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

"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."

"Easier to count the ones about heroes that look like us, probably. But I don't mean to dismiss you, I'm sure it is the stuff of stories, but it just doesn't feel the way it does to read about them."

Mhavos considers Achille Larousse's L'assassin de la Nuit series. "You're right. My apologies; I didn't mean to make light of your life. I'm simply a poor hand at expressing my pleasure at seeing you well."

"Don't apologize," she veers off course just enough to bump his shoulder with hers. "I'd rather have a light life than a heavy one. Maybe I'll have you help me write the story down sometime, so we can make it sound right without anyone else changing the important parts. Bastien can print it, and we can drop the story on Val Royeaux and see how it's received."

There are worse ways to bolster the public view of elves than to write stories of heroism enacted by them. Maybe somewhere there is a little girl like Athessa just waiting for tacit permission to learn to fight, to be brave, or to love the wrong person.

"Would you attach your name to it? Most stories of elves are published anonymously. At least, I think they're by elves. A fair amount aren't. Regardless, I think it's a wonderful idea."

He keeps walking toward the longhouse. They're almost there, but Mhavos stalls, wanting to prolong the conversation.

She hums.

"Maybe, but not as the hero. She can have a different name. It can be known to be written of an elf and by an elf, without putting the attention on me. Unless," This thought she thought was nothing but a deflection is gaining more traction than she expected. "Unless it sends a more powerful message to be named."

Mhavos had felt positively about Athessa before, but now he thinks he adores her. "You want me to help you craft a powerful message through literature? I could not think of a more worthy project." Well, except for the fact that the world is ending... "that I could help with. To ground it in reality, give it a real name, is a powerful thing for an elf to do."

"Really?" Genuine question, seeking genuine answer. Likely more because she's not used to having good ideas, and less because she thinks he'd say so to please her.

They've reached the longhouse, but Athessa doesn't see the need to walk away and leave him to it. Her task is done, she can afford to wait before moving on to the next.

"You don't think it'd be like painting a target on my back?"

"Not in Riftwatch," Mhavos says, "the organization would likely benefit from the press. Talk it over with others, of course, but I think the idea has great merit."

"I'll do that, then. But first: I'll wait out here until you're done."

She waves a sweeping arm towards the door to the longhouse, then takes up a casually leaning position beside the door.

Mhavos lets out a sigh. "I suppose you will, then. Try not to get stabbed until I'm back, at least. I need the material, as your publishing agent."

Or would that be Bastien? For all Mhavos reads of books, he knows very little of the financial processes involved in their creation. It doesn't matter anyway; it's a silly joke, barely funny. It's just nice to joke.

The endeavor with the village headman goes as expected-- he jealously checks the content of the box, claims it's been rifled through, is mollified when Mhavos offers to renege on their 'deal' of giving RiftWatch ten percent, and tells Mhavos to get the hell out. Ten percent of a town of peasant's savings is nothing Mhavos cares for, anyway. These people live hand to mouth; they'll need everything they can get to survive, even if they're mostly rude arseholes.

Though the fact that Mhavos emerges unmolested is a sign that they're kinder than most.

Athessa is still outside when he emerges, leaning against the wall and humming softly to herself while she waits. No specific tune, just idle musicality.

"All good?" She asks. He seems to be all in one piece, in any case, and she hadn't heard a scuffle within the building in the time he'd been there. Was she listening for her cue to step in if the villagers decided to make life difficult for Mhavos? Maybe.

"Whereabouts are you staying?"

Mhavos appreciates her staying in a wordless sort of way-- he figured she would, because there's strength in numbers. A few of the towns here have elves, but the majority of them are entirely human. Elves can't own land, anymore. Better to live in a city.

Mhavos wonders if that was what his parent's reasoning.

He greets her with a nod, and continues walking, vaguely in the direction of a campsite he's been staying at. "Generally in the supply tents. I've been keeping track of ledgers, supplies that sort of thing."

"Makes sense," she says, regardless of whether or not it does, and walks alongside him. "Some of us have been put up as boarders. Sister Sara and Richard are over in the monastery, Colin is in some kind of attic space. Me n' Julius are in an old geezer's haunted guest wing. It's a mixed bag."

There's too much to catch up on, it seems. Athessa wants to tell him everything, but he's said so little about his own time away that she's reticent to take over the conversation. A new experience for her. Probably for him in relation to her, as well.

"Remind me, do you smoke?"

Mhavos shakes his head. "I try to have as few conspicuous hobbies as possible."

It's a joke and the truth-- Mhavos just likes to blend in as much as possible for an elf. He's thinking about it, now; this is something Athessa wants to pursue as well, in her own way. A spy, a thief, or just someone who can hide from trouble, he doesn't know, but melting into a crowd is a good skill for any elf.

"You know, I'm not familiar with any of those people. This place has certainly changed." He can't fault that, either. "Tell me, what do you make of its direction? When I heard you were here... I wasn't surprised, certainly. Things seem to be coming to a head. Or perhaps that's the bias of the observer."

She's retrieved a joint from a pouch on her belt, along with a match and a dagger that she uses to split it in twain. Even after purchasing plenty of matches for her use, she still tries to make them last as long as possible, shortages being as they are.

"If I were to answer with what direction," she says, wryly, "it'd probably tell you enough about what I make of it."

The match strikes against her bracer and she lights the end of the joint, rotating it through the flame for an even burn, then shaking out both it and the match. Her next words are breathed out on a cloud of smoke, angled away from Mhavos.

"It hasn't changed much, really. Just the roster."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject