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

mhavos dalat | ota.

[murderbaby]

a. BORN TO RUN.

Mhavos has read about the grand plains of Ghislain, either in tax documents-- nobles who had farming interests, mostly-- or lush prose. Neither do the place justice. It's very pretty, in a decrepit sort of way; Mhavos can easily imagine how it was once more glorious, and how the tragedy of its current state will make for fine ballads, and how hollow they'll sound to him now that he's been here. Is poetry a form of voyeurism? A thought to consider when he's not running for his life.

Mhavos can fight, yes, but in a pitched battle when he has time to prepare, and never in open daylight. When a rift opens and a slouching horror makes its way toward him, Mhavos has no choice but to pick up the pace.

Luckily, Mhavos can run very fast.

Under his breath, "baise cet endroit."

b. TALK TO ME.

Mhavos' function as both literate and fluent in Orlesian is a slight boon, though not enough to outweigh his pointed ears. The beleaguered peasantry are often kind, and just as often not, depending on their persuasion of misfortune and pettiness. Having lost everything, some feel the need to strike out.

Those, Mhavos avoids how he can. The rest, he attempts to aid. Writing in a wax tablet, he takes down the accounts of strangers and their stories. "It's for an account of what happened here," Mhavos speaks in Orlesian, "I'm sorry, there's no pay for it."

A door is shut in his face.

Mhavos lets out a sigh. "Next house, then."

c. BADLANDS.

But when he can help, he does. A ruined grain silo must be climbed, apparently. Peasants once stored their goods in the roof, and used now-ruined exterior stairs when needed.

Riftwatch has been graciously offered a small portion if the lockbox is retrieved, though Mhavos' motivations are elsewhere. Shimmying up a rope, several stories off the ground, he moves with a graceful sort of precision.

With peasant children jeering or cheering below him-- who can tell?-- he considers how embarrassing a way to die this would be.

d. WILDCARD.

Throw something at me, I'm good for it. HMU @ wehwalt if you gotta.

a

[bloodandsand]

Fortunately, he won't have to run far. Poesia was built rather specifically for this sort of combat, sleek and gold and savage when she uses her full weight to drive her knife into the horror's side. She is a horror in herself and she fights close.

The rift shard in her hand snaps and spits, throwing bright flashes of green as she and the creature tear into each other. She will be covered in gore before the fight is over. What a glorious prospect.

[murderbaby]

There are knives safely kept into a hidden sheath woven into the inside of Mhavos' coat, and he can feel them against his ribs as he runs. If only it wasn't high bloody noon, in the middle of an open field, he'd be severely tempted.

As it is, he knows his options are simply to act like a distressed damsel (A lovely Apparition, sent / To be a moment’s ornament;) and hope he isn't murdered for the sake of his cover. Dodging a fireball with perhaps a bit too much agility, he watches the fighter come to save him in the most brazenly violent way possible. "C’est des conneries."

[bloodandsand]

He is rather on his own, entierly unattended while Poesia enjoys her unexpected exercise. She'll only pay him mind after the demon has slopped to the ground in a puddle of Fade goo (mildly unsatisfying) and the Rift has been properly closed (wonderfully dramatic).

It's then that she turns her attention toward him, head tilted in a curious movement that's oddly predatory. It settles into something more benign as he is considered and then dismissed as a threat (or prey).
"Hello," she says, her voice a sweet champagne, "Are you with Riftwatch or one of those others?"

The "others" are gestured to with a slight flick of the fingers, clearly suggesting that they rank rather low in the list of priorities.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is murmuring to himself in Orlesian-- Trade is a terrible language for profanity-- scuffed and dirty on the ground. He squints up at his sole savior. She looks like she could kill him effortlessly, during her own wedding ceremony, for the sport of it.

How quaint.

"Riftwatch," Mhavos says, sliding back into Trade. "I hope you are, with your, ah... malady." He gestures to her shard.

[bloodandsand]

He is, of course, entierly correct, but fortunately he has said the magic word. She beams at him, the lingering air of a predator replaced entierly by genuine delight.

"Oh good! Indeed I am as well," she says, holding out her hand (the one without a shard), "I know we're meant to be helping the others, but they are an especially confusing lot, don't you think? I always much rather attend to our own."

