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

marcus. ota.

[luaithre]

THE OTHER CAMP; closed to kostos and nell.

The Templars at the perimeter have a task, which is to prevent the possibility of Abominations from harassing the main camp. And so, there are no questions, nor even sideways glances, as someone who does not belong to this camp makes to cross its informal border. At least, no attention paid that Marcus notices, paying no attention in return.

He is not burdened in his own layers of armor but dressed for the simpler labour of the day, layers of muddled grey linen, streaked in desert dust, sleeves rolled, but he carries his staff in its harness, hanging heavy at the shoulder, blade shining. A couple of rings decorating fingers, one of which he idly turns as he wends his way through the tents that make up this neighbourhood, eye sharp for familiar faces.

The two he finds aren't the only ones he is looking for, necessarily, but when he finds them, Marcus shifts to moving with purpose towards them.

SATINALIA; open to all.

When the Forces division are given the order to set up Satinalia, Marcus partakes with grim commitment and no complaint. Even if he finds himself carrying one end of something heavy with someone he doesn't like, the task is done without hesitation, if maybe a slightly sharper word than is necessary. He also does not hesitate to take a smoke break when it suits him, sat off to the side and concentration on rolling dry leaves into brown paper between his fingers, or having one already lit. He might even share, given the festive mood.

For the celebration itself, there is certainly an amount of people watching from the sidelines, nursing a metal cup of something strong or another cigarette (though this time, the smoke has the sweet tinge of elfroot to it). He can also be convinced to dance, or maybe do the convincing himself if someone who can be relatively certain of his affection is found off the side and without a partner.

Last year was very nearly his last Satinalia, after all, and this one could be next. He will, within his own capacity and the dust-dreary surroundings they all find themselves in, make the most of it.

A COMPLICATION; one thread of griffon scouting.

The sun is sinking when they land. They're pushing it right to the edge, how long they can spend out here, before they'll have to fly under cover of night, in cold air, but a sighting of some kind of camp draws focus after hours of nothing, and so—

Fine dust lifts under flaring griffon wings, and then the impact of boots after Marcus swings himself out of the saddle. There'd been no sighting of moving bodies during the spiralling descent, but all the same, his instinct is to regard the perimeter while the person he is with sees what there is to find in a half-collapsed tent, a firepit, sand-submerged shapes.

Maybe it's because he's looking that they come. He doesn't say anything, first, but the especially attentive might hear a sharp drawing in of breath when he starts to.

Because they have company. Maybe fifty feet out, a row of figures are kneeling on the sand, wavering a little as if exhausted. Armor is blasted, blackened, and smoke lifts from their shoulders, escapes between steel plate and chain and cracked leather. Their faces, angled downwards, are burned. Peeling skin, blackened where it clings, eyes whitened and melted, mouths slack and agape. No blood, evaporated, burned to ash.

One tips their head up, sightless eyes somehow seeing. Flame licks across their ruined breastplate, still, ever burning, and with a jerk of movement, it attempts to get its feet under itself. The others, creakily, moving.

Marcus is quiet, eyes fixed on them, his staff brought around to bear.

us.

[exequy]

Kostos needs a moment to notice him, because he is saying—as Marcus moves within earshot of his not particularly loud but certainly intense argument voice—"any ten year old who can muster a spark, and then we can invite the hedge mages and the Dalish keepers—"

This is the point where he sees Marcus among the trickle of foot traffic moving among the tents. He does a double take without turning his head away from Nell at all, mouth still going on with what it'd planned before he was distracted:

"—and the Qunari. They don't need their mouths to—"

And this is the point where Marcus' presence and trajectory sink all the way in. Kostos shuts up. His shoulders shift back, removing an inch from his and Nell's previously steady progress toward getting in each other's faces over the matter. He puts more weight onto his staff, planted in the sandy rocky ground beside him like a walking stick. He tips his chin in the vague direction of over Nell's shoulder to signal Marcus' approach and says, "They're here."

