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

The pause which follows is the measuring kind - Flint squinting up at the floor above them, reckoning with the shambles of the staircase and the height of the floor; taking account of how much patience he has for chattering Chantry Sisters and that morose Brother in their company more so than he has any particular care for the secrecy of whatever might be waiting in that desk.

Evidently the ride here has worn thin his tolerance, for after a moment Flint throws Silver a sidelong look and then proceeds to interrogate the lower rooms of what remains of the house for something either worth stepping on or capable of being clambered on top of. What he comes up with is a long length of rope lying mercifully unscatched near the largely unaffeced back door, severed from the bucket it had been attached to (likely for fishing water from a well) and reattached with both ends to one of those fireplace irons in its stead - one end for the middle of the makeshift spear shaft and the other at its head.

The fire iron with it's rope tether is fired, harpoon-like, up through the frame of the stairwell's upper landing. The head end of the looped rope is tugged to invisibly adjust the iron's angle; the center end of the looped rope is worked to wedge it with a scrape and a thump across the landing 's frame. Flint gives the loop of rope an experimental tug, then his weight. It fails to pull the entire wall down, which seems promising.

As they say in Orlais, Voilà.

The centered end of the looped rope is offered to Silver. Of the two of them, one of them spends radically more time motivated by upper body strength.

"If it starts to give way, let go. I'd rather catch you than be murdered by an errant fire poker."

Having taken up a casual lean against the shattered window, John's watch the passage of the elder pair of Chantry sisters from the neighboring house to the remains of the shop across the road. His attention swings back at the sound of fire iron landing, sharpens as Flint holds out the rope.

There is a moment where John considers how graceless his ascent will inevitably be, before passing Flint to brace one hand against the wall for balance. By now, Flint has seen all the most raw pieces of him. John's pride has been a passing notion for years now, discarded as irrelevant between the two of them.

"You'll have to throw this up after me," John explains, offering his crutch in exchange before shucking his coat off as well. "Assuming this pans out and I don't break my back on the down."

A problem for later on, surely.

But rope in hand, John passes a hand across the wall as he eyes the climb. Not much to brace himself with, but thankfully the inhabitants of this building hadn't favored vaulted ceilings. It's a minor reminder of trust that John doesn't test the rope himself before beginning to haul himself upward.

What ends up giving way is the blackened stretch of flooring at the top of the climb. The make-shift tether holds but a scattering of charred wood comes crumbling down as John's hand punches through, punctuating a low curse as he tries to regain his balance, and lever up to grab at the door jamb to pull himself through.

In any case, his attention is more fixed on the doorway than on Silver clambering up toward it in anticipation of any sign that the whole thing might give way. Maker only knows how solid the structure around them is; maybe they pull down this doorway and the whole roof comes tumbling after it.

What a dignified end for two imbeciles far from home that would be.

(John Silver off his feet is not half so ungainly as he thinks he is.)

He automatically cedes some space to the crumbling fragments of floor, but it's a half step at best to avoid the largest pieces - shifting around uneasily in Silver's shadow. He's not tall enough to do any good, but the crutch can be. It's extended up, offered to John's questing foot as a toehold while Flint braces under it.

"Easy. Reach your right hand farther up the door frame if you're able."

Beyond them, he can hear the chipper patter of sustained monologue from the slender Chantry sister, punctuated by some low, noncommittal response from her dour escort. It lends an almost surreal edge to the moment where John dangled, instinctively trying to find a foothold with only one hand and a fire poker keeping him from plummeting.

As his boot finds the pad of his crutch, John thinks with some humor that the instrument is turning out to be far more useful than even Howell might have imagined.

"Don't move, if you can."

Because the instinct to try and find purchase doesn't settle, but with Flint providing some stability it's easier to push off to grasp the door frame. There's a moment where his foot leaves the crutch and the endeavor hinges solely on his ability to pull himself upwards with just the door jamb and the rope.

The wood creaks threateningly, but it holds. Another scattering of ash and splintering wood falls as John wrenches himself up and twists to sit in the scorched doorway. He looks down, a little breathless, and grins as he holds out a hand.

"Toss me that?"

There's a taut moment as John twists over in the doorway that he is waiting for the floor to collapse further, to crumble out under his weight and drop him and the fire iron and the entire upper story back to the ground (which would be one way of accessing the desk, albeit hardly the preferable one).

And then it is done, and the immediate possibility for danger has passed. John Silver grins and James Flint grins back by reflex. With a small hop, he jettisons the crutch up into Silver's waiting hand.

"Best not to linger, I think."

Of course, at some point John will have to return to the ground floor. But first, the desk in question. His grins widens as he hooks his crutch out of the air, lifting a hand back to brace against the door frame and pull himself slightly back before levering to his feet.

"I think we have a little time. Sister Lise is just hitting her stride."

And Brother Arnaud seems happy enough to allow her to go on. But the point is still taken. He holds up a hand before disappearing partially from view, progress marked by the creaking of boards as he passes to the desk. Upon finding it locked, John takes a moment to consider whether he should just shove the desk off the edge and let it shatter on the floor, but instead lifts an elegant hat pin from the remains of a nearby vanity and goes to work on the lock.

Unfortunately, neither of them accounted for the near silent movements of the matronly Sister Joceline. She arrives blessedly through the scorched wall beside the one John ascended, so the only one in her immediate eye line is Flint.

For better or for worse.

There is no altering the presence of a rope and a makeshift grappling hook lead up into the ruined stairwell, or pleading ignorance to John Silver's whereabouts were anyone to ask. So he does the next best thing by cutting Sister Joceline off before she can form in questions, stepping to meet her and asking (in a clear tone, for the benefit of anyone who might overhear it), "Sister. Have you found anything of note?"

Joceline is caught just slightly off guard - a small, momentary hesitation in the light of being addressed so crisply by Riftwatch's commander who had, for so much of the journey to the ruined town, deferred the specifics of light conversation to his partner. The pause is enough to steer her attention back in the direction she'd arrived from.

For the time being anyway.

Overhead, John freezes. The faint scratch of the pin in the lock surely isn't enough to carry, but if John starts moving around too enthusiastically then it's a sure thing that Sister Joceline is going to hear him. John can hear her, beat of silence giving way to a crisp recitation of salvageable supplies.

His skeptical expression is wasted, unseen. Somewhere between the description of spices and tally of bags of flour, John's efforts pay off with a small click. Success. But what's he meant to do now, rappel down? John grimaces, pocketing the hat pin and casting about for better options to create a distraction.

Below, Sister Joceline is suspiciously inquiring after whether or not Flint has caught sight of loose chickens.

With a silent prayer that the floor and the frame of the stairwell landing will hold Silver's second trip across it, Flint says, "As you've mentioned it, it occurs to me that there were some signs in the side yard we came through. If you'll follow me—"

John Silver is clever. Barring the whole house falling to pieces under his weight, he can figure out how to get himself and his crutch back down to the ground floor while the Sister is occupied. So Flint leads the way back through the fire scorched doorway and into the yard beyond, asking as he they go whether either she or Sister Lise have any experience with capturing flocks of wayward birds or if that is a skill reserved for missionaries.

Her laugh is just this side of polite (unaware, surely, that the deployment of charm is something of a rare tactic on the part of her company), faint as the distance widens.

While Sister Joceline might be unaware that she's the recipient of rarely used charm, John is chuckling over it from his vantage point. Diversion rendered unnecessary, he returns the scorched chamberpot to the floor and returns his attention to the desk.

It's been some time since he picked a lock, but it turns out he's still capable. There's a series of clicks, and then the lock gives. Discarding the bent hat pin, John immediately yanks the drawer open. There's no immediate urgency, not when he can see Flint and his newfound accomplice retreating further out of earshot through the cracked glass of the window.

"Ah, here's something," John says, hand landing on the stack of letters. A few baubles are shifted aside, clattering as John draws out the packet. Curiosity (old habit) tempts him to go through the stack now, but there's still other prying Chantry sisters, and one wayward brother to contend with. And so John considers his descent.

He'd been counting on Flint's assistance, but now he'll have to make do on his own. John maneuvers his way back to the doorway, the scorched portions of the flooring creaking ominously under his feet. He manages to lob his crutch to a silent landing, and close enough for John to reach when he makes it down. As he levers himself back into a seated position, letters in his waistband, John again considers the ridiculous potential for injury, before taking up the rope and beginning the descent.

It starts off well enough, as John eases himself down along the wall.

And the venture ends abruptly, when the doorframe comes loose with a loud crack, dumping John, a spray of splinters, boards and a large chunk of ornately carved molding onto what's left of the ash-dusted flooring. It is not a graceful or a silent landing, but thankfully John rolls out of the way before he can be impaled by the fire iron. Small victories?

Distantly, the sound of Flint's voice rises to the tune of discussing how they will transport the chickens once they locate them; he's yet to see any cage or crate appropriate for the work. Oh, really? They might be compelled to stay in the back of a wagon so long as there is feed in it? He's shocked; birds are, you see Sister, kept in cages about so large when at sea and since he saw one try and failing to fly to shore as a boy he has always thought of them as bizarrely willful animals. But it's true they had no seed scattered on the deck at that time—

It's possible that by the time they return to the house, there will have been time enough to scatter the more incriminating splinters and do away with the rope and the fire iron. He carries on at a slightly louder than conversational volume as they make their way back, and pauses in the doorway (blocking passage through it? certainly not) to express whether it was possible that the missing chickens had taken up residence in the neighboring house's cellar, him having noted the door left open.

"A fox is far more likely," Sister Joceline snips in reply, eking her way past him and into the house.

Where she will find John Silver, red-faced but upright. Are those splinters mixed in with the ashes? Who can say?

"A fox?" John questions brightly, only slightly out of breath. "Are you on the trail of one, Sister?"

The fire iron and rope have vanished. Or rather, they are out of sight so long as Sister Joceline doesn't look around the room and wonder what might be under that large chunk of molding propped against the wall.

As he speaks, John catches Flint's gaze and his smile widens slightly. John will be very sore later, but he feels the indignity and injury were a worthwhile trade off. They'll be able to parse out just how accurate that instinct is when they've wrapped up the day's work.

Sister Joceline, a no doubt shrewd overseer of whatever Chantry she came up in, cannot possibly overlook the ash smeared state of his clothes. But as there are any number of ways to rationalize these things in a place such as this, her expression pinches only briefly before her suspicion is translates into the brisk clarification, "No, chickens actually."

Behind her shoulder, Flint's mouth twitches somewhere in the shadow of his beard. He glances away - up by instinct and then away by force, that line of his expression becoming very stern indeed to offset any indiscretion.

"Chickens? Well, you've strayed past my area of expertise. As my captain can tell you, the only familiarity I have with chickens is how best they can be cooked."

Sister Joceline can be forgiven for believing John's exceedingly smooth delivery of this half-truth. Yes, John has some idea of how best to cook a chicken. The ability—

"Should we consult your companions? Brother Arnaud seems like a man who's made to trail even the most wily bird."

As if on cue, raised voices drift from the buildings up the square. Whether it's a sign of trouble or a chicken sighting is anyone's guess.

Accordingly, the Sister's eye slides away from him and toward the sound. It's a brief respite, but when her attention fixes back on them—flickering first to Silver and then to Flint, and finally dismissively away—there is a twist of resignation in the line of her mouth. Very well, it all but says.

With an air of a woman who has some experience with being in charge of unruly children and knowing when she hasn't the evidence over which to rap knuckles, she agrees, "We may as well," before turning to sweep from the house.

Drifting to follow her wake, Flint half turns toward Silver. His grin flashes out, then is rapidly marshalled.

"An opinion formed by eating them, I imagine."

"A fair amount can be learned through trial and error," John answers, clear, unchecked amusement on his face at the trading of this private joke. Sister Joceline's brisk strides have carried her a fair way ahead of them, enough so that John feels comfortable offering in a lower voice, "I've something to show you when we've finished the day's work."

Unfortunately they'll be entertaining the Sisters and their respective Chantry Brother on the way back, or else John would have made use of the time.

"Or while they're searching for chickens, I suppose."

The look he gives him sharpens faintly - a brief spark of real, keen edged interest - and then that too fades in favor of a rising eyebrow and a tip of the head to indicate they ought follow the beleaguered Sister from the house.

"Later," he affirms. "It sounds as if they need all the assistance available to them, whether they're aware of it or not."

After all, there is only so much good fortune in every day. They must be treading close to the edge of it by now.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

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googled 'backseat driver stock photo' and the results were lackluster

found the vibe you're looking for https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IEhHEOIYgMY

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