faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ WAKING AND SLUMBERING

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“Then he would indicate that the Inquisition has been maintaining a secret, second cadre of rifters that they haven't notified Riftwatch about, which is unlikely because the entire point of sending everyone with an anchor to Kirkwall in the first place was that having rifters and the assorted troublemakers that tended to most closely associate with them in Skyhold was such a constant political and interpersonal nightmare that the advisors were borderline relieved when the decision was made to break off into a satellite organisation,”

she barely pauses for breath,

“or the Venatori have been doing so and have successfully infiltrated this camp, in which case — if he isn't terminally incompetent — we'll know because revealing himself that blatantly must mean we're about to be violently attacked from within.”

It seems unlikely that Clarisse would be this— that a terminally incompetent person would have this affect on her. So it's probably not just that he's not good at infiltration.

“Either way, it would likely mean bigger and more immediate problems. And you probably wouldn't have to talk to him, although you might have to report to Commander Flint about his capabilities.”

The level of detail isn't because she thinks either of these are likely— it's because she doesn't. It's because it's one thing to tell someone of course your fears are unfounded, of course everything is fine, and another for that person to be able to believe you; it's because she finds this kind of scaffolding reassuring, herself. A handhold back to sense. What if he were real? Well, these seven (mostly terrible) things, but none of them Clarisse, alone, dealing with it.

When Clarisse asked the question, it wasn't because she thought Ares would show up as a rifter, but—still, Gwen's quick and detailed answer does help. It helps because, yeah, as much as she's worried about it and as bad as it would be, it also... wouldn't make any sense. Either way.

She nods once, and wipes her free arm over her face. She isn't crying, but there's a light sheen of sweat on her forehead and cheeks that isn't all there because of the heat. She feels a little sick from the whole thing, actually. Like she could faint or throw up.

"Yeah," she says after a time. "You're right."

Anyway, he wouldn't. He wouldn't care enough to bother.

“I usually am.” And she's so humble about it, too— though it comes out irritatingly matter of fact, self-assured in this specific, particular way. She can't guard her tongue or her thoughts well enough for the Game, but how the pieces fit together? Present her with the board and she knows the play, it's only that she was never going to live long enough to be somebody who was allowed to navigate it that way.

There are things she understands. They are not without use. Sometimes,

this use is enough. A steady place to stand, and regain control.

After a moment, still walking, she says, “You haven't got to talk about it if you don't want.”

She'll listen, if she does, but it seems important to say — that it is not transactional, that it is not expected. That taking this steadiness isn't accepting an obligation to explain herself, that Gwenaëlle feels no entitlement to her secrets.

"There isn't that much to say about it."

Not quite a lie, not quite the truth, either. The relationship Clarisse has with her father is complicated, deep, fraught, and utterly one-sided. It's simple, stripped down to bones like that.

She looks back, over her shoulder, to see if he's still there. He is, and following them, though he's no closer than he was at the start. His empty eye sockets are only pinpricks of orange light at this distance, but the inferno inside is still focused on her. Clarisse makes a quiet sound of distress and faces forward again. Gwen's arm in hers is like an anchor, the only thing keeping her from spiraling and ending up who knows where. (Puking behind a dune, probably.)

"I've been afraid of him showing up here," she admits finally, saying it out loud for the first time. "But... I know this isn't really him. Because he wouldn't care enough to come here for me."

So there it is.

The insufferable pedant in her wants to say: that isn't how rifts work. The people who come through or don't come through — it doesn't have anything to do with what they want or don't want. How could he know? Clarisse is here but there is no absence of Clarisse there,

and she knows that. The very logical reminder dies unsaid, because she knows that. She didn't decide to come to Kirkwall, to Riftwatch, to Thedas. She hasn't woken up each morning, probably, thinking today, I won't go home. None of what Gwenaëlle might say about the likelihood of a given rifter is anything truly new, or even remotely useful in this moment, and she remembers flowers in her hair, furious tears in her eyes, ma petit, I have a duty.

And you had rather run away to die than face it—

The last words she ever said to her father were will you fuck off. She doesn't immediately have anything clever to say, anything helpful or wise, so she considers her grip on Clarisse's arm and shifts it — rises slightly on her toes, slight as she is, and presses the younger woman into an embrace that happens too suddenly when she decides it's going to for any objections. She says,

wishing that someone had ever said it to her, hoping that it will land the way she wants it to,

“You're worth coming back for.”

The shift and pull into Gwenaëlle's arms happens so suddenly that Clarisse can't even protest. She's opening her mouth to do it belatedly when Gwen speaks first, stopping her in her tracks.

You're worth coming back for.

She wants to shrug it off, but a bigger part of her wants to believe Gwen. To lean into the way she's holding her and press her face into her shoulder and let someone else tell her that she fucking matters.

So, for a few seconds, Clarisse does. She presses her face into Gwenaëlle's shoulder and holds onto her, almost desperately. When she lifts her face, her cheeks are wet, and she runs her palm over both cheeks to wipe away the tears.

"I wasn't," she admits. "But I'm trying to be."

MOD PLOT ↠ WAKING AND SLUMBERING

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