MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: Assisting with the aftermath of occupation
WHEN: August through Kingsway
WHERE: Field of Ghislain
NOTES: OOC post. Please use appropriate content warnings in your comment subject lines as needed.

The Fields of Ghislain are, as the name suggests, broad open plains, more flat than not, more grass than trees. There are famous orchards around Arlesans at the southern end, but they fade into grassland and farm land, wide fields of wheat and corn separating quiet farming villages and the occasional bustling market town, the even more occasional country estate.

High summer here has always meant long hot days, dusty roads, and preparations for the harvest. Now it also means recovery from the sudden end to the area's year-and-a-half of occupation by the forces of Corypheus. On first glance, the area appears to have escaped relatively unscathed. There are a few burnt villages here and there, a few new rifts, and the scarred valley where the Battle of Ghislain took place, but there are also crops growing strong in the fields and markets open for business, people going about their lives.

On closer inspection, there's more work to be done. The immediate threats are obvious: an unusual number of rifts and the general thinning of the Veil they signal, small bands of enemies—including bands of darkspawn with red lyrium growths—still marauding through the region, isolated patches of red lyrium to be destroyed and Blight to be contained.

Most places have at least one building that's been destroyed by fire or force, some practically essential—a grain store, an infirmary, a watch tower—some invaluable in other ways—a chantry, a mayor's office, a monument to heroic ancestors. Some places showed more resistance than others, and there whole neighborhoods or even entire villages have been gutted by fire and the ruins shoved over like block towers. Some survivors fled and now return to pick through the debris, while others remained, living in shanties in the ashes waiting for a chance to rebuild. Despite the crops ripening in the fields there are signs of malnutrition in many places as well, stories of crops confiscated to feed the invading troops and only meager rations returned, worse off even than those affected by shortages elsewhere in Orlais.

And it's not just the material that the enemy has taken or destroyed. Every decent-sized village has its missing, people who were arrested and taken away in wagons or simply vanished one day out of the blue. Where there was resistance there were executions to discourage it, and while the inhabitants have already taken down and buried the displayed bodies, there are a few places where there is no one left to do so, or where magic placed remains out of reach but always in sight.

There are opportunities too: the enemy lived and worked here for 18 months. They did their best to cover their tracks when they left, but it was a hasty and unexpected withdrawal, and there is a wealth of information to collect and work through. There are houses they occupied that haven't been entirely cleaned out, papers only half-burned in an abandoned office, a storeroom in an outpost basement they forgot to empty. And there are the people who have been forced to live and work alongside them all this time to be spoken with, the names they've learned and the conversations they've overheard, the training exercises held on their village greens, all to be teased out and taken down.

One abandoned operation commands particular attention: the site that Riftwatch—then the Inquisition—observed on the eve of the Battle might be a shrine to the Old God Dumat. At the time this was a newly-discovered ruin and little could be discerned for certain, but during their occupation the Venatori have undertaken massive excavations. They've uncovered not just a shrine but a significant temple complex, much of it underground. Exploration of the lowest levels will be handled by a particular team, but there is more to see and do besides. The warren of ruins and the remains of the camp outside them must be searched for clues as to the Venatori's purpose here, and a preliminary study made of the site's contents. There are also the slaves who did the back-breaking labor of digging out the complex and now need assistance. Many are locals, who simply need a ride back to their homes. Others the Venatori brought with them from Tevinter, and they will need to be interviewed and local communities persuaded to take them in.

It is an unimaginable amount of work, but Riftwatch isn't doing it alone. The Inquisition still has a large number of noncombatants, many of whom have been sent to help with outreach and rebuilding in particular. The Exalted March, too, has plenty of volunteers that aren't exactly fit for the front lines. There is enough ground to cover for everyone, but there will be times when Riftwatch agents will be working with—or at least alongside—those from the Inquisition and the Exalted March, and orders are clear that they are to maintain good working relations and not start any trouble.

In between all of this there will be long rides by horse or cart from this village to that one over dirt tracks with cicadas buzzing in the sun, sweltering afternoons broken up by sudden, drenching thunderstorms, warm evenings playing pétanque on the green with the locals over a pint of cider. There will be as many wary as grateful, but hopefully by the end of the summer Riftwatch can tip that balance a little bit.

Comments

Richard Dickerson

[nonvenomous]

appears here

[heorte]

Sleeping assignments have them all scattered, but it's not so impossible to find a person in the cool evenings. His presence is announced with a light thunk as Ellis sets a sealed bottle down on the table in front of Richard.

"Am I intruding?"

Ellis' hair is still damp. The tainted blood has been washed away, but it feels as if it's lingered in spite of the soap.

It's too early to ascend the stairs to the annex above the bakery. And even if it weren't, Ellis isn't fully prepared for the prying questions the bakers will be directing towards him the minute he sets foot in the shop.

[nonvenomous]

Foot traffic is an inevitability where safety lies in numbers; Richard doesn’t pause in his writing to look up until the bottle bumps the table. This technically does qualify as an intrusion; Dick is seated at a scorched table in the bombed out foundation of what was probably once a small shop or home, transcribing short form interview notes from his journal onto loose paper by the light of a single lamp.

Still. He shakes his head ‘no.’ Accommodating.

Across the way, there are businesses near enough by for the murmur of other conversations to drift in. Cart wheels squeak and supplies clatter as operations wind down for the evening.

“I’d offer you a seat,” he says, twisting to scan the wreckage -- but there isn’t one to spare. The only remaining stretch of standing wall is low and broad and close enough to qualify. He opens his hand out to it before trading his pen for the bottle.

OPEN | Dr. Dickerson’s Pop Up Repair Shop

[nonvenomous]

The cot is uncomfortable, its grass-stuffed cushion crushed flat beneath stained blankets, and the only seat available is a rickety stool. A scorched table nearby is host to all manner of glittering tools laid out on a canvas. There’s light enough to operate by courtesy of a large open window, and a sizable gap in the roof.

“What happened?”

Richard’s voice is constrained only by the yaw and pitch of his lean, where he’s contorted himself to better see over or under or around without disturbing the state of whatever break in flesh or bone or armor he’s here to address. His inspection is methodical; there’s no distress or disquiet in the clear blue of his eyes, or the hard probe of his fingers.

After a busy morning, the room itself smells like sick, but not death, which could be a testament to his lifesaving skills, or his poor bedside manner.

Up close and personal, he already carries the stink of blood coppery in his clothes, old staining oxidized brown in the roll of his sleeves. He’s found a blacksmith’s apron to protect his vest, so that’s nice for him.

He Can Fix It!

[sulahnan]

What happened is a tale of dashing heroics involving a herd of druffalo and a fair amount of fire, and it's through some stroke of luck or skill that what happened after the heroics didn't leave any marks. Just some hay that had to be shaken loose from dark tresses.

"Fade-touched druffalo," is Athessa's efficient answer as she adjusts her own leaning to be better seen to, exposing a lovely palm-sized bruise blossoming on her ribs where the beast grazed her with its horn. All things considered, it's lucky she wasn't gored. "Think it broke a couple ribs."

Which is pointless to say, since he likely as not already knows. He's a smart guy, with a lot of insight.

[muckspout]

Edgard slumps in and presents his upper right arm.

"Cut by a Venatori blade, we burned it to cauterize the wound, it was awful," he adds an aside. "Was told I should get it looked at at the infirmary tent."

He looks around at his surroundings.

"Is that--where I am?"

OPEN | Clever Girl

[nonvenomous]

It’s late.

Some hundred paces from the monastery walls, where a few scrubby trees whisper under the light of a pale moon, Richard Dickerson has just struck up a match to smoke by when the snap of a broken twig gives him pause. The lurid green glow from the shard anchored in his palm casts harsh shadows across the bones in his face, offset by the warmer orange of the match fluttering behind his fingers.

He listens.

Nothing.

A breeze picks up, sputtering at the flame, and Dick lights up the spliff, turning slowly to look as he shakes the match out. He flicks it aside, and an angular figure steps forward out of the brush towards him, blood red lyrium crystals glittering black in the moonlight.

