faderift | WAR TABLE MISSION: Mushroom for Interpretation

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WAR TABLE MISSION: Mushroom for Interpretation

WHO: Edgard, Jone, Ellis, Richard & Isaac
WHAT: Riftwatch has been tasked with investigating strange phenomena in an Orlesian marsh currently scaring nearby residents off from their livelihoods.
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: Orlais, the Nahashin Marshes
NOTES: OOC Information; warnings: spooOOooky content. The plan is two have three headers with successive reveals as characters progress farther into the marsh.

It's possible that the cluster of villages which border the northern edge of the Nahashin Marshes would seem less grim and drab during some other season. But here, in the desaturated depths of autumn and populated by extraordinarily common people who have seen a great deal of their industry (and strapping local lads) sucked away in order to support Orlais' many war efforts, there is really no other apt description.

A few days spent collecting information from the locals regarding the strange happenings in the marshes will yield a number of accounts which vary in detail but are consistent in tone. Theories abound - there is a great rift at the marsh's center, someone argues (Has anyone actually seen this rift? No; not since the one in the hills to the north was closed a few years back). There is a horrible Fade-touched beast which roams in the dark. Witches of the Korcari Wilds have grown tired of eating Fereldan children and have come here to try their teeth on more delicate meat. Cateline's sister's husband's youngest brother, Fernand (who had always been such a brave, bright boy, and who might have been troubled since his brother died in the war but who would never be one to be lost or drown), had disappeared into the marsh and all that the search parties had found before they were driven back again was one of the boy's empty shoes.

And so on. While the accounts may not be crystal clear, what is abundantly evident is that without access to the marsh's resources it will be difficult for the villages to make enough of a living to support themselves through the approaching winter.

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Edgard's shot cracks out, and Isaac turns about belatedly, pleased to find everyone still conscious. To Jone and Ellis —

"I don't know how long that will last,"

The spell. So just in case, maybe go hit it with a stick.

Well, that Ellis can do.

"Let's go," he says quickly to Jone before making a beeline towards the massive, still shape in the dark. If he can discern a head, he'll take a swing at that first, but there's only so much human eyes can pick up.

What kind of nan --

Richard hoods his brow, equal parts defensive and unsure what his nan being a massive leathery snake abomination has to do with anything. He’s caught looking past Jone to that great, glowing eye before he can answer.

An arrow snaps it dark, and he closes his mouth entirely.

Seconds later, he’s a few long steps behind the frontline pushing in, the lantern’s axle squeaking in time with the wobble of the light as he hustles just shy of a jog.

“It hasn’t attacked us yet,” his voice pipes up behind them -- a helpful reminder.

And it makes no move to attack them now, though whether that is best attributed to the sleep spell or to the arrow it recently caught with its eye is impossible to say. That sprawling crown of antlers tangled in the trees remains locked where it is; the large body is still in its soggy copse.

Something is wrong.

If that weren't apparent before, it's certainly clear as they approach through the dark. Between jerking lamplight and shadows stretched long: The dark shape extending from the skull appears like matted fur, incredibly coarse and falling in dense clumping grey sheets all the way to the spongy earth underneath. With its long thin neck extended before it to where the bony face is pressed to the trees, the beast's front end appears to have collapsed entirely under its own weight. Its spindly, oddly jointed and leathery forelegs are bent at bizarre angles. It's second set of forelimbs - two blackened deer legs with delicate dark hooves - are tucked high against its bony chest, bent like a fawn's might do while sleeping in sweet clover, and its long, unnaturally tented torso flows back and up into the trees as if the canopy were somehow its unbelievable point of origin.

--But that's not right either. The rope snare leads directly under the matted back end. It is not visibly affixed to any of the inert stick-like rear limbs hanging lifelessly from its tangled hindquarters. And when Ellis comes within striking distance of that horrible heavy skull, the animal's remaining eye reflects perfectly back at him.

Literally. It is his own face mirrored exactly in that dark disk. Which makes sense, really, on account of the animal's eye being a mirror fixed behind the skull's socket.

Edgard lowers his bow.

He frowns at the creature.

Oh no.

Jone does not drop her weapon. Long ago, she learned: when you're afraid of something, kill it. Jone roars a cry that she hopes sounds more angry than frightened, and attempts to plunge her poleaxe into the mirrored eye.

As mirrors are wont to do, this one shatters. The spike of the poleaxe drives smoothly through it and the eye socket, and whatever lies beyond with little resistance until it strikes the far side of the great ungulate skull. The force is enough to twist where the beast's head has come to rest, and the added weight is enough to shatter net of branches its antlers have tangled in. In a rain of soggy debris and small twigs, the head falls and the animal slumps still farther over.

For a moment, it's still. And then, as if the slap of bone against wet earth or the unnatural torsion of its long middle has reminded it of something, the beast's hindquarters begin to stir. It's a slow, and strangely swaying thing in the half light - seemingly unmotivated by any of its vast number of bony appendages and entirely based on the pendulum swing of the thick snare cable—

POP! The rope snaps. With a heavy fhwump and a muffled cry of alarm (from...the...butt...?), the back end falls as well.

"Is it dead?"

Which precedes the question: What do we do with it now?

