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

Ellie | OTA

[notathreat]

II. SATINALIA

It's a subdued, frustrated and exhausted mood in camp. All of them are rough from a lack of sleep and hard conditions. Not having some proper food for celebrating is a definite kick in the teeth. But Ellie hasn't been in Thedas long enough to forget what it's like to have to make her own holidays special.

Bringing the dulcimer was a calculated move. She doesn't often bring it on field missions, but tonight needs music.

She doesn't always sing; most of the songs are from Thedas but a sharp ear might pick up a modified version of Tears in Heaven. Later, once more of the camp has gotten some booze in them, The Ballad of Nuggins.

If anyone she knows plays and instrument is around, she'll invite them to play along with her. Even if no one does, it's an army, and there's always someone with a hand drum or a flute around. So when she takes a break, it's to hold out a hand to a familiar (or maybe no so familiar) face.

"Dance?" she asks breathlessly.

Alternatively, during the day she'll run a very informal archery (called "projectile") contest. Come by, pick up a bow, a sling, or even a throwing axe, win some bragging rights.


IV. A COMPLICATION

Ellie grounds herself, shivering. Griffon scouting is all well and good but she's scoured this region, and flying alone right now just... wouldn't be good.

Not when she keeps feeling phantom hands. Not when she keeps seeing faces she knows are long gone, with wounds they didn't survive.

"Fuckin' fade shit," she whispers under her breath. She's got both hands up, fiddling with her knife.

"Reminds me of that goddamn haunted house."

II dance

[altusimperius]

"Thought you'd never ask."

Benedict has been keeping himself surprisingly sober for the festivities-- or perhaps not so surprisingly, when one considers they're surrounded by civilians, strangers, and potentially enemies-- but it's with full mental faculties that he takes Ellie's hand and gives a dramatic bow.

It's tradition, at this point.

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?"

Abomination Hunt

[overharrowed]

(i) On the road (multiple threads encouraged)

Julius' response to being put in charge of the search for Giovenco is brisk and businesslike. For his team, he'll mainly look for mages, Riftwatch agents with anti-magic abilities, and members of Forces (ideally who have faced an abomination before). Anyone else who volunteers he accepts, but he insists on briefing them thoroughly before they head out. He prefers to keep members of the Exalted March to a minimum, but isn't above taking two to round out their numbers and abilities. (He gives them a briefing too, but with slightly different content.)

As they travel, he's grim in a way Julius usually isn't even in high-risk situations, but the tells are subtle. Fewer well-placed jokes to put others at ease; less conversation when they stop to make camp for the night. Still, if anyone seeks him out, he certainly doesn't refuse to engage. Nor does he clamp down on idle chatter on the road. It's going to be a rough few days of following the bodies to their source, and if people need to make a few jokes or engage in some chatter, he's as inclined to let it flourish.

(ii) CSI: Oasis (multiple threads OK; if you'd like me to NPC either of the Exalted March NPCs, give me a shout)

Julius is not prepared for the way finding in ruins immediately puts him back in Granitefell. It only shows in a moment where his face loses all expression, fully blanking, and the next moment he's pushed it away, back in motion.

Initial wariness of Giovenco (or whoever else did this) quickly gives way to the reality that the desolation happened longer ago than they expected. There's no one here at all, not even remains to speak of, though the fact that most of the buildings are burned suggest that's more likely due to scavengers than because there were no casualties. Many of the buildings are charred, in various states of disrepair. Most anything that remains is either junk or damaged beyond usability. Julius is not going to let them linger indefinitely, but he is troubled enough by the scene to give them a reasonable window to pick through and try to determine what happened here.

(iii) Confrontation (one thread please, but any number of participants)

The thing about hiding in (or at least next to) the desert is there are simply only so many places with walkable access to water. As they can tell they're catching up to him, Julius starts having them ask for commmon stops on trade routes, well-known public wells, a variety of other handholds that would let Giovenco keep his head down.

