaps you should tell me what therapy is so I can invent it," dry as ever.

He looks up with something that might have been a smile. Just now, it's canny. "I know you come from it. And you brought along with you the secondary parasite that is your personality. Two natives from your world. I know something."

[propulsion]

"Why does it gotta be this way between us."

Quick, flat affect, a rolling look side along.

The bit is dropped as quickly as it starts. "You'd make a killing. Back home I charged this one guy a small fortune for sessions I didn't even go to, but it felt great just to know someone had your back, you know? Basically you listen to problems and dispense advice based off psychological assessment but in my experience that last part is optional. Sometimes the meaner you are, the more it feels like it's working. So you'd do great."

[murderbaby]

"I'll consider it a retirement prospect when I gain a sudden interest in other people's lives."

His mouth twitches in what could, potentially, be a smile, but probably isn't. Ink dried, he sets the book aside. "That was an invitation to tell me more of your world, or should I have been more blunt?"

[propulsion]

"See, that right there?" Tony says, raising one gloved hand, splayed, a circular motion. "Mixed signals."

But. Kid asked a question. Kinda. It's not like Tony needs an excuse to answer it.

Even if it's a big question, the bigness of which he hadn't considered before he set himself up, bringing around a thoughtful pause as they go. The sound of hooves impacting soft ground, the creak and groan of cart wheels, and the buffeting wind all around. "Well," he says. "I'm American, as in, from the United States of America. State of New York. I hear someone else cracking wise about Orzammar one more time, I'm telling the Seneschal.

"We don't have magic," he says, because he lacks a canon update or two, "the way it's thought about here, anyway. Civilisation developed differently. Machine-based, mechanics, medical, it's-- technological advancement's left swords and sailing ships in the past by a couple've centuries, among. A lot, of other things. Uh. No elves. No-- dwarves, no qunari. Just a world full of humans, so you can imagine what kind of a nightmare that must be."

The horse tosses its head, and Tony readjusts his hold of the reins to accommodate. "And we have cars made of metal that go very fast and would have gotten us to our destination a couple of hours ago. No offense," tossed back over his shoulder at the mare he's dragging along.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos half-shrugs. Fair. He also can't really care, because communicating is not something this man struggles with. Clear communication, honest communication, forthright and unambiguous communication, maybe, but not communicating.

So Mhavos listens and takes notes. America. United States. New York. No magic. No swords or (sailing?) ships. Only humans (nightmare). Metal car(t)s.

He nods blithely. "Well, I think I took in about as much as I could, considering. It sounds very different. I would likely fair very poorly in the world of your description, so I would assume you've done well coming to ours. Does that satisfy?"

[propulsion]

Oh, are we still doing this bit? Sunglasses do something to obscure the sidelong look that Mhavos gets for his assessment, the corner of Tony's mouth twisting up, sardonic.

"Nailed it. Slap it in my performance review," he says. "Maybe I'll get a raise."

That's how jobs work, right?

"And for the record I think you'd do okay on my turf. Better than those guys," is maybe just loud enough for both Ellis and Lukas to hear.

[heorte]

A brief chuckle drifts back from the front of the cart.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is emboldened by the laugh, but tries not to show it. "The world which you described as a nightmare?"

[propulsion]

Ellis laughs at a thing Tony says. +5 approval.

"Sure. I mean, so is this place, just different. People born with the ability to do magic tricks but stand a coin flip's chance of turning into screaming rage demons isn't exactly a good time. And we only have one of those." In the tone of a sidenote; "Friend of mine."

[murderbaby]

"It's not quite that random-" What- "You befriended a demon?" What.

[propulsion]

"His name is Bruce," Tony says, bone-dry. It's either a joke or the kind of truth that is funny in itself and only to him. "And-- how not random are we talking? I assume no one becomes Abominations on purpose."

[murderbaby]

...tabling that for now. Mhavos nods. "Precisely. It's up to the individual and how they deal with temptation, fortitude, and so on. I admit, I only know what I've read; you'd have to speak with a mage for a real sense of it."

A moment of contemplation. "And any numbers you pulled would be irreconcilably biased, if not useless. Some circles have higher rates than others, and all rely on having a circle to pull from; a state of the world now rather outmoded."

camping!!

[tensive]

"I was under the impression they were roughly the same thing."

The forest is beautiful. Part of that beauty is the quiet that even Tony's frequent attempts can't completely fill. Aside from their voices, it's oppressively silent. It'll be louder when darkness really settles in, when all of the noisy insects and nocturnal birds and small mammals come to life, but for now it's just them, the distant shuffling of their companions, and the crackling of the fire.

The reply's followed by a short, contemplative pause. Then Lukas reaches into the coat he's yet to take off, reaching past a briefly visible hilt latched to the inside (steel, dull, and apparently bladeless) before producing a small flask. Whiskey, serviceable if not particularly exciting. He offers to pass it off without comment, unsure if that was even a real question or just more pointless noise. Tony makes a lot of pointless noise.

[propulsion]

This first part gets a non-committal sound out of Tony, continuing to press hands to eyes for another protracted moment before dropping his arms again, blinking away fireworks.

Raises an eyebrow, then, as deflection from Lukas turns to action, Tony pivoting attention to him. There's half a beat before he takes the offer, flask raised on its journey inwards in a gesture of thanks. He takes a swig without hesitation -- when in the Free Marches -- and offers it back.

"Thanks," he says. "It's a something relaxant. Where does good whiskey come from in--" Wonderland, Narnia, Oz "--Thedas, anyway?"

squints at booze on wiki

[tensive]

"Mackay's. But the Storm Coast, generally." The flask's casually pocketed as he speaks, judiciously passing on a drink himself. Except he's the one who brought it in the first place, so — quotes on judiciously, maybe.

Pointless small talk after a day full of endless wandering and endless debate over where to wander next doesn't hold much appeal, and normally he'd be tempted to let it die there. It's what he would do if it weren't for the conspicuous blue light emanating from beneath Tony's shirt.

"That isn't rift magic, is it?"

Phrased like a question, sounds like an observation. His demeanor doesn't change with the topic. Easygoing would be a misnomer; reserved or calm, definitely. Curious, if you're really paying attention.

[propulsion]

Tony's expression does a small thing when the whiskey is immediately stowed away -- c'mon, man -- but Lukas is spared follow-up grilling around the state of booze in Thedas that even very good fan wikis wouldn't be able to answer when he. Goes and diverts the conversation out of small talk, into something else.

"Nope," he says, after a couple seconds spent in silent consideration. "Well-- so, that depends on how you define rift magic. Or magic," and his hands do some of the talking for him, "in general, which I'm still having kind of a hard time with, linguistically. What you guys call magic, we'd consider observable phenomena and then call it some'n else. And what we call magic, it's more like-- phenomenon we hadn't gotten around to observing."

Does that track? ask Tony's hands, which drop back down to rest on his knees. "Anyway, this is something sorta different. Came with me from my world. Doesn't have much in common with rifts save for coming through one."