faderift | 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

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.

MOD PLOT ↠ A THOUSAND WRONGS

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