Edgard stares at the creature and then glances at Jone.

"We killed it." He says weakly. It's what he meant to do, but now that he's seen it and now that he's looked into it's eyes, he's upset.

"It's beautiful." He frowns at his bow like it is the problem.

Well.

In a certain sense, yes; these things are true.

As if in reply to the compliment, the great animal's talkative back end begins to--jostle? There's a thump. A groan of protest is followed by a sudden hard lapse into pointed silence and stillness.

"Oh, fuck this," something says a thick Orlesian accent.

And then the shaggy flank quite literally unpeels upward from the ground. It's briefly nightmarish - a great gap to the animal's insides tearing open in the dark -, but the effect is ruined (or made that much more surreal) when what is produced from it is not a spill of fade-touched guts but a woman. She struggles to free herself from under the heavy cloak of knit fur, leather, and collection of limp tree branch limbs and wave her knife discouragingly while both her legs remain trapped in a remarkably heavy duty snare.

It's probably less threatening than she was hoping for, but her expression behind the dark smear of mud is fiercely frowning.

"Back. Back off, the lot of you."

Regrettably for this woman, Ellis' first reaction is to laugh.

Come on, this is so absurd it's funny, right?

Dick is remarkably still through the pop, the muffled cry, and the birth of a grown woman through a rupture in the beast’s abdomen. Having muscle between here and there is a help. He raises his lantern to better monitor her twisting free, and lowers it again to assure himself of the state of her ankles once she’s stood.

Ellis laughs.

“Hello. I’m Richard.”

...will have to suffice by way of an only marginally more kind I don’t think so in the face of her demand.

“There may be others beneath the -- “ he gestures, with a look aside to his more martial compatriots, “husk.”

Edited 2020-12-16 01:21 (UTC)

Jone stands with her hands on her hips, leaning forward and squinting. "'kinell, Dick, what kinda parties you used to having?"

Edgard stands open mouthed at this insane turn of events. After a long pause, he raises his bow again and points it at the woman. He speaks to her in Orlesian.

"What the hell is this? Explain yourself."

Her graceless hop serves to both move her marginally toward the skull end of the "beast" and to draw out the frazzled trailing end of the snare from under the shapeless cloak of its side. A knife sawing studiously away at the line would certainly explain the earlier rasping noise in any case--

Edgard's reply a gesture so rude that it is multilingual.

"I said back," she snaps, somewhat flustered on account of being laughed at not being on her nightly docket. "I will gut you if you come near. What have you done? What mage work was that?"

The knife points perceptively in Isaac's direction for a moment, but her attention shifts between the lot of them - flashing and angry, or at least embarrassed enough to seem furious.

Jone steps forward, because she figures if someone's going to get stabbed, she's the one with the most work experience.

"Believe me, luv, less you know about this magic, the better," she bluffs. "And believe me, you definitely know the least about using that knife right, out of every cunt here."

This, she believes, is the truth.

The mud-streaked woman with her pinioned legs doesn't stab her. She does however trade the knife, lighting quick, into her other hand and slashes from the unexpected side with it toward whatever part of Jone seems most amenable to cutting - aiming for discouragement more than she cares to spill the sort of blood which might warrant a pile on from all the giant poleaxe wielding Fereldan's backup.

Jone, a consummate expert at bleeding, flinches a little.

"Would you like an award for that one, luv?"

Edgard releases a string of curses in anger the second Jone stars bleeding. He looses an arrow that purposefully whistles over her head. It's a warning.

"Next one will hit it's mark. Tell us who you are and what that is."

That being the thing of many legs.

Helpfully, Richard says to Edgard in mild aside:

“Aim down at the head.”

He thinks to clarify a beat later: “The creature’s head.”

Those seem to be a kind of magic words. The hobbled woman stiffens, her attention flicking to Richard and then to Edgard and then--

"Call off your dog. I'm not saying anything so long as she's within arm's reach of me. I mean it. You'll kill me first and then have no answers at all."

Has a ring of tough talk about it, but--

"I'll say as much as you like then."

"Richard," is the first, quieter aside, to the disappointed tune of Don't encourage that before Ellis steps forward and purposefully puts himself between the sights of Edgard's crossbow and this woman.

"If you can tell us what you're doing here, and why you're scaring off the villagers, that'll be a start."

Edgard lowers his bow, but doesn't unarm it or put it over his shoulder. He's ready to snap it back up the second this goes sour. He spits on the ground.

"Not a dog." He mutters under his breath.

Dick winks to Ellis’ disapproval, and places a hand to Edgard’s elbow, nudging to lead him back to the fire.

“I’m certain she’s referring to Jone,” he assures him. Speaking of, he adds for her sake:

“I’d say the slaying of this beast calls for a drink at the fire, unless you’re suddenly very interested in diplomacy.”

Edgard sees the wink. He only makes him more frustrated. He's not an idiot.

"will stay, thank you. Very interested in an angry woman who comes out of a creature, yes. Aren't you?"

His hands remain on his weapon, but again facing the ground.

"Happy to drink later, though."

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poleaxed - 2020-12-20 01:08 (UTC) - Expand

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wythersake - 2020-12-25 09:24 (UTC) - Expand

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