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

Mhavos steers their party more in the direction of the village longhouse, or what remains of it. It is where he was told to give up the lockbox, if he didn't die.

"I wasn't always a bookkeeper," Mhavos says. "I was an errand boy for years, and the quickest way to do that is avoiding the street and climbing walls. Remember, when we found your flying rodent?"

She snorts.

"I remember. I meant the book-work you were doing while you were here being not-dead."

See, a guilty conscience reveals information twice. He's lucky she doesn't suspect him of anything-... does she? Wait, no, don't overthink it.

"A little. I nearly fell off a roof." He shrugs. "I am attempting to rise above that incident."

"So you can nearly fall off a higher roof?"

Get it? Because he's rising above...? She definitely doesn't suspect him of anything.

His glare is too fond to be cutting. "Nearly, yes." He cracks a smile. "What about you? What mischief have you been up to?"

"Mischief? Me? Never."

Except for the mischief that got her reprimanded, and thrown into Bard training, and, and, and.

"A lot of training, a lot of work, a lot of bullshit, you know. The usual," inasmuch as having a spirit make people share nightmares of how awful life could be, infiltrating the estate of an evil man to save a girl from his clutches, a grippe outbreak, getting trapped in the Donnarks, and going undercover in Churneau for a month constitutes the usual. "I started taking lessons from Enchanters Julius and Rowantree to be less of a dumbass."

Mhavos vaguely remembers someone by the name of Julius. Rowantree escapes him, but he's sure he'll find out soon enough. He takes note all the same.

"To be- hm, what? Is that the official description?"

No comment on her being a dumbass. He disagrees.

"The official description is tutoring and remedial education in literacy and sums," she admits with a shrug. "But it's all going towards the same goal. I guess the training is more anti-dumbassery than the literacy stuff."

Mhavos leans in a little with obvious interest. "If you need help with that, I can provide it, but not to improve your character. I believe that's reasonably fantastic as it is."

She looks a bit surprised at that. Not the offer of assistance in learning, but the comment on her character.

"You sure you're alright? Reasonably fantastic is quite the compliment."

"I'm trying to rectify my character, with this second chance I have. That means being more open with my thoughts." Well... to an extent.

Even with all the playful ribbing, she wouldn't have thought he needed his own character rectified, but she can't fault him for trying for his own sake.

"Journeys of self-improvement, huh," she muses, idly scratching her scarred cheek with her thumb. "I kinda wish mine took me places other than Orlais, if I'm honest."

"It's a terrible place," Mhavos offers immediately. Grinning, he continues, "everyone from Orlais is just awful."

"Terrible and awful, yep. Present company (and Bastien) excluded. But three outta four missions here have gone wrong in one way or another."

"Orlais can't bear being intruded upon. Rather ironic, considering."

"Sure," Ironic is a word for it, she supposes. "I guess it's really the Venatori I ought to begrudge for everything that goes wrong, but it's hard not to blame where it happened, as well. We salvaged our work in Churneau well enough but some of our own were captured and I got this--"

She gestures to the scar, then. "--As a souvenir."

"It cuts a heroic profile." He nods in deference. She wears it well. "It seems we're attempting to have your revenge. How goes it, on the front lines?"

"Heh, cuts," She shakes her head at the pun. "Well, thanks. I wasn't sure how to feel about it, after Bastien made such a fuss about bad luck and all. But the front lines...I dunno. We're here."

A shrug and a wide gesture. Is this the front lines? Or is that the Exalted March? Or maybe he's asking after her kill count, morbid as that may be. She didn't look at the blood rushing over her fingers when she slit the magister's throat, but the thought makes her fingers twitch anyway. As she's done since last Harvestmere, she flexes her hand against the twitch, over-correcting to reassert that no, nobody is making her hand do that. It's just a twinge.

Mhavos is, as a rule, never asking for a kill count. Athessa can't possibly know that, though. Mhavos does everything in his power to keep it that way.

He cringes slightly at the accidental pun.

"Hardly bad luck. Dying is bad luck. Anything less is a victory." It's a small thing, but something he's trying to contend with, himself. Imagine, being grateful to be alive.

Ah, Mhavos doesn't know. Of course he doesn't.

"I mean in his professional capacity. This'd be bad luck, too—" She lifts her hand and loosens her bracer enough to slide it back and reveal the tattoo on her wrist. Forget-me-nots, wrapped around once but not connecting; not binding her. "Being remarkable, identifiable, you know."

Ah. She's training to be some sort of spy. It's both humorous and worrisome she's essentially training to become him, but Mhavos decides to focus on humor. He can worry about this later, when they've all made it out of a warzone.

"Elves with scars aren't a rarity," he pulls up his sleeve, revealing a long slash just under his elbow. There's no need to explain; he assumes she'll assume it was given by a disgruntled master. "But I understand your point. You're lucky several hairstyles will hide it easily. And when you're in Orlais..."

He swipes his hand in front of his face. A mask.

Athessa never assumes that a master is at fault for injuries inflicted on elves; it may be a shem, but having never called anyone master, she would sooner credit a fight or an accident, but cruelty is abundant in Orlais. Maybe it was no accident.

"Yeah, well, luckily while we're here, now, a mask won't be necessary. I can scowl openly at anyone who decides to be rude to the elf that's repairing their roof or saving them from darkspawn or whatever," she puts her bracer back in place and tightens the laces again. "How'd you get yours?"

He tsks in agreement-- not liking it, but accepting her fair perspective. Dryly, "I imagine we're even more threatening in groups."

He shrugs at her question, like it's nothing important. The truth: he got the scar fighting off a mark who was woke just as Mhavos was about to slit his throat. The cover, free of detail and full of room for assumptions to be made: "When I was younger. I displeased someone with my work. Your story is more inspiring by far."

This time, the assumption is that he's kidding, and she scoffs.

"Oh yeah, real inspiring," she laughs. "The stuff of stories."

"You fought Venatori and lived," Mhavos says. "Do you know how many books and poems are about valiant heroes defending against Tevinter mages right now? In Val Royeaux alone, I could not begin to count them."

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