faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

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.

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REBUILDING + INFO GATHERING + ETC (ota, wildcards welcome)

[There is a such an endless supply of odd jobs and bits of unskilled labor in need of doing that is seems impossible to imagine any portion of it will be finished regardless of how many armies' worth of people might be committed to the effort.

On some morning, before the full heat of the afternoon has made itself known, there is a line of pasture fencing in need of repair. It requires some further partial deconstruction so they can begin relaying the zigzagging old rails, and the splitting of new rails from replacement lumber brought up from elsewhere, and is in general unpleasantly hot work which might go faster if it weren't for fact that they've just the one axe between them.

Or later, while clearing out some local stone tavern so it might be scrubbed, whitewashed, and returned to some semblance of what it was prior to the occupation force which had been using it as a field office burned and fled the place, Marcoulf pauses in the gutted remnants of the kitchen.

For a few seconds, he simply regards the floor under a fallen beam. Turns his head this way and that and then finally soliciting a second opinion—]

Suppose that is a trap door there?

[Or, or, or—]

COMTE CONSULTATION (closed to John Silver)

[The dry heat of the day and the dustiness of the road discourages moving in any direction at a faster rate than sedate plod, lest they show up on the Comte's doorstep veneered in their own sweat and a thin layer of grime. As it is, Marcoulf has stripped fully out of his doublet down to his shirtsleeves, having carefully rolled the dark padded jacket over itself and secured it behind the saddle so that he might throw it back on the moment they turn off the road up to the estate and arrive with no sign of the preceding day in any article of clothing save for whatever dustiness of boots and trousers are unavoidable.

Besides, the meandering pace of the horses makes discussing their current circumstances simpler. And if the last twenty minutes of circuitous pestering has been any indication, there is apparently much to review.]

—They will try to have us around to the servant's entrance, but I will refuse them and have you seen in properly. Do you have a mind of what you will say to the Comte once presented?

[Evidently Silver is going to be doing the bulk of the talking.]

LE AMBUSH (closed to Betrys and Kostos)

[The alchemical bomv that explodes is small but loud, popping with a splitting CRACK! and burst of fire fit to do little more than spook the cart horse off the road. The horse makes it across the shallow ditch. The cart behind it with its load of supplies and its three Riftwatch agents do not. A wheel jams, and the whole arrangement—all save for the horse, which evidently has the Black Fox's own luck as one of the wagon shafts splits far enough to allow its harness lines to slip halfway free—capsizes in a blessedly slow motion landslide of sack flour, dry corn, crates of root vegetables, and passengers.

Three Anders soldiers pour up onto the road to follow, their kit all varying states of piecemeal. In the shadow of the upended slant of the wagon, Marcoulf is already scrambling to his feet in the midst of scattered potatoes. He is in fact so quick to be upright, sword drawn, that when the first Anderfels infantryman rounds the corner of the cart it seems for a split second hilariously certain that the enemy soldier will simply be instantly gutted by the waiting rapier.

And then a sturdy crack of the Ander short sword knocks the silvered rapier straight away out of Marcoulf's grip as if choreographed for comedy. Both of them seem shocked enough by it to pause.]

[ When they'd set out, John hadn't foreseen being so strongly reminded of the trip to Ostwick he'd undertaken with Alexandrie and Frédérique. At Marcoulf's urging he's stripped off his coat, laid aside one potentially offensive ring, and said the Comte's name aloud repeatedly to make certain of the pronunciation. Apparently, there's even more to the business of addressing a wayward Comte than John had initially thought. ]

Oh, I don't know. I thought I'd start by breaking one of his fingers and seeing where that got us.

[ Delivered with the utmost seriousness, eyes cutting over to watch Marcoulf's face.

The impatience is probably unwarranted. But can John be faulted for seeking some humor? ]

[The look he gets in answer is so resolutely flat it might be used as a level.

Funny. Try again.]

[ A sigh. It's hard not to be appreciated for his sparkling wit. ]

I had planned on graciously thanking him for volunteering his home to house our agents, and praising him for weathering the disruption to his routine.

[ Everyone likes to be flattered, especially when they're undertaking what is likely a minor inconvenience. It is hard to say what kind of house guest Athessa has turned out to be, but John's assuming she and Julius are behaving. ]

And continue on to say the people of Deauville are also looking forward to receiving the bounty of his promised generosity.

[ It'll sound more flowery in post, don't worry. ]

Is that gracious enough, or should I consider the fingers more seriously?

[It is at least gracious enough to mollify the sullen Orlesian company at present. Marcoulf makes a low 'hmm' noise of assent, and allows the horses to plod along a few pace further before he presses on.]

Let us say he makes some overture at retracting his earlier promise. What then?

[Later, when they are trapped in conversation with a Comte who has mistaken them for a favorite old servant and some bastard but evidently well liked nephew, Marcoulf will look at John with a blank expression that will not be an apology for the wasted effort of seeing him prepared for the meeting but will at least be an acknowledgement that it might not apply in these exact circumstances.]

[ Marcoulf has a way of making a minor noise of approval that sounds more like he's disappointed not to have something further to critique. Or so John thinks, though maybe he's biased after several rounds of questioning. ]

I suppose I would have to remind him of how devastating it would be for his people, were the promised aid not materialize.

[ John is briefly tempted to return to the idea of snapping fingers, but the joke hadn't gotten much purchase last time, so he suppresses the urge. ]

I imagine between the two of us we can give him a fair amount of pitiable examples of those he would be letting down.

[ Is John laboring under the delusion Marcoulf intends on chiming in during this negotiation? Maybe. ]

I lack creativity.

[is his very brisk reply, so off the cuff that it may be true - a legitimate excuse to bend over backwards to avoid any contribution to this effort than what is occurring now and the general shape of his presence once they reach the estate.]

Don't sell yourself short. You've been very creative with your questioning on the ride here.

[ John says this so serenely that it's hard to guess whether or not his patience has been tried by being put through multiple disaster scenarios. ]

And you seem familiar enough with men like this to guess at what we're going to need to avoid.

[ Just saying. ]

And so that is precisely why it cannot be me. Men like this sense when a man has been in service.

[He shifts the lay of his hat on his head, his other hand draped easily over the pommel of the saddle. It is all so matter of fact.]

In any case, you possess the rank.

[Messere Master of Information.]

How much stock do you think an Orlesian noble is going to put in my rank?

[ Which carries more weight: a name from a fringe organization prone to internal squabbling or John's obvious sordid self? ]

I'd assume a man like this could sense a man of humble origins just as easily, regardless of title.

[In the shadow of his hat, Marcoulf's mouth goes briefly thinner and more crooked. It's a beat in which he is checking himself, so that when he speaks there is some patience and sensibility in it.

(Honestly; must he do all things himself?)]

It is your obligation to leverage the rank as you please; if you allow him to put no stock in it, then I have no doubt the Comte will be most happy to oblige you. But it is yours, and the gentleman has sworn some oath to Riftwatch, and so is likely to abide by what seniority is granted you by merit of retaining whatever use he derives from supporting us at present. He would not agree for no reason at all. There is something Riftwatch affords him, and so it is your duty to demand he pay for it.

[ There is a pause in which John shifts in the saddle to look at Marcoulf's face, studying him as he speaks. ]

You aren't much for light conversation, are you?

[ Though it is a fair assessment, even if John sees very little to distinguish the two of them. Suppose they claimed Marcoulf was the more highly ranked between the two of them? Who would know?

After the fourth time the Comte inquires after the health of his sister and her three dogs, John will wish he'd saddled Marcoulf with the task of leading conversation. ]

[Marcoulf looks right back at him, his right hand yet draped across the saddle's pommel and the other loose about the horse's reins. His focus is flat, drawn purposefully broad and unspecific by habit or practice or both.]

It would depend on the subject.

Humor me. [ John says this to the tone of someone who knows he's on the cusp of a denial and prepared to proceed anyway. ] What subjects do you favor?

[ The minutiae of Orlesian society apparently nonwithstanding. That seems less of an interest and more of something inescapably noted. If Marcoulf seemed more favorably inclined, John might ask, but as it stand they're both better off i he keeps his prying to whether or not he out to bow when the Comte enters a room. ]

And if we were to find the Comte so interested in similar things, more the better for us.

[Marcoulf's heels must find his mare's sides, for she sullenly lengthens her stride by some marginal degree as her master's mouth grows thinner and frowns further. But she cannot be compelled to go much faster, and eventually he selects to say simply,]

Horses and swordmanship. Infantry. Tournaments. The Ferelden-Orlesian trade routes. How best to mind one's own affairs.

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hornswoggle - 2020-09-26 19:31 (UTC) - Expand

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esquive - 2020-10-11 05:41 (UTC) - Expand

The two of them can be forgiven for assuming "room in a stable" meant the hayloft, or even a hastily-cleared tack room. What it turns out to mean is that it is a stall that likely once housed a horse and is not expected to house two grown men. Aleksei is humoring it, on account of the fact that it is preferable to being lightly drizzled upon.

If he is unhappy about being separated from Yevdokiya, he is planned on telling Tova about it once the redheaded man has left or fallen asleep. So in the meantime—

"Do you think this was a stall for donkeys, or for a fine horse?" he asks, balanced on the wooden partition marking off this stall from the next. Tova is within arm's reach. Aleksei intermittently rests a hand on her, even as he's looking down at Marcoulf.

Edited 2020-09-01 17:28 (UTC)

"It's straw either way," is Marcoulf's professional assessment. Speaking of, he is presently in the process of kicking the dusty old (mercifully clean) bedding of the stall into two distinct stacks. The pitchfork he'd unceremoniously scavenged from the stable's back wall has a bent prong that makes using his boots as able a tool for the work.

His coat is hung up out of the way of the straw lest it pick up any dust or debris, and his own horse - a rosy roan colored animal that may suit Marcoulf slightly too well given the overpowering quality of their ginger coloring in combination - is a few stalls over and is tactfully ignoring all of them in favor of nibbling stray bits of hay.

Save for the rasp of straw being sorted, it's pleasantly quiet in the insulated way stables often are.

"I trust this not to be the first barn you've slept in."

"No, but normally I am allowed into the hayloft."

Allowed being a very generous assessment. Yes, Aleksei and Yevdokiya allow themselves into the hayloft of barns they haven't asked permission to be in. Why wouldn't they?

The heel of his boot drums arrhythmically against the boards, knocking a beat on every other swing. Tova huffs, perhaps in agreement, or perhaps in annoyance.

"Those are fine beds you are fashioning us," Aleksei continues easily. "I take it you are no stranger to making due when all other options are spoken for."

Whether or not anything is actually spoken for is debatable. There is probably some stingy widower with an attic crammed with junk he couldn't bother to offer up. Aleksei had marked a few houses that seemed the type upon their arrival, and that knowledge sits in his thoughts. Useless at the present moment, but unavoidable.

A tip of the head and a quirk of the brow says, Something close to that, yes, and so would be a perfectly serviceable answer all on its own.

But there is something pleasant about the rasp of shifting straw and impatient sounds of the horse beside them and the familiar vowel roll of the Avvar accent and even the sticky heat clinging to the back of his neck. So.

"Better a stall than the ground. During the war—the one before this one—it was more that than anything else. Even barracked in Fort Revasan, you were fortunate if you had your pick between stone floor or dirt floor."

His sidelong look has some brisk, lopsided flicker of humor in it. Soldiering is all rubbish.

Soldiering is rubbish, the way lowlanders do it. Aleksei folds his hands over his belly, leaning back against the post with one heel braced against the stall to preserve his balance.

The impulse to ask: Was it a good war? Did you fight many battles and win many victories? crosses Aleksei's mind. But this man is not Avvar, and maybe he did not glory in the clash of armies.

"I would choose dirt," he says after a moment's consideration. "Even in the rain it makes for a more comfortable bed."

Yevdokiya and Aleksei have had years to make the comparison and decide between them.

"Which war?" Aleksei asks after. "Not the one between the mages and their minders?"

A kinder term than captors.

The soft tsk sound he makes as he sweeps another heap of stray into this pile or that one says, No. That that one.

"The one here in Orlais." Largely South of here, really. But what does that matter to an Avvar, particularly one who would choose sleeping in the mud over some sensible place? "La Guerre des Lions, between the Empress and Duke de Chalons to decide the throne three years past. Had you come down out of your Hold for such news then?"

Is an honest question.

Aleksei's heel taps at the wood again, setting off a restless stamp from Tova, as he thinks back three years. Three years ago, where had he and Yedokiya been three years ago?

"My clan is not so interested in wars in the lowlands."

Which is not much of an answer. Aleksei shrugs a shoulder, sits up a little straighter on his perch.

"I think maybe my sister and I had come down to trade, but not to gossip. The world was not in such an uproar then."

But now everything is an uproar, all the time. It hadn't bothered either of them until the chaos had embedded itself into Yevdokiya's hand.

"Maybe not the sort of uproar that might reach most Avvar." But plenty to go around for everyone else even then.

He kicks another lump of straw into one mound or another, then allows himself to be particular with the prongs of the pitchforks. He fluffs this edge or that, finnicky for the sake of a diversion rather than need. There is an urge in this - to ask questions, to be curious, to pick at the edge of an old scab and see if the skin under it has healed enough that it will simply flake away or if disturbing it will cause the blood of the thing to well back up again.

"You and your sister are close, I take it."

[ Betrys goes to Orlais with the knowledge that it will be dangerous, aware on the way that her sense of giddiness at crossing the sea and traveling overland is something that might disappear entirely once they arrive. It will be dangerous, the work will be hard, and the fact that it's the furthest she's ever been from home (and the closest she's come to the university) won't be relevant.

All of that is true. But nothing quite prepared her for tumbling head over heels onto a dirt road, landing hard in a mess of smoke and puffs of flour. For a moment, she's dazed, entirely unsure what happened--and then she realizes she's lying in the dirt, for Andraste's sake.

She scuttles up, aware of a dull ache in her side, and spying Marcoulf's sword out, pulls her bow from her back. Practice back at the Gallows has made her quick about nocking an arrow. She's edging out so Marcoulf isn't in the way when the others come about, tense, her breath quick and noisier than she's ever remembered it--but when his sword goes flying, he's in danger of being slashed to ribbons. The others coming about no longer matter.

She lets the arrow go, watching it wide-eyed and worried, and it--thank the Maker--doesn't go too far off the mark. Not far enough to hit Marcoulf, at least. It hits the Ander low in the thigh, enough to make him swear and fall back a step. ]

[ Kostos—down on one knee amid parsnips and turnips, dusted with enough flour to make it look like he's considering committing even further to the whole spooky fantasy goth thing and becoming a ghost—watches the rapier fly. Then the arrow.

His hands are working, in the meantime, but these things take time. And aim. And proximity. The barrier that blooms over Marcoulf and Betrys doesn't include him in its radius, which he's also irritated about. ]

What the fuck, [ at Marcoulf, very helpfully, while he grabs his staff from the wreckage and climbs the rest of the way to his feet.

Then he's off, running around the other end of the cart to rush at the other two Anders from another angle. The lightning that erupts from the end of his staff at them–it's effective. He doesn't generally decline to do that sort of thing around because it'd be pitiful. He declines because it's poorly-controlled. The lightning arcs from one soldier to the other and then around, toward Betrys and Marcoulf.

That's what the barrier was for. ]

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MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

marcoulf.

my fuckin lol

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oh my god they were roommates.

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with my apologies for the delay--

MINE TOO