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

[kantikoy]

A small huff of a laugh. "No, I'd imagine not."

If there were a world populated by elves Adrasteia would be thrilled, and then saddened by turns; there is no such thing as the perfect utopia, after all.

She holds her coffee between both hands, blowing softly on the liquid's surface before taking her own sip. Aliens is a word she's vaguely familiar with — something strange, unknowable perhaps, but definitely not from 'here', wherever here happens to be — but 'solar system' is totally foreign.

Whatever it means, she doesn't see much point in interrupting his story to ask him about it.

"How have your people taken the news about other species after so long of being the only ones?"

[acreage]

He breathes out, slow, eyes going briefly unfocused. What a question.

When he answers, his voice is heavy with wryness.

"How do you think?"

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia makes a huffing sound that in a different situation might even be the beginning of a laugh.

"Knowing humans as I do? Disbelief and violence." She takes another sip. "What are the aliens like?"

[acreage]

"Good guess."

Humanity discovers the protomolecule and what does it do? Immediately set to work weaponizing it against others — infect entire populations of people who they see as lesser, create super-soldiers, instigate war. Fight for power, control.

"Long dead," is his next answer, then, "we just seem to keep running into shit they created."

[kantikoy]

"That doesn't sound like it's been a pleasant experience."

She wonders if it's like the people who believe that the best of Thedas existed in a bygone age but have never, personally, had to deal with a puzzle in ancient Tevene or the practically dead Elvhen language while fighting for their lives. It sounds great... from a distance. Once you're dealing with it it's terrible.

[acreage]

A laugh, hollow.

He remembers a conversation he had with Dr. Okoye not so long before he fell into Thedas. She'd been angry with him — he had a knack for that — for disliking his connection with the protomolecule, with the protomolecule builders. Maybe Elvi would've been a better choice for it. She would've done better, or at least more, he thinks, with the same information at her disposal.

Nobody had asked to be on Eros when Protogen unleashed an alien disease, and that includes him. Jules-Pierre Mao's people hadn't given a shit about little things like consent, or human lives. He definitely hadn't asked for the protomolecule to beam Miller's ghost, or something like it, directly into his brain, nor the record of the death of their species. Ilus had been its own kind of nightmare, a planet that was actually ancient technology, moons that weren't moons, natural disasters from tech meltdowns and leftover weapons from a war beyond human comprehension.

"I wouldn't recommend it."

[kantikoy]

"Well." She can't say it's unlikely to happen here, because how does one determine something like that? But she can tell, by looking at Holden at this moment, that whatever he's experienced haunts him still. "Should I ever be presented with a choice, I'll remember your advice."

Adrasteia gives a little smile, and takes another sip of her coffee. "How did you become a captain?"

[acreage]

They both know she's unlikely to have a choice in the matter, but what else is there to say?

But she succeeds at moving the topic along to something easier to talk about; he snorts, amused.

"I was the only one with the time for the paperwork, and everyone else was too good at the jobs they were already doing."

Imagine, if they had him help out in Engineering instead of Naomi or Amos, or flying instead of Alex. They would all be dead.

[kantikoy]

"There's a lot of paperwork involved in captaining?"

She shakes her head a little. That seems like a simple question. "Apologies, I know nothing about a military formation beyond the Grey Wardens, which... is different, to say the least." Mostly because the lowest level Wardens themselves are more or less expected to make the best of their situation regardless of documentation.

[acreage]

He shrugs off her apology, clarifies with,

"There's a lot of paperwork involved in the upkeep and maintenance of a ship, and there are usually four of us onboard."

Normally, a ship even the Roci's size would have a much bigger crew, and this kind of thing could be more spread out. Which isn't to say that no one else does this kind of work in their crew, but the fact is that it's often a better use of his time than Amos's, or Alex's, or Naomi's.

[kantikoy]

"Ahh." Adrasteia nods as if this explains quite a bit when, in reality, she doesn't feel as though she knows anything much more. "Has piloting a ship amongst the stars always been something you'd planned on doing?"

[acreage]

Without any particular reason to assume his explanation wasn't sufficient, he moves on to her next question. Which earns, actually, no small amount of amusement.

"I grew up on a farm. If you'd asked me when I was kid if I'd ever go to space, the answer would've been no. Things just worked out that way."

[kantikoy]

"I grew up near enough to farms, and there were always Grey Wardens around, but I never anticipated becoming one. I," she says, putting a hand on her chest, "wanted to be a seamstress."

[acreage]

"How's your sewing?"

He asks with humor, but not mockingly.

[kantikoy]

Adrasteia smiles easily. "None too bad, actually. I can repair and alter clothes with fair accuracy, but making something without a pattern eludes me in most cases. Didn't stick with it enough. So if you need anything repaired, let me know."