faderift | closed / you reap what you sow.

Entry tags:

closed / you reap what you sow.

WHO: Derrica, Gela, Strange, Vanya
WHAT: The Gang Attempts Public Relations
WHEN: Sometime in Harvestmere
WHERE: Cledwyn, Wildervale
NOTES: OOC Info.

The letter sent to Riftwatch by the castellan overseeing the particular region of Wildervale in which the village of Cledwyn is located is brief. The village, the castellan writes, is suffering from a spate of sickness. Ordinarily, they would of course send their own healers to support the locals. Unfortunately, the great majority of their resources have been committed to aiding the Exalted March. With this in mind, would Riftwatch please be so kind as to send some help their way? In exchange, the castellan promises Riftwatch ten casks of the finest vintage in their cellars in addition to some vague overture of future favors.

It's not a very appealing offer, save for the final detail: 'Please speak to Sister Merran when you arrive. She will brief you on the situation accordingly.'

Sister Merran, to anyone on top of their Chantry pamphleting, is a prominent advocate in the Chantry for the reinstitution of Circles (and, presumably, the imprisonment of Rifters post-war). It would be preferable if something could be done to sway her opinion on the matter, or to at least reduce the strength of her voice in the debate. Seeing a prime opportunity to make a good impression on Sister Merran, Gela, Vanya, Derrica and Strange are ordered to attend to the village. They're to be on their best behavior and exhibit their best bedside manner.

Unfortunately, when they arrive in Cledwyn, they will find the situation considerably more complicated than the castellan made it out to be. It seems this sickness plaguing Cledwyn is just the tip of the Problems iceberg.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sister Merran will need to be handled carefully, Derrica had said, noncommittal in tone but her face had been pinched with worry. That had been days ago, upon setting out from Kirkwall. She is aware of this woman's writing. She is also aware of what a boon it would be to sway her even in some small way from her continued assertions that all mages be returned to Circles. (The absence of Rifters thus far in her writing cannot be trusted as a good thing.)

After only a day, Derrica is forced to admit that they're going to have a far more difficult time here than she had expected.

"I can't get near her," Derrica is saying, a little despairing, over the meager meal the four of them have been allotted. "I'm sure if I could just examine her, I'd be able to ease her fever."

It goes without saying: this is an extremely tall order. The way the villagers had lashed out to the very suggestion of even healing magic—

"We should have hidden your shard," she tells Strange, though that doesn't necessarily mean he would be any more welcomed than she has been, before looking to Vanya and Gela, "Did either of you have any luck speaking to people here?"

Vanya hesitates, slightly. He's not much of a talker by nature, so he doesn't attribute it to his own charm as he observes, "Some, yes. Most people were polite, though a few were unpleasantly sympathetic about my having been sent here in the company I have to keep." His tone suggests it suitably lowered his opinion of the parties in question. "It is ... everyone is very much on edge, though, even when they are on relatively better behavior."

Picking disconsolately at his dinner, Strange has folded his left hand beneath his other forearm, hiding that glimmer of green from view. It was too little and too late, but these experiences outside the Gallows are reinforcing how skittish people could be about it. He’d finally stopped being self-conscious about his hands and now here’s the goddamn anchor shard, teaching him to be wary all over again.

“Unpleasantly sympathetic about your company; what, like you’re our nanny? My condolences.”

It’s an unhelpful, sarcastic addition. The townspeople are on edge, he’s on edge, and the locals won’t even let the healer and the doctor examine Merran, and he hates it. He takes a morose bite of some bread.

“Perhaps Derrica and I can be leashed up like a gaggle of children on a tether, and they’ll be more at ease. Have Gela be the friendly face.”

The mood is upset and palpably so, thus Gela proceeds with light caution, fingers curled around her fork. Privately she thinks the villagers have every right to be wary, but she has the wherewithal to know she can't mention this to her fellow team members, her uncomfortable company. That Derrica said it so plainly, we should have hidden your shard, makes the skin up the nape of her neck prickle.

Ignoring Strange's comment, which is unhelpful, she reports dutifully. "I haven't had a problem talkin' to anybody. They want to discuss what's been goin' on, that's not the issue." For her, anyway.

But somebody needs to hear their concerns and requests. It helped that Gela was seen bristling with discomfort when she was first told about Sister Merran; she brings a bit of potato toward her mouth. "The main concern is this curse of theirs, but I can't get a grip on where it might've come from. The rumours are out of control."

Strange's comment, coming from a native mage, would have felt hostile; coming from a rifter, it's just an unfortunate prod to a place that's still sore. That, at least, he can safely compartmentalize.

