faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ SECRET STEEP'D ROOTS

Entry tags:

MOD PLOT ↠ SECRET STEEP'D ROOTS

WHO: Open
WHAT: Trapped! Trapped in a jungle!
WHEN: Bloomingtide 9:46
WHERE: Unknown
NOTES: OOC post! The three starters in the comments can have multiple threads, and feel free to ask us on the OOC post if you have any "what will happen if I x" questions.

When the eluvian shatters, there's a stutter in the flow of the fight. The eight Venatori nearly all freeze in place for a moment when the glass cracks, watching their way out and their plan crumble, and afterwards they never quite manage to get their rhythm back. But they don't quit, either. In the end, they all go down fighting.

Riftwatch takes no casualties, and the four members of Riftwatch who were taken captive are all alive, accounted for, and mostly unharmed.

That's the end of the good news.

The massive, shattered eluvian was set within a ruin carved and built out of a steep embankment, now almost entirely reclaimed by the jungle. All that's left are the remains of walls—some full height, others crumbling where vines have pushed between the stones or spreading tree roots have disrupted the ground. But with daylight fading and several injuries that need attending to before anyone can move, the surviving walls and thick plant growth form the best shelter anyone can hope to find before nightfall.

When the sun rises and better stock can be taken of their position, the jungle in which everyone finds themselves is still not immediately recognizable. It's hot compared to Kirkwall at this time of year, with temperatures hovering around 75-80F and kept relatively consistent between day and night by the high humidity and non-existent breeze. It rains with some frequency—light showers that are little more than mist by the time they reach ground-level or torrential downpours that start with little warning and drop several inches of rain in an hour before disappearing as abruptly as they'd arrived.

Most of the ruins extending up or out from the embankment are little more than chunks of moss-covered stone buried in the undergrowth. Searching around them will find them a stream running through the remains of a carved stone channel, fast enough to be safe to drink, and they can follow that a short ways out of the ruins to where it joins a much larger river. They won't see any traffic along it except for a variety of river creatures that would be happy to eat them. Judging by the position of the sun and moons, the river leads south.

There is one half-sunken portion of the ruin complex that's more intact, but after exploring it confirms there is no back-up eluvian on offer, there's little choice but to set out into the dense growth of the jungle. Huge trees create a canopy far overhead, and the floor is soft and springy with dead matter. Giant ferns, vines of every variety, and flowers of every conceivable color crowd them at every turn, making travel slow and damp. Overhead, and all around, are the sounds of other creatures moving through the same space. Birdsong, monkey screeches, the constant buzz and chitter of insects. The fauna in the jungle is a mix of the usual sorts of beasts one would expect in such a climate: parrots, monkeys, snakes, absurdly large insects, the rare big cat, whatever other weird animals walk around a jungle.

The walk south along the river will be a long and difficult slog through dense jungle with no real respite from the environment along the way—and no real certainty about their destination. They'll have to make a new camp each night as best they can and push on the next morning, hiking through seemingly-endless forest. At first, they will have the benefit of a path, a trail south alongside the river that appears to have been cut less than a month ago. It will lead to a second set of ruins where signs of Venatori presence will be obvious. They will make camp here for a couple days while they explore more thoroughly for clues about where they are and what the Venatori were up to.

Beyond that point it will be necessary to cut their own trail, an exhausting process that means even slower going and tired arms for everyone who takes a shift at the front of the line. The only break will come when the jungle abruptly gives way to a deep gorge, the river taking a hard west-ward turn and dropping down a series of magnificent waterfalls to what looks like a very large lake at the bottom. They can either find a way down the falls and hike west around the lake, or cross the river via a narrow rock bridge over the falls and continue south back into the jungle. They'll stop here and make camp among the rocks for another couple days to try to identify the lake or the falls before they go any further and risk walking miles in the wrong direction.

