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

"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?"

He pauses, lingering there on the creek bank with the ties of the two waterskins looped loosely around his knuckles.

"Where would you have me stop?"

It's a simple question, bare and without edge. Where does it end - the threads of this thing that need managing, and the ones which warrant discussion? Which parts matter, and which have already been made irrelevant and no longer warrant discussion? Which parts are simply facts of the office, unimportant until they factor into some larger picture? Which parts are too tender?

"I wouldn't."

What other answer can there be? This opportunity feels rare. Neither of them have tipped towards an argument, so why stop?

"I'd hear everything."

Unspoken: what should have been passed between them, what has been held back in the fractured, badly-set break of their partnership.

John has never in his life considered that it's better not to know all things. He won't be learning that lesson now.

A crisp recitation then.

"Rutyer and I have been discussing what it would take to align the Tevinter soporati with a prospective slave rebellion. And," he adds, as if in afterthought or like a muscle being stretched in for exercise. "The prospect of providing passage for refugees from the Imperium and Nevarra to Ferelden. Which to me seems an oversight on his part, given that we might instead dump them on the Van Markham's doorstep and so cripple Hunter Fell under the weight of supporting them. Any failure there could be easily leveraged by Aurelia.

His hand is shifting, turning those ties absently as if his fingers haven't received the message that the relatively impassive lines of his face are doing their best to deliver.

"What I can't say is whether Rutyer simply hasn't considered that possibility, or if he gains something more by having them there."

Saying it aloud makes it seem like one in a long series of paranoias.

There is a moment in the wake of this recitation where John feels his shoulders bow beneath the perceived weight of these thoughts.

He's become accustomed to missing Madi. She exists as a phantom ache, the way he sometimes feels a twinge in the leg that is no longer there. But the sharpness of her absence stabs through him now, thinking of the enormity of Flint's suspicions stretching out between them. It seems too big for John's hands alone. The memory of her voice calmly promising him an anchor in this business comes back to him cruelly now.

Slowly, John breathes out.

"He's not a fool," John says, cautious. "I think we can consider that if his ambitions do not run counter to ours, we can assume what benefits him will not hamper our efforts."

For the moment, at least.

"I don't care to rely on his good graces. But you will need someone to side with you against Yseult as we go forward in this war. If we cannot rely upon Thranduil, then we must make do."

Or remove the obstacles among the division heads, but John knows better to than to say that out loud.

He does move then, groping in the dim light to find a felled tree to lower himself down to sit. The ache in his shoulder has turned dull, but it'll make itself known tomorrow as they press on towards...somewhere. Civilization, John assumes.

Edited (changes literally 1 word) 2020-07-11 22:53 (UTC)

Something in that prospect makes him grimace, has him shifting to set the toe of his boot against some stone at the creek's edge for the simple distraction of feeling it through the worn thin sole. It is a thought visibly unexpressed, and subsequently set aside.

"If nothing else, he is easily the party most willing to bargain. We're fortunate all his interests lies so far South. It costs us less to give something to Ferelden than to the likes of Antiva." Or Orlais. Or Nevarra. Or anyone else who, if empowered, might both suspect themselves confident in their own security and in a willing position to allow the Qun to sweep through the North once Tevinter is turned over. If Byerly Rutyer wants so desperately to be leashed, then there is little reason to make an enemy by insisting on cutting the line.

(Though the fact of it rankles against something in him - sticks as a bur might, or frustrates like a puzzle which has defied easy solving.)

It is a thought understood, even shared. John doesn't trust Byerly Rutyer, perhaps because he recognizes in him enough shared traits to warrant suspicion. He stretches out his leg, heel grinding a light furrow in the dirt.

"Ferelden is easier dealt with once we have a foothold in the north."

Once their people are safe. (When Madi is safe.)

"We don't need to tell him any more than you already have," John says. "Until he moves on or we find sufficient leverage elsewhere."

His attention rises from the toe of his boot (or from dark shadow of jungle greenery, or from the hiss of the water passing by between them, or--) then, fixing himself in the direction of the shape of that idea. Picturing what dealing with Ferelden looks like. Has he ever thought so far south before? The Imperium demands toppling. Nevarra can be turned into a ready ally for any difficulty with the Qun. Orlais will at this point be crippled to the point of breaking from this war regardless of what they do or do not choose to do at this stage. To deal with Ferelden suggests some scope for the work beyond securing freedom in the North. It speaks to that latent idea which burns in his belly when he thinks of Tevinter soporati and the stranglehold of the Chantry, and an old certainty in his bones which bristles over free mages actively battering against the picture of Southern Mages, and the monstrous shapes they are bent into.

He studies the dark about them. The high black canopy of trees which blot out every star by which the world might be navigated. It is such a long list of things. A map in a book which unfolds and unfolds and unfolds until it will not fit any place from which it might be examined.

"Aren't you tired?"

There is a bristling silence in the wake of that question. John's hand, taken to absently kneading at the muscle of his thigh, ceases it's movement.

In the course of his life, he has always been aware of balancing between a truth and a lie. What is he best served by divulging, he asks himself. So often, he is best served by a smoothly delivered falsehood. It is an armor. It creates space between himself and the world, and he is allowed to move within that space safely.

And over the past several years, John has become aware of how quickly that space can shrink and vanish. Does any space still exist between him and Flint? Did he not give that over on the road in Nevarra? (Or before, long before, when he hadn't even realized what he was ceding?)

