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

[cozen]

[ The joint makes it to his mouth finally, so he looks up, at first the very picture of innocent confusion, like he doesn’t quite understand the implication—but not too innocent or too confused, because that wouldn’t be realistic, either. A little wary, to be the target of that eyebrow raise. A little guarded, a little offended, with a baffled but good-natured little smile on top. It’s a solid forgery.

But after a moment of meeting her eyes, he relents. Enough that there’s some knowing humor added, too, like it’s a game or a joke they’re sharing. ]

Perhaps they were confused. Mixing us together because we were standing too close.

[hassaran]

That must be it. [ Her agreement comes easy, once he gives it up. (He almost had her for a second there.) ] Perhaps they were the spirits of Marchers who never learned to do accents.

[cozen]

The embodiments of Almost Good Enough.

[ He inhales, pauses, exhales smoke. ]

It was very kind of you, to ask before I started.

[hassaran]

[ Her shrug, like her eyebrow and her agreement, is a little loose in the joints. ] That wouldn't have been very sporting.

[cozen]

[ He hums agreeably. Despite his feeling like he's on the edge of a chasm—an irrational chasm, a chasm from childhood that would perhaps not be so deep and frightening if he looked directly at it now—she's sort of charming. ]

I have been wondering, [ because you know what's sporting? fair trades. ] —if your admiral was your first love.

[hassaran]

Vice-Admiral [ She considers the question as she lifts her tankard as she tips her head, squinting thoughtfully at the branches above. ] Depends. What are we counting?

[cozen]

If I leave it up to you, will you tell me about a little crush you had on a circus boy when you were six?

[hassaran]

If I did, it would be a very cute story. [ So there. ] But no. And in hindsight, there was only Darras.

[cozen]

[ He leans in, while he puffs, to invite any scandals she'd like to share. Specifically: ]

And no one after him?

[hassaran]

[ She laughs, and then leans forward onto her forearms, into the smoke. ] One husband is enough for me.

[ Once she's sat back again she thinks to wonder ] Why do you ask?

[cozen]

Curiosity. Fascination. One love, your whole life—it's something out of a story.

[ Which he means without any skepticism. Admiration only. ]

Is it too personal to ask how you knew?

[hassaran]

[ She rolls her eyes a little, but only partway around. ] Darras would tell a better story than I can.

And yes, it is. [ So she reaches over, two fingers wiggled briefly in request. She takes a moment or two, a slow exhale, before she hands the joint back. ] I don't have an answer fit for a story. One day I realized I wasn't thinking before I spoke, and it didn't worry me.

[cozen]

[ He doesn't say that's sweet out loud, because it seems like the sort of thing she might also roll her eyes at—or worse, consider condescending. But it's on his face.

In trade: ]

It isn't that big a lie. I was born in Val Royeaux. I couldn't do the accent now if I tried. I have tried. Even thinking that my life might depend on it, I still... Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.

[ He sounds precisely like an Orlesian making a bad attempt at a North Marcher accent, particularly unable to bring the Rs out of the back of his throat without making them sound unnatural, and shrugs helplessly. ]

[hassaran]

[ The way she laughs at the butchered accent is incredulous, like she can't quite decide if this is a joke or not. ] That is dreadful. We can work on that if you like.

But barely a lie at all, if you were born there. Where did your parents come from?

[cozen]

Uhh—

[ They don’t distinguish much, in Orlais, between this barbaric backwater Marcher city and that one, and he never had many detailed conversations with his parents about it, for several reasons. But he does remember. It’s more that he isn’t sure he wants to say, for a moment. ]

—Kaiten.

[ No Orlesian-accented spirits appear to point and laugh. So that’s nice. ]

And yes, please. Working on it would be nice. Being able to pass for something other than an Orlesian...

[ Useful, obviously, and more necessary outside of Orlais, when Orlais is at war, etc. ]

Could you teach me your accent? It’s pleasant.

[hassaran]

I've ridden through Kaiten before. I can't picture you in the mountains.

