CLOSED | Nug Quest

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Adrasteia, Holden, Jone, Joselyn, Sawbones, Val de Foncé, Wysteria, and Dick.
WHAT: Poachers run afoul of a Riftwatch research expedition.
WHEN: Cloudreachish. Time is a flat circle.
WHERE: Minranter River, Free Marches
NOTES: Animal cruelty, some gore.

JOURNEY:

Their trek north across the Free Marches to the Minranter is light and mild: Jone’s mule, Loghaine, hauls the bulk of any heavy gear. The wind stays brisk beneath steady cloud cover, only rarely committing to rain, and there’s an inn to curl up in once they reach the river. Have a drink, rent a bunk with a moth-eaten blanket, splurge on the “luxury” suite upstairs.

For those that aren’t willing to cough up the coin, there’s always the stable.

Further into the wilderness, the white noise roar of the river at night makes for restful sleep and long watches, where the crack and rustle of a bear through the underbrush or the sound of approaching horses might go unheard until it’s too late. At times flashing eyes reflect the watch fire from the treeline, only to melt away without incident. Pawprints pressed into the river sand and traces of bone-littered scat hint at the nature of their nightly visitors -- more fascinating to some than others.

DESTINATION:

Vultures spiral overhead -- an ill omen, easy to mark at a distance. Far below, hoof-beaten grass is streaked with gore where a herd of nugs was pursued out onto the river flats, blood still wet despite the wind, one little body left broken underfoot on the trail. They never had a chance.

Ravens squabble and hop between flayed corpses left to stiffen on the beach. Flies zip from haunch to haunch, spoiled for choice.

There are a dozen nugs here, most of them quite young. Their skulls are crushed, the sand churned with tracks where they struggled.

A few still have their hides. The leather is mundane, for anyone who has the heart to check.

Further west across the river, campfire smoke drifts skyward over the trees where the sunset fades orange to purple. A pained squeal carries across the distance, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter on the wind. Eventually a few of their voices rise in song.

The killers are close, and night is falling.

AFTERMATH:

An earlier drizzle keeps the fire from spreading into the surrounding wood: by the time the battle is dying down and the nugs are freed, the flames have dwindled to a forlorn lick across blackened canvas and crates of supplies. And the corpses: some burnt, some on the beach, one bobbling slowly downriver.

Something should probably be done about those.

The two fade-touched nugs they’ve rescued need tending. They are wild and distrustful, but they are also exhausted, and injured, and desperately thirsty.

Near the remains of the campfire, a spit-roasted nug still has attracted a fly or two, but still has meat on the bone. There are fade-touched nug hides to be found on the wagon that survived.

A few dazed mounts linger where they were tied off at camp or tangled in the woods nearby -- at some point, a dracolisk had plunged past Jone into the battle-darkened water. Like the armor of their previous owners, they’re rugged and diverse -- beasts captured, won and stolen. A great, shaggy white Avvar horse has taken to Adrasteia, lipping at her sleeve.

Let them roam free or round the others up for an easier ride home.

Comments

jone, ota.

[poleaxed]

a. JOURNEY.

As night falls, Jone crashes through the underbrush with a deer slung over her shoulder. It's a yearling stag, two antlers barely poking out from the crown of its head. A gash through its throat answers the question of how it died.

"If we're on anyone's land," Jone says, setting it down, "we found it like this."

b. DESTINATION.

It's been a long, expensive, weird fucking month. Excuse Jone if she's not too excited to step through nug viscera-- she'd have to clean her boots for the second time today. Guiding the mule around the mess is easy-- he seems to share her feelings.

"This is a bit fucked," she says casually, "'least it ain't some cult. You ever seen something like this?"

A.

[kantikoy]

"Sounds good to me," says the elfy Warden who doesn't care much for landed nobility on a good day.

There's already a campfire going; Adrasteia is crouched nearby and she glances at Jone. "Do you have any suitable knives? Mine might be a bit small for this, but I can make it work."

[poleaxed]

Jone pulls a knife from her hip, sharp but clearly not a blade for battle. She's used it for fights, sure, but she's more often used it for meals. At least it's clean.

"Whoever owns land this close to the Minanter likely deserves to be poached," Jone says, not exactly thoughtful. She's mostly concerned with wiping blood off her hands. "Not that I've ever poached before, of course."

[kantikoy]

Clean and sharp, what more could anyone ask of Jone's knife?

Adrasteia holds out her hand for it. She'll do the messy work of stripping this stag for its important parts and meat, thank you.

"Of course." She nods. "This is all just conversation and speculation, anyway. Why let a whole stag go to waste when we've got hungry bellies and a need for leather right here?"