Aside from a tan—on full display because his shirt has gotten lost on its way to his torso, post rinsing off in a basin, and been left hanging from his belt—and verging on needing a haircut, Kostos hasn't changed much since he left. And if he doesn't look pleased to see Marcus, that's just his face. Or mostly his face. Also the exhaustion and the tension and the proximity of that Templar camp and this new thing Nell is being impossible about. It's not personal, is the point.

smoke break-ish.

[bribon]

If Desidério had successfully fucked off for much of the Satinalia organizing and has only resurfaced now for the Satinalia enjoying, then he hasn't really gotten away with much. It's a dreary showing, in an even drearier place. Part of him is seriously considering the possibility of finding some watch rotation to scab his way onto in place of observing the effort to put on a cheerful show for an array of largely hollow-eyed fucks twitchy from lack of sleep. Were he of particularly weak constitution, the whole charade might put him off so much as a nip of cheap wine.

Luckily, he's made of perfectly stern stuff. He's had his allotted cup, and now is on the prowl for something better. Namely—

Veering sideways, he steps across the stretch taut line of a tent cable with a jingle from the miscellaneous hardware—sword belt buckles, the clack of a button of his flapping collar—in pursuit of what appears to be a likely target. He has already produced a silver plated case from inside his coat by the time he's closed distance to the Riftwatch mage.

"Evening."

Soft pedaling the opening. And some people have had the audacity to call him unsubtle!

[luaithre]

Guarding against the chill of a winter's desert in the evening, Marcus has on a deep blue coat with the collar turned up, incidentally a Satinalia present of times past, as is the brass cigarette case nestled in one of its deep pockets, clutched in hand and idly turned around within the warm press of wool. His other hand holds his half-spent cigarette loosely raised, on the way to taking another nip of it when he senses the approach of a person.

Doesn't pause just for that, of course, just listening with a slightly hazier than usual attentiveness to the somewhat unfamiliar jangle of things, embers flaring to eat away at the mingle of tobacco and elfroot he's enjoying. Glances when that noise pulls to a stop just by him.

Breathes smoke out in a steady stream, and nods to this. Evening.

[bribon]

Acceptable reply. The silver plated case in the swordsman's offhand (the one with the anchor dug into it, glinting here in the campfire mottled darkness) comes open with a brisk click.

"This is the last of my Drylands Red," he says, referring of course to that brusque oak-tanged tobacco well-liked in certain western reaches of Antiva. From the case, Desidério produces a slim cigarillo tightly rolled in dark paper.

"If you have another one of those,"—nodding to Marcus's present blend of choice—"I'll trade you half for it."

[luaithre]

An aggressive invasion that's gripped the Minanter by the throat means makes this specific vice an increasingly expensive and sparse one to maintain, and Marcus has, in some recent months, become less and less particular about the leaf available at market on any given day. He's not sure what he's smoking now is well-liked by any reach—at least, the tobacco half of it.

He flicks a glance to the cigarillo, considering. Then, he fishes out his own case, an orange gleam to it made brighter by the light of a nearby brazier, the thin outline of a flame shape half-hidden by the placement of his thumb. He keeps his currently burning cigarette between his teeth.

He cracks it open. There are two cigarettes inside, recently rolled, and he fishes one out.

"The tobacco is Thornroe," which comes in barrels from just about anywhere it can, certainly the struggling result of meagre southernish fields, "and I don't know about the rest."

[bribon]

"Good enough. I don't think I'll find many critics here."

Certainly not among the scraggly pikemen encamped a few dozen paces from here, one of which possesses a whole fifth of a bottle of Antivan port that Desidério has designs on. Beggars can't be choosers is, he finds, a perfectly reliable adage.

So he produces his little belt knife, and squats casually down so he has a knee to balance the case on and a relatively flat surface to hack the cigarillo in half against. The fine, sweet leaf flakes pleasantly from the wound.

