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WHO: John Silver + Petrana de Cedoux
WHAT: Country Roads Take Me Home.mp3
WHEN: Last week of Wintermarch into early Guardian
WHERE: Free Marches, Fereldan, etc.
NOTES: Best friends road trip at long last.

There is an open gash at John's temple, a split begun over his left eye curving into his hairline. It has since painted half his face in blood, the flow of it only staved off after one Imperial soldier had slapped a stinging handful of salve into the wound.

Incidentally, how John had come to: with someone else's hands on his face and the sharp, antiseptic prickle of some vaguely medicinal paste smeared over the wound.

As far as collected injuries, this is the most annoying of the lot. The best to settle his focus on, while John watches their captors crow over their acquisition and pass wine skins back and forth around the fire. His hands twist idly in their binding, testing the limitations as he tempers his own fury at the stupidity of the situation.

They are very much at ease. John can't blame them. A cripple parted from his crutch is hardly worth concern. Petrana is not a battle mage. Leaving the pair of them shackled and bound to posts at the edge of their camp is hardly unreasonable.

"How many are there?" John is asking quietly. "I count eight."

They have done him a favor. He is bleeding. He has pain to spare, to trade for what they might use to get themselves out of this. But it goes without saying: they'll need to pick their moment carefully.

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One horse is plenty for the pair of them; Petrana takes the time to slash the ropes tying the rest, slapping various equine backsides and slinging a horse-blanket over the unused tack that she promptly alights, too. Unnecessary, perhaps, depending on how many soldiers John finds it necessary or possible to kill,

but it is a few extra moments, only, for more security. She vaults herself into the saddle, wheeling around efficiently to rejoin him that they can flee all the more swiftly. Hoping he's found something worth the hassle of this abduction — can't afford to dwell on it, but wouldn't it be something — she calls,

“John!”

trusting in her own ability to ride evasively, especially now that she's certain any pursuit will needs must be on foot.

The impulse is very present: the urge to be certain every soldier in this camp is dead, so there can be no speculation as to the nature of the cripple they'd had lashed to a pole as a captive.

It would be a lie to say he doesn't struggle with it, doesn't weigh the impulse and measure it against the likelihood of success.

Perhaps if he had been here with anyone else alongside Petrana, he would have attempted it.

But Petrana had been clear as to her ability in combat. To linger would be to risk her life, an unacceptable gamble.

So he goes. Is already on his way to her when her voice comes echoing to him through the cacophony of soldiers. Moving fast enough, he can get himself up into the saddle behind her, catch hold of her round the waist.

A blessing, that the only soldier to have considered the horses grabs for the reins, and John needs no magic to deal with him. Or technically, no magic cast; Petrana's stave cracks down hard over the back of his skull, and he crumples into the dirt.

"Take us out of here," is unnecessary encouragement at this point, surely.

Certainly, she doesn't need telling twice.

For a significant distance, the thunder of hooves is all that Petrana can hear — an arrow whistles past them, and she veers hard into the tree-line, exploiting its cover and trusting John to know that now is the time to hold on tightly. The fleeting thought that this is easier with a grown man who needs no instructing than it had been with one hand keeping a toddler pressed close to her is one she allows to come and immediately go, spurring the horse on, mindful of how hard she can push and for how long.

Not indefinitely, when they'll likely need the damn thing. Riding it to death will serve no one, and as such, when the air feels stiller and the sounds of burning and cursing have long-faded, and their tracks hard to follow,

she slows.

Slows, not stops.

John doesn't ask her to. It feels safer to keep moving, though it occurs to him that they should seek a landmark sooner or later. His grip loosens slightly as he straightens, winces as he makes some minor attempt to correct his seat. It had mattered, in the moment, more that he was on the horse.

But now, momentarily secure, John can consider their position and sigh over the inconvenience of it.

"Well, we'll make quite the first impression when we present ourselves to a Chantry Mother," is weary, if amused.

That humor allowed a moment to breathe before John asks, "How much longer can we ride before we have to stop?"

For the horse's sake, if not theirs.

“At this pace, perhaps an hour,” she decides, absently stroking her hand down the side of the horse's neck, the reins held secure in the other, now. They're not on a road, now, but for the time being that feels safer.

Safer, a laugh— “And a day ago I was so much more fretful for Julius and Marcus's safety.”

She is, still.

A low chuckle in return, easy agreement. Yes, he had certainly been of the same opinion. Their errand had felt absurdly safe, riding away from a siege. And now—

"Do you still have your crystal?"

There had been no disguising John's for what it was. He'd crushed it himself, a short burst of concentrated power when it had been made clear to him that there was no way out of their situation. And maybe it isn't necessarily the worst thing, if hers is gone as well.

