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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Somewhere, atop the Frostbacks, in the luxury of her esteemed quarters, Dorian imagines Vivienne feeling a small curdle of warmth in that joyless lump of ice she calls a heart, and not even know why.

But this is why! This right here, this slouching little fisherman's hut that has half of itself propped up on posts over the water itself so that to access the front door is to step up onto a creaking pier that L-shapes its way out into the Voire.

They are on their second day of shared lodgings. In spite of how unlucky they got with the accommodations, Dorian has thus far been a good conversationalist, prone to asking Matthias friendly sorts of questions -- about Riftwatch, about the war before it, and how is he enjoying Kirkwall, et cetera -- in the automatic way one does when one is used to bringing people on side. He speaks with knowledge of the rebel mages of the South, his experience with Grand Enchanter Fiona in her negotiations before that all went to pot, and Matthias may feel at times an audience member, but enough times a participant.

They find themselves on a ferry ride back to their lodgings, stepping up off the rowboat and directly onto the pier, and as soon as Dorian unlocks and opens the door--

--the fish smell is not particularly fresh, and it certainly is pungent, wafting out to greet them before they even step inside. Dorian immediately claps hand over nose and mouth, standing stock still at the entrance in genuine horror, before saying in slightly muffled aside, "You know, in Rivain, someone leaving fish in your personal quarters is a sure sign you're to be assassinated in a week."

Matthias makes an urgh sound as he pulls the collar of his shirt up over his nose. He tips his chin up so that gravity and tension holds it in place, claps his hand over his nose and his mouth, sealing them off from the stench.

His eyes flick over to Dorian, making a quick and cautious study of him first, trying to suss out if he's taking the piss. Matthias is a good sport, and he's not complained (much) about the shit hand they've been dealt in their accommodations. And so far he likes Dorian--intimidated by him, yeah, wants to impress him, naturally, he's a mage--but if he's being fucked with, he wants to know.

But he doesn't know anything of Antiva (other than water, Satinalia, hot, Crows, pirates and merchants, wine, fish and snake meat?)--and it seems like Dorian would, of the two of them, so he says, carefully, "Probably you're not usually staying in a fisherman's hut when it happens to you, right. Like it's more unexpected."

All of it is muffled by hand and shirt, but clear enough to be heard.

With the lower half of his face covered, Matthias will have to infer a smile through Dorian's eye crinkles (but don't tell him he has them, for goodness sake).

"True," he says. "Likely it means something else, in that case."

He doesn't really have a shirt collar to pull up over his face, so he just presses the back of his hand under his nose as he reluctantly steps inside, scouring a look around for the offending item. It's not hard. The cottage dimensions are small and the crates that have appeared in the main room are large. Dorian delicately sets his fingernails against the lid of the one stacked on top and flips it back, to the sight of river-brown fish lined up in a row.

"A poor showing in the market, perhaps?"

Matthias cranes his neck so he can get a look at the contents without moving too much further into the cottage. He's made it just over the threshold. With the crate open, the smell is like a third person, jostling for space.

"Or maybe a gift?" They don't smell good. But if there were a fire... "Do we look the sort of people other people gift fish to? You, maybe."

He actually means that as a compliment. The way he says it--half afterthought--maybe makes it seem less so.

It gets a peculiar look, this comment, but something about Matthias doesn't strike Dorian as particularly inclined to deliver esoteric backhanded commentary about the kinds of people who are gifted fish. "So you think it might be impolite of us to return these creatures back to a watery grave? Have it your way."

And Dorian splays a hand, Fade energy twisting around elegant fingers -- first manifesting as its signature glimmering green before it goes white and cold, and a blast of utilitarian frost all at once envelopes the crates of fish as glyph-like glowing inscriptions glimmer where they are stamped against the wooden sides.

These glyphs continue to pulse with ice magic as Dorian lowers his hand. The interior of the hut has now dropped several degrees, but the smell is already less.

Caught between awareness that he said something odd, trying to explain the odd thing that he'd said, ignoring the odd thing that he'd said, and pointing out that returning caught fish to water would be a waste of fish--

Well, it's all so consuming that Matthias says none of it at all, and then the hut has a snap of the first winter's day to it, and the fish are all glyph-chilled.

"Oh," he says instead. "Cool. Er--both ways." Maker's balls, Matthias, can you shut up. "How'd you know to do that? Do all fish crates do that?"

No, that would be stupid. Unless... they do all do that, and Matthias has been walking about Thedas for seventeen years or so without having been told.

"That? Why, that's a simple lesser sustained glyph. It'll be good for a few hours before it needs recasting, although the fish themselves will take more time than that to thaw on their own. With any luck, we'll get through the evening."

Their fishy problem taken care of, Dorian is making himself back at home in the hut, tugging off his cloak and flinging it over a chair, placing his staff in a corner, throwing his effects onto the table. His shoulders tense a little beneath the swiftly cooling air, but even with his own preference for warmer climes, it's a relief to be out of the baking Orlesian summer.

Glancing Matthias's way, he asks, "What're they teaching you, in those dreary towers? Or were, I suppose."

Matthias drifts over to the crates so he can examine the glyph. He rubs his thumb against it, curiously--then immediately sets his teeth together as the winter chill twinges through him. Luckily the mark is immune to smudging, and the temperature holds. The smell of the cold is stronger than the smell of the fish now.

"I dunno what they teach. I wasn't much in any tower for long, what with the war and all. I mean, I'm not an idiot," he adds, quickly, lest that mistake be made. "I learnt plenty outside of the Circle, and now I'm learning with an enchanter and all, here, but I never got to glyphs, really."

He shoots Dorian a sidelong glance in return, trying to gauge how this confession will be taken. It gives him an extra moment of observation and admiration: how cool Dorian looks. Even the drape of his cloak over the chair looks effortless. It's unfair.

He is more occupied in taking some bound package from his satchel. A dark brown seed bread, strips of cured meat, the ubiquitous wedge of crumbly cheese that accompanies all good medieval picnics. He sets some of this out, and hefts his wineskin to slosh its contents and judge how much is left.

And so the confession is simply absorbed, nodded to, makes sense. "To be honest," Dorian says, "what I learned from my own slightly-less dreary towers was piecemeal at best, given how many of them I attended. I did better when left to my own devices, and then when I was apprenticed later.

"Still, glyphs are very handy, and an excellent party trick. I don't know that I'd have survived the Frostbacks if I couldn't lay in the occasional fire glyph under my cloaks. Find some clean plates and things, would you? If you'd care for a bite."

"Always," Matthias admits, because, always he cares for a bite. He abandons his study and goes for the cottage's one measly cupboard, just as motivated by his obedience as he is by his appetite.

There are, luckily, clean plates, so he hasn't got to mess about with washing. Not that Dorian is going anywhere--this is where they're staying--so no fear of him slipping away before Matthias can ply him with more questions and listen to whatever he's got to say. He snags a handful of cutlery--knives, mostly, but they'll do--and tries not to look hasty in the way that he brings over the lot.

"I usually just hold flame in my hand for a bit, when I'm cold. Under as well, like--" He pinches his shirt and pulls it away, to make a bit of space. "If it was really cold. But only when I was wearing layers, and even then, I had to be careful, or else I ended up burnt. Where d'you put glyphs under cloaks? On the cloak? Does that work?"

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MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

dorian pavus.

it's basically the hilton. closed to matthias.

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