Poised upright, Richard looks at the figure looking at him, and releases held smoke with a wheezing cough.

He reaches for his dagger. This is fine.

jello jiggles

[sulahnan]

It's the cough that draws Athessa's attention as she's patrolling along the path some ways yonder, and she looks around for its source. The reason she's out here in the first place is to investigate or otherwise track down and deal with what reports claim to be Red Templars, but wires get crossed all the time. A report of bandits could've been Venatori, a report of Venatori could end up being escaped captives, escaped captives could actually be dead.

So she slinks nearer to the monastery, towards those scrubby trees, and ends up just on the far side of that angular figure, looking past it to Richard. The forte of her half-drawn short sword shines in the moonlight, and her eyes shine brighter.

If this is a darkspawn, they're in trouble.

house sitting.

[charmoffensive]

There is an estate of moderate luxury, owned by family name Duneaux, that needs checking in on. The sentiment being that they'd really rather it if Riftwatch did not loot it any further than it must already be looted, but instead clear out any invaders, monstrous or ordinary or otherwise, and confirm the potential for safe return.

Out front, the gardens are both overgrown and half dying in the summer heat. The front door had been broken open, never a good sign.

Investigation is slow and careful. Loxley had voted not to split up.

The sitting room sees bright sunlight pouring in through wide glass windows, dust-filled curtains drawn back. There is evidence of violence, here, with a low table half shattered, but the tapestries on the walls -- surely rather expensive things -- have not been removed, nor has any of the ornamentation over the empty hearth. Every now and then, with the subtle shifts of the air, there is the smell of something decaying, but they've yet to come close enough to it to mark its location.

Some loose parchment pages have spilled onto the floor near a desk, and Loxley ducks down quietly to leaf through them. He has his rapier ready, but lays it on the ground beside him.

[nonvenomous]

Dickerson hangs back near the room’s center, where he cuts a lean, wary figure, his eyes lifted to ruddy stains in the ceiling. He’s been quiet, but that’s not unusual for him when out on business. Even less unusual now that his silence clears the slate for every creak and groan, old wood pushing back into a steady breeze, and settling back onto its foundation when the air falls slack outside.

There are no footsteps upstairs -- none that he can hear, anyway -- and he gives the room a proper once over, Loxley’s shuffling through papers and all.

How did they even wind up strapped with this assignment? Research and Diplomacy??

His sigh does nothing to abate the tension pent up behind his breastbone, or furrowed deep into the fuzzy lines around his mouth. Still. The circumstances aren't harrowing enough to have stamped out his curiosity.

“What is it?”

Quiet.

magic class

[heirring]

It's late, and the work of indexing a great deal of equipment left behind by a fleeing company of Anderfels troops for eventual forwarding to and use of the Exalted March has taken far longer than anyone anticipated. And so, with nothing to gain by heading back to their respective lodgings and risking the roads in the dark, the three of them have been put up in a single attic judiciously divided in half with a curtain of blankets as a means to preserve the young lady's modesty.

Which might be slightly more effective for all involved if Wysteria didn't insist on poking her head through one of the seams late in the evening with absolutely zero warning.

"Mr. Dickerson, I don't suppose you'd care to do our little trial tonight, would you?"

Closed to Gwenaëlle

[muckspout]

Being back in Orlais makes Edgard a little itchy. His stomach lurched with guilt the moment he stepped on Orlesian soil and saw some of the locals bone thin. He takes a bite of dried meat and looks out at the half burnt crops. He hears Rayan’s voice in his head. There’s always someone going hungry. He tucks the remaining food back in a pocket.

He calls out to the first person he sees, a woman from his party whose back is turned from him, “I heard some of the rations are being stolen away from the people here. I intend to fix that problem. Think you could help me?”

[elegiaque]

Nothing good ever comes of visiting Orlais.