[murderbaby]

Mhavos has that feeling, one he's felt many times, of being in the palm of a particularly injudicious noble. The only way out if forward. He stands, taking her hand and putting as little weight on it as possible. The most important thing is to be unassuming, not likely to provide much entertainment in death or distress.

Is he overthinking this? It's entirely possible. That is, in the end, his default state.

"The peasants or their attackers?"

c.

[heorte]

Wading through the children, Ellis calls up, "Angle to your left, Mhavos!"

There's straw in Ellis' hair, sawdust all down his front. The farmers who had immediately co-opted Ellis to repair the damage to their barn must have either finished with him or allowed him a break. The children swarm around his knees as Ellis tries to position himself underneath Mhavos.

If he can't catch him, he can at least break the fall. But he doesn't want to say as much in the midst of all these kids, all of whom are unlikely to keep that plan quiet.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos looks down at Ellis with a sour expression. Generally, his fondness for acquaintances-- friends?-- smooths over his easily pricked pride, but not right now. Who knows what Ellis can even see from this height, though. Don't humans have horrible eyesight? He's sure he read that somewhere.

"I won't fall!" Mhavos continues to stubbornly climb.

[heorte]

"You aren't going to fall," Ellis calls, though he has patiently shadowed Mhavos' ascent. Maybe he won't do much more than absorb the impact rather than completely prevent injury, but it's better than idly watching along with the rest of their miniature audience.

A chorus of tiny voices urge faster, climb faster! How much of that carries is hard to say. A set of overeager boys jostle around Ellis' legs as he steps further, following Mhavos trajectory.

[murderbaby]

"So glad we're in agreement," Mhavos huffs out, mostly to himself. He manages to squirm up the rope all the way, getting to the top of the mill, just before-

Ca-rrack.

The roof collapses. Mhavos falls, but with hands clasped on the rope, still caught in the two remaining rafters. He dangles from the string, laughing with the utter surprise of still being alive.

"That was not a fall!" He yells down to Ellis, perhaps a little manic around the edges. "I did not fall!"

[heorte]

On the ground, there's a smattering of gasps and shouts from the children. Ellis paces from one end of the mill and back, unable to catch sight of Mhavos. He's dissatisfied with the shouted reassurance, but what else can he really do from the ground?

"Are you stuck where you are?" is the only question he comes up with in the moment, while the children cluster into an enthusiastic huddle. It's hard to tell if they're more shocked about Mhavos' daring or just now grasping the danger.

By contrast, Ellis' tone is still very calm though he is deeply concerned that this is going to end with Mhavos falling to his death in front of half the town's children.

b

[muckspout]

Edgard is eating a pear when he observes an elf he hasn't met yet going to door to door looking dejected. He cocks his head to one side, swallows, and then runs to catch up.

"What are you doing?" He asks. He then offers him the pear with the bite taken out of it. Want some?

SOLOMON KAAAAAAANE.

[murderbaby]

They're in the middle of a warzone, and if a pear has a bite out of it, it's not poisoned. Mhavos takes it.

Speaking colloquially in Orlesian is always easier. Trade, a language Mhavos learned from books, is a thing of formality. "Have you ever heard of oral histories, monsieur?"

Taking out a knife-- a letter opener, specifically-- Mhavos cuts a section of the pear off, before handing it back to his companion.

one day i will actually see it lol

[muckspout]

Edgard eats the pear thoughtfully and relishes being able to speak in a language without thinking too hard about it. He smirks and answers thickly.

"I suppose I haven't. At least, what that brings to mind does not match with what you were doing."

He nods to him.

"I am Edgard, by the way."

its a big silly mess dw.

[murderbaby]

"Mhavos Dalat. A pleasure."

He cuts a slice out of his half-pear and nibbles at it. "Oral histories are... interviews, basically. A series of them, all on the same subject. Since something momentous is definitely going on, it's worth it to get an idea of what people are going through. Too bad they don't feel very talkative."

duly noted

[muckspout]

"They might be more amenable if you offered them something." He grins, pear bits flying out, and waves the pear. "I have more where these came from."

He pulls a pear out from somewhere under his shirt and throws it at Mhavos. Think fast.

b.

