faderift | open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

WHO: Inquisition Forces
WHAT: Inquisition forces cross the mountains into Orlais to deal with Emprise du Lion
WHEN: Wintermarch 25 onward
WHERE: EMPRISE DU LION
NOTES: This is a mingle-style log for the Inquisition camps, local tavern, and general/open Inquisition work, etc.

This time they hike down to the west, but the trip through the mountains is no easier. The snow is heaped up about the road where wagons have pushed it aside, stomped into slippery pack beneath the feet and hooves that have gone before. Of the main track it is ankle deep at best and in places it drifts, waist-deep on a tall man and enough to bury a dwarf who hasn't come prepared with snowshoes. Everywhere the wind howls, biting cold, and the sky hangs low, a pale flat grey that makes it difficult to judge distances. Those who know winter weather call it a snow sky, and near-daily squalls prove them right.

They set up camp in Sahrnia, across the broad expanse of frozen river that has trapped the villagers here upstream. Tents pop up in rows and in the shells of tumbled-down buildings, fires blazing and thawing the ground to mud. When the supply wagons roll in they re-open the local tavern, brightly lit with flaking paint on the walls that might once have been colorful and patterned tiles on the floor that seems to swim like an optical illusion after too many glasses of the cheap red wine that fills the cellars.

Even deadlier reds hold the hills: Red Templar sightings have been frequent and it is said they are operating in several locations in the region in significant force. Some of these men and women have become hulking, crystalline beasts. Many others are in the earlier stages of corruption: red-veined and -eyed, aggressive and superhumanly strong, but still visibly human and coherent if spoken to. Red lyrium is even easier to find, jutting out of the ground or cliffsides, filling caves-- the Tower of Bone, a fortress that has stood for centuries, now threatens to split from the inside out. The area's wildlife was none too friendly before, but now the wolves and bears have begun to be corrupted by the lyrium and many will attack on sight, without provocation. (The snofleurs that bumble harmlessly around the river seem unaffected.)

Everywhere there are ruins: broken bridges, crumbling colosseums, and the great hulking mass of Suledin's Keep tucked between the distant hills. Scouts reported that Red Templars hold it as well.

RIFTER ARRIVAL - SAHRNIA - THE HILLS - TOWER CAMP - A HANDY MAP

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ There's a small scuffle going on out the front of the tavern, the door kicked open and held in place despite the icy cold blowing inside. Indignant Orlesian curses begin to filter out along with shadows and the warm glow from within, and three silhouettes press out through the entrance. The two humans have worked out quickly that it was easier to simply heft Sabine up enough for her feet to barely skim the floor, in the same way that they worked out it was easier to manhandle her than to asking her to leave a third time.

She hisses in Orlesian curses, her boot toes scraping the floor while she twists between them like an enraged cat. Her hair had been bound back into a braid, but by now, some errant curls have gotten free, frizzed and fine.

As if legitimately concerned that she'd run back in, the humans heft and shove her out into the cold. A spike of laughter from indoors is cut off when the door slams, Sabine staggering a step and landing awkwardly amongst the snow and dirt, a gust of steam in an angry huff out. There's no effort to be made to get back in, however, reaching instead for the coat that was tossed out along with her. ]

[ Alistair is not suddenly there. He's a noisy walker, thick boots and heavy footfalls audible even when there isn't snow and ice to crunch beneath them, and too large to miss even in the dark unless he puts some effort into it, which he does not. But he is quickly there. One beaten leather glove is quickly held down to the woman on the ground. He isn't looking at her while he does it, though. He's looking into the tavern windows. Narrow eyes. Furious eyebrows. ]

You'd think they know better.

[ Than tossing out elves, he means, when all of the elves here are with the Inquisition. In addition to being ungrateful—they're here to help—it's stupid. He'll fight them.

Or call them names.

Something. ]

[ The woman stays on the ground for the length of time it takes her to throw her coat over her shoulders, a standard-issue thing provided by the Inquisition. It was made for a man, too big for her, but that's exactly how she prefers it, sleeves falling warmly past her knuckles, swamping her shoulders. She tips her head, then, after eyeballing his shoes and then his hand, using the help to pull herself up, and adjust the sit of the coat with a lurching shrug.

Sabine follows his gaze, her eyebrows less furious, but her face a little pink between the sporadic dotting of freckles. ]

They do know better, [ she admits, a little blandly, voice as huskily as Orlesian as many of this area. ] The last time I was here, men lost teeth.

[ Which, they deserved to. ]

[ He's slow to look away from the window. He'd kept his gaze trained on it while she saw to her coat and while she hoisted herself up, not unlike a hound with its eyes and ears and nose trained on a target, and it isn't until her words sink all the way in that he abandons that focus to look her in the face instead. Alistair is pink, too—only from the cold, air hanging when he exhales through his nose—and now smiling, though he doesn't abandon the narrowed eyes and lowered brows, only shifts them to something less angry and more gamely curious and skeptical. ]

No kidding, [ he says, prompting. ]

[ Sabine looks hard at him for a moment, before she presses her mouth into a line. Then, she pinches his sleeve, and tugs him over towards the window without particular concern as to whether she'll be noticed. Releasing him, she cups her hands over her eyes to see better, before pointing at the glass. ]

That one, [ she says, words steaming the frosty window pane ] at the corner of the bar. He touched me, and I hit him with my ale cup. And then the tall Rifter kicked another, and it went on like that.

[ She turns her back to the window, and reaches into the interior of her coat. ]

[ Alistair peers into the window beside her after she points, hands similarly cupped, and casually commits the face to memory. Not so he can go after the man, who has apparently already been gone after anyway, even if going after strangers on behalf of almost-strangers were Alistair's style; it's only nice to know who not to waste time being kind to in the street. ]

Good on you.

[ He's still looking through the window, pining for warmth he already knows that he isn't going to go inside to enjoy. Ugh, conscience, why. He misses the coat-reach. ]

I can get you a drink if you want.

[ It is in that moment that Sabine victoriously tugs free the liquor bottle, a modest prize, wide and flat, half full with some kind of brandy of rich amber. The slosh of liquid within probably gives her away, followed by a quick, wide-eyed look of guilt tossed to Alistair. (The hand in the cookie jar kind of guilt, not the conscience pangs kind of guilt.)

Ah, well. She gestures with it a little, rather than trying to reverse the moment. ]

The tavern and I, we're even now. You can--

[ Suddenly, the door is open, the tavern owner immediately cross at what seems like it might be a rallying. ] Do we have a problem here? [ he says. Orlesianly. 'Ere.

Sabine doesn't respond; she's gone almost like magic, turning on a heel to disappear off around the corner with a kick of snow under her heel. Which puts Alistair in the man's field of vision, more wary defense than aggression with troublesome elf on her way.

Out of sight, Sabine pauses to listen. ]

We--

[ He glances to his side, where Sabine is not. He could leave it alone, or--and here's the reason he didn't have any friends among the orphans and commoners at the abbey instead of only none among the nobility--he could half-consciously put on his best raised-by-an-Arl accent and glare. ]

--don't, at the moment, but we could develop one if your patrons don't learn to keep their hands to themselves. You might put up a sign. 'Don't touch the women if you value your teeth.' Then they've been warned. [ He looks back through the window. He should probably stop talking. ] Maybe illustrate it, for this crowd.

[ Hidden behind her corner, Sabine's eyebrows raise up, having mostly been hanging out to be entertained by waffly excuse before continuing her quick exit. Instead, she stays put and silent, hands gripping the little brandy bottle. Entertained, if differently than anticipated.

The tavern keeper, meanwhile, has no interest in starting a fight, having kicked her out to honest to Maker prevent one. He gives Alistair a flat look, grouses something that manages not to contain anything very derogatory, and closes the door in his face in an obvious gesture of unwelcome.

No one can have anything nice.

Sabine, who has uncapped the brandy by now to sniff it and ensure she didn't steal something terrible, calls out, wry; ] I can get you a drink.

[ He hasn't quite simmered down, at that point, still straight-shouldered and glaring at the shut door. Another second or two and he would have slumped, if it were quiet, and maybe mourned the warmth and liquor on his walk back to his tent, and maybe felt a little stupid for all of it.

It's not quiet. He turns sharp and startled in the voice's direction, pauses to try to remember what it is he actually said once he opened his mouth and if he should be embarrassed about any of it, and comes to the edge of the building to look at her.

There's a two-second delay before it occurs to him to lean one shoulder against the wall, casual-like. Maybe that ruins the effect. ]

Do many Orlesians bring their own bottles to taverns?

[ She drinks first as he settles, giving him a side-along look as she does so, wrinkling her nose at the strength of the contents, alcohol fumes tickling her nose. With only a medieval understanding of germs, she holds it out to him. ]

Non, but many elves steal. It is known.

[ Once the bottle is taken-- ]

A sign?

[ Alistair isn't sure if he's allowed to laugh. He's no expert on social dynamics, and he's learned the particulars of which jokes are okay for him to make and which are not in a very piecemeal fashion, with lessons communicated primarily through scowls and punches in the shoulder. He errs on the side of not allowed, now, but there's still a cut-off puff of air and a thin-lipped, only-half-suppressed grin.

He takes the bottle. ]

It's the best I could do on such short notice. If you want to help me come up with something better, I can go back tomorrow. [ He drinks, squinches one eye on the swallow, and steals another, quicker gulp before giving it back. ] I'm not trying to impress you, [ he says, reassuringly, in case she was concerned. ] I just like being mean to Orlesians.

[ Her hard-edged expectant stare, which is generally just what her face does-- well, softens isn't the right word. Flattens, maybe, allowing glibness to stand. She adjusts the sit of her coat on her shoulders and glances at him up and down once, taking back the bottle. At this last bit, she hesitates, on the verge of.

Who knows. Laughing, probably.

Before she firms her jaw, and gestures with the bottle. ]

It is good sport, being mean to Orlesians. So unlike Fereldans, who barely realise they are being insulted.

[ She bares her teeth. It's probably a smile. ]

No souci. I am not impressed easily.

[ Alistair is, as previously stated somewhere or other, not much of an actor, but he can do this face: vacant, mildly puzzled, as if he doesn't understand her accent or whatever she's said has flown over his head. Like he barely realizes he's being insulted. The only thing that might betray him is the immediate crinkling eye-corners when he abandons the blank look and turns to lean his back against the wall rather than his shoulder. ]

Right, [ he says, nodding, mock serious. ] Me either.

[ And yet. ]

What's your name?

[ He crinkles his eye-corners and she wrinkles her nose, slightly, as if nearly smiling unbidden at a human makes her face itch. Allergic reactions, and so on. Her nose is a bit pink, for sure, so maybe that's just factