MOD PLOT ↠ WAKING AND SLUMBERING

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone, give or take
WHAT: Nightmares, abominations, Satinalia, and sand.
WHEN: Firstfall 1, throughout the month
WHERE: The Silent Plains
NOTES: OOC post. Use content warnings in your subject lines as needed.

The fall of Starkhaven and death of Sebastian Vael rallied the Exalted March to push into Tevinter territory and, invigorated by vengeance, raze the border city of Trevis. Since then, the March has moved past Caiman Brea (which surrendered) before stalling out at the edge of the Silent Plains to the east of the captured cities. It's been bogged down partly by the usual combination of time, weariness, and politics—mostly some squabbling over Nevarran forces diverting to try to retake Perendale and whether the Orlesian forces will be heading after to try to free it themselves–but also by a plague of nightmares that's decimating morale and causing an alarming number of mages to erupt into demonic violence. (Not that many, but any number is alarming given the devastation an abomination can cause.) In an attempt to move safely out of range of escape attempts while they regroup and address these issues, the March has pushed east and made camp at a small oasis just within the edge of the desert, which shields them from approach but also presents its own challenges.

It's not a particularly pleasant region in which to be stalled. There's water, courtesy of the spindly tributary of the Minanter that Trevis, Caiman Brea, and Nessum all survive upon; there's low, scrubby plant life, stunted olive and palm trees and dry patchy grasses. And that's about it. Even this meager vegetation fades away rapidly into desert—first dark bedrock bared by incessant winds, just a thin layer of dusty sand whipped back and forth across it. The road is little more than a faint line of wear across the stone, but the ruins of a dwarven trade outpost spike up alongside it like dark fingers, and it's here that Riftwatch will meet its guides, a pair of Orlesian siblings from the Western Approach and their pack of camels.

The exchange of mounts may seem like overkill at first given how close the camp is, but the sand grows rapidly deeper as you go east, rising up suddenly into dunes tall enough to hide a dragon (more on that later). The camp isn't more than an hour or so into the desert but there is no road here, the Orlesians, or possibly the camels themselves, navigating by instinct and landmarks alone. One rides at the head of the train and the other at the back, chivvying stragglers and dragging a camel hair broom to assist the wind in wiping away their tracks. The sun is brutal, beating down on heads and backs as they ride east in the afternoon, its glare off the pale golden sands in their eyes, the haze of heat rising off them playing tricks on the mind. They may glimpse the false oasis of a mirage several times before the real thing abruptly appears: they ride over a dune like any other and there at its base is the camp, arrayed around a crescent-shaped pool edged with palms. They arrive at sunset, just in time to enjoy a half hour or so of pleasant breezes and brilliant skies before the sun drops behind the sands and the temperature plummets.

I. CAMP

There's no need for Riftwatch to make its own camp. The Exalted March has a cluster of empty tents waiting for them when they arrive. They're barracks-sized, made to house upwards of a dozen people, outfitted with rows of narrow cots and wooden floors made of planks lashed together with rope. Riftwatch is assigned three of them for sleeping and a fourth for setting up tables and work spaces, arranged like spokes around the hub of a large fire pit. Riftwatch is invited to share in whatever grey-brown slop comes out of the nearest enormous pot each night, but if anyone is enterprising enough to hunt or forage, they might come up with something to roast or stew on their own.

The tents' arrangement affords Riftwatch a very small amount of privacy, but they're otherwise in the middle of the Exalted March's expansive sea of tents, unable to exit in any direction without rubbing elbows with the soldiers. Mostly humans, though there are suface dwarves and city elves among them, the latter largely support staff, though a few have taken to fighting alongside the soldiers they serve over the last few years. All are at least culturally Andrastian, but they're otherwise fairly varied. Around a single fire you might find a zealous Nevarran who hopes to help vanquish Tevinter and bring the Chant to the dark souls of its wayward people, a Tantervalian who barely knows their Apotheosis from their Threnodies but is here for vengeance for their lost city and friends, a barely-adult Orlesian villager who signed on because it sounded more rewarding than mucking out stables, and a spitting mercenary who's only following the Chantry's money.