[poleaxed]

"Need for leather?" Jone snorts. "Blimey, I'll leave you to it. Me, I'm just tired of jerky."

Jone's own intimate knowledge of the tanning process is always kept hidden, less useful than ignorance. She settles down a bit, watching the Warden work. "Done this before, have you?"

[kantikoy]

"You're right, need might be a stretch." Adrasteia let out a little laugh. "A use, then."

She takes off her gloves for this, and pulls out a small pouch from a pocket somewhere, placing herbs under her tongue. For the smell, clearly. After that, Adrasteia gets started on the messy and frankly gross business of skinning the beast and separating out the useful bits of meat.

"My husband, Helec, taught me when I was younger. I grew up outside of Amaranthine; I didn't know anything about dressing an animal. Fishing, however." She gestures with the knife. "It's just a bigger, more complicated fish really."

[poleaxed]

"Fewer bones, at least." You can't really poach from rivers, and Jone had learned, with easy delight, how easy it was to fish once she'd left Denerim. Still, she leaves Adrasteia to it, watching her work.

"He was a hunter, your husband?" Elven hunters, she assumes, are a superior breed. The few she's worked with on the merc circuit certainly knew how to survive. "Nice catch, that is."

[kantikoy]

"Truth." Fishing is rather fun, isn't it? Contemplative and quiet, and easy enough to eat when you're finished. Adrasteia misses it.

If they weren't here looking for something specific she might suggest that they take a break for something like fishing.

"He was." Warmth colors her words; her face is clearly the one of someone with fond memories. "Both a hunter and a nice catch, Helec. Very funny too, always good for a laugh." Adrasteia smiles at herself and then looks up to Jone. "Have you ever been married?"

[poleaxed]

If Jone were drinking something, she'd have spit it out. As it stands, she looks about as flabbergasted, before breaking into a few hiccups of laughter, voice hoarse and ugly with it. "Nice work if you can have it, but I'd rather be hanged."

Who ever would sink so low into depravity to tie their ship to hers?

Still, it's a nice thing, a kind thing, that look on the Warden's face. A fond kindness Jone has never felt, but seen in others enough to know it's a normal feeling that naturally occurs. Soft gentle happiness. May as well be on one of the moons.

"How'd you meet him?"

She assumes she knows the end of the story. She's talking to a Warden. It has to be darkspawn.

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia does laugh a little at that; she can't say that she could've imagined Jone married, but you never know. People have pasts, private lives, and they can surprise you.

But Jone is correct in believing she knows how this story ends.

"He came to Amaranthine for trade; we met at the market. I found out later he went back every day for ten days to see if I'd return, but I only went once a week."

She continues with the deer carcass as she talks.

"Later, in the next season, he was stranded in the city. My cousin took him in. We were married before the year was over."

[poleaxed]

"Proper romantic, that is." Jone is always fond of stories, and this one warms her. She's not the sort of person to fall into such unlikely, and-- she assumes-- simple love, but that makes the story only sweeter.

"How was the wedding?" Jone's never been to an elven one, for reasons she reckons are pretty bloody obvious.

[kantikoy]

"Ah." Adrasteia chuckles. "Alienage weddings are usually sad affairs, done in a group, with a Chantry Sister officiating. Helec bribed the Sister so we could do ours inside the Chantry, I think since there wasn't anyone else alive to come."

The hide of the stag has been dealt with at this point, and Adrasteia moves on towards separating out meat from organ meat. "This was a year, a year and a half after the Blight? Plus the darkspawn attacks on Amaranthine a few months afterward. It was quiet, and pretty inside the Chantry, I thought. He brought in flowers and had strewn the petals all across the floor, much to the Sister's chagrin."

She swipes at her forehead with the back of her hand, streaking a little blood across her brow with a frown. "Dalish weddings are usually overseen by the Keeper of the clan, but his clan was..." She gestures. "We never learned if they died or were simply ran off."

[poleaxed]

A Dalish husband? Jone didn't know elves intermarried like that, but now that she thinks on it, it isn't as though she ever asked. She's known elves, Dalish and otherwise, through the mercenary business. Never been close to them, but they were always good folk, professionals where it matters.

Of course, if it's elves, if it's Wardens, if it's Ferelden before the Blight, there's no happy ending.

"Amaranthine's as good a place as any, if it ain't Ostagar." Jone wonders how the elf woman will feel about a her mule named Loghain. It's a joke, but she doesn't imagine Wardens will find it much a funny one. Or maybe they won't care. Haven't they bigger things to worry for?

"How old were you, when it hit? Fourteen I was, and a lucky cunt besides; ran from Denerim the week before it were sacked."

b b b

[nonvenomous]

“Never with nugs.”

Silas is seated on a log, using the back of a cruel knife to scrape blood-clotted sand from the sides of his boots. A flick of the blade sends grit and gore rattling into the beach grass; Thot watches the vegetation rustle with wide green eyes.

She’s perched on his shoulder, owl talons gripped tight into leather plate, her little ears laid flat.

“And never without a cult.”

[poleaxed]

The owl, especially, has made this entire trip feel familiar, and rather strange for it. Occasionally, Jone has the world-tilting feeling that she's back in Venatori armor, cutting people down without honor or care. Was her heart so dead, once? Or is her memory incomplete, lashed from poor dreams and a poorer mind?

She suspects it's the former.

"Gloomy fucking thought, that is." Maneuvering Loghain out of the way, Jone lets her eyes drift to the owl. She isn't avoiding Silas' gaze, she just can't tear her own eyes away from his companion. "You run into cults on the regular, like?"

[nonvenomous]

“In a manner of speaking,” says Silas. And then, less noncommittal: “Yes.”

Once upon a time. He claps a gloved hand across his heel to knock loose whatever grit remains, and leans to switch from the left boot to the right. Not overly concerned with eye contact, himself. Thot pumps her wings to keep her balance.

“Cults are typically less wasteful.”

[poleaxed]

"I thought all cults were gory slaughter fests." She's just talking about Tevinter generally. Technically, it's a a cult. Arguably. "Maybe you've just been out with posh cults."

Loghain sniffs the ground, and Jone tuts at him. "That's not for Teyrns."

[nonvenomous]

“That may be, but the ones who know what they’re doing have devils or aberrations or deities to siphon spilled blood and devour burned flesh.”

The rake of the blade’s spine over sand and sole is grating to the ear, but no one likes a maggoty boot, least of all the wearer.

“I’m glad you and your friend decided to join us.”

[poleaxed]

"Yeah. He wants to know what a 'devil' is, but he's too polite to ask."

She pats Loghain's head as he picks at her shoulder, lips running over the rough fabric. She only shows pride in the animal when she admits, "got him on sale, I did.

[nonvenomous]

“They’re adjacent to demons -- evil without question, but lawful. They have a predilection for contracts, sworn pacts, and preserving tradition,” Richard is all too willing to explain to this long-eared duke of Ferelden. “They rule the nine hells, and have wings, and horns, and hooves.”

Another flick sees the worst of the mess shaken away into the grass; he swipes the knife’s back over the bark of his log, and then across his trousers.

“He’s done an admirable job of hauling our camp.”

[poleaxed]

"Your world is proper fucked, mate," Jone says, still patting Loghain's head. The shirt he's chewing on has seen better days, specifically before the war when she bought it. She has little care for such old things, worn on the road precisely because the're made to be wasted.

"Mmm. Careful, Si, I'm beginning to think you've just got a fondness for things that don't talk back."

She's staring at the owl as she says it.

[nonvenomous]

“You’re not too far from the truth.”

The world is fucked, and Silas prefers company that can keep a secret. The more assured he is of their impartiality, the better. He sinks the knife back into the sheath in his boot, and rises to his feet, dwarfed next to Jone in a way he is with few others on this mission.

“She can ride with you a while, if you like.”

[poleaxed]

"Should I be jealous of the owl, or the mule?"

Her voice is calm, jocular. She finds the prospect difficult, to be jealous of something without thumbs.

"You mean- on me shoulder?" Her voice mixes curiosity and hesitance, both. She's always had a respect for falconers, and them that can manage such with owls must be a different breed entirely, especially if the bird's bloody magic. It's a cut above the crust she allows herself to inhabit, one she can't allow herself to back down from, despite obvious trepidation.

She doesn't want to break it.

[nonvenomous]

“Neither.” But definitely the owl, who’s taken advantage of his distraction to preen at his hair, rather than at her own feathers.

“If you like,” Silas repeats. As owls go, Thot is strange: her pointed ears are truly ears, rather than simple tufts of feathers, and her pupils are slitted like a housecat’s, lending her a nefarious air in the fading light. “Her senses are very sharp. She can alert you to hazards on the road.”

In no rush to peel back to the group proper, he waits for her to think about it.

[poleaxed]

She looks at the animal, clearly some fade-touched monstrosity in its own right. She considers what it could do to her, sitting so close to her head. She wonders, once more, about the nature of Silas' god.

She thinks about Silas. If it weren't safe for her, would he allow it?

Jone reaches out with her arm, covered in the thick padding of a gambeson, like she's seen real falconers do. "Like this?"