This is the prevailing thought that Gwenaëlle has been having; every time she ventures back to her homeland, someone dies. Someone's dying. Someone's getting their arse bit by a wyvern. (It might not have been his arse.) The decidedly complicated way she feels about her father on the front at Ghislain, refusing to concede to ever grieving him and wearing his signet ring. The mess at the Winter Palace. And this—

Every time she comes back to Orlais, she remembers why she doesn't want to do that when all of this is over. But her sense of duty is shockingly overdeveloped considering—mainly her personality, and she can prise herself out of this country by force but never quite give up the notion she owes its people something, if not its crown. So she's already saying,

“What did you have in mind?” as she turns, a recognisable profile in strong nose and high cheekbones, the accent as obviously by way of the High Quarter as the rest of her...doesn't presently appear to be, in close-fitting rogue leathers and a variety of weapons on her person that look like they actually see use other than being swung around in gardens to impress other aristocrats.

closed to flint.

[hornswoggle]

In theory, the inspection of this half-burned village is a joint venture. The Chantry sister and the lone Chantry brother are to be assisting, or Flint and John are meant to be assisting them.

In practice, it had been a less than productive wagon ride to the village in question. Delicate conversation that circled the Exalted March and feinted away from direct questions about piracy (even if the youngest of the Chantry sisters had seemed keen) or the more controversial make up of Riftwatch's numbers had carried them through the hillside to a village where it's been said a number of high-ranked Venatori agents had been dwelling.

Their departure is likely what motivated the fires. John had said as much, more to Flint than to their companions, though the Chantry Brother had intoned the Maker's mercy anyway.

John can hear them now, voices carrying as they move to the next house over. Most of the houses are damaged in some respect, and sound carries if they're not careful. John has yet to decide if their companions are being lax or if they are being deliberate with their patter of their conversation and the sounds of their search.

"The stairs are burned past use," John says, turning from the shattered window to the scorched floor. "But if I'm right, that's a desk there, and it's salvageable."

It's just a matter of getting up to it without anyone breaking their neck. (And maybe without enlisting the strapping Chantry brother.)

[katabasis]

A blackened portrait frame hangs on the crumbling plaster wall still, its contents scorched and devoured beyond recognition; a set of fire irons leans comically intact against a preserved hearth stone; a shelf has collapsed, its arrangement of jars and their contents smashed and scattered underfoot.

From where he is crouched, Flint turns a chunk of pottery between his fingers even as his attention is drawn away to the ruined staircase and the opening in the ceiling to the floor above them. After a moment, the clay piece is tossed haplessly away and he rises.

The air is still enough so as to translate a warm day into a hot one, sweat prickling at the back of his neck and the reek of ash hanging thick still in the air. They haven't come across either stragglers or corpses. This is either the second time the village has been abandoned, or the Venatori were once more thorough with its residents than with covering their escape.

"There's bound to be a ladder preserved here somewhere."

aleksei | open

[positioning]

transit.

They are allotted a cart from the stables, loaded with bundles of shingles and an assortment of tools, along with a plodding draft horse to drag it from the stables to the village across the way. The directions were vague in a way Aleksei appreciated: down the lane as far as you can go, right at the bend, left past the crooked tree and over the hill, you'll be able to see from there where to go.

It's an excuse to saddle up Tova, anyways. Aleksei brings her up alongside the cart to make conversation, because what else are they to do with their time? There are a pair of Chantry sisters with their bundles of supplies sharing space in the cart, and both seemingly disinclined to answer either Aleksei's light flirtation or his more genuine questions, so his options for conversation are limited.

"Have you ever repaired a roof?"

Leaning back in the saddle, question posed in such a way that either of the Chantry sisters could volunteer if they were so inclined, even if Aleksei isn't anticipating their input.

"I've heard Riftwatch's work is usually much more exciting."

rebuild.

The Inquisition had sent a handful of dwarves ahead already, though Aleksei's instinct is to say that none of them will be much for repairing burned out roofing. But dwarves are known for their craftsmanship. Perhaps the Inquisition has done well to send them here.

But the destruction is disquieting. What's left of the villagers are going to need to decide what is beyond salvage, and that is a sad thing.

"What are you betting they ask of us? Go out to harvest or try to salvage what's left of those buildings there?"