Satinalia, evening

[overharrowed]

Marcus is not the only one keenly aware that this could have very well been everyone else's first Satinalia without him. For once, Julius had done his gift shopping early and without prompting, and he'd been glad the pieces he got for both Marcus and Petrana were small enough to bring and give on the day. Even so, the party feels strange: not unwelcome, precisely, but a bit off-key given most of the company out somewhere so inhospitable. Julius can appreciate the work to make it a party, but it does feel like work, in a way it doesn't always back in Kirkwall.

Still, he feels responsible for visibly taking part, and he's circulated in the party, giving holiday wishes to friends and colleagues and taking the time to chat with those open to doing so. It means it's a little later on when he makes his way to Marcus's side again, a cup in hand. He touches the other man's arm lightly with his free hand as he comes up beside him. (He's done this for the past few months, affectionate but also as if subtly making sure Marcus is still real.) "Long day?" is mostly rhetorical, if fond.

[luaithre]

Without really thinking about it, Marcus switches his cup from one hand to the next, so he can better slip his arm around and for his hand to find a resting place on Julius' back. The nip of cheap rum in his cup is warm in the blood, makes the lines of his posture a little more relaxed, but a reciprocating touch, an advancing one, doesn't need the excuse.

Maybe the eventual bracing of his shoulder against the other man does, but for now, Marcus keeps his posture. "Could be longer," he says, flicking an evaluating look over the celebrations—bonfires, milling groups, a faint scrap of music from somewhere out of sight. "Petrana might've asked for an ice lake again."

He finds a fold of fabric between thumb and finger, an idle fidget near the back of Julius' waist.

[overharrowed]

The tension in the muscles of Julius's lower back suggest stress in a way his demeanor does not. The observation gets a quiet smile. "Forces did well, and now it's Diplomacy's turn. Though honestly, everyone who's here with the March is so tired that I think we'd be dragging their mood uphill even with a much grander party at our disposal." They're doing their best.

(And, he thinks but doesn't say, at least Riftwatch's mages weren't sent out of the camp entirely. It's not a piece of trouble worth poking at, at least during the holiday celebration.)

"I should go back to circulating, but I don't think anyone will begrudge me a few minutes." History suggests the main person putting pressure on Julius is Julius himself, but regardless, he's not planning to hurry away.

[luaithre]

Marcus can set his thumb against that rigid line of muscle, a touch that probes and strokes, subtle.

"I don't know that a grander party would be any better. It's a gesture, as it is. They aren't forgotten, here, at the frontlines."

By Riftwatch or by their betters or Thedas or time. Punctuation, marking the steady slide into the winter months. But between them, they don't need to explain to one another the tricks war might play on a man's mind.

"I'm going to visit with the mage camp, later. Tomorrow," an amendment. "You might consider relaxing, tonight."

[overharrowed]

"What a radical suggestion," Julius says with quiet warmth. "I'll take it under advisement. Are you?" Relaxing. If nothing else, Julius appears to be happy enough to find an excuse to linger for the time being. The question has a muted edge that doesn't quite make it to playful, though it points in that direction. If Julius hasn't relaxed, he does at least seem pleased to be close.

satinalia wildcardish

[portalling]

Best behaviour, they said, and Riftwatch have been doing their best to comply. An infusion of fresh blood, better-rested, trying to put on some semblance of Satinalia cheer and tamp down the tensions within the Exalted March. Grease the wheels with games, music, tobacco, elfroot, some precious wine. Try to carve some merriment out of a shitty situation. The whole thing is more grim, a little more forced, not as merry as Satinalia last, but at least it’s something.

Of course, adding alcohol to the equation isn’t always going to go over smoothly. Strange had just gotten himself a refill on water when he noticed an argument between three non-Riftwatch men starting to break out over a card game: an accusation of cheating, bitter words loosened by alcohol, rising tempers. Soon enough, someone’s probably going to flip that makeshift table made out of a supply crate lid.

And Strange knows he could try to do something about it. He should. But just as keenly, as if he can fast-forward the timeline and see exactly how the next few minutes are going to play out, he suspects he’d make it worse by himself. He’s a rifter and a mage and he’s bad with people — a terrible combination all — and so having reinforcements seems the smarter call.

So he’s striding quickly through the campground, looking for someone vaguely mediation officer-shaped but perhaps a little less explosive. His gaze eventually alights on Marcus, lurking off to the side. Captain of the watch. Perfect.

“Hey,” Strange says, to-the-point. He mostly only knows the other man in passing, their offices now on the same floor, but there’s a first time for everything. He tilts his head in the direction of the March soldiers. “Got a problem brewing over there. Think you could help me defuse?”

complication.

[exequy]

Kostos is not especially attentive. When Marcus is taking his breath, he's facing the other way, nudging canvas aside with the butt of his staff, half expecting a leg to appear as the sand shifts aside. His silence and his straight back are regathering some of the dignity he lost (in his estimation) riding behind Marcus on the griffon.

The wisp, though—the wisp he drew through the thin Veil without much thought as soon as his feet his the ground—notices something. The drawn breath. The presence in the dunes. It sails to hover behind Marcus, no sound but its faint shimmery brr, and a moment later Kostos notices its distance and turns to look.

His grunt has the tone of an ah.

When he arrives at Marcus' side he plants his staff against the ground. The figures ahead have no scent, not really, but he can almost smell them anyway.

[luaithre]

The finer hairs at the back of his neck feel like they raise a little as the wisp stops to hover behind him, but Marcus keeps his focus forward. As if to look away might mean something worse happens, as if to blink would see all those kneeling figures suddenly on their feet instead of merely struggling to stand. To glance away and then glance back, they'd be several paces closer. Nightmare logic that nevertheless gets its hooks in him and compels him not to.

It is assuring, then, to sense Kostos drawing up alongside. Different. The next breath in is slower and deliberate. But still, the row of burned out husks work to stand. The glimpse of heraldic symbols, the recognisable flaming sword, through scorched black, and still flickering flame.

"Are they spirits?"

[exequy]

"Yes," Kostos says, because I think or I believe or maybe aren't things that come to him naturally. But behind the authoritative answer comes a quiet string of Nevarran instructions and a gesture toward the wisp, which sails out ahead of them to inspect the figures up close and find out for certain. They're too far away for Kostos to have a sense of it himself.

When the wisp is finished it will come back. Probably. If it doesn't find something so distracting that it forgets and instead wanders off into the desert.

Beside Marcus, Kostos hunches his shoulders in further against a pick-up in the wind.

If they are spirits, what are they? Guilt or fear? "They would have killed us all," is well-meant, anyway, as a buffer against the former.

[luaithre]

It is well meant. And it does what it might have been intended to do and comes as a relief, a relief to hear something stated plainly and truthfully, and therefore much removed from the equivocating, the reluctance, the reserve that colours the tenor of conversations about the war that (he thinks) plague the Gallows, even amongst those he cares for.

It also makes him bristle, some, but this Marcus can keep to himself, allow himself to tense, and relax again. More inclined to stay the urge to snap I know than follow through on the urge itself. At least, this time.

"They'd surrendered," after a moment. This one, this line of kneeling (now rising) Templars, blistered and blackened. It doesn't sound like argument. "More were coming."

Guilt, fear? Is there a spirit of some nameless, scarring feeling? Wrath, maybe. He shakes his head, turns halfway as if to face Kostos, but his focus steers away, opposite to the nightmare vision being investigated by the wisp.

"And they'd done plenty of killing already."

[exequy]

Out on the dunes, the wisp flows around the scene. Then through it. A soft glow through a chest plate, neither more solid than the other. That doesn't make them harmless, but it's enough for now; Kostos turns his gaze from the spirits to what he can see of Marcus' face.

"Did they see?"

The absence of codified law about what is or is not permissible in a Thedosian war won't protect anyone. Whether it was a war at all, rather than some protracted riot from nationless rebels without any right to disobey, will depend on the next decade and on the historians who come after it. And what happens to them—the Chantry might have a say. Or the monarchs of the soil they fought on. But surely someone will, eventually, say. It's been eight years, but Kostos has not stopped expecting to hang. For the dwarven lyrium caravan. For Vertou. For all of it.

"The more who came."