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

[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.

[muckspout]

Thrilled to be taken seriously, Edgard runs his fingers through his greasy hair and responds all business. "I don't think it will be too hard to find a barn where this food is being stored. Then we take a wagon, fill it up, bring it back." He speaks like he's talking about tying his shoes. "If there's enough, and from what I've seen of the crops there will be, there's a chance they won't even notice anything's gone."

"And-" Edgard takes in the features of the woman in front of him and falters. He cocks his head to one side. "Have we met?" Her highborn accent, although Orlesian, makes this highly unlikely, but there is something alarmingly familiar about her face. Edgard shifts from foot to foot, recognition generally doesn't bode well for him.

[elegiaque]

“You'd recall.”

Gwenaëlle—

might not, if she's being honest, so this answer doesn't actually require that she take seriously the possibility they've met before, or examine him as closely in return. And as arrogant an answer as it is, it doesn't have the self-satisfied tone of one who imagines she's so exceptional he couldn't help but fully appreciate her presence—it's a bit more along the grim certainty lines.

She is nothing if not memorable, in person. Rarely, if ever, for the sort of reasons she'd prefer to be memorable for. Probably introducing herself won't actually help,

“Gwenaëlle Baudin.”

—as it had been Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin who had written those very recognisable pamphlets. (It does mark her out for, if he's paid some attention, probably Provost Baudin's wife.)

[muckspout]

Edgard shakes his head a little, still struck by her face, but the name doesn't ring any bells. Ah well.

"Gwenaëlle," He repeats turning away from her, but still speaks. "Edgard."

The sun is lowering, cutting pink strips into the sky as dusk approaches. He points to the south.

"I saw a group of soldiers, very not hungry looking, go that way." He turns back to look at her, eyeing her weapons with interest. (All he has is his bow and a knife which usually is all he needs.) "What do you say?" He crooks his thumb behind him and then folds his arms over his chest. He figures if they go now, maybe no one else inclined to stop them will notice.

[elegiaque]

The bow at her back is an odd-looking thing—rough-hewn, visibly enchanted with ice-magic, and appearing to have no string to it at all. Neat knives are strapped at her thighs, and she wears a practical-looking sword,

almost all of which, with the exception of perhaps the bow, is less striking than the leather glove on her left-hand; fingerless, buckled close at the wrist with malleable wires running throughout, a crystal at the center of her palm. The pale green glow of the anchor-shard she bears is visible through that crystal, casting odd light where she puts her hand. Mostly, when she isn't using it, it just adds to the flavor of the occasional obscene gesture.

Probably that isn't all it's for.

“I fancy I can steal a wagon, if pressed,” in a drawl, falling in step in the direction he points; he has chosen well, if the criteria for choosing was 'someone who'd hear that extremely half-cocked plan and think hell yeah, I haven't done anything dumb all day'.

[muckspout]

Dumb ideas are Edgard's speciality. He grins at Gwen and motions ahead of them into an orchard.

"Consider yourself pressed. You are the person I told and now we're doing this."

Edgard strides forward, energized, maybe he's been a bit of a fuck up, but at least this he knows how to do. He hops excitedly like a little boy. He calls back to Gwen.

"I take it you can use those fancy weapons, but if we do this cleanly we won't have to." Although this phrase is directed at Gwen, Edgard likely needs this advice as well. "Just a little bit of fun to help out those who need it."

[elegiaque]

“Just what Riftwatch is known for,” is probably not a serious remark, although she doesn't intend to screw this up so they run away firing arrows at anyone. (It's just they never intend, do they, and yet.)

“You think they've got a wagon?”

It'll be easier, if that's what they have to steal; they can load it. She's relatively confident driving one; it can't be worse than the last time she was driving a wagon in Ghislain, and loaded with far less fragile cargo. If not—

Alternate plan: kill everyone, come back with a wagon. She'll see what he suggests, though, first. He looks like he has slightly more experience nicking things than she does.

[muckspout]

"They've got to have a wagon." He says as if its obvious. "They have to move them all somehow and I doubt they're doing it by hand. Plus," He adds. "I've seen a couple around."

If there's no wagons, the job will be considerably harder, but it seems unlikely. He moves forward at a jolly pace between the trees. This feels nostalgic and though he doesn't know Gwen at all, he turns his head to her and grins widely.

As they get closer in, he stops and doubles back to Gwen.

"We should probably look at what we're heading into before we do." He motions with his thumb up at the nearest tree and almost hits a pear hanging down from it. "You want to climb up there or shall I? Or maybe both of us?

Edgard loves to climb trees. There's no way he's not going up there.