Instead of reacting, he says to Gela, "Do you get the sense they'd let the other two near Sister Merran in your company or mine?" To all three: "Getting rumors is all well and good, but we need someone with knowledge to see her. I'm no healer, so my getting close on its own does no one much good."

"We should try to convince them to allow us in together," she says, quiet, in the space between Vanya's question and Gela's response. "A templar to keep hold of the mage."

It's hard to say which would be more palatable: a mage, or a rifter at the revered Mother's bedside.

There’s a beat, a stutter in the pause like someone’s bumped into the record and the conversation skips— and as strained as that silence now is, Strange glances between the faces of his companions. There’s sense that there’s some detail he’s missed, some history he hasn’t been privy to, what with being so new. The ride north to Cledwyn hadn’t been long enough to start delving into sordid pasts, but it seems that might’ve been relevant after all.

“A templar?” Strange asks, his voice now carefully bland. He doesn’t have the personal association, the first-hand experience, the context.

But he’s heard enough about it, in his rifter lessons.

"Former," Vanya says, quiet and even, without pausing. "I do realize that for some people there is no such thing, but I resigned and I haven't the abilities anymore." He still has the history and the training, though; perhaps, relevant to their current situation he certainly can still access the bearing, more than well enough for the kind of people who will be watching them here.

It's clear he doesn't relish the prospect.

There is a minor dip of her chin for Vanya's clarifying point.

And it gives her space to find a diplomatic answer, though what's closest at hand is Butchers and sadists rather than what she settles on:

"They have the power to neutralize our abilities," she tells Stephen. "The Chantry used them as a weapon, and as guards within the Circles before they fell. I can explain more of it later."

There is much history. He deserves to know it all.

Gela thinks upon this for a moment before piping up. "I think that they'd prefer you," Derrica, "and Serrah Vanya. They're not keen on mages and templars, but they at least know what they are. What they can do.

No offense," To Strange. She's nervous of him for the very same reason.

To the group at large she offers, "Let me introduce you. They've gossiped at me, and not always about the problem at hand. Tiny scandals; I think they like me. I'll tell them I think this is the best way forward."

And that may work. They may listen and change their minds a bit, or at the very least begrudgingly agree to let it happen?

“None taken,” Strange replies, obligingly. He’s cranky about the treatment he’s been getting out here in Cledwyn, but it’s far easier to swallow when it’s a risk assessment from his colleague, rather than mute hostility from a total stranger. But he’s looking at Vanya now, contemplative.

“It’s a good idea. If you’re speaking from a position of authority,” he says, although it’s evidently delicate what kind of authority templars are vested with, “then you might be our best shot to have them give a damn at all what we say.”

"Outright lies could cause us different problems, later," he says, an objection. But not a full one, as he modifies it with: "We could omit some things though, I suppose. If it gets us an audience with Sister Merran. We have to fulfill our assignment somehow, and it may be the most direct way."

He still looks somewhat as if he's taken a bite of something sour, but his tone is calm enough. He'll stomach it if he needs to. That said, he looks to Derrica and adds, "It is up to you, though. If you'd rather not, we can think of another approach."

This entire conversation has reminded Derrica of some years ago, of Tony Stark trying to explain something about germs over the crystals.

She hadn't quite grasped the concept then, and doesn't find it very familiar now.

"I'm afraid of what they'll do if we tell them it's in their harvest," she says, because this is the part she is most clear on. "We need to make sure they can't cling to the idea that this was all done by mages."

If she can't fully understand the concept of the germ they're discussing, she can at least focus on the practical: this means their harvest is contaminated, and that is going to be a serious problem here.

Doctor Strange has been trying to be polite.

New environment, his powers diminished, his reputation a blank slate, he’s striving to be on his best behaviour around Riftwatch. But the more he’s dealt with distrusting villagers recoiling from his genuine attempts to provide actual, non-magical medical care — just because his stupid hand glows — the more he’s been struggling. The more his exasperation has been slowly and steadily ticking upwards, and some of it finally bleeds out here as they strategise.

He’s pinching the bridge of his nose, staring at a few damp samples of grain which he’d put on a cloth on the table. They’re sodden from that flood, and he suspects florid with fungal mites. He wishes he had a compound microscope to prove it.

“If they’re all too goddamned superstitious to believe the very real and very plausible answer that the problem is likely with their contaminated food, and not some mystical bogeyman in the forest…” His voice is sharp and annoyed; not with his companions, but the situation. “People never like to receive bad news. That doesn’t change the fact that they still need to hear it. Do people boil their water here? To purify it? Same damn principle applies to food. This isn’t rocket science.”