It's actually a slightly less popular well, finally. Julius hadn't expected it to be useful on its own merits; they need water, and it was in the direction they were going. When they see a young man, alone, drawing up a bucket, at a distance there's nothing strange about it. At least for those who don't immediately think about the fact that no one travels alone in the desert if they can help it. But even in the absence of that initial thought, those with sharp eyes will notice that the man's movements are uncanny: a bit too smooth, a little too fast.

They've talked about plans in an abstract way, but here there's no cover to speak of as they approach. The demon piloting Giovenco will notice them any second. There's not much in the way of deception or surprise, and it's unlikely they'll have more than a sentence or two of time to prepare.

( wildcard )

[For anything miscellaneous that doesn't fit above. If you'd like something bespoke on my end, grab me on discord or plurk and we'll chat! For reference, OOC information here.]

[notathreat]

It'll be the third Satinalia they've done this, and three times makes a tradition, something something. But Ellie grins and reaches out for him, feet easily finding the steps, the two of them following each other to the beat.

"Glad somebody took me up on it," she murmurs at him in an undertone. "I was gonna feel like a moron for trying. These guys are all so down."

Elven Outreach

[pathlit]

( the setup )
Following the deliberate disposal of bodies at the edge of camp and subsequent heated discussions of hunting the responsible party down (which is most assuredly the elves noted previously, is a nigh unanimous claim), a modest scouting team from both Riftwatch and the March is composed to Figure It Out. Amongst their group is Jayce, who volunteered on account of his previous experience with A Certain Group of Elves In This Very Desert just a few months prior, a handful of the March's soldiers (of whom one or two may be elven), and a few other members of Riftwatch.

In turn, following a likewise deliberate failure to conceal their tracks on a supply run, the lure proves successful. They are intercepted by the People of the Silent Plains, one of whom Jayce recognizes: Irene.

Luckily, the recognition is mutual and positive. It gets their foot in the door, anyhow, affording the scouting group some measure of wary discourse with the People. As Irene explains: The presence of the March has set her People on edge. She wants assurances that the March holds no intent to interfere in their activities, of which spilling deeper into the desert is considered one such insult.

It is explained that the primary cause of the Exalted March's spillover is thanks to some rather gnarly nightmares, and that resolving the nightmares is why Riftwatch has returned to the area. The People accept this answer with a grain of salt. When asked about the murdered hunting party, Irene insists that the responsibility lies with a group of Dalish elves who have shown unbiased hostility.

Several agreements are made:
1) The Local Dalish Are A Problem.
2) The scouting party will camp with the People for a few days as both parties attempt to track down the Dalish. As a token of cooperation, the scouting party will share their supply run with the People.
3) Avoid conflict between the People and the March. This includes trying not to hurt each other in any confusion or fear conjured by the nightmares, please and thank you.

----

( the people's camp )
The People's camp is about two dozen strong, their nomadic lifestyle obvious in the fashion of their tents and equipment. Jayce and company are met with wary cooperation, largely thanks to Irene's vouching and the shared supplies. They spend but a few days with the camp before departing to rejoin the March.

These days are primarily spent searching for the Dalish, but there are also opportunities to improve relations between Riftwatch, the People and the March through discussion and aid. They have a common enemy, after all.

----

( searching for the dalish )
During their search through the desert, the party is met with the occasional sighting of what is presumably their quarry, particularly as such sightings are often accompanied by several warning shots of arrows flying past their heads.

Among these shots are a few cheeky ones, including but not limited to: an arrow tearing through someone's waterskin (right as they're about to take a drink, perhaps), another piercing the sand where one was just about to step. Although these refined shots suggests proximity, the party ultimately fails to locate the Dalish camp.

(The waking nightmares plaguing them day and night certainly don't help.)

They do, however, come across an abandoned sand-skimming aravel. Left intact, Jayce speculates aloud that it might be a liability, but they could scavenge whatever supplies are stored within, and then dismantle it for firewood and proof of the Dalish's presence. What say ye, comrades?

[ ooc entry with info! ]

iii

[thereneverwas]

"Poor bastard."

Barrow has more or less mirrored Julius' manner throughout the search; just because he can prove useful in such a scenario doesn't mean he likes to, and the resemblance of the village to Granitefell wasn't lost on him either. There's a weary, faraway quality to his gaze that only sharpens once their quarry is sighted.

"We'll want to fan out, I expect," he says in a low voice, to Julius and any other Riftwatch mages present, "so you lot don't get Silenced too."

Dragon Hunt

[katabasis]

(ooc info)

I. the lion's lizard's den [ota; one thread only, no tag order; action spam encouraged + feel free to control/murder/do whatever with our pack of npcs]

Two scouts had been sent ahead down through the rocky crevice and into the darkness beyond. Upon their return (nearly an hour later, the slant of the sun beating down on the waiting assembly forcing them into new positions under the stony rock formations to avoid being roasted), this is what they recounted:

They had followed the wide track for twenty minutes through the dark, noting a sparse scattering of various bones and tracks. Eventually, they become aware of a light ahead of them which grew brighter and redder, and that the cool air of the underground passage was growing warmer. Eventually, they slipped from the stony side passage and found themselves at the edge of a great hall characterized by ancient columns and looming stone statues in shadowed alcoves, the length of the passage dimly illuminated by the glow of ancient dwarvenwork fire lights carved deep into various pedestal settings. In summary: the Deep Roads. The tracks of dragonlings had carried on down the length of the passage and into the chambers beyond, but the scouts hadn't pressed on after them. There are worse things than dragons under the ground.

More the better. As described, the chamber makes for as suitable a grounds as an ambush as they are likely to get. The company passes through the crevice as quietly as is possible for a unit of heavily armored make-do dragon hunters to do, and either they are phenomenally lucky or the passages the stretch beyond the chamber are very deep indeed, as nothing comes flying out of the dark to eat them all despite the faint rattling of scale mail and scuffling of boots through ancient dust.

When they arrive at the chamber—its conveyed description more or less matching its reality, albeit with a depressingly high ceiling that may allow for the dragon to gain some altitude over them after all—, the bulk of the Exalted March's mages are sent scurrying up to the shadowed raised walks along the chamber's margins. The handful of willing foot soldiers, composed primarily of bowman, are stationed at various columns along the chamber. As for anyone else, either with Riftwatch or otherwise, not well suited to either posting?

They get the unlucky job of lying in wait in the shadows on either side of the passage leading further into the Deep Roads with the expectation that they'll catch the dragon by the heels, and having rigged their modest supply of alchemical oil pots to one side of the great doorway's mantle in the hopes that, between them and the assistance of a mage, it might be collapsed after the creature's arrival.

Tucked there at one side of the doorway, Flint finishes winding an oil soaked strip of cloth around the head of a crossbow bolt. He can taste the acrid tang of it on his fingers when, after a moment's final consideration, he sets them to his mouth and gives a sharp signaling whistle.

From somewhere in the passage, an Exalted Marcher soldier sets his division horn to his lips. The sound is high and strange as it punches through the still air. It reverberates off stone, and between columns, and for anyone who has been down in the belly of the Deep Roads to face the Darkspawn that so often can be found snarling through it, the horn has the hair raising association of a Darkspawn Hurlock's call. Five long notes are sounded, the last hanging in the air like a mist.

And then, from somewhere down into the dark, comes the faint sound of rushing air: an airborne body moving at speed in this direction.

II. aftermath [use this prompt however you want]
There are straggling drakes and dragonlings to finish downing, wounds (mortal or otherwise) to tend, and a slain dragon to pick over. But let's not linger too long; who knows what might be drawn up by the the noise of fighting.

flint ↠ ota

[katabasis]

↠ SATINALIA

(morning; closed to members of forces) For all that Flint maintains a kind of purposeful half step of remove from the general company of Riftwatch, he has never been entirely absent from the Gallows' Satinalia festivities. Depending on the year, he can ordinarily be trusted to at least show up for a few cups of spiced wine and a careening dance with a co-worker or two up and down the Gallows' courtyard, or dining hall, or wherever the festivities have been staged before retiring early for the evening.

He has, strictly, never had much of a hand in the actual planning of the festivities (save to scribble his signature on various expenditure proposals). But here, in the bitter early hours of the still grey-morning, Flint has a list and orders to dole out and a surprising number of them involve details like the hasty clearing out of various consolidating of various supplies, rearranging and re-pitching various tertiary tents to convert them into cobbled together temporary gathering spaces, and scavenging fuel for fires. Forces members, come get your cobbled together party planning tasks.

(evening; ota) It's bitterly cold. Despite whatever involvement he might have had in organizing the modest festivities, Flint's appearance early in the evening around fires or his participation in incidental rounds of cards is brief. Perfunctory. If you happen to catch him conversation tonight, there is a more than usual air of coincidence about it.

(closed to derrica) Less so: the direction he eventually cuts out in, passing along through the encampment to the tents specifically for tending the Exalted March's sick and wounded. His appearance there among the injured is abrupt, and the line he makes in Derrica's direction where she is tending to some injury very straight.

"Meet me outside once you've finished here."

↠ FIELD WORK

(gurn hunt; one thread, multiple characters welcome) The modest herd of heavyset, hard-hided animals is presently loitering in the valley that cuts through this particular chain of sand dunes. From this distance, they're markedly less intimidating than they will be up close: their hard spinal growths and brutal horns minimized to the point that they more closely resemble a particularly knobbly and dumpy looking collection of dark cattle.

They are also, strictly, not presently remotely concerned with the small hunting party that has gathered at one of the dune peaks above them. Flint, armed with a heavy crossbow and with a brutally squared Ander falchion sword in the sheath at his hip, squints down at them with a considering grimace. And then swings his attention round, fixing his attention on the two March soldiers minding the modest string of camels they've brought with them in the optimistic hope there will be meat and materials to haul back with them.

"We may as well use them to cut the herd."

(the dreadnought) It is late in the day during a supply run to one of the scraggly nearby towns, the sky turning a rich purple and the dunes beginning to darken. Or it is an midday, passing out into the desert in pursuit of game or signs of dragonlings that might direct them toward the lair of the dragon plaguing the region. Or it is night, returning from a long day's work, only a mile or so north of the camp bitter cold and lit by little more than a vast banner of stars. Whatever the circumstances, one moment there is the rippling sands of the desert about them and the next a great shape begins to resolve out of the deepening shadows, or the shimmer of red sand, or the darkness.

It crests a dune in the distance, briefly silhouetted against the sky before it plunges into sand trough and out of sight. It reappears only moments later, closer now as it rides up the next wave: the vast shape of the northern sea's most infamous vessel, a Qunari dreadnought with her twenty guns and hacking oars and snarling sharp-toothed bow. She is flanked by a buzzing cloud of her swifter support ships, the number of which is impossible to count as they appear and reappear across the sand waves in hot pursuit of the traveling party.

↠ WILDCARD

[You know the drill; hmu if you want a specific starter. Flint's in the smoke-plagued tent.]

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.

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]

"Nobody said you weren't a moron," Benedict replies as he falls into step with her, but it's with a wry little smirk to indicate he's taking the piss; if she's a moron, he is too, at least in this moment.

"Who can blame them," he adds, but leaves the thought at that-- everyone here has been through so much, is still going through so much. "Maybe they just need quiet."

[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.

I. Dragon

[notathreat]

Ellie's never liked being underground. Never liked being in the dark, with the smell of fungal decay and rot painting itself over the back of her tongue. It feels old and alien, and nothing here loves her. She loves it even less.

Ellie is one of the many archers but for this mission, she's been assigned one of Research's projects: a magical gun. Given how heavy the gun and its ammo bag is, it was thought best that she be out of immediate reach. So she's up with the mages, waiting for a good sidelong shot at the thing.

And she'll get it.

Ellie sets the spindle to the paralysis rune, careful of her fingers. The crash-course in operation outside helped, but she'll still need a few rounds to truly get a feel for it, which means she's at a disadvantage for this first shot- and this is the one that really counts.

So she waits, and breathes.

The dragon soars past them in a blur and the others start firing. She holds her shot, following, following-

The KRACKOOOOM of the gun is disgustingly loud inside the cavern, echoing everywhere. It causes the dragon to jolt, startle. It creates just enough of a variable that the huge paralyzing bullet tears into the right wing joint near its body, but doesn't fully paralyze it.

It can still fly, but getting significant height or navigating through the air will be hobbled.

[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.

Clarisse | OTA

[laruetheday]

i. satinalia

Compared to last year, the only one she has to compare it with, this Satinalia is a major fuckin' bummer. Riftwatch is doing the best it can, but it's hard to keep everyone's spirits up when all there is to do is eat gruel, everyone's boots are full of sand, and the weather goes from way too hot days to way too cold nights.

Still, people are trying. Clarisse isn't the friendliest face around, but even she's struggling through. Right now, she's shuffling a deck of cards, enjoying the soft little slap-slap-slap sound as she does it, but if she sees someone pause nearby she asks, "Wanna play gin rummy?"

Alternatively, especially later on in the night, she can be found drinking from a bottle of cheap whiskey near the fire. Making a face every time she sips, but going back for more anyway. What else is there?

"Never have I ever? Orrr would you rather?"

ii. late night

Everybody's having nightmares. It's been happening since she first got to Thedas, and hasn't really let up aside from the occasional Good Night or, more rarely, the coveted Decent Week.

Still. These nightmares are worse, way worse, than the ones she's been having back at the Gallows. These nightmares have her waking up hoarse and sweating and not sure where she is, and it seems like every night it takes her longer to remember the answer, and longer for her heart to stop racing, and longer to fall back into an uneasy sleep.

Tonight Clarisse is sitting a decent bit away from the tents they've got set up, arms wrapped around her knees as she shakes and tries to get her breathing under control. Feels like she can't, like every inhale has a little less oxygen in it, like it's all been sucked out of the world and she might be the only person left.

iii. a complication

Maybe it's because she hasn't been sleeping, or maybe it's just that this whole area gives her bad vibes, or maybe it's something else entirely, but—

Clarisse just can't shake the feeling. That he's here, in the marching line of soldiers, watching her. And waiting to get her by herself. When he does, there's no telling what will happen. She can only imagine it won't be good.

There's sand in her shoes, again. She can feel it shifting every time she takes a step, like the very earth she walks on is rippling underneath her feet, disorienting, uncomfortable. There's an angry prickling at the back of her neck as she stops to try and dump at least a little of the excess sand out, and then, as she lifts her head again, there—just a flash of a familiar sneer, and those eyes that aren't really eyes at all. There and gone just as quick.

"Do you see—" She's not even sure who she's asking. Her voice is hoarse, twitchy, nervous, and she tries again. "Do you see him?"

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?"

Tevinter Outreach | OTA

[cozen]

I. Tarsian Field
Free for all; make your own top-levels/adventures.

Even maps of only Southern Tevinter leave this one out. It's a fleck of water and a surrounding scattering of houses northeast of Caimen Brea, where most of the dozen households are herders and the rest are somehow connected to them. A bit out of the way of the roads between bigger places, Tarsian Field isn't used to visitors, and when Riftwatch first arrives on the dirt road that qualifies as its main thoroughfare—you can tell because there's a general store and two houses—it's with a cover story about losing the road in a sandstorm and seeing buildings in the distance once it settled.

The story is good for access to well water and one night of shelter in a recently abandoned house. (The place isn't big enough for an inn.) In the meantime, they'll be able to get a feel for some of the locals, and on the whole find them remarkably shruggy about the state of the world outside their village. These are people whose only connection to Minrathous is the grandson of a local woman who turned out to be a Laetan, while two of the locals have traveled to Orlais at some point in their lives. Their days have not changed for better or for worse as a result of Corypheus' ambitions. If the subject of the war is broached, their real concern will not be patriotism or the integrity of the Tevinter border or the possibility of answering to a new distant ruler. It will be that the Exalted March might kill them, burn down their homes, and/or steal their livestock. They've heard stories, see. A few people, especially those with kids, have already packed up and moved further south out of fear—thus the recently abandoned houses.

If anyone wants to break their cover to have honest conversations here—to encourage cooperation with the March, to make promises of safety, to ask for names to relay to the commanders there in case they come in search of a formal surrender—they can safely do so.

II. Capena
Free for all; make your own top-levels/adventures.

A larger village on the road between Caimen Brea and Nessum, Capena does not look twice at a group of strangers, as long as their accents are reasonably disguised and their clothing reasonably normal for merchants or pilgrims and their social dynamics, vis a vis elves and Qunari, visibly normal by Tevinter standards.

They will find here a much less hospitable atmosphere. Capena is large enough to have glowlights along its larger streets and a village council, and at its head is a curmudgeonly old man who once served in the lower ranks of the Tevinter military. He still wears his regalia around, watching the goings-on with a sharp expression but cloudy eyes, and he's riled up a sizable portion of the locals with either patriotic zeal or horror stories about what the Exalted March will do to them when it arrives and what the Southern Chantry will do to their children, assuming any survive, should any of them show any ever-hoped-for signs of magic. On the second day of their visit, a Chantry official from Nessum visits with an entourage and has closed-door conversations with the council.

Here it will never be entirely safe for Riftwatch to drop the act. But they can speak with some of the locals anyway, collecting information about the village's defensive capabilities (minimal, currently) and attitudes. And in the privacy of their shared room at the inn, whispering—quietly—about how to present this to the Exalted March is safe enough.

III. On the Road Back
One thread! This is for violence. Can branch if people split up though. Everyone is allowed and encouraged to pilot the NPCs.

This place has no name. It's only an inn by the side of a road so long that there was some money to be made by plonking something down beside it. But not much money. They're the only patrons there when they arrive, and perhaps the only ones all week; Silia and Gallio, the husband and wife team of innkeepers, are delighted to see them.

Before long Gallio has rushed upstairs to make sure the beds are in order. Silia is feeding new pieces of preserved meat into the simmering pot over the fire to turn dinner for three into dinner for several more than three. Their spotty teenaged son Vel has been hauled inside from the stable to serve drinks in the meantime, and he seems more pleased about this than spotty teenaged sons generally should be. He doesn't get many people to talk to aside from his parents, is the thing, so he talks and talks. A dozen questions. A dozen unprompted pieces of information about himself.

He's saying, "If you keep going the way you are, you'll run into the Exalted March, won't you?" when the front door opens and three more people clomp through it in their dusty traveling boots.

Bastien turns to look at them with a normal sort of curiosity, tips his head and greeting, and looks back at Vel unfazed. But anyone who attended his lesson in basic bard sign, some months back, might recognize the careful careful careful in the knuckle he taps against the table in what otherwise looks like absent-minded fidgeting. Or, alternatively, they might recognize any one of the three new faces from the Imperial Chantry retinue that arrived in Nessum soon after they did.

Vel recognizes neither. "Between you and me," he's saying, young and stupid, "I can't wait for them to get here. Maybe they'll give more of a shit about us out here than the Magisters. Right, mamma?"

"What?" Silia asks, midway through the process of putting her cooking aside to go greet the new customers.

appears, at long last

[tender]

There has been plenty to occupy Derrica within the tent designated for medical troubles. She might have stayed longer, had the Commander not asked for her. Her present charge has been grimacing through the ordeal of knitting the shattered bones of her right leg back together, and turns her sour expression after Flint's departing back before sighing up at Derrica, "We best get on with it, then."

It is not a brisk process, even with Derrica's best efforts, but the bones come together under her hands within the half hour. She emerges from the tent, tired but steady, drawing the folds of her shawl around her securely as the canvas falls closed behind her.

"Commander?" is greeting and question all at once.

