faderift | CLOSED | Nug Quest

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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.

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The lock of Thot’s fangs around Wysteria’s wigglers pinches sharp only for an instant, buffered quickly with a gummier chomp and gentler rasps of her tongue. And so on. She’s pleased for the spoil of extra attention.

One would be hard-pressed to say the same for Silas.

But that’s always been true, and the withdrawal of engagement is harder to pinpoint than the presence of open hostility. Above all he is courteous, and apparently very taken in by the vibrant orange texture of this kumquat.

“Do you believe that she was drawn out through the rift, or simply that the opening allowed me more raw aether to work with here in our material plane?”

"I suspect it to be the latter, though can hardly discount the first without further research. Objects pass through the rift with some frequency even without the company of a rifter, and if their appearance is not somehow tied to the presence of rifters—say, native to the world of rifters which are here presently or perhaps, although this seems less likely, were in the past—then that might have interesting implications with respect the a few theories on what rifters are. An object or indeed even you, little Thought, cannot dream itself into or through the Fade. —Ow, gently."

This last is addressed directly to the collected cat shape undulating across her knees.

"But the former would explain how we are able to conduct ourselves similar to how we once did elsewhere despite the arcane properties of Thedas being so fundamentally different, albeit for some individuals in a weakened state. Perhaps the anchor is what maintains the connection in the day to day."

She flicks a glance up in his direction, hesitates, and then puts a kumquat into her mouth to deter herself from asking the question she otherwise might.

“Mmm,” says Silas.

“It felt more like the latter.” Is this the first time they’ve spoken since then? He decides not to reflect on it, past fleeting consideration that prompts a muddled glance from the cat herself. “I’ve resummoned her successfully since the initial doing.

“She was destroyed in our engagement with the Stormrider.”

He’s matter-of-fact in this, as he is in most things.

Thot, belly up in Wysteria’s lap, looks no worse for wear: two eyes, two ears, four long legs, a tail, and a blue tongue, like cats have.

"Was she? How interesting. Perhaps we might experiment with undoing you after all," she tells the cat, and then laughs at her own joke. Ha ha, we have fun here.

Wysteria pats the creature's exposed belly like one might thump-thump a particularly small drum then withdraws both her hands, wipes them on her skirts (do creatures of magic in the shape of cats shed?), and resumes picking through the kumquats.

"What should you like to do with the fade-touched animals once they've been located?"

Thot weeble-wobbles upside-down on the pivot of Wysteria’s ankles while she laughs. A pause from Silas feels a little like restraint -- there’s a low cut glance aside where he might have blinked his cat tidily back to his own shoulder.

He doesn’t.

But after Wysteria wipes her hands, Thot flops over to slither back to her master on her own.

“I’d like to observe them for a day or two before before harvesting any hides. One of the reports transcribed indicated there may be very young animals demonstrating abilities consistent with what we would normally attribute to rift exposure, but there have been none recorded in this area for some time.”

Edited (what a weird sentence) 2021-05-10 02:04 (UTC)

"Do you suspect they migrated from somewhere which had been exposed or passed the traits down to their young? I still have some of the samples we took from the land surrounding Bierstagg, you know. The fungi is coming along magnificently. I wonder if any of those strange eels could reproduce."

This is said tones of a rather hypothetical question as Wysteria picks another kumquat out from the piles and sets it between her teeth. She sucks the sour juice from it with a scrunch of the nose.

"If they can passed the attributes along, we might attempt to capture a few alive and keep them for breeding."

“That’s my hope, though I can’t be sure how supportive Riftwatch will be of a breeding program corralled within the Gallows.”

Forgiveness over permission -- the notes he left for Mister Stark were sparse. There’s a pause where one might imagine him strategically planting the requisition near the bottom of a more pressing stack of paperwork. Perhaps slipped between the pages of another report.

He pulls Thot up into his arms as she crosses into his lap. She hangs like a days-dead octopus through the gaps in his support. Warm.

He is also, for whatever reason, still holding that same kumquat, knuckled up under one thumb.

“Have you told anyone else about what happened? With your anchor?”

Being somewhat of an expert in this practice herself, Wysteria is poised to offer some piece of advice—well Mister Dickerson, the key would be to sequester them in an unremarkable room or perhaps in the dungeons until such a time that discovery of the project would only lead to its validation—, but is drawn up visibly short by the question.

Rather than answer immediately, she eats another kumquat. This is a matter of happenstance and not because she is avoiding the question, as that would be quite silly. After all, why should she care to avoid it?

"The subject has not come up, no."

No change in expression crosses his face in profile. Certainly, there’s no surprise.

“Would you like me to draft my observations for you to expound upon?”

No.

"If you think it valuable. I suppose there's little harm in soliciting multiple perspectives on any rift or anchor related phenomena," she remarks, airy and light and purposefully inconsequential.

“Of course. I can get started when we next stop to camp,” Silas agrees, easily. Thot stretches to nest her brow under the scruff of his chin, one monkey paw webbed across his kumquat. The rumble of her purr is just loud enough to hear over the lift of wind under the leaves outside.

The first sputters of rain won’t be far behind.

“Or you could simply tell me directly which element of what happened has made you incurious.”

He looks over at her, impassive save for the whet of his eyes in the lamplight.

The dark ink stain of an animal stretching out would be a little comical if not for— No, it's still funny. There is something very charming to it, she determines as her hand (the one without a green glowing split in it) absently picks through what remains of the fruit between them.

