faderift | CLOSED | Nug Quest

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

“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.”

"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.

“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.”

"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.

“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.”

"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.

“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.

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?"

And like a real falconer’s bird, Thot hops from the thickened leather at Dick’s pauldron to Jone’s offered arm. She is lighter than she looks: all string and wire layered in whisper quiet feather, outfitted only with talons and beak and the great green bulbs of her eyes.

She’ll keep her shoulders up for balance until Jone has decided where she ought to set.

“Mm,” says Silas. Like that. “If your arm tires, you can move her to your shoulder, or to Longhain. I can mend any holes she leaves behind once we make camp.”

Jone reaches up carefully to run a finger between those freakish cat ears, going slowly if the bird decides to nip.

"From the dream, innit?" Jone says, expression lightening from consternation. "That's her, innit?"

“In a manner of speaking.”

He watches the care Jone takes with interest. Thot, it should go without saying, tilts her little noggin into contact behind the pale roll of nictitating membranes across her peepers, welcoming the affection.

“She won’t hurt you.”

This could be for either of them. Dick doesn’t clarify, stepping away instead to allow them to settle with each other naturally while he goes to make the case for bandit murder.

"'Course not, she's yours." That's the conclusion Jone has come to, pulling it through her mind by sheer force of will. All sense tells her to be afraid; she refuses. "You named her for thinking? For the knowledge god?"

You know. Thought.

CLOSED | Nug Quest

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