The sweep of Aleksei's hand encompasses a string of buildings. The fire must have started from the center, and spread. Caught by the wind, or encouraged, it's hard to say. Either way, the damage has been done.

He's never built anything like a lowlander home. But then again, he's never taken in a harvest either. The question is almost a shrug, and the preference sits squarely on their hosts shoulders as far as Aleksei is concerned.

tracking.

"Do darkspawn and Venatori have any distinguishing marks between their footprints?"

Not that these were necessarily footprints, not perfectly intact ones. The ground was just soft enough to mark the passage of some small band of creatures moving through the area. There was a river a short ways away, and Aleksei sighs to think of it. If their quarry makes it to the water, their job would be far more difficult.

He straightens up, brushing a bit of dirt from his hands before looking expectantly in anticipation of an answer.

wildcard.

[ for all your whims. when aleksei isn't making himself useful, he's probably in the nearest tavern drinking, dancing or gambling. alternately, he's bedding down in one of the stables, so he's available to bump into there. ]

tracking;

[extortionate]

“Claws, sometimes.”

Lazar shrugs. Not in ignorance, or indifference — not really. Just disquiet. Some little wiggling sense of unease back behind his eyes, where the thoughts pinch a little sharper.

“Or moving wrong. Got their balance all fucked up. More —” He hunches his weight forward to demonstrate, bulk overhanging itself. “— Tips them over, if they’re big enough. Saw one walked on its hands.”

closed to daisy.

[heorte]

This town is one of the luckier ones. There's been burning, but not very much. When they impart the names of their missing, it's far fewer than some of their nearby neighbors.

And lucky for Ellis and Daisy, it seems the burning of the storeroom hadn't gone to plan. The fire hadn't taken, and maybe the Venatori had been in such a hurry to flee that they hadn't the time to make a second attempt. Ellis drags a palm across the sooty surface of the desk he's dragged from beneath a few fallen beams and turns to Daisy, panting slightly.

"Can you pick a lock," Ellis asks.

It is about the same neutral tone in which he'd asked after Daisy's ability to ride a horse, or hitch a cart.

As a rule, Ellis tries not to ask more than he needs to know. But it might have been beneficial to both of them if he'd asked Fitz a few questions about Daisy sometime in the past six months before she'd arrived.

[hacker]

Daisy looks up from the bureau she's nosing through. Nothing in it but old clothes. If she were the looting type, it's the kind of thing that would help her blend in better than she does, but Daisy's not keen yet on assimilating into Game of Thrones. She shuts the cabinet door and considers the desk.

"That's what you've been dragging around?" The scrape of wood had seemed more dramatic. Like a chest, or something. But she sighs, walking over and assessing the drawer lock with one yank. Instead of producing metal tools, she holds her hand out and the air around the lock hums until it breaks and falls off.

She pulls the drawer out and makes a gesture that invites Ellis to the contents.

"Seemed quicker," she looks around again then, ensuring no one else had followed them in. She's not exactly advertising, but Ellis seems like a friend of Fitz's. That earns him a modicum of trust.

mhavos dalat | ota.

[murderbaby]

a. BORN TO RUN.

Mhavos has read about the grand plains of Ghislain, either in tax documents-- nobles who had farming interests, mostly-- or lush prose. Neither do the place justice. It's very pretty, in a decrepit sort of way; Mhavos can easily imagine how it was once more glorious, and how the tragedy of its current state will make for fine ballads, and how hollow they'll sound to him now that he's been here. Is poetry a form of voyeurism? A thought to consider when he's not running for his life.

Mhavos can fight, yes, but in a pitched battle when he has time to prepare, and never in open daylight. When a rift opens and a slouching horror makes its way toward him, Mhavos has no choice but to pick up the pace.

Luckily, Mhavos can run very fast.

Under his breath, "baise cet endroit."

b. TALK TO ME.

Mhavos' function as both literate and fluent in Orlesian is a slight boon, though not enough to outweigh his pointed ears. The beleaguered peasantry are often kind, and just as often not, depending on their persuasion of misfortune and pettiness. Having lost everything, some feel the need to strike out.