They are, after all, out of danger for the moment.

And John is more concerned for what is happening outside of Starkhaven than what is happening here and now.

“I do. Disguising a jewel as a jewel where one expects a jewel to be—” for instance, upon a beautiful woman, “is a task of no great challenge.”

Even more severely dressed, for these purposes, she has the look of someone that jewelers wish to adorn, that their works might be shown off to best effect before particular buyers. The number of ways in which she can exploit the harmlessness of her appearance — even her beauty is a soft kind, no sloe-eyed and exciting femme fatale — are many, and this is among the simpler. The most immediately beneficial, potentially, although: “I'm loathe to disturb the work we've left behind,” she admits. “It was a thing so swiftly done, I don't wish to be the reason for any stumble.”

"I understand."

It is a delicate balance to strike. And John is not unaware of the potential for Marcus Rowntree to simply saddle a horse and come seek them himself. (Whether or not Flint would be in tow, John finds himself less certain. He has been missing before, and never inquired as to Flint's actions then.) It would create a disruption, and was hopefully unnecessary.

"I asked him to send word, when they'd managed the retreat and the most pressing parts of the work had been done."

And John is without his crystal. Some delay in response may escape scrutiny, but at a point, it would become cause for concern. They are far off course, potentially. Their return would be delayed.

Eventually, they'd need to send word.

"We'll need to pick our moment," he considers. "If we even see the need to share the whole of it before our return."

“Julius, perhaps,” she says, after a moment, measuring out her thinking. He is by no means immune to the same impulses as Marcus, but by turns more willing to be reasoned with and to apply reason, instead of simply listen very reasonably to it and do as he intended regardless. (Unfair; that is only Marcus mostly.) “He will be in a better position to judge that moment than we might at our distance.”

A quiet laugh over this; had John not suggested Julius' presence should Flint engage Marcus on any topics related to mages for this same reason?

"Wait until we find a place to rest for the night," John suggests, tacit acceptance of her decision in that offering. "I stole a handful of papers from that tent before I burned it, so we might have something of use to convey to them."

As if that will distract from their near-miss.

What he would like is somewhere sheltered, preferably somewhere they might find by way of a shallow river so their scent and tracks might be well and truly lost. But he will take what he can get; the first place that looks relatively secure will have to do.

She is not wholly without some knowledge of such things — spent too much time running and hiding not to have paid attention, not to have learned anything. The largest problem is her lack of practical experience, beyond that; she knows to look for a river, what sort of things make a more secure shelter, but nothing of building one or disguising their tracks. Little of building a decent fire, except that it is a good deal easier if the skills she lacks can be made up with magic, and that at least is one spell that she has always been able to rely upon.

Warmth. Well, their lives had held little enough of it, in those days. Starkhaven reminds her grimly of a time that is long behind her, now, but it still dogs her steps as much if not more than the brief, sharp terror of falling into Venatori hands.

(Again, her mind says, though she knows it to have been only a dream. She pushes that away.)

“We'll have the time, I suppose,” has a note of wry humour.

"Do you recall how far they took us?"

Delicate around the fact that he was out. There is a certain discomfort in the idea of it, being unconscious, being of so little use. He recalls years ago, new to the Inquisition at the time, being drugged and waking up similarly trussed. It is no more pleasant now than it had been then.

"If we're lucky, we may not be so far off course."

“We rode a few hours,” she says, casting her mind back — a hazarded guess, but: “You woke before it had been a full day, certainly, if we had been of a mind to return to Starkhaven I think it would have been eminently possible.”

Ill-advised, under the circumstances; not a preferrable option, creating different problems altogether, especially for the responsibilities they were returning to. Still, useful to know.

A hum of an answer, as the horse trots on.

Yes, they could have fled back to Starkhaven. It may have even kited those Imperial soldiers into the waiting sword points of a partrol.

But then they would simply be mired in the happenings there. And John is aware of how much blood is streaking his face, the sight he looks. It would not be so easy to simply ride out again, and—

"We can't afford to lose the opportunity this Chantry Mother provides," is not a thing John has to tell her. Petrana knows. "Tomorrow, in the light, we'll have a better chance of finding the road again. We've the map still, I presume?"

The splinter-prick worry at having left so many alive behind them is unshakeable. But it can't be helped now. They must move forward.

Between Starkhaven — Fiona — and the Chantry Mother, “It never rains but it pours,” comes as agreement. “We've the map. We should rest sooner than later, then, I think.”

Better to do what they can to refresh themselves, including cleaning up John as much as they can before they make their way right back to Kirkwall, and make the best use of the time they unavoidably have.

Sooner becomes an hour or so later, when they do finally come across a river shallow enough to cross. (After some time moving downstream alongside the currents, resigned to water splattering hems.)

