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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Edgard laughs darkly and responds, "Have you met many soldiers, mademoiselle?"

He hasn't spent much time with this young woman, but has made some assessments on who she is: never been hungry a day in her life, seen very little real hardship, and likely sees herself as above him. She is precisely the sort of person Edgard has spent a lifetime avoiding and hating. Despite himself, he's enjoyed her incessant chatter on the walk to this house and can't bring himself to completely detest her.

"In my experience, soldiers destroy as much as possible. I doubt anything of value is left here. We should see if there's any loose floorboards. If they missed something, it's because it was well hidden." He walks around and stomps in various locations around the room to check.

"I was under the impression that we were all soldiers of a kind in Riftwatch," she calls after him, a sort of biting good cheer in the temper of it. She knows she's arguing semantics, but no— she can't say that she has spent much time in such martial company. Even in the Gallows, she prefers to avoid the training yard unless forced there.

(Mr. Ellis is quite determined to see her master the bow, yet here she is in the middle of war torn Orlais without it.)

She watches him stomp around the floorboards for a few moments, then raises her attention to the ceiling above them as if contemplating the likelihood of the many floorboards above them as well.

"Do you have much experience with them? Soldiers, I mean."

He certainly looks the part.

"Yes," He responds curtly. "a long time ago." He notices her eyes lifting upward, nods, and heads up the stairs. After stomping on a few of the stairs, he responds to her other observation.

"I haven't been with Riftwatch long, but it seems less inclined to punish thinking for yourself. Which is very different from military. And when you can't think for yourself, it bottles up and--" He sweeps his arms wide at the general destruction of the house.

A thought occurs to him and he knocks on a wall which causes a crumbling dent in it. He makes a face. "Or maybe this house is just built like shit."

She trails after him, far more interesting in the conversation than the prospect of prying up loose floorboards. As compelling as finding hidden jewels and the correspondence of local government officials might be...

The plaster crumbles away under Edgard's knuckles. Well, yes. There's that.

"Riftwatch is certainly rather more... free than the military service I am most familiar with, even from the outside. But I suppose you might really consider it rather more like a mercenary company, could you not? And I can't say that I have much notion of what one of those is like. Were you a soldier yourself, Monsieur?"

Edgard continues his way up the stairs, stopping periodically and stomping, cocking his head to listen for something.

"I was when I was younger." And an entirely different man. He shrugs. "It didn't suit me. It's been a long time. I'm more accustomed to different sorts of company."

He reaches the top staircase and turns to the woman, eager to get the subject off himself, "What about you? What brings someone like you to these ranks?" Edgard is very careful to keep his tone impassive, he's made enough enemies of late.

In reply, she simply strips the pale leather glove from her left hand and holds it up, palm on display. The nauseating green glow of the rift anchor lodged there is grimly brought, casting dancing shadows as she wiggles her fingers for emphasis.

"I'm a Rifter. So I think you'll find I had very little choice in the matter."

If there is meant to be any trace of bitterness for this fact - being ripped from her home and thrust into another world, or being a demon of the Fade and forced to masquerade as a human -, no trace of it shows in her person. In fact, Miss Poppell is all good cheer as she tugs her glove back on.

"That said, I have found the work suits me fantastically. And even if it hadn't, I would by now be such an old hand at the thing as to be suited by practice. I believe only Madame de Cedoux and the Provost himself have a longer tenure than myself when it comes to traveling beyond the Fade."

Edgard leans in to looks at her hand with a wary interest. His hand twitches to reach toward it, but then he thinks better of it.

“Hrm. It’s very green. Well, I‘m glad the work suits you, but I don’t think it does a person good to be not given a choice.”

He crosses his arms over his chest.

“But perhaps it’s easier when your problems aren’t your own fault. I wouldn’t know.”

He steps into an empty room.

"Well. Some might say that they are my problems for as long as I am in Thedas," she insists while trailing into the empty room after him.

This room is in as many shambles as any other. It features similarly peeling wallpaper, a broken window, a shredded duvet torn from its abandoned bed.

"Did you fight in the war, Monsieur? I have been led to believe that there has been quite a history of fighting in Orlais even prior to Corypheus' rise."