The journey will take a few weeks in total, with plenty of time and opportunity for a few people scouting ahead or foraging for food to find trouble (or fun) on their own. But the entire group will also encounter a few hazards together, including, in chronological order:

Shortly after leaving the elven ruins where they came through the eluvian, a flash flood will catch the camp one evening, despite its position on the best available high ground, sweeping away some supplies and ruining others. People outside of the camp, for whatever reason, will lack the high ground and might experience a more dangerous rush of water, and everyone will have to go to sleep damp and hungry.
A day after the group leaves the dwarven ruins, a swarm of dragonlings and several drakes will emerge from a mountain cave when the group passes too close, breathing fire and intent on chasing them away. Their high dragon won't appear for the fight, but several days later she will fly overhead, barely visible through the canopy but obviously very, very large.
A few days later, they'll come upon a hot spring that appears crystal-clear and fine for drinking and bathing, but will result in people developing minor, mostly auditory hallucinatory effects an hour or two after their exposure to it. The plants growing nearby will show to have an even stronger effect, if anyone is foolish enough to eat them to find out.
In a few areas, the river will cut gorges through the mountainous terrain, and following it will require either walking along narrow traversable paths on the cliffsides or holding supplies overhead and fording through the water. Watch out for dickfish.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Vast improvement. Perhaps the next time it happens the attempt will falter just outside Kirkwall to make the entire business less inconvenient."

That minor bit of good humor is promising. But considering how quickly their last conversation had turned from promise to shouting, John's loathe to put too much stock in it.

"I appreciate you coming to collect me in person this time," John continues, some glimmer of honesty in the lightness of his tone. "Though I don't think we should pass up the opportunity for disrupting a second funeral service."

"You think anyone back in Kirkwall is capable of organizing that much?" These kinds of extemporary repairs are what sailors are bred to do; he has been tying these knots since he was a boy and could do it with his eyes closed, much less the full attention he's dedicating to it now. "It occurred to me the other night that I could almost wish to return and find the whole Gallows reduced to a smoking pile of rubble. It would suggest someone at least had summoned enough ambition to set the fire."

A knot is secured, then forced low against the axe head by his thumbs.

There's a moment of hesitation. It's a joke, but there's a moment where John thinks of how many problems it would solve if the Gallows was simply destroyed. If they could simply leave this organization behind them without the weight of how much time they'd sunk into it hanging over them?

"There's still time to send word to one of the men to instigate it."

Ha. Ha.

His chuckle is a low, rounded sound. Funny, but not my point, says the tip of his head as he secures the first knot with a second. He looks up then, lacing the lingering loose ends of the leather piece into a neat braid without bothering to give it more attention that it's worth.

"There's a coat left in the division office that I'd prefer to hold on to."

John folds his hands over his stomach, humming in acknowledgement.

"It is a fine coat, if it's the one I recall."

As if they aren't all fine coats. John has always appreciated that bit of theater, the groundwork it laid before Flint even opened his mouth to speak.

"So I suppose it's worth hoping the place still stands by the time we make our way back."

Smoothly, as if John had never considered otherwise.

But there is a dip at the end of that statement, underscoring the invitation in John's face when he turns to look at Flint properly. What else? it queries.

"So it seems."

The end of the lacing is secured, a last little knot placed in the cording. When he is finished, he tests the point of connection between the axehead and the its shaft - verifying there is no wobble there as his eye wanders past his present company to the rest of the camp beyond Silver's shoulder.

When he looks back, the measuring quality in his face has diminished to a single point. He is, if nothing else, satisfied with the fix to the axe. He turns it in his hand and strikes its sharpened face easily down into the chunk of wood he's sitting on.

"I mean to refill my waterskin at the creek before I sleep. If your leg is well enough, you're welcome to accompany me. Otherwise, I'll see it yours as well."

The urge to groan in complaint comes and goes. Before the debacle in Nevarra, John might have made some complaints about the idea of getting up and trudging down to the creek. But he reaches for his crutch and levers himself upright, leaving his coat still spread out across the forest floor as an intention of return.

(Some faint instinct of self-preservation warns that this might still be a foolish thing to do, and yet.)

"I'll accompany you."

And he does, moving carefully in the dark so as not to end up flat on his face. They make it down to the water's edge before John speaks again, leaning on his crutch as Flint works the stopper free of his waterskin.

"I assume you didn't bring me down here just for the water."

All things considered - the dark, the crackle of animal and insect things about them, how quickly the light from the camp's fires become obscured by the flora -, it's a short walk. Given the slight high ground on which they'd managed to pitch their fires and make-do tents, there had been little reason to stray farther than a dozen yards from the creek bed. Even if it pours rain, there's little chance the water will sweep so high again.

