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

holden, ota

[acreage]

ON THE ROAD

It's late enough that it might be early, and Jim Holden has taken one of the night watches. It might be someone else's watch, a point of fact, whom he may or may not have bothered waking. He only shrugs ruefully if found out, says,

"I wasn't sleeping anyway."

RIVER FLATS

He'd taken the sight quietly. Moved onto logistics, drawing the natural conclusion of what probably happened, considering where they might set up their own camp. But he can be found later, eyes on the smoke rising in the west, arms folded and jaw tight.

"We should scout them out and find out what we're dealing with first."

WILDCARD

[ grabbyhands ]

on the road again

[poleaxed]

It's Jone's watch. Generally fond of company, while Jone enjoys waking early before anyone else, she isn't going to complain about a companion sneaking out of their tent. She's not going to mention his pallor or the circles under his eyes. That's his business.

The dawn grows, but dark lingers in the sky. The dying embers of last night's fire casts little light.

"Know any ghost stories?"

She's still disappointed she didn't get any in the Exalted Planes.

[acreage]

"Too many."

— is his immediate, instinctive answer. Hard to think otherwise after a year of Miller in his head, after a hundred thousand screaming souls, after watching the death of a civilization, after those days in the dark under the flood.

And then, of course, he recalibrates. None of those are the kind of story he's willing to tell, which is the kind of thing she's clearly asking for. He shrugs, apologetic, before going on.

"There are a lot of them out in space."

Has he mentioned the space thing to her? He's mentioning it now.

[poleaxed]

"In... space."

She has a recollection, however brief, of a tall and skinny woman explaining a land with no oceans, though her memory is foggy beyond that.

In the one hand, Jone has a stick, and she's been poking the fire with it. Now, she holds it up like an instructional wand. "Explain that, would you?"

[acreage]

He smiles, straightens slightly from his previous slouch.

"To start with, how much do you know about outer space?"

He's assuming nothing, like most Theodosians, but good to know what he's working with before he launches into an explanation.

[poleaxed]

"D'you have to tell me about it? With a name like that, reckon it sounds dead boring."

She pokes the fire with a long, crooked stick.

"I've had folk try'n explain their lands to me. Don't matter none, I reckon. We're all here now."

[acreage]

Unoffended,

"Then you're going to have to explain what you wanted an explanation for."

[poleaxed]

"I wanna know about the ghosts. It's just the right time for it."

The sun hasn't risen yet, but it's thinking about it.

[acreage]

The story that forms in his mind, actually, isn't one from space at all; it's one he remembers hearing around a campfire much like this, trees towering overhead and creatures chittering in the dark.

Not unlike tonight, really.

He starts, "Well, they used to bury people with coins over their eyes. The idea was so their ghosts would be able to pay the ferryman to take them to the underworld."

He manages, heroically, to restrain himself from going into any more detail about Charon, or Hades, or Cerberus. But the pages of those old books rise to mind now, dusted off by associations.

"So there was an old woman, buried in the woods; and there was a thief, who thought he had a good idea to get some quick cash."

on the road;

[kantikoy]

The elven woman's eyes gleam in the dark, catching the light from the embers of the fire between them; she can see better in this low light than Holden can and she moves to cup her chin in the palm of one hand, elbow on her knees.

"No one's going to force you to bed." Though it is Adrasteia's opinion perhaps that someone should. The fire crackles, and she blinks, looking away. She'd woken up on her own, without Holden's intervention, and doesn't feel upset about that. Just worried. "Though I will admit to wondering why you're not."

[acreage]

There's a smile that crosses his face as he says, dry, "I appreciate that."

He likes Adrasteia, from what little he knows of her. Her friendliness, competence in the temple and here on the road; Ellis's clear trust for her.

"Insomnia," he admits, easily. "This is pretty normal; I've had it since I was a kid."

[kantikoy]

"Ahhh." She nods, understanding. Insomnia is a tricky thing; even she experiences it from time to time, possibly more than some, less than other Wardens, or so she presumes.

She's never asked. Who would she ask? Adrasteia returns his smile.

"And it's difficult to treat. Too much of something and you feel sluggish at all hours. Too little and the body is tired but the mind continues its wandering. A struggle I know all too well."

[acreage]

He used to get Z-Pro from Shed every now and again, back on the Cant, dabbled in some things when he was younger and fresh to the navy, but in recent years —

he makes do.

His smile is sympathetic, wry.

"I stick to coffee these days." Which won't come as a surprise to her; there's a tin cup in his head, the smell heavy in the air. By the fire, there's a recently removed pot, still steaming, and he nods towards it in silent offer. "It's not bad, as long as you don't mind putting up with the grounds."

Which isn't ideal, but honestly. He's had worse.

[kantikoy]

"I've dealt with worse, definitely." Months, if not years, without coffee for starters. It's not easily found at the front lines, and not all doors that were once open to Wardens remain so, but that's neither here nor there. At the moment, Adrasteia procures a painted teacup from her own bedroll and adjacent packed items and pours herself some coffee.

"Is there coffee in space?" They were supposed to talk about space after the Temple of Dumat, and Adrasteia never got around to bothering the captain properly about it.

[acreage]

"If there wasn't, I wouldn't have lasted out there as long as I have."

Did, maybe. He didn't leave space willingly, but he's been gone for long enough. There's no chance of making it out of the gravity well in Thedas, and no evidence of any rifter ever really returning home. He's stopped hoping for a way back to the Roci, but maybe his mouth hasn't received the memo.

"Humanity might've found its way out into space, but we haven't figured out a way to survive without coffee. Personally, I don't think there is one."

[kantikoy]

"There are only humans, in your world? Forgive me if I already asked about that aspect of it, it just surprises me every time."

Well. Surprises is definitely a word for it; more accurately, it makes Adrasteia sad, because she wonders what happened to those other races if they existed once, where all these humans are. Did the humans kill them off? Did they never exist at all there? It's strange, perhaps, that there hasn't been a world of only elves as far as she knows.

"Coffee is a lifesaver, either way; that much is certain."

[acreage]

"You aren't the only one."

It's a fact that he's noticed tends to sit poorly with the elves he knows — and he can't fucking blame them. He'd feel strange, too, if he heard about a world without humans. Though, truth be told, if he found out today that there's a world out there populated only by elves, he'd say, good for them.

"There are..." he pauses long enough to take a sip of his coffee, if only to cover for that. "We've recently come across proof of aliens — sentient species from beyond our solar system. But as far as our system goes, it's only ever been humans."

flats

[nonvenomous]

For all their many differences, the posture Richard Dickerson has taken on is a colder mirror of Holden’s disapproval: arms folded tight, disapproval grim in the grip of his jaw. If he was self-aware enough to register it in his current state, he might change it up.

As is:

“I can send Thot to survey their camp.”

He is a terse, skinny man brooding in the shadow of a slightly taller terse, skinny man.

[acreage]

He only pauses long enough to drag a hand down his face, then nods.

"It's a good idea."

She's small, quiet, could easily go unnoticed. And even if she is seen, why question a funny-looking animal out in the wilds around here?

[nonvenomous]

"You're welcome to shadow her if you're feeling especially distrustful."

Silas furrows his brow for that dragged hand. 'Accidents' have been known to happen while Thot is scouting. Occasionally problems solve themselves before the opportunity for an ethical debate arises.

But it's hard to imagine even a very industrious and intelligent owl snuffing seven bandits all on her own.

"It is what she's here for."

[acreage]

Just to clarify,

"You think I'm worried that your cat is going to murder several men before we get there?"

[nonvenomous]

“It’s difficult to imagine how little you think of us,” says Silas, with a logic-driven innocence of affect that can only mean he’s open to the idea of having her try.

“But she can be creative.”

[acreage]

Surprisingly easily, given the tone of this conversation —

"I trust you. And that means I trust her, too."

So, no, the idea of Silas having his cat preemptively kill a bunch of guys hadn't bothered Jim. He'd considered the possibility, of course; he'd have to be stupid not to. But he also doesn't think Silas brought him along for this job only to go behind his back on a moral quandary that'd obviously matter to him.

"Once she brings back some more information, we can make decisions about what comes next."

And almost certainly argue about it, y'know.

[nonvenomous]

“Hm.”

Hm, and a shadier level at his brows, as if he’s suspicious this has been clocked as some kind of test, and that’s where this well of confidence in his moral integrity is sourced from.

His cat is currently an owl, but only in the sense that she is ever anything other than an uncommonly affectionate blend of serpent and feline features with talons or wings or tentacles. She swoops silently from a tree at the riverbank -- a dark shape ghosting low across the water, already on her way to the far shore.

“It shouldn’t be long, provided she isn’t destroyed.”

[acreage]

"Would you know if she was?"

He watches her fly off, then looks back to Silas. Like, would he be able to...tell, or would they just know when the owlsnakecat failed to return in a timely manner?