[libratus]

Ilias is eavesdropping. It's not polite. He hasn't been there long, a grey shadow tracing the edge of vision, pausing at the twist of a muddy road to brightening about the eyes at the sound of a familiar voice. Gracious even to a slammed door.

"Would you do it, were the offer made to you?"

Tell me your story.

[murderbaby]

Someone is watching him. Mhavos knows better than to react. He's not in a place, anyway, where he can't defend himself if needed.

Of course, that precaution ends up being unnecessary. It's Ilias, and Mhavos is pleased to see the return of an old friend, for one, but especially an old friend who doesn't make a grand scene of it. Mhavos nods in acknowledgement, and keeps moving toward the next house.

"Ask more questions, I suppose. Not that I begrudge them their reticence."

[libratus]

"No," he agrees as he moves to meet the smaller man, falling into step beside him as if it hasn't been months; as if he hadn't worried, distantly, a little twinge between the ribs; as if he wasn't smoothing down a smile even now, to see him.

"Putting a thing into words, there is something quite--" challenging, apparently, for him in this moment; he makes a circular gesture instead. "It makes a thing real. Gives it power again, when perhaps it has had power enough."

c. goodlands

[sulahnan]

It's the children that diverts Athessa's attention from her trek back towards the town, drawing her off the road and into the fields. Grief can manifest itself in many ways, but cheering at a silo? That's a new one.

Which really is to say that she assumes something is going on with that silo. These kids aren't just expressing pent up emotion all at once in the same place because it's convenient. So Athessa hops over the rickety fence separating this field from the next and comes to stand behind the tiny humans, crossing her arms and squinting up at the silo.

"Bet you four coppers he's gonna fall!" A straw haired boy says.

"Bet you ten he isn't!" A girl with ginger hair and freckles exclaims.

"That's not really how betting works," Athessa offers, distractedly. She shields her eyes from the sun with one hand, still trying to see what the kids are even talking about when they jump and squeal and scatter a few steps, apparently not expecting to have an elf standing over them. "Come on then, tell me what's happening."

One of the boys starts stammering, a long string of ums and uhhs and euhs, because Orlesians. When he doesn't find any actual words, the blond steps forward, head held high. And he points at the silo.

"The funny man is climbing the silo," he declares. "And I say, he's going to fall, because the silo is going to fall over any day now. That's what my papa says. He says, that silo is gonna fall and take somebody with it."

"Nuh-uh!" The ginger, this time. "It isn't gonna fall! My grandfather built it with his own two hands! He doesn't make things that fall! One time? He built a house for my grandmother? And a bunch of wild horses, they stampede right over the top of it! And it didn't fall!"

Asking might have been a mistake. Oh well. Athessa puts two fingers in her mouth and whistles loud enough that the so-called funny man should be able to hear it all the way up there. It also stops the kids from bickering, since they cover their ears and stare at this new elf with wide eyed confusion.

"OI!" She calls. "WHAT'RE YA DOING UP THERE??"

mediocrelands.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos keeps climbing. Keep yourself focused, and you don't fall. Ignore children-- good advice for any occasion-- and you won't fall. Keep going, and you won't fall.

He doesn't fall. And he doesn't slip, like the last time one of them shouted- wait, that was in Trade. The voice is familiar, but Mhavos can't place it quite yet. He keeps climbing. Don't look down, and you won't fall.

"Climbing!"

[sulahnan]

The children titter and Athessa rolls her eyes. Cupping her hands around her mouth she yells back:

"WHY?"

[murderbaby]

This is getting annoying. Loosing his train of thought, he looks over his shoulder. "Ask the- Athessa?"

He's so surprised, he slips. Just an inch, some colorful Orlesian swearing, and then he's back to the climbing, slowly making his way up.

[sulahnan]

Athessa takes a reflexive step forward when the man — the man who knows her — slips, and then takes several more more intentional steps to walk into the silo's shadow. She couldn't see him from where the kids are watching, thanks to the angle of the sun and the distance and so on and so forth, but from here she can see ears and climbing posture and both factors click with his voice.

"Mhavos?" He's clearly not dead, and well enough to be climbing up a fucking silo of all things, but there's some newfound sense of urgency bidding Athessa to look around for handholds or a ladder or something that'd be faster to climb than a rope. "Mhavos!?"