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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.

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The wind is starting to get its winter teeth. The journey out of Kirkwall and towards the forests themselves is almost unexpectedly cold, with the wind blowing in unhindered off the water from the south with little in the way of tree cover as they drive their horses along a well-worn trade route.

Once into the Planasene itself, the weather decides to lighten up a little, and the sun comes down sharp through dense branches. Collected rainwater from short showers occasionally dumps spoonfuls worth of chill down the backs of necks. Horse hooves splash through low running streams and pick delicately around flat river rocks, shining wet, and the paths are strewn with wet leaves of browns and golds.

After the first night of camping, the second day sees them at the foothills of the mountains. Forced to leave the horses behind, with plenty to eat and drink, the journey is one of uphill trudging, and outright hand over hand climbing. With any luck, they'll find what they're looking for before they have to make camp.

Just kidding they will always have to make camp.

"Hey."

It's early afternoon, but it feels like it's been much longer than that. By now, the map has exchanged hands enough that it looks about ten years older than when it began, and Tony can relate as he holds it up, head tipped. They are currently gathering their strength up on a cliff, the ledge of which had caused some debate among the team about whether it would be worth the climb to get a better perspective, having logically deduced that if this map connoted someone's eye-view, then they must have had a vantage point.

There'd been some arguing. Whining, in at least the case of one. But here they are. The view has not revealed anything of particular use to them, although this sketch of the mountain range does bear a resemblance to the one they have now, if not for any purpose. The map implies they should be able to see a pathway and a waterfall from here, and there is none.

"Hey," Tony says again, "Elf-on-the-Shelf. Does it matter about that it's got moons on it?"

He turns the map around for, ostensibly, Mhavos to look at. The map is crude charcoal markings on a torn page that looks as though it had some other purpose to it, with faded inked lines only barely visible, but more visible is an illustration in the far corner, a spiraling series of circles that seem to imply the lunar phases.

[ Watch this space. ]

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. ]

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?"

Mhavos looks tired, or maybe his face is just Like That. He has no idea what the shelf comment is or what it refers to. Mental note: at a later date, find out if he should be offended.

"Should I be offended?" Later is relative.

Instead of taking the map, Mhavos opens the little book he's been carrying around with him since this farce began. He turns to a page that reveals his own copy of the map, written in ink. He did it himself. Charcoal is not widely known for its preservative properties. Also, it gets in his eyes.

"It could," he says, staring at the page. "Yes, this is similar to a symbol I've seen. It generally denotes lunar phases. As in, the pathway is only viable on certain months. However, that's the sort of gnomic connerie one generally scoffs at as a man of learning."

His eyes find Tony's rather directly. One might call it a glare, except that would be rude.

( i. alright ramblers, let's get rambling )

Ellis' plate armor, embossed with the Wardens' sigil, has stayed tucked in it's bundle beneath his bed at the Gallows. The absence of it adds to the strangeness of this venture, his very first since he'd turned up and promised his aid to Riftwatch. Borrowed breastplate, borrowed cloak, borrowed shield strapped to his saddlebag, they weigh on him as tangible reminders that he's meant to be earning his keep here.

They've been riding for some time without incident, without even a bear or a few wolves to break the monotony. After some time, Ellis begins absently whistling as he scans the road ahead of them for trouble. Don't worry if this tune isn't to your liking, he knows plenty of others. They make long boring trips more exciting, trust him.

( ii. fireside chats )

Camping with so many other people is strange.

That sticks in his head as he tends the fire, carefully building it up. With this many people, he could shuck off his breastplate, sleep without his mace in his hand. There's more than just one person here to listen for the trouble Ellis expects to appear but has yet to materialize.

He doesn't shuck off the breastplate.

"Here," he says, handing off a bowl of something steaming to the person to his immediate left. "Give it a moment to cool before you have at it."

Riftwatch sent them out with fairly decent provisions. That's new and exciting for Ellis too. As far as missions go, this one could be worse.

( iii. wildcard )

[ get creative, i'm down to ride. ]

Ellis has taken a step back, all the better to idly swing his mace back and forth without taking someone's knee out.

Connerie or not, the idea that they've arrived either months too early or months too late prompts a heavy, exasperated sigh from Ellis. It's the most vocal complaint he's contributed thus far.

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.

"Thanks."

'Something steaming' is a very valid way of describing food you're meant to putting in your face hole, and it's similar to what Tony thinks of it, probably, but on this point, he doesn't vocalise complaint. He's had worse, even if he has for most of all his life had better and with regularity. He knew he was signing up for a mission with camping in it and acting precious about all the camping seems like a waste of time, even for him.

Still, he's happy to delay the inevitable, poking at the bowl's contents with a judgmental spoon. "I heard you're the new guy," he says. "Got any particularly romantic or heroic reasons about it?" Ellis looks like the type.

Lukas, meanwhile, has been cultivating a sort of mental mute list for Rifter nonsense. Elf-on-the-Shelf is tidily added, though he has to resist rolling his eyes at Mhavos responding and possibly making it a Thing. He'd rather they didn't.

He takes a moment to squint at the map, very intentionally not leaning in to make it easier, then shifts his gaze out over the mismatched scenery.