Those, Mhavos avoids how he can. The rest, he attempts to aid. Writing in a wax tablet, he takes down the accounts of strangers and their stories. "It's for an account of what happened here," Mhavos speaks in Orlesian, "I'm sorry, there's no pay for it."

A door is shut in his face.

Mhavos lets out a sigh. "Next house, then."

c. BADLANDS.

But when he can help, he does. A ruined grain silo must be climbed, apparently. Peasants once stored their goods in the roof, and used now-ruined exterior stairs when needed.

Riftwatch has been graciously offered a small portion if the lockbox is retrieved, though Mhavos' motivations are elsewhere. Shimmying up a rope, several stories off the ground, he moves with a graceful sort of precision.

With peasant children jeering or cheering below him-- who can tell?-- he considers how embarrassing a way to die this would be.

d. WILDCARD.

Throw something at me, I'm good for it. HMU @ wehwalt if you gotta.

a

[bloodandsand]

Fortunately, he won't have to run far. Poesia was built rather specifically for this sort of combat, sleek and gold and savage when she uses her full weight to drive her knife into the horror's side. She is a horror in herself and she fights close.

The rift shard in her hand snaps and spits, throwing bright flashes of green as she and the creature tear into each other. She will be covered in gore before the fight is over. What a glorious prospect.

c.

[heorte]

Wading through the children, Ellis calls up, "Angle to your left, Mhavos!"

There's straw in Ellis' hair, sawdust all down his front. The farmers who had immediately co-opted Ellis to repair the damage to their barn must have either finished with him or allowed him a break. The children swarm around his knees as Ellis tries to position himself underneath Mhavos.

If he can't catch him, he can at least break the fall. But he doesn't want to say as much in the midst of all these kids, all of whom are unlikely to keep that plan quiet.

b

[muckspout]

Edgard is eating a pear when he observes an elf he hasn't met yet going to door to door looking dejected. He cocks his head to one side, swallows, and then runs to catch up.

"What are you doing?" He asks. He then offers him the pear with the bite taken out of it. Want some?

b.

[libratus]

Ilias is eavesdropping. It's not polite. He hasn't been there long, a grey shadow tracing the edge of vision, pausing at the twist of a muddy road to brightening about the eyes at the sound of a familiar voice. Gracious even to a slammed door.

"Would you do it, were the offer made to you?"

Tell me your story.

c. goodlands

[sulahnan]

It's the children that diverts Athessa's attention from her trek back towards the town, drawing her off the road and into the fields. Grief can manifest itself in many ways, but cheering at a silo? That's a new one.

Which really is to say that she assumes something is going on with that silo. These kids aren't just expressing pent up emotion all at once in the same place because it's convenient. So Athessa hops over the rickety fence separating this field from the next and comes to stand behind the tiny humans, crossing her arms and squinting up at the silo.

"Bet you four coppers he's gonna fall!" A straw haired boy says.

"Bet you ten he isn't!" A girl with ginger hair and freckles exclaims.

"That's not really how betting works," Athessa offers, distractedly. She shields her eyes from the sun with one hand, still trying to see what the kids are even talking about when they jump and squeal and scatter a few steps, apparently not expecting to have an elf standing over them. "Come on then, tell me what's happening."

One of the boys starts stammering, a long string of ums and uhhs and euhs, because Orlesians. When he doesn't find any actual words, the blond steps forward, head held high. And he points at the silo.

"The funny man is climbing the silo," he declares. "And I say, he's going to fall, because the silo is going to fall over any day now. That's what my papa says. He says, that silo is gonna fall and take somebody with it."

"Nuh-uh!" The ginger, this time. "It isn't gonna fall! My grandfather built it with his own two hands! He doesn't make things that fall! One time? He built a house for my grandmother? And a bunch of wild horses, they stampede right over the top of it! And it didn't fall!"

Asking might have been a mistake. Oh well. Athessa puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles loud enough that the so-called funny man should be able to hear it all the way up there. It also stops the kids from bickering, since they cover their ears and stare at this new elf with wide eyed confusion.

"OI!" She calls. "WHAT'RE YA DOING UP THERE??"