Edgard shrugs. “I didn’t say they weren’t your problems, just that you were less at fault for them. I’m fairly certain problems continue no matter how far you go.”

He picks up the duvet and shakes it. Dust and fluff fill the air.

“I fought. I hardly remember what Orlais was like before it was a battleground for us—-or others. Orlais’ a bit like this house actually although, like this house, it was never built well to start.”

"You had best not say so too loudly," she says from her place in the doorway, the amusement in her voice quite clear. "The other Orlesians may hear you; I gather they are all rather proud of this place - even Monsieur Bastien, who is by far the most sensible of the whole retinue."

From how she has posted herself there without treading too far into the room, it seems Wysteria is perfectly content to allow Edgard to do the hard work of rifling and tossing the interior of the house in search of their prize. Or possibly that she has simply forgotten what she is here for, and has instead been thoroughly distracted by the subject of conversation.

"I must say, I'm rather surprised you found your way to Riftwatch rather than the Exalted March. I would have supposed a soldier to have simply continued soldiering more or less as he was, given the opportunity. Is there really much difference between our work and the Divine's, do you think?"

Edgard smirks. "I think I get at least a partial pass by being Orlesian. At least, from Monsieur Bastien probably." The man promised him baked goods within a second of meeting him, after all.

"Less so from the other Orlesians in our party I've met."

The other question disquiets him and it likely shows on his face, but he chooses not to engage with it. Edgard notices Wysteria standing there watching him rifle through the bedding. "Maybe check the wardrobe?" He suggests.

"Like I said before, soldiering wasn't for me. I've been busy with other things in Orlais since the war." He pulls at a bedpost which is removed with a pop. "Aha!"

He pulls out a small bag and sniffs at it. "Elfroot?" He guesses. "This isn't what we were looking for, was it?"

Her "No, I'm afraid not," is quite cheerful from where she stands in the doorway, as is her tenacious return to the subject. Like a small, otherwise amenable dog, she has sunk her teeth into his proverbial calf.

"If you found soldiering unpleasant, might I ask what has brought you to Riftwatch's Forces division?"

Edgard nods and pockets his findings. He takes this moment to pause thoughtfully. It doesn't seem likely that he can distract Wysteria from this, so he opts for frankness.

"I was with a group that died from exposure to red lyrium. Well, one was exposed and killed the rest."

He puffs air out his cheeks. "It's the sort of thing that puts your priorities into perspective. So, I'm here to help and if that means soldiering, alright." He shrugs and walks over to check the wardrobe with the air of someone speaking of the weather.

If she is at all put off from making rude inquiries by the grim quality of the answer she receives for her trouble, or with what is clearly reticence on his part to continue down this particular line of questions, it hardly shows in her generally pleasant demeanor. It also doesn't motivate her to leave the doorway.

"How dreadful. I'm so sorry to hear about your companions." It is very horrible, of course. The loss of dear friends is terrible, and one must respect the motivation of a man's revenge quest, but— After a respectful (-ish) pause, she persists with, "Did you see the red lyrium yourself? I've been doing rather a lot of reading on the subject, you see. Or rather, on the subject of lyrium generally, not only the corrupted version. It's a fascinating subject."

Edgard has been hesitant of Wysteria, she seems far too eager to ask him personal questions, but this particular line of questioning is a different matter altogether. He has wanted answers and explanations of what happened to him since arriving and most here seem either ignorant of it or less than forthcoming. He isn't sure he trusts Wysteria, but she seems his best option yet. He turns to her and steps forward.

"I did. Not up close," He holds his hands up as if to reassure her. "from a distance. But, another of my party did and..." He shakes his head and then launches into questions.
"What do you know about red lyrium? What have you read? How prevalent is it? Have you seen it?"

Edgard is no book reader, but he will listen to what she has to tell him for days if necessary.

"Oh, I know very little on the subject of specifically red lyrium and have certainly never seen it in person," she says, absently fiddling with the door's latch.