The water is pleasantly, bitterly cold against his hands as he submerges the first skin down into it, and the hiss of the creek is the loudest thing between them with the sounds of the camp having been muted by even just this slight distance. From where he is on his knee on the bank, Flint glances up toward him in the dark though they are all little more than dim shapes among the ferns and smooth barked trees.

"I trust I don't need to speak to the fact that I have no way of knowing what has happened in our absence." That, he thinks, is the trouble isn't it? Not in Kirkwall, no, but farther North, in Nascere. "It's quite possible that what I know will have changed dramatically enough that all of this will no longer be relevant."

"I know."

It has been months since he'd sent a small packet of letters to Madi. Months without reply, which could mean anything. John does not think of the possibilities.

"But I think it's impossible for our enemy to have gained leverage in any significant way and kept quiet about it."

Is it foolish to trust that their enemy wouldn't be able to keep from gloating? Is Tevinter so keen for even a small victory they'd trumpet it out across the entirety of Thedas? Perhaps. John refuses to think of what a victory there would cost them. How many lives...

No.

"We can't make any assessments from here," John asserts, changing tack. "Even with the crystals, we're without too much information."

"I doubt Corypheus has made any overt move, either in the North or with his force in Orlais," is an assertion, agreement, a bough bending. "But given the state of Nevarra and the impending Exalted March, it is true that we will likely need to move quickly to make those assessments once we return."

This is not a discussion of whether they will make it free of the jungle, only of how much time it will rob from them and what will be required to make up for it.

"For the sake of expediting what decisions must be made, it would be best that we return with a clear picture of where we all stand in relation to them." The distance makes this seem more simple, or after a few weeks in the jungle he is at least willing to pretend it does. And if it is not, they will have days yet before they make it out of this place. That is plenty of room in which to make necessary repairs.

He corks the first waterskin, filled now, and sets it aside. he motions for Silver to pass his along.

"There are things you should know."

There's a beat of silence, ostensibly where John occupies himself with uncorking his own waterskin.

Is this what they'd nearly broached in the backroom of that tavern, before everything had gone sideways? This specific admittance that Flint had held something back from him isn't a surprise, but hearing it aloud in the dark kindles some small optimistic flicker in the back of his mind. Whatever it is, once it's known John can do something it.

"I'm listening."

So he is.

Where would it be best to begin, he had thought - turning the idea over in his mind as they trudged through the jungle, as they had sorted through Kirkwall's assortment of book sellers, and before that even: a stack of things happening all at once.

"Shortly after we returned from Nevarra and before news of Pentaghast's papers broke, Byerly Rutyer accused me of being a Tevene spy. An absurd paranoia, I grant, but he knew just enough of where I came from - who I was there and what was said about my leaving - that when the news of Nevarra did reach us, I thought it reasonable to make fast friends who might dissent should anyone suggest my removal. Hence," he says, taking that second water skin and drowning it in the creek. "This business with Madame de Cedoux, and entertaining Fabria's continued interest."

This moment is akin to turning a vase over in his hands and seeing cracks, noting how the spider-web further and further.

"I've entertained Fabria a fair amount myself."

The least objectionable out of the three named parties.

"How much of a threat is Rutyer to us?" and then, "What business with Madame de Cedoux?"

Us is insistent. It is a reminder that whatever else there is, however far these cracks stretch, the fact of their partnership is unwavering. (Even if it is wavering. If it has wavered.)

"Immediately? Rutyer is less dangerous than he thinks he is, even accounting for the fact that he is an intelligencier out of Denerim with the weight of a crown behind him." All problems look like nails to a hammer; all spies think suspicious persons must be the same.

"I believe I've satisfied his curiosity with respect to my allegiances by discussing how we might leverage soporati within the Imperium to destabilize it and having shown some willingness to let him do as he pleases with respect to Ferelden's interests, among endless other conversations the man insists on. But there's no guarantee he won't look for some way of using what he knows to convince someone differently should our circumstances in the war change."

Under the running creek's surface, he recorks the filled skin. It's fetched up again with a hiss of displaced water.

"You recall I said Madame de Cedoux knew of our involvement in Nevarra." He looks to him in the dark, the shadows drawing them both more painfully thin than they are in reality - paints them both as distant versions of themselves. "She is aware of it because I told her."