"If there's evidence of running water along those rocks, that'll answer our question."

Not running now, obviously, either because of the seasons or because this map is severely out of date. He doesn't sound particularly hopeful, but what's the alternative? Wait for the right month or wander aimlessly (some more)? He doesn't look tired, or even distinctly bored. Boring, maybe, mostly silent and focused. Still, he'd rather be filing books.

Mhavos' maybe-glare is met with big guileless brown eyes in return, Tony absently angling the map for Lukas' benefit. Currently attempting to work out if that first part was rhetorical and if not, does he get to have an opinion on it. (Sidebar: maybe one for the complaint box, being, elves should try to be far less easy to nickname.)

"Mr Dalat," Tony says, conciliary, kind of, "don't be shy about your gnomic conneries."

He twists a look out at the view. "Yeh," he says, on the back of Lukas' suggestion. "Getting a lot of rainfall, though. Seems weird." Seems weird what? Just seems weird. He hands off the map so as best to wander closer to the edge of the cliff, just shy of safely, apparently a little immune to social constructs like vertigo. "What about 'visible'? On certain months. Or hours. Pretending we're not learned men."

Which shouldn't be hard. Enough squinting at maps and wandering the rocky foothills in circles will definitely make you feel stupid in an hour or two. Tony's gaze goes skywards, assessing patchwork cloud, marble-white and slivers of blue. It is one of those hazily lit afternoons, all shadows ill-defined to be non-existent.

Edited 2019-10-04 01:19 (UTC)

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."

"I didn't make half as exciting an entrance as you did."

Not that anyone can really compete with rifters. Falling out of a hole in the sky tends to get everyone's attention.

"But as for my reasons, I suppose they're mostly the same as everyone else. Something has to be done about Corypheus," Ellis pauses, throws a few chips of wood at the fire. It's the truth. Part of the truth. "It seems I can do more good working with them than rooting out darkspawn on my own."

There's some measure of amusement as he says that. They're on a potential wild goose chase. It's not exactly what he'd expected to be involved with when he'd made his way to Kirkwall.

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."

"Well." Poke, stir. "Exciting maybe but apparently, overdone. Bit embarrassing."

Tony should be hungry after a day of riding and yet has spent these past couple of weeks almost entirely without appetite. It makes distraction easy, tracking instead the path of flung wood chips, imagining he catches something hesitant in this guy's explanation but not enough that Tony can pick it up to study.

Besides, people being cagey with complete strangers is more than normal, but expected. "Fighting darkspawn meaning you're one of those guys to whom the word 'taint' applies way too much."

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?"

The innuendo is noted, but doesn't color his response. He's heard Tony nettling Mhavos for most of the journey, assumes Tony's attempting the same, and focuses on the question itself.

"A Grey Warden," he confirms. "There's a handful of us working with Riftwatch, more perhaps with the Inquisition. I've been long traveling, so I lack the details."

Unfortunate, when all your gossip is out of date.

"I admit, I thought I'd be doing more fighting. But we do what is needed, don't we?"

There is a short period of staring at the front half of that, attempting to pick up on any cue that the joke lands -- and he will be the first to concede that it has to be a tired joke, but still -- and finding none. Nor real confirmation that it did not. Mysterious.

"Heck, I'm sure we can drum some'n up. Heffalumps and woozles. Creepy forest, bound to be something for your, uh. What is that, like a mace?"

Notably, Tony did not bring any weapons with him. Someone had offered him a sword, at one point, an old notched thing he'd turned down. What am I gonna kill? Myself, with tetanus?

Now he digs into food, spoon scraping along bowl. "Grey Wardens normally fly solo?"

"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.

"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.

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?"

If nothing else, traveling with Tony has been an exercise in "what the fuck is that?" Heffalumps and woozles absolutely fall under that heading, and Ellis squints at him for a moment before lifting his mace briefly, nodding at the question.

"Some of us, aye. Some prefer to travel alone, and call for reinforcement as they see fit."

And some of them are Ellis, though there's no need for Tony to know that.

"What is your plan, should a," There is a a brief pause here. "woozle come tumbling out of the brush? You've no weapons."

Except for the shard and his palm, and whatever it is he carries in his chest. It feels impolite to ask about that just yet.

Edited (labors over how to emphasize dramatic pauses) 2019-10-08 19:08 (UTC)

"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.

Tony sets his bowl aside to best show off his hand, kind of tipping a little further into Ellis' space as he does so. In the encroaching nightfall, it's a brighter source of light, reflecting off lax fingers.

"Short-ranged repulsion attack," he says. Not so different in tone as though he were selling Ellis a firearm. "Spirit dispersing, bone breaking, infinite supply save for whatever it's doing to my long-term survivability. Also comes with a defense setting, creates quick-fire forcefields in a pinch. Operational, but I figure I might get to field test it while we're playing Boy Scouts."

He leans back into his own space. "That or I hide behind a bush until the mobs are cleared, but I like to get involved."

Edited 2019-10-10 21:05 (UTC)

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closed.

assembly. threads and the jacking thereof.

deciphering. group thread.

bootytown. to come.

ota. all over the place.

journey (don't stop believin').

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ota.

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ii. fireside chats.

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camping!!

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squints at booze on wiki

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