"I am."

The truth. Crowding behind it: Why does it matter? Why do you ask this of me? and closest to the surface Aren't you?\

But instead—

"Does it matter? It doesn't change anything."

The jungle is all imperfect, living dark. There are things moving out here among the ferns and slinking about great root systems. Insects buzz. A bird whippor calls with a looping pitch. Back the way they came, there are glimmers of campfires so obscured by the foliage that they might as well regard them through a pinprick hole punched through paper.

Doesn't it? Matter.

Is a question he could ask. He can sense how much purchase it has.

Instead, tempering, he looks at him and rearranges what he wants to say into something more true: "I'm sorry, but no. It doesn't."

The answer is nothing John wasn't already expecting. It is, in fact, something he has told himself. It has been the sentiment that has shaped what he says to the crew, what he says to himself every time he lifts a pen and considers resignation, fleeing, vanishing.

No, it doesn't matter. So they are tired. That changes nothing.

But there is some minor relief in saying it aloud in the dark. It is a safer truth than what was dragged from John on the road in Nevarra.

"I know. I didn't expect otherwise."

Finally, quiet acknowledgement. (Had Flint said anything else, it would open the door to a path neither of them are willing to take.)

"I can't see a reason to part ways with you now, regardless."

It's meant lightly, the kind of remark that should be a tease. But it's weighted. John can't divine it's reception now, in the wake of months of strain.

Some shape passes behind the lines of his face, so dim in the night that even though it's his own face he would have trouble putting a name to it. Just that something gives, which makes sense. That is how erosion works. And that the impulse which rises up into the space is a thing that is mingled heat and want, some complicated shape without edges to orient himself by that he thinks he might nonetheless recognize if he turned it once or twice over in the hand.

Instead, he laughs and runs his hand across the crown of his head. They have been out here long enough that the prickle of hair is turning downy.

"That's good," he says. There is something easy in the slanting line of his shoulder. A tip of the head indicates the fucking jungle. Good humor can be like wincing sometimes. "As I don't see how you have much of a choice otherwise."

The laughter is a relief. The tension between them eases in the wake of it, unexpectedly giving way to levity. John cannot tell if this ease will stretch into the daylight, but he is glad of it anyway. Whatever nameless emotion underscores it, John is content to leave it unexamined for the moment as well.

"Oh, I don't know. It seems I still have some skill as a cook to trade on."

A joke to communicate something weightier: There is a choice, but John has already made his. There is a way out if he were willing to throw away everything else. There is a way out if he could convince himself these commitments, the way he's bound himself to Flint, to Madi, to the men on the Walrus and bleeding for this cause on Nascere, did not matter to him.

But they do. That's the trap, and it closed on him years ago now. John would have to leave more than a limb behind to extricate himself, and he finds himself unwilling to attempt it.

"Is that why Rutyer is so busy shitting himself?"

He laughs again, sharper and clearer, and were they less familiar it would be easy to mistake him for being unaware of the point being implied. But even at a distance and in the dark, surely they would cut shapes that are recognizable to each other. There is still humor living in the corner of his mouth as he winds the laces of the water skins to shorten his hold on them, but his step across the narrow creek bed between them must be a deliberate one and the hand he offers Silver up could just as easily have never been extended.

There are no mysteries between them. It is not difficult to mark out the layers of that joke, to catch the smile pulling at Flint's expression in the dark as he moves. They are known to each other. There are moments, this moment, when John feels fondness, affection, like a second heartbeat. The awareness of the emotion lances through him, wedges like a knife between his ribs.

John choose this man, this partnership. It was birthed into existence with gold and gaatlok and blood and bone. He thinks again of the the solid flex of Flint's shoulder beneath his palm as the pair of them navigated the overgrown mess of jungle for the second time together, of the raw silence in his cabin after Nevarra, of the blood John had pressed into his shoulder at Ghislain. Who else has known him so long? Who else has known enough of him to offer a joke rooted in a shared past?

"I can only assume Fereldans can't stomach Northern cooking," is what John says finally, all faux innocence as he shifts the crutch down from where he'd lain it across his knee. He clasps Flint's hand, palm to palm, lets that contact anchor him as he pulls himself upwards.

Edited (deletes extra words) 2020-07-22 03:54 (UTC)

"That must be it," he agrees, as arch and bone dry as his grip is first a sturdy counterpoint and then a gentling thing - converting into an absent and unnecessary steadying touch that nonetheless migrates automatically from hand to elbow as John rights himself.

Go now, toward the fires around which the Riftwatch encampment is assembled piecemeal. There is no requirement to say anything further. There is no demand that assurances be made, and he doesn't need to say Follow me, to trust that John will take a similar path when it comes to winding their way back through the tangled dark about them.

"When we return to Kirkwall," is not a promise. It is an offering made quietly to a space that might be mended. Does it matter? That to do it is difficult, if it is worth doing? "There will be work in need of doing with respect to enfranchising the slaves in Tevinter. Jones is unlikely to let the Provost forget about it, but it would help if we were to find some way of pushing Rutyer on the subject. If we could secure real numbers there, it might be possible to prove to Valeriantus and his like that rallying a contingent of reinforcements to Nascere is in our shared interests."

Could. Might. His hand. A distant place. These are fine, romantic things.

MOD PLOT ↠ SECRET STEEP'D ROOTS

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

me 12 hours later: what if i write something else entirely

no subject

i'm gonna murder u

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)