Edited 2020-07-04 23:19 (UTC)

The answer in regards to Byerly Rutyer is satisfactory. But with regards to Madame de Cedoux—

"Why?"

A single word, falling like a stone between them.

"If we are to leverage Hunter Fell as we wish to, someone must know of what the Van Markhams promised. Fabria has discussed sending someone to the Grand Enchanter to inform her of the offer made to mages; telling someone - in Kirkwall, among Riftwatch - stands to earn us some credit before the other Division Heads have had the chance to balk at the idea."

Is the truth. Is enough of an answer.

Isn't it?

"I felt she would find the idea agreeable." Because he was tired, and felt like it.

Once, John had found it so simple to detach himself and consider simply the merits of a development. It's become extremely difficult now to winnow down his reaction.

Is his objection to the risk or is it because the risk was taken and he hadn't found out for months afterwards?

"And did she?"

Carefully, voice steady.

"As no one's come to oust us out of Kirkwall, either my impression was correct or she's taking her time."

--Is almost certainly meant to have some air of lightness to it, though the shape of the words are flat and the darkness swallows it whole. He takes some alternate way forward.

"We're almost certain to have the rebel mages who fought in the war. We have Fabria. I would wager on Voss and the Averesches. The Rifters hardly present a united front, but if anyone is likely to be able to make some case to some of them then she is the most likely candidate."

On the other hand, John's tone doesn't waver. It comes from the shadows, even and measured.

"We aren't anticipating the Provost splintering the Rifters?"

Even as John wonders: what lies beyond this? What else is there rattling in the dark beyond the stacking of allies against future argument? What else has happened outside of John's attention?

It should be a relief, and it is, for a moment. But in the aftermath is some slow burn of frustration, impatience.

There is some relief in this - the picking over of details, turning over the dispositions of other people. He bends to it willingly, drying water chilled hands at the edge of his shirt.

"I doubt his association with them to be strong enough to warrant the kind of loyalty that would sway them against the rest who would back this plan. Moreover, I think if he were aware the odds were so stacked against him, he'd be unlikely to ask them to. He's in no less tenuous a position than I am."

That at least rings true. What little John knows of Thranduil has always been that he is a man very capable of assessing opinion and preserving in the face of it. He had to be, to have risen high within the Inquisition and maintained that post when they'd broken from them.

"That leaves Yseult and Rutyer to sway, when it comes to it."

And they'd only need one. It's not impossible.

"Is there more?"

More than the Madame de Cedoux. More than Rutyer's paranoia. More than the leveraging of a fair amount of this organization behind their cause. The question is a hand smoothing along the surface of a vase, feeling along the glaze for the place where the cracks come to an end.

"Yseult's husband. I've asked Darras Rivain to take control of handling what constitutes Riftwatch's fleet, with the Walrus's part in that being conditional to our word."

There is something curved in the line of his shoulder, his elbow settled across his thigh, and the crooked way he looks at Silver which says he is aware that of all parts, this will seem like the riskiest gamble. Handing power, however administrative, into the hands of the man with the closest tie to the division head who is the least convinced of their intentions has the potential to be nothing short of disastrous.

But.

"I doubt him capable of the kind of ambition required to be dangerous."

What use is an objection? John may as well try to alter the tides.

But the same uncertainty remains: does he object to the action taken or that it was taken without his council?

"You are unconcerned about his wife's ambition?" is what John decides upon. The autonomy of the Walrus is preserved, so the danger lies in elevating one more voice to potentially speak against them. And even then, John's likely months too late. What use is it now to point out when the offer has been made?

"Unfortunately, I don't believe ambitious to be the right word for what Yseult is. And her conviction is unlikely to be any weaker with her husband in a position where he can be idle rather than in one where he might do real work toward winning this war."

A true answer, if an automatic and simple one. Regardless of the state of Nevarra, there is a war in need of fighting.

He touches the ground, steadies himself, and then moves to stand - fetching the filled waterskins up with him.

It isn't wrong. Like much of what has already been discussed, John doesn't think he would have objected in the moment. But it's the long stretch of time between the decision and the admittance that rankles. John listens as Flint moves in the dark, gaze directed downwards at his hands as he presses his thumb against the freshly healed skin there.

"Just how much more is there that you haven't told me?"

There is no heat in John's voice.

"Should I find somewhere to sit before we proceed further?"

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