[player plot | closed] home isn't a place

[sulahnan]

WHO: Athessa, Bastien, Colin, [Derrica]
WHAT: Giving belated rites to long-dead family
WHEN: Harvestmere
WHERE: Somewhere in the forest...
NOTES: cw for animal death

ARAVEL.

It takes a little more than a day to navigate through the Planasene Forest, riding at an easy pace, headed southwest. The terrain isn't unreasonable, but there are still fallen trees and unexpected cliffs overlooking the Waking Sea and places where the horses simply refuse to walk for some ineffably equine reason.

Early the second day, they find it. Home, if that word even applies to the overgrown clearing where the remnants of Athessa's clan lay.

The Aravel is still there, still intact. Weather-worn, but ironbark doesn't rot, and the enchantment on the landship is still alive. The same can't be said for the surrounding camp, with its tattered cloth and discarded tools, a ring of stones around a fire pit that's grown over with moss and plants and bugs. There are no bones offering testament to slaughter, nor signs of blood or strife. Just abandon.

PREPARATION.

There's a fair amount of stuff to do before the burial. Acorns need to be gathered, cedar branches collected, oaken staves carved, food hunted and harvested. Athessa will do the hunting herself, and on the day of the burial she leads a halla into camp, alive. She doesn't look proud, or particularly excited about being able to find one.

RITUAL.

Not far from the camp is a cave, rocky and shallow, with a flat stone floor. It was once an altar, or something like it. Faded markings, a few bundles of once-dried herbs that have since fallen from their line and litter the ground, and two decades' worth of neglect. This is where, once the detritus is swept away, the halla will shed its mortal coil.

But before that, incense is burned, a prayer song is sung, and leaves of a hina plant are crushed to a paste and applied to the palms and face. It stains the skin red, to represent the blood of the halla (without actually being blood), and the blinding of Ghilan'nain. The stain will fade before they return to Kirkwall.

BURIAL.

After the halla has been bled, skinned, and butchered, its heart offered to Andruil, it's just a matter of carving the horns into charms and burying them with the acorns. Twenty-five in all; one for each clan member. Each acorn will need to be planted with room to grow, so there's some trekking about to be done in order to find suitable plots. Then, the cedar branches and oak staves are laid upon the soil.

As they work, Athessa sings:
Melava inan enansal
ir su aravel tu elvaral
u na emma abelas
in elgar sa vir mana
in tu setheneran din emma na
lath sulevin
lath araval ena
arla ven tu vir mahvir
melana ‘nehn
enasal ir sa lethalin

And it's easy to see why the stories about luring unsuspecting travelers to their fates came into being. The song drifts through the trees, reaching for heartstrings and pulling at them, melancholy and pleading.

WAKE.

The mourning may not be finished (nor will it ever truly be), but there must be room for celebration as well. The feast that is prepared by Colin, with the assistance of the other three, is a combination of Dalish, Rivaini, and Antivan, which is the result of trying to reverse engineer traditional recipes that escape the memory. There are hearth cakes, roasted root vegetables, a hearty halla stew (with perhaps more spices than Dalish cooking typically has), sweet grains and fruits, and a few bottles of a finely aged rowan mead to share.

Good food and good company around a fire, reminiscing about loved ones lost, sharing memories. Laughter interspersed with brief, bittersweet moments of silence.

THE RETURN.

The group returns to Kirkwall right on schedule, with ample time to loiter before returning the horses to the stables and catching the ferry back to The Gallows. Though the pall still lingers, it's not heavy or oppressive. It's just a bedsheet, diffusing the morning light until it's time to wake up and get out of bed.

Comments

[keenly]

Colin hooks an arm around Athessa to give her a squeeze.

"You all right?" It's probably too early for her to tell, but not too early to check in for the first of many times.

[sulahnan]

"Yeah...yeah. I'm — I'm alright. 'S just weird being back here."

A reassuring pat on his hand, a tight smile, and she separates from him again to walk around the fire pit in the middle of the camp.

The whittled wood used to make a spit over the fire is long since gone, but they should be able to find suitable branches for a new one while they're here. Some metal pots and pans and utensils are still intact and surprisingly not rusted, they seem in fine enough condition for use. These are the assessments she makes, in place of thinking about how hard it is to remember what things used to look like, how little she feels in this moment compared to the overwhelming trepidation she'd grappled with on the journey here.

That'll likely change once they've started to prepare the rites. Athessa kneels down to pick up the haft of a broken hatchet, uses it to gesture under the Aravel.

"That's where I hid," she explains, wry. "When I came back and everyone was gone. I don't think I could even fit under there now."

[cozen]

Bastien is still with his horse—dismounted, but pulling untangling a broken stick from her mane and patting her neck—when he cranes his head around her to see where Athessa is talking about.

Of course he doesn’t like to think of her hiding there, tiny and frightened and alone. Goes without saying.

“Was there only the one?”

The aravel, he means.

[sulahnan]

"Yeah. I mean—"

She turns, taking in the whole of the camp before she looks to Bastien.

"Originally there were five, but one was destroyed somewhere in the mountains. Before I was born," That just leaves the other three unaccounted for. "The others were gone when I came back. Stolen, along with everyone else, I guess."