"I am not incurious," she says. "A fair number of our company with anchors have found them do all sorts of strange things. Take the Provost, or Madame Baudin who can close a rift without any assistance. It is a natural variation of the anchor. And does not even speak to its maturity, given the speed at which Mister Stark's anchor developed other attributes. It's true that the written work on it has been somewhat thin, but— I merely am not so concerned, you see. There will be plenty of time to study the thing. Other subjects have simply taken precedence."

Which to her ear all sounds very true. And is, she thinks. She looks up from the kumquats and at him.

"One naturally just becomes a little wary when it is their own hand, you see. And in any case, I didn't come here to discuss myself."

The illusion of bonelessness makes her seem all the longer and more implausible, rubbery joints draped loose, her overlarge ears laid flat for the arch of her skull to fit up under his jaw while Poppell meanders through more explanation than he asked for. His pulse jolts against Thot’s cheek when Wysteria swings the lazy susan back around to him, a rise of tension caught and stifled before it can take hold in his shoulders.

Fine lines do carve in a shade sharper around his eyes.

“So you won’t mind if I pass my observations on to the Provost.”

It is only polite to ask.

"If you like," she says without blinking. "I should like to submit a report pertaining to our other findings to him as well, though I know you have been reticent on the subject of record keeping."

What's the medieval fantasy term for 'Mexican standoff'?

“As the party’s leader, it should go without saying that you’re entitled to document any findings you believe to be of value.”

He isn’t blinking either; Thot’s tail swishes and flicks. Barrow knows what he saw, and the department already marked him as a caster on paper in pursuit of their ultimate goal of eradicating privacy for Rifters.

Surely it can’t get any worse than that.

Edited (beebebebebebeebeb) 2021-05-20 17:17 (UTC)

"Well." It is the prim sort of placeholder voiced by a person who is uncertain whether she is pleased or not to have gotten what she wanted. "Very good then. I look forward to your observations. And naturally I will pass along the draft of my own summary should you wish to make any notes on it."

A pause. Here, finally, she blinks and lowers her eyes.

"I suspect I will leave out the exact components necessary to work the magic. For one, it is irrelevant—you are likely the only person in Thedas who can do spellwork in such a fashion. I doubt the Provost would care of course, but someone else reading might misconstrue the thing."

There is little reason to write the words blood and magic anywhere near each other.

“I trust you to decide what’s worth making a matter of permanent record, Miss Poppell.”

If his saying so sounds like a dare, well.

He lets his eyes linger on her a while longer before he looks away as well, taking one last read before he rolls his last kumquat up into his mouth and considers the straw of his makeshift bedding. A scatter of rain finds the roof.

The flickering look which casts up in his direction is keen rather than strictly sharp or especially cutting, a habitual sort of bristle. Good, maybe. We shouldn't he trust her?

But instead of saying so, she nods to what remains of the scattered fruit between them

"Would you like to have any more of these, or shall I take the remaining evidence with me?"

If they’re on the floor, they’re free for the taking, surely. Silas sets his cat aside to pluck up two more while he’s still chewing his way through another, focused on the imminent departure of snacks as elfroot is wont to make people. Just these, he indicates with a nod, and when his mouth is less full:

“Thank you for bringing them.”

Thot is already circling with clear intent to follow, if Wysteria is on her way out.

"Most happily. Thank you for helping me to cover my crime. Would you be so kind as to relight this for me?"

The plate with the candle on it is set between them, and she summarily begins to stuff what remains of the kumquats back into her expansive skirt pockets.

"If you have never had Hercinian oranges, remind me come winter and I will contrive to have Riftwatch come into possession of a crate of them. They are out of season now, but my favorite. A box came to Base Operations from some contact last year and the Seneschal and I ate nearly half of them before it was fetched away. Although you mustn't tell him I told you. I suspect the shame still wakes him up at night."

With all evidence of her theft either eaten or stowed, Wysteria rises to her feet and shakes bits of straw from her skirts.

He reaches to take the candle from her without question, after passing the kumquats from one hand to the other; a needle tongue feathers from beneath the cuff of his sleeve at contact. Whether his lamp runs on oil or wax or AAA batteries, he cranes to tip the proffered candle in through a panel to light it, and holds it back out for her to take.

“I’ll remind you,” he assures.

No such promises are made on the Seneschal’s behalf.

“Thot will see you back to the inn.”

"How kind of her. Thank you," might be to the cat or to Richard in exchange for the candle.

More or less free of the largest bits of clinging straw, Wysteria draws the shawl about her shoulders up over her head in preparation to face the rain. It wouldn't do to get her hair wet. And then, she—

Pauses.

"Would you mind terribly if I asked you a last question, Mister Dickerson?"

Yes.

Caught with a wad of rind left to chew, Richard swallows it down cold. The pause before she asks is ominous, and there’s an answering beat of stillness and quiet before he answers:

“If you think it’s prudent.”

Edited (vanishing punctuation) 2021-05-21 07:45 (UTC)

With the shawl's place asserted, she balances the candle's plate with both hands—delicate fingers ringed about the edges, the light of the lonely little flame unremarkable in the broader lamp glow. Somewhere in an adjacent stall, a horse shifts in its straw and sighs.

"I only thought to ask whether your spirit was faring any better. I recall your mood being rather black, and wished to confirm it improved or offer some—" What? "Well to say that should you require anything, that I have thought it over and decided I would still be pleased to assist you."

“You’re kind to offer,” says Richard.

The lamp’s glow glances strangely off the backs of his eyes at this angle. Something about the interaction of her candle against long, dusty shadows and warm light.

“If there is anything I think of I will be sure to let you know.”

In the meanwhile, there’s a cat to curl between her ankles -- tangible evidence of aid already rendered.

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heirring - 2021-05-22 04:49 (UTC) - Expand

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