What they all have most in common, right now, is exhaustion–the kind that comes with frayed nerves, trouble thinking clearly, and an unusually high probability of starting to shout or cry over minor inconveniences. While the Free Marches dealt with nightmares for months without most people becoming so affected, on Riftwatch's first night in the camp, they'll find the nightmares are worse than what they ever experienced in the Gallows: vivid, specific, twisted, and difficult to shake when they wake up panicked in the middle of the night. Anyone who wanders out of the tent into the cold dark will find at least a few soldiers from nearby tents have done the same, stalking around like sleep-deprived undead or sitting and staring into the fires with vacant expressions.

In recent weeks, this steady stream of nightmares has had a predictable side-effect: a small outbreak of abominations among the mage army that had been accompanying the Exalted March, several with death tolls in the teens before they were killed or driven away by the Divine's loyal Templars. As a precaution, the mage army has since sent all mages too young to have been harrowed and any who were identified as vulnerable back to Orlais, with the rest residing instead to the west of the main camp rather than integrated within it. Templars camped along the rim of the main camp to provide a barrier should there be any further incidents.

Riftwatch's mages aren't subject to this division–a condition of their help–but they'll find the camp a less friendly environment than they may have grown used to in recent years, as many of the soldiers either survived a recent mage-borne horror or know at least one person who died in the outbreak and are understandably wary of having more mages in their midst, and strangers at that.

II. SATINALIA

Riftwatch's arrival comes the day before Satinalia. That it's neither the ideal setting nor the ideal mood for a celebration is apparent as soon as they set foot in the camp. But Captain Thevot Gaffey joins Riftwatch at their camp fire early on the first morning looking frayed and cold and glassy-eyed with exhaustion or perhaps just misery, and he drops some heavy hints that he and some of the other brass would be extremely grateful if Riftwatch contributed some of its better-rested energy to helping the soldiers have a nice evening, especially as the expected shipment of less gruel-y food has failed to materialize.

So consider this task number one: assisting the minority of Exalted Marchers who are straining to keep everyone else's spirits up in conjuring a good time out of nearly nothing. Organize games and dances, convince officers to give up bottles from their personal stashes, share whatever Riftwatch brought, or lean into the mood and try to lead a few soldiers into a more relaxing card game or fireside storytelling session. Anything to try to convince a bunch of cranky, overtired, frightened soldiers that things aren't really so bad at least for a few hours.

III. FIELD WORK

Of course the primary reason Riftwatch has been brought to the Silent Plains is to solve the problem of the nightmares. But there's a long list of other problems that the Exalted Marchers could use their help with while they're in the area, especially with their own forces so run-down at the moment.

While they stay in camp they'll be expected to pitch in with the mundane tasks that keep a camp running: helping tend the camels and other mounts, repairing equipment, re-staking tents, hauling water, tending to ill and injured and such, so long as it does not interfere with Riftwatch's primary assignment of resolving the nightmare issue. As soon as they've settled in, they'll all be assigned to assist with hunting parties and patrols, circling the perimeter to keep watch for any suspicious movement or dangerous wildlife. The camp has encountered the usual desert fauna: hyenas and quillbacks that prowl the river's edge, gurns and phoenixes among the sands. Each poses their dangers, but can provide needed supplies as well, and the March isn't in a position to be picky. Supply runs by camel or mule to the few near-ish settlements, either on the outskirts of the desert or other oases, are in much demand, but the journeys have to be discreet and round-about; as new faces, Riftwatch may be asked to help with these as well.

A few weeks ago, a party encountered a group of dragonlings and dispatched them, only to find scouts ambushed by a full-sized dragon the next day, bellowing fire and sprays of sand powerful enough to strip flesh. It has attacked several supply deliveries and hunting parties since, and there have been reports of sightings nearing the camp. Anyone venturing out into the dunes will be warned to be on their guard. Qualified members of Riftwatch may be recruited to travel along to help protect these groups and to help hunt the dragon down. There are plenty of smaller dragonlings with weaker sand-breathing powers prowling the area, and there may be more than one encounter with the dragon before it is killed.

Patrols and hunting parties will also be asked to keep a lookout for signs of elven surveillance, and, if Riftwatch is amenable, to make an effort to find the elves that have been watching the camp and make contact with them to discover their allegiances, which at first were presumed to be neutral until a supply caravan was attacked last week. (Anyone may be tasked with the search for the elves' encampment, but to make contact please sign up.)

