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

Adrasteia, will match format

[kantikoy]

→ a. How it started (mostly at the inn)

[ Everyone is standing around deciding who is sleeping inside, or in the stables, or otherwise unpacking and unwinding and preparing to eat. Conversation has lulled, and Adrasteia holds up a finger. ]

What if... what if we pooled our funds and piled into the 'luxury' suite, which hopefully has blankets that aren't moth worn to the Deep Roads and back. [ A beat. ] I did bring a spare blanket.

[ Because you never know. She thinks several people to the bedroom up the stairs makes the most sense, though. ]

→ b. How it's going (discussion before the attack on the mercenaries)

Adrasteia is one of the ones who checked the hide on the dead nugs, because, well. They're dead. Might as well put the materials to some use, right? Not that she's terribly pleased with whatever's happened here... people who hunt animals for this sort of sport aren't usually a kind sort, in her experience.

Not that she's expecting they'll have much of a values discussion with whoever did this.

The laughter has carried across the river and Adrasteia looks up, then away.

"Do we want to deal with this now, or in the dark of the nighttime?"

→ c. Wildcard me

[ go for it ]

bbbbb

[nonvenomous]

Richard’s arms are tightly folded; he’s been standing quietly amidst the carnage, disapproval carved in grim against the bones of his face. The tidiness of Gallows life has faded from his leathers. He’s scruffy, and tired from a long day’s travel, and this isn’t how he’d imagined this pursuit ending at all, with raided assets and their young strewn messily about.

“There might be other herds in the area to pursue,” he says. “But to answer your question, we’ll be able to kill more of them if they’re sleeping.”

A little black owl snags into a clumsy landing on a felled branch nearby -- familiar, by now, to the party.

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?"

[kantikoy]

"Even if we were to look for other herds, there's no reason to presume we won't have to deal with these individuals before we leave the area, and I, for one, doubt they'll be willing to listen to any suggestions we might have towards working together."

There's something very charming about Richard's familiar, actually, and its inability to appear very good at being a bird in flight; Adrasteia smiles at Thot when she lands on the branch. "So I vote for a nighttime plan of attack. What does she eat?"

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?"

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.

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."

[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."

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.”

dick OTA will match format

[nonvenomous]

Stables:

Having heard out whatever arguments for and against a slumber party in the fancy bed upstairs, Richard is one of the first to quietly depart, and eventually finds himself in an empty stall. With his bedroll unfurled over clean straw and his shoulders propped back against the boulder of his pack, he’s quick to have settled in for the night, reading by the light of a small lamp while he waits for the elfroot to take hold.

Thot kneads where she’s curled up in the crook of his arm. She’s a leggy black shadow against his tunic, her eyes slitted into fine green lines. Warm. Content.

A distant rumble of thunder overhead promises rain through the night; horses shift and swish and sigh.

He pauses in his reading, slow to place the squeeze behind his ribs as nostalgia.


Wilderness:

Dick is peeing when the wolves come.

There are two of them, circling out of the brush to put a stutter in his stream. He straightens, locks in eye contact with the larger of the pair -- and finishes, quickly. Half false bravado, half the thought that he’d prefer for his corpse not to be found with pissy pants.

He’s out on the very fringes of the campfire’s reach, obscured by brush.

Thot the drowsy owl, previously content to snuggle with whoever’s on watch, bristles upright, suddenly alert, and launches blindly away for her master. It’s probably fine.


Wildcard:

[ startle me. ]

[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."

[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?"

[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."

[kantikoy]

They don't always, or often, as far as Adrasteia knows; she has no idea what the Keeper of Helec's clan would have made of it, since most Dalish look down upon the Alienage elves (for fairly decent reasons, though sometimes not).

"Are we nearly the same age?" Adrasteia grins. "I was twelve, just about to turn thirteen; my parents died before my fifteenth birthday. Fortunate that you'd left, for what it's worth. My understanding is that the Blight didn't leave much of Denerim intact."

[poleaxed]

"What I've heard, yeah," Jone says, her eyes leaving Adrasteia's shining face for the line of tree. Anything but look at another person, when darkspawn are on the subject.

"Been back recent like, it's all changed save the streets and some of the neighborhoods. Some things can only go one place, I reckon. Were Amaranthine hit so bad?"

They likely are the same age, and that gives Jone pause. A dead husband, service to an order of honor, and this woman has landed in the same place as reckless, loveless, bitter and spiteful Jone. She can't let her mind linger on how cruel this world is.

[kantikoy]

"It was pretty terrible — and then when the darkspawn began fighting each other in the city just a month after the end of the Blight, it went from barely survivable to worse."

She shakes her head. "Unlike you, I haven't been back since I left; I don't know how the reconstruction effort went, only that there was a strong Warden presence at one point." A pause. "They'd been given Vigil's Keep, at the end of the Blight. I wonder if any Wardens are still there..."