No one could be seriously injured, or he wouldn't have left her there tending to another.

ii

[pathlit]

Certainly, Clarisse isn't an unusual sight; so many have been in her position and many more will revisit it until the source of the nightmares is resolved. Nightmares are what send Jayce outside, too, and why he catches sight of her huddled figure as he seeks to place some distance between himself and the others-- specifically, the others whimpering and moaning in their unrestful slumber, or otherwise producing distressing sounds.

When he's a few yards away, he calls out a, "Hey," that sounds more weary than he'd like. It's meant to be a notice more than anything else-- that someone, him, is approaching. He may be holding a warhammer*, but he is not a threat. Please do not beat him up, thank you.

*Because he isn't going anywhere on a mission without a weapon, especially after Granitefell.

[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.

III (violence!!!)

[altusimperius]

The good news is, Benedict fits in perfectly with his knowledge of Tevinter culture and politics. The bad news is, he has a difficult time disguising his posh Minrathousian dialect, which means much of their excursion to the different villages has involved his either listening silently or passing himself off as some minor grandson-of-a-Laetan. It does offer him a great capacity for interpreting gossip and acting as a glossary of named names (the wealthy ones, at least) and cultural vernacular, offered only when alone with his companions; and to his credit, being thought something of a tragically beautiful dullard by the locals means they'll say just about anything in front of him.

Being not much one for making friends easily anyway, it's for the best that he's gone relatively unbothered for this long. It also leaves him fully aware of the slight tension at the corners of Bastien's eyes as he raps on the table, and it's in the guise of cracking his neck that Benedict angles his head to catch a glimpse at the newcomers.
There's nothing to prove his resulting wince isn't just from the travel aches.

[prelest]

Nina, sitting beside Bastien, catches the rap of careful careful careful. Her eyes flick up to Benedict's face, and then over to the newcomers.

They've heard what Vel said. The one in front has, at least; Nina can tell by the way his eyes focus on the lad, and the way his muscles tense up, and the way his heartbeat increases. So, doubly bad news: not only has he heard, but he's also the sort of true believer whose pulse would quicken just because some poor kid off in the countryside dared to voice his dissatisfaction.

The man in the lead doesn't say anything about it, though. Maybe - maybe - that means that he's just a quick-tempered guy who recognizes that his emotional reactions shouldn't dictate his actions, and he's going to leave these poor people alone. Wouldn't that be nice? But Nina suspects that it is, rather, that he's biding his time.

The three of them go over to sit, as Silla bustles over to take care of them. Then the three of them talk quietly, and Nina can sense growing anger from the other man of the group - though the third, a woman with wildly curly hair, seems to remain calm. Nina curls her finger to indicate in bard-sign, enemy, and two men, and then cuts her eyes over at the group.

[katabasis]

Stood out there in the bitter cold, adjusting the wrist of a thick leather glove, when she exits the tent, Flint appears untroubled by the wait save for the bite of the weather that comes with it. Indeed, he cuts a morbid figure there in the wind touched torchlight in his dark coat, and dark gloves, and the black wrap he's donned to ward the cold away from his bare scalp.

"Derrica," is, strictly, a greeting. Though the illustrative jerk of his temple and the slant of his shoulder suggests she may as well fall into step with him. They're not staying here.

Four strides from the sick tent, he says, "I have a pair of camels waiting for us near the Riftwatch tents."

[tender]

"I'll need my stave."

Is a passing caution. Yes, she falls in alongside him, drawing one of her scarves up over her head. Her work in the tent can wait; she is not the only healer, even if the Exalted March seems to prefer it's mages at arm's length, if not farther.

Still, she has not detected urgency. Only the Commander's habitual approach to a task, unflinchingly direct in its execution. It takes her only a moment to retrieve her staff, return to him alongside the two chosen camels.

With the Commander's hand up, Derrica ascends into the saddle, weathering the jerking motion of the camel's rise to its feet. The camels in question trumpet their complaint through the process, a cacophony which ebbs as they are directed out of the relative shelter of the camp at this late hour. By the time they are past the Riftwatch tents, their mounts have lapsed into silence.

And Derrica waits, for the moment, looking across to him as he directs their trajectory. He'll make his point in time, she reasons. Perhaps before they reach their destination.