[ The compliment wins him an easy smile and redirection. ] I can try. I've never had to practice it so I may not make a very good teacher.

[ She drinks, watching him for a moment, first over the tankard's edge and then after it's returned to the tabletop. ]

I know you're hoping I'll say where my accent is from so you may save up your question. So I'll be a good friend and spare you the waste: the truth is I don't know. Somewhere in the Marches, I assume.

[cozen]

A truly good friend would not point out how unsubtle I am, [ Bastien says, but he’s grinning. ]

And in that case I suppose I should not learn it. Every time someone asked where I was from, it could ruin everything—unless I also claimed to be the child of a traveling circus and mother of unknown origins.

But I will keep an ear out and let you know immediately if I ever meet anyone else who sounds like you.

[hassaran]

You would have to learn some circus tricks. How are you at tightrope walking? I'm not sure I'd want to know where she came from, now.

[ She transitions that quickly from one topic to the other, everything in her manner just as easy as before, none of that hesitation he showed working around to Kaiten. ]

When I was small it was a mystery like in a fairytale. But when the secret died with her I never mourned it. And by the time I was old enough that I might have investigated I'd learned there weren't likely to be any happy answers.

[cozen]

Oh.

[ For a moment he looks at her—contemplative, with an openness that's rare for him—before he begins moving again, in an increasingly hazy way. He hasn't smoked in a long time. His tolerance is shit. ]

Then if I meet anyone who sounds like you, I will never say a word. Or I will tell you that they came from an island in the clouds. Whichever you prefer.

[hassaran]

[ She allows it, with a placidity that's rare for her, no undercurrent of wariness in the way she watches him look at her, nothing flitting across the surface. ] Tell me only if you find they truly do come from an island in the clouds, [ she decides. ] Then I might wish to reclaim my birthright after all.

[ She reaches over to neatly pluck the joint from his fingers again, replacing it a moment later before she leans back, settling comfortably against the tree and tipping back her head to blow a lazy curl of smoke up into the lowest branches. ]

What is it you really want to know? [ she asks, the back of her head finding a convenient divot in the trunk, lids low ] About Darras and me? I may be high enough to tell you.

[cozen]

[ Bastien laughs a little. ]

That was what I really wanted to know.

[ And he twists and flops back to lie down on the ground, angled so he isn't too close but she can easily steal the joint from him again if she wants it. ]

But if this is my opportunity for more—hmm.

[hassaran]

Was it? [ Her frown is faintly bemused, and her cup hovers shy of her lips, wobbled back and forth in gesture. ] You always seem to me to be working your way around something. Filing away bits of information, to avoid revealing your exact interest.

[ She shrugs. ]

Perhaps I imagine it.

[cozen]

No, you are right. I do that.

[ He takes another drag, then holds it toward her, for keeps this time. That’s plenty for him. ]

But I am not trying to get anything out of you. I’m only curious about, mm... All of it. I have never done it. Everyone who has ever thought they were in love with me was in love with, you know— [ He holds up a hand as if it’s inside a hand puppet and makes it talk along with him. ] —someone who only resembled me.

So sometimes it seems very silly and simple. Like a puzzle. Push here, pull there—be reasonably good looking—et voilà. Love.

And then other times it seems very mysterious and uncontrollable, and I feel like a stupid stunted child [ cheerfully ] who does not know anything.

[hassaran]

[ Yseult accepts the joint, leaving it dangling from fingertips as she listens. The hand puppet earns him a quick smile, quick because she decides then to take another drag, exhale long and slow and final before she stubs out what's left. Plenty for them both. ]

I told Darras once that I worried I might have manipulated him like a mark without really meaning to, or would one day. He laughed at me.

[ She clicks her case shut around the unsmoked butt and returns it to a pocket, settling back against the tree once more. ]

I think it's both. Or neither. If we hadn't met precisely as we did it couldn't have worked. All the puzzle pieces had to be just right. But I couldn't have set those pieces up myself. And once they fit, then--. [ She shrugs. ] It was never really in my hands. Thankfully.