But they find a place beneath an overhang, roots poking out from the earth, moss soft underfoot. They pile kindling, start a small fire. John peels off his coat so Petrana might seat herself on it.

In the soft glow, while Petrana is given custody of the saddle bags and John spreads the papers out over one knee, he tells her, "You're far better at this than you implied, when I asked you to accompany me."

Not the persuading of the Chantry Mother, but all the rest.

Their supplies are more intact than not — there had been little time, yet, to spare rifling through their belongings and nothing would have been destroyed before it had been properly examined — and Petrana has bared her feet to dry and warm them, sat cross-legged upon his coat. She glances up from where she's busily doing the math on how much extra time they might be able to eke out of their travel rations if need be, rueful,

“I'm not under any great misapprehension about my own abilities,” she says, “and certainly they are nothing remarkable, within our company. That there was a stretch of time in my life when traveling so was commonplace—” a shrug. “I am able to do what I must,” she settles on, “as there was a time the need was pressing. As pressing,” even, considering their circumstances.

This all is more familiar than it isn't.

(Probably, there'd have been fewer survivors.)

"You'd be surprised at what's remarkable within our company."

Or not, considering how long she's been present among them. The faces change, but John doubts the discord does.

Ability is often outweighed by other factors, in John's experience. It isn't unfamiliar, and it is manageable, but it often seems to exist on a far greater scale than it had on a ship's crew. John isn't sure exactly what amplifies the discordant elements of Riftwatch members. They might deem it Rifters, but even so—

"Look at this," he offers, passing along the papers. "It's only a letter, complaining of their orders. But look at what their orders are."

Edited (words) 2023-03-13 07:29 (UTC)

“Before there was a palace, there was a tent, an infant and a handful of mercenaries, and I find very little surprises me any more.”

Words almost immediately disproven, of course, when she skims the letter in her hands— her fingers clench around it a moment, before she smooths them purposefully, rereads to be sure of what she's seeing.

“If they have enough,” after a moment, quieter, “they could mitigate the issue of distance.”

"Small blessings."

They might not have enough for that, but they have some.

"I would have said the island was Nascere three years ago. But I recall it being broken beyond habitation when we left it. We'd have to consult a different map."

If Photios was only part-way, if there were an island upon which they were attempting some other opening—

"It may be the location of a gate."

“For them,” rather darkly. Anchor-shards in Venatori hands—

“We will need more to go on than the complaints of a soldier who knows only his orders,” she says, a beat later. “Dieu, my kingdom for a map of Tevinter now,”

their route back to Kirkwall is important; this may be far moreso.

“But we will need to pursue this. And if it is a gate—”

Nothing good could come of Venatori leading shardbearers to it.

"I know."

Even in the dream, John recalls more worry as to the experimentation on shardbearers, on what Holden had been used for, than this. But times had changed. The dream had been limited by the Herald's scope.

And now they have this, some small warning.

"They can be intercepted, if there is a stop before they're taken to that island. But it would benefit us to chase it down to whatever extent the Scoutmaster deems wise."

Nevermind what Stark would have to do, if there were any way to locate shardbearers once they'd arrived.

“We should bring this to her directly,” she says, “as soon as we're able. Photios is certainly a start.” A direction to pursue; a point on a map they could begin tracking travel around.

The phrase wagon of anchors feels altogether too numerous and too casual for her comfort.

An exhale— “And here I had thought we might have a moment to enjoy accomplishing something,” a careless, implicit inclusion of John Silver himself in the we that might have been satisfied with the pieces they had moved into place for Starkhaven.

The papers rustle between them, John's hand turning in silent agreement to the first point. Of course, they should speak with Yseult directly. Perhaps even before they see anyone else.

Perhaps.

But to the second statement—

That warrants some mild scrutiny, a gathering of John's attention to a specific point rather than divided between the disparate topics bounced between them at any given moment. He knows we to be a weighted word. He cannot find himself entirely certain of it's deployment in the moment.

Of course, he could assume she is speaking of the Chantry Mother. A different sort of victory. However—

"It is quite the accomplishment, regardless of what presents itself after," John agrees, easy over the words. Wary of the inclusion there, before it is further clarified to him.

His reserve on the matter puzzles her in a way that she makes no pretense of or effort to hide— studies him in turn, in response to that scrutiny, her brows slightly pulling together and her head tilted. After a moment,

“Marcus did mention,” a little doubtfully, “that Commander Flint seemed less pleased than we had taken for granted in the moment. I cannot say I expected it to be a matter on which we wouldn't be aligned,” has an element of honest query to it — it is not immediately obvious to her the way in which this needs clarification.

That it does: obvious. Where it is she's lost him: far less so.

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skips to camping

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