(A very pleasant man, this.)

If Vanya has private thoughts about a mage complaining about people fearing magic, they don't show in his face or his voice. (Rifters are different, as he said to Ellis, though the extent to which that's true is well above Vanya's pay grade.) Instead, he's frowning, but his tone is patient as he says, "They might accept it more easily if we could contribute some suggestion or assistance that would offset the additional terror of facing a winter without food. It is already autumn, they cannot grow more now, and prices will be relatively high. If this means they must throw the crop out, it could be their lives as well as their livelihoods at risk."

So maybe a small sliver of compassion to go along with the non-mage explanation that Vanya understands no more than Derrica does.

"We need to sweeten the pot."

Gela is just as in the dark about this contamination theory (for that's all it is to her, another suggestion without any action behind it) as everybody else and so she is also thinking about the more immediate situation: all the people who may shortly find themselves without homes, or food. "Or- the folk from Tantervale, could Riftwatch aid in relocatin' them? Ease the tensions from both sides."

She adds, quietly, "They aren't goin' to believe that there's contamination in the food if they can't see it." Apparently, germs are too small to actually be seen by the 'naked eye'. Gela already knows how she feels about that.

They’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, and for once, it’s not just a situation he can brandish an eldritch sword at.

Can’t let the villagers latch onto the bedtime story of some apostate bogeyman. Struggling to get them to believe in the germy bogeyman. What the hell do they do?

But the others mention those more pragmatic logistics, and it successfully redirects and reins in his irritation; Strange purses his mouth around that question.

“You’re right,” he says. “Regardless of how we convince them about the harvest — do we splash some black paint on it? do we tell them there’s demons in the wheat or does that make it worse? anyway — point being, there’s too many people here and not enough food. I don’t know the local geography: are there any other towns which we think could take the overflow? Decrease the pressure here? Kirkwall itself feels like a pot on the verge of boiling over, I’m not sure how many more refugees the city could take.”

"I don't think we can send any of them to Kirkwall," Derrica agrees. "Unless it were to have them become sailors, and join any crews seeking men."

Which isn't unlikely, but adopting an entirely new skillset is—

Well, Derrica knows from experience. It isn't an easy thing to do, even if she does think taking to the sea might be the best path available to them.

"They'd have a difficult time in Orlais, though I think there'd be work for them in the rebuilding. Fereldan wouldn't give them easy welcome either, but they've seen the least of the refugees."

No good options.

"All true, and refugees are seldom welcome at any time, but especially not as winter is coming on." He thinks, sorting through a pile of bad options. "We likely can't send them all the same place as a practical matter, and they're likely to resist dissolving the village. But they've proven themselves pious. Many of their men are already off at the Exalted March. Maybe there's a way to use their faith as a lever to save their lives?" He's not entirely sure how he feels about the Chantry anymore, or the ethical implications of what he's suggesting, but he is very sure that the greater good of keeping these people alive outweighs either.

No good options.

Gela sighs, and twists a curl of hair around her finger. "That could be the answer- we lean into describin' what corruption the magic has done to their crops, and we garner sympathy, easily."

And then the Chantry swoops in to bail the beggars out... but the look on her face makes it clear she isn't happy about the idea.

"Maybe we mark it as the backup option."

While they’ve been bandying around potential landing spots (all noted, all filed away for context), Strange has been staring at the sample grain on the table.

The irritating thing, here, is how it needles at long-absent knowledge: the situation nags at his medical perspective and memories from his family’s farm in Nebraska. He hadn’t ever expected to need to rely on the latter, and he’s having to dig back through his memory for a dusty recollection. Remembering his father, furious, muttering about the cost of seed cleaning—

“If we lean too much on the religious angle, do they start looking around town, searching for someone to burn as the rumoured apostate to blame for all their ills? Honest question.”

Strange glances back at his colleagues. Continues: “It’s a matter of science. If this fungal disease behaves as it does in my world — and it looks very, very similar — then there’s some things they can do. To save some of the crop. Flotation methods, like soaking the seed in a… twenty percent salt solution ought to do it, then stir, and the ergot bodies will rise to the top and can be skimmed off. It’s time-consuming and slow, but they could save some of the yield. Recover what they can, and stop eating the contaminated grain. And then maybe we convince them to dissolve— not the entire town, but the refugee population, and move them on elsewhere in groups.”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

closed / you reap what you sow.

peer pressuring vanya.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Jumping order for addressing that, feel free to skip me next round if it makes sense at the time

also jumps tag order mea culpa

a gasp as they suddenly realise they did not have this thread tracked

no subject

no subject

science ?????????????????

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject