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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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."

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.

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.

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."

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?"

"Oh no, the Inquisition and the March I mean." He's a funny little thing. Very tidy and precise and far away from most things that need tidiness and precision. She brushes some dirt off his shirt sleeves, never one to pay any mind to things like physical boundaries unless rebuked.

"It's very puzzling when there isn't one person one is meant to obey, don't you think? It was quite mysterious when I first came to Riftwatch, but there's only 4 masters. Here it seems every odd man with a charming little mask means to be a master, but they aren't especially good at it, you know.
It's horribly vexing!"

He's always warry of humans touching him, and this is no different, but just as recently, he has no idea what this contact means. Best to push forward.

"Orlesians are good at gaining authority," Mhavos says, "but not brilliant at managing it. The humans, anyway."

She's a rifter, of course, but that almost doesn't register. The thought that she wouldn't recognize his accent doesn't register.

She steps away when she's satisfied she's dusted him off, turning her attention to the various splotches of blood and gore on her own person.

"I suppose they must be," she says, not having the faintest clue. He is wrong in one aspect, though she's not aware of it: "I recall Orlesians are the ones who are especially fond of rouging their nipples and of course, they do like their funny little masks, but I don't believe I've ever been around a group of them long enough to notice before."

"The human ones, yes," Mhavos says, droll. He gestures to himself. "Feel free to ask questions; I've extensive experience with the lot."

Make yourself useful. Always a safe bet.

"Do Orlesian elves not rouge their nipples?" she asks, since he offered and all, "I suppose I've never seen any wearing a mask, but I admit my familiarity with Orlesian elves is rather lacking. I thought they might at the Winter Palace, it seems the sort of place."

What sort of place? She does not elaborate. Also they're friends now and she's looking at him with earnest befuddlement.

"Not generally, no," Mhavos says, managing to keep a straight face for this new, strange leg of the conversation. "Though I can't speak for all of us."

"We could make an investigation of it," she says, and now there's some playfulness, "For instance, do you have a preference for roughed or unroughed nipples?"

Mhavos, in the last few months, has been making a concerted effort to be less stuffy, more free, more open, less priggish. This, however, is too much even for his new lease on life. He cringes. "unroughed, thank you."

Poesia hums and considers him a moment. It's never any fun trying to play a game if the other person isn't inclined to play as well, so she says, "I will have to survey others as well, I suppose. Oh, but forgive me, we haven't had proper introduction!" She executes a neat little curtsy for someone not wearing a skirt, "I'm Poesia, I serve Commander Flint."

Mhavos has a sudden vision of the inevitable community-wide survey via crystal. He missed this awful place.

"Forces, of course. Mhavos Dalat, of resources. I'm helping keep track of supplies and ledgers. Riveting work."

"Goodness, that sounds complicated," Poesia says. She hadn't even been aware there was a resource division! Nor is she especially aware of how one goes about tracking a ledger, but she imagines it must be very different from tracking a person or an animal. "You must be very clever. Are you following a ledger now?"

Mhavos is attempting to be judicious, to be more open to others, less stodgy. This is certainly testing him. Is he being made fun of? Surely, whatever world this woman comes from has the concept of double booking. How much information would one need to give someone new to this plane of existence?

A dizzying thought. He shakes his head.

"No, no. Until very recently, I was busy running for my life."

"I imagine that would make tracking ledgers especially difficult," she says with some amount of genuine sympathy. Primarily she hasn't a clue, but it is a curious thing, so she's inclined to hang about until she figures out how one does indeed track a ledger. Though now that she thinks of it:

"You ought not be out so far by yourself if you aren't very good at killing, dear." It's a gentle admonishment. "It would be very troubling if you were killed!"

He snorts, amused, because this must be a joke. In deference to the human of obvious strength, he nods his head, playing at chastised. "A mistake I won't make again, believe me."

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MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

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