While a few of the recent spate of abominations were killed in the camp, a small number escaped into the desert and need to be tracked down before they cause further harm. (If they can be. Abominations roaming the countryside for years without being caught is not an unheard of phenomenon, and the risk that they eventually make it to a village or trade caravan is too high to leave them to the whims of the desert.) Riftwatch is enlisted to join in the hunt, either in groups of their own or as part of larger parties of Exalted Marchers, mages, and Templars trying to follow the abominations' trail through the desert.

It's not an easy task, in a landscape where sand is quickly blown over most evidence of something passing through a given area. Finding them is so much more difficult than fighting them that even people who are not exactly equipped for combat against a powerful magic-wielding demonic being may be enlisted to help anyway if they have skills useful for tracking. With some aerial scouting from griffons, tips from passing travelers, and the discovery of a few small massacres where the abominations have run into merchants or scouting parties or wild animals and left scorched or bloody scenes in their wake, it will be possible to track some of them down in the desert–and then to take them down, as that's the only known cure.

Everyone traveling through the desert will also have to contend with the natural dangers of the environment: navigation is difficult and getting lost easy; water must be carefully rationed away from camp; and sandstorms may spring up with little warning, though most blow through in a matter of minutes. Most, but not all. Midway through their stay a storm rises on the horizon, large and dark enough to give them about an hour's warning before it arrives, just enough to batten down the hatches—if they're near any. The storm whips enough sand into the air to blot out the sun in mid-afternoon, flinging it about with blinding ferocity for the rest of the day and into the night, forcing the camp to take stock and dig out from some new drifts come morning.

IV. A COMPLICATION

Every mission or patrol that takes Riftwatch into the desert comes with an added problem: venture any further north than the main camp, and people begin to find that their nightmares aren't waiting for them to fall asleep anymore. After a mile, images and sounds begin bleeding into the world, at first distant blink-and-you-miss-it brief, just a mirage, maybe, then closer and lingering as parties move further afield. Though they're pulled from your nightmares, they aren't private hallucinations; whole groups see the same visions at once. A hoard of darkspawn crests a dune and rushes a party with weapons that pass through them harmlessly. Enormous spiders click their mandibles in the dark. People you hoped to never see again walk amongst the party for a mile or more at a time, looking solid and sounding real but leaving no footprints behind them.

The visions vanish on their own after a while, or sooner if silenced by a Templar or dispelled by a mage, and none of them can hurt anyone–not here, not yet. But they keep coming, and they keep growing stronger the further north anyone goes in search of rogue abominations or dinner, or, obviously, the source of the nightmares. Those traveling alongside members of the Exalted March, a good number of them superstitious and all of less used to this sort of nonsense, will have the added task of keeping them calm. At least the first time or two before they, too, get used to it.

Comments

Benedict OTA

[altusimperius]

I. Camp
a. tent drama

An unusually high-pitched squeal of alarm announces that Benedict has discovered his first visitor, and it takes him all of five seconds to gather up his things and launch himself out of the lizard tent. He slaps wildly at himself in the case of an errant lizard, then proceeds to aggressively shake out and comb through both his bedroll and his bag-- and when finished doing this, with all the poise of a cat that just miscalculated a jump, picks his things up again and marches, nose in the air, over to the sand tent.
He can be found over there some while later, sitting outside the tent and smoking with a hangdog expression. It's possible he is on the verge of tears, but maintaining a brave face because the entirely unacceptable alternative is having a meltdown in front of Wysteria.

b. nightmares

The meltdown happens nonetheless, but in the form of wailing out from nightmares, awakening in a cold (sandy) sweat, and the return of his terror of going back to sleep.
He takes to exhaustedly wandering the rows of tents, rapidly diminishing the stores of elfroot he brought along, taking great care to use a Riftwatch runestone for lighting the cigarettes he rolls rather than immediately out himself as a mage by producing flame with his fingers.

II. Satinalia

Showing an uncharacteristic restraint (lately, at least), Benedict is keeping himself busy by attending to the cask of thin wine he picked up on a supply run, bringing it around to the various groups of soldiers to fill their cups and move on.
He doesn't make much conversation, and definitely doesn't tell anyone his name; a Vint mage is bound to run into trouble here if he's careless, which, despite the widespread fatigue including his own, he is quite determined not to be.

IV. A Complication (one thread please)

"I need-- I need your help."
This is spoken in a deathly quiet voice to someone nearby, perhaps not even a friend, the situation is so dire.
"Magebane." The word leaves him breathlessly, with a shudder. "Did we bring any?"

iv

[bribon]

As it happens, Desidério is not a friend. He does, however, have a pouchful of magebane which he produces from an interior coat pocket. And then he pauses, the lacings of the pouch held hostage in his hand.

"What do you need it for?"

There are abominations out and about. Maybe he should hold on to this for himself.

[altusimperius]

It's the man from the Rift, Benedict realizes. And while he has nothing against him (apart from maybe being a bit of an idiot, but that remains to be seen), the look Desidério gives him is enough to give him pause.

"We've," he pauses, defaulting to haughty when uncertain, "got a lot of mages with us. Nightmares and mages don't mix." Surely he can't be the only one worried he's going to lose his mind.

[bribon]

"And if any of them go mad, you'll have a much better time of it defending yourself than myself."

Mages and regular old people don't mix very well either, being something of a long held philosophy through much of southern Thedas. That said— it does t have the ring of unkindness to it, merely fact. Certainly, there is little in the statement to imply that Benedict will be the one going up in a column of Envy or Rage or whatever his vice may be.

With a deft flick of the wrist, Desidério loops the strings of the pouch once about his fingers, securing it more surely inside his grip.

[altusimperius]

It’s a bit of a nightmare in itself, this: either he has to come out with it and express a certain, potentially deadly, vulnerability to a near-stranger, or he has to continue sitting with his anxiety.

Desiderio’s answer doesn’t allow much room for arguing without giving himself away, so he doesn’t. He gives a sidelong little shrug, as if to say ‘suit yourself’, and averts his gaze.

gatecrashes

[cozen]

Bastien is far enough away that he could easily stay out of it. Even without the excuse of one deaf ear and the hiss of wind over the dunes, he could fairly pretend not to have heard the conversation. And he would, if Benedict didn't seem poised to escape this with dignity.

Instead, he calls over, "He wants it to use on himself," helpfully, as if Desíderio might have missed that subtle implication—"which is a waste."

This latter part for Benedict.

[altusimperius]

When Bastien's voice comes out of nowhere, Benedict's first instinct is to turn toward it, pleasant if puzzled-- but he's not an idiot, and Bastien's particular word choice is enough to suck some of the wind from his sails, a fleeting glance around suggesting he's aware that just about anyone can hear the conversation now. Including those who are, maybe, a little jumpier around mages.

Bastien receives a silent, imploring look. what the fuck dude

I.b: Nightmares

[axetrovert]

Benedict is far from the only one up in the night, and Karlach is struggling not to doze off again by the fire.

She snorts herself completely awake as he crosses again behind her, looking up in time to see the runestone, and more importantly the rolled cigarettes.

They were in the same tent, the two of them- though Karlach has found the lizards utterly charming rather than a menace. One of them has curled itself around the back of her boot, a detail that she chooses... not to share with the young man.

"Come sit," she says, gesturing at the edge of the rock shelf she's using. It's toasty here thanks to the fire and the heat rolling off her body. "We've got a lot of ground to cover tomorrow, and you'll wear your damn feet off if you keep on like that."

Her voice is far kinder than the imposing figure she makes.

[altusimperius]

Caught out, Benedict pauses and glances back at the woman. She's Qunari-- or a kossith, at least, even if she doesn't bear all the concerning opinions of one following the Qun, and the racial factor in itself gives him reason to be slightly wary.
But she seems friendly enough, so he comes toward her a few steps, cigarette pursed in his mouth.

"How is anyone sleeping," he asks, rhetorically, in his best effort to be friendly.

[axetrovert]

Friends, Karlach. You can make friends.

Maker, she's rusted up.

"Haven't the faintest," she answers, jogging one of her knees, lacing her fingers together. "Every time I start to nod off it's some new and terrible horror."

Joking aside, she holds up a finger.

"Want to see a magic trick?"

(This is going to be so funny when she finds out later that he's a mage.)

[altusimperius]

Though he's still wary, Benedict's resolve crumbles a little bit at the question; the woman seems guileless enough, and it does look warm over there. How can he be this chilled, here in his own country?

He nods wryly and comes to perch next to Karlach, folding his hands and watching her. For the trick.

[axetrovert]

It's a trick that's taken a bit of practice, but Karlach used to smoke cigars. She's tried to give up the nasty habit, but this little party favor has stuck around.

Karlach gestures for Benedict to hold out his cigarette and snaps her fingers, focusing a bit of the lyrium flame into the point where they strike. It doesn't ignite anything- the fire's already there. But it helps her visualize where to pull it to. She holds her thumb to the end, where a flame dances merrily.

He'll need to close the distance and inhale for himself, but.

[altusimperius]

Benedict watches her thumb, waiting a moment to see if something else is supposed to happen. When nothing does, he glances patiently up at her face, back down at the flame, and up again.

"...that's magic," he confirms, at a bit of a loss.

ib

[laruetheday]

It's not weird that there'd be multiple people outside the tents this time of night, not with all the nightmares everyone's been having. It's why when Clarisse sees Benedict pacing back and forth nearby, she doesn't move or call out to him right away. She'd prefer not to talk to anybody while she's this freaked out, anyway.

Or... have them see her being freaked out, to be honest.

Eventually, though, she calms down enough to process the fact that he's smoking, and the thought of having a toke or two before she attempts to go back to bed and get a few more hours of shitty sleep isn't the worst thing.

"Hey," she says, walking up from between the tents. "Can I smoke?"

[altusimperius]

He stops fast and turns to the sound of the familiar voice, registering Clarisse half-lit by the nearest campfire. He doesn't know her well, it's true, and their relationship has been a bit fraught (for which he's mostly to blame), but it's impossible not to recognize the particular desperation of someone who not only wants to smoke, but needs to.

Wordlessly, he offers her his blunt.

[laruetheday]

Benedict doesn't say anything, so she doesn't either. Just steps close enough to reach out and take the offered blunt and hold it to her lips. She breathes in the smoke, holds it in her lungs until they start to burn, then exhales and watches as it drifts up into the night sky and disappears.

That's... better. Not a lot, not immediately. But it's something, at least.

"Thanks," she says finally, and holds it out so he can take it back.

[altusimperius]

He nods tersely, takes it back, smokes a bit and exhales himself, standing in silence with Clarisse.

Then, in a raspy undertone, "fuck this." He's tired-- so tired-- and can tell she is too, but there's nothing to be done.

[laruetheday]

"Yeah."

That pretty much sums it up. Clarisse crosses her arms, hugging herself for warmth, and looks out into the darkness.

"At this point I'd settle for a standard shitty dream about my teeth falling out. Or showing up for class with no pants on."

[altusimperius]

Bene gives a curt little laugh, getting into the spirit of it.

"Learning today's my first day in the Senate and I'm already an hour late."

What's a nice guy like you doing in a sand tent like this

[muckspout]

Edgard awakens in the night and steps out his tent to see Benedict.

"Thought you were in the other tent. Meeting somebody?"

Edgard clocks his expression.

"Or...you met someone and it went badly?"

[altusimperius]

Benedict stares out at the camp at first, as though he didn't hear Edgard. Then, he slowly turns his head to look up at him, with an expression of such desolation it's easy to imagine someone important has died. Or he's dying.

"There's sand everywhere," he says in a low, imploring little voice. Everywhere.

[muckspout]

Edgard sighs and sits down next to him. He really doesn't and will never understand, but tries anyhow.

"It's just sand. When you get a-" He chokes out the word "-bath. It'll go away."

Then-- "Are you really up in the middle of the night smoking because you hate sand?"

[altusimperius]

"No," spoken sulkily, and very much in the manner of yes he is absolutely smoking because he hates sand but doesn't want to admit it, but Benedict is not so easily predicted. Just this once.

"...I'm up in the middle of the night smoking because I can't sleep. And I hate sand."

[muckspout]

Edgard despite himself grins a little. Typical Benedict.

"didn't think sand kept people awake. 'snt it supposed to do the opposite? Read that somewhere."

He puts his fingers in the sand in question and draws little doodles.

"At least sand won't be in the room back home." He says. Probably.

[altusimperius]

“Why would sand be in the room back home?” he asks, dropping his head forward to prop on his hand, “—you’re not going to bring sand home to keep in it, are you?”

Before he can get himself properly worked up, Benedict shakes his head, takes a drag, and sighs. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m moving upstairs again.”
By the lightness of his voice, this is the only thing giving him any peace at the moment.