"If you're curious about it, you would best be served by reviewing Project Sashamiri's files or consulting with Enchanter Julius who leads the inquiry. He would be much more knowledgeable than myself on the subject on the blighted stuff. My interests - or rather, my expertise I should say, for I am of course interested in every variation of the thing - is in enchantments and other things the pure and refined version of the stuff is used for."

Edgard walks over closer to Wysteria and leans against a wall.

"Well, you should be very careful. I have a hard time believing its not dangerous in any form. But, alright, I may see about this Julius, although so far, nothing I've seen has been taken very seriously."

She takes a small step back as he meanders closer - a thoughtless, automatic sort of thing. Regardless of her interest in gossip and the freedom of her opinion with respect to exploring the house, there are certain sorts of men one might prefer not to stand very close to enough to maintain distance unconsciously.

"Oh, the refined version of the stuff is perfectly safe when handled correctly - unless, I suppose, it may be corrupted after the refinement process though I have heard of no such cases. But generally speaking yes I do believe it is very dangerous, causing madness and the like regardless of any taint."

Edgard notes her step back and frowns a little. Wysteria seems friendly enough, but he recognizes the actions of superiority when he sees them. It's the sort of thing that is very familiar, but causes a little flame of anger in him regardless. He shoves it down and stays where he is.

"You've read the books, I suppose you would know. But," He shrugs lazily. "being careful never hurt anyone."

Which is probably not true, as he thinks about it. There are times when he could've afforded to be less careful.

"You and Sister Sara would get along rather well. You should seek her out once we return to Kirkwall, if not here in Ghislain."

She has, apparently, heard this sort of warning before. She is also evidently done with standing in this particular doorway, for hardly a beat passes before she announces, "Come, I believe we may find what we're looking for in the room next to this one," and withdraws from it.

With the clear expectation that he follow, Wysteria makes her way down the little hall and sweeps into the next doorway with a whirl of skirts. She stands at the center of the second bedroom - similarly poorly used as the first - for only a moment before pointing to one of the panels on the wall.

"See if you're able to pry that one up. I have a good feeling."

"I've met Sister Sara, although briefly." He half-grins at Wysteria. "You like to introduce people to each other, I take it."

Edgard follows Wysteria into the second bedroom, making sure to keep space between them. He looks at her curiously when she points to the wall.

"That's an oddly specific thing to have a good feeling about." He hesitates a moment and then steps next to Wysteria taking his knife to the panel. It breaks away easily.

He sticks his hand and feels around. His eyes widen, he slams his shoulder against the wall as if something inside has grabbed him. "AUGH!" he yells.

He then laughs and pulls his arm out. "Nothing's in there." He says, wiping his hands together to get rid of the debris.

Either Wysteria is made of rather stern stuff indeed, or perhaps her choice of regular company trends toward similar bouts of nonsense for the tomfoolery elicits little in the way of shock, skirting instead rather close to something like amusement before--

She frowns. In comparison to the general good humor she has adopted up until this point, it is a very severe expression indeed.

"Nothing? That can't be right."

With the business-like nature of a young lady who knows she's correct, Wysteria moves to join him at the hole in the wall. She's already rolling up her sleeve to do a little investigating of her own. "Pardon me, if you please."

You're in her way, serah; she knows she's sensed something in the wall - the faintest tint of something magic and strange living there behind the plaster...

Edgard frowns back, but more in disappointment at the fact he wasn’t able to rattle her.

“Should’ve known you were made of stern stuff when you started talking about lyrium.”

He steps well out of her way, gesturing to the wall with a small bow, mock formality that may or may not be interpreted as such. Do go on, milady.

"Just so. I realize you are rather new to this whole endeavor, but you should know that for all it's day to day silliness that Riftwatch is quite demanding of its personnel," Wysteria snips back at him.

Sleeve rolled, she pokes her hand willy nilly into the dark space afforded by the removed panel. Searching upwards into the gap of the wall, she runs her hand carefully about various invisible edges and dusty nooks and crannies and—

She shrieks.

Edgard's face which had gone stony at Wysteria's comment transforms into fear at her scream. Edgard jumps and the floorboard groan underneath him. His bow drawn, he shouts at her,

"Is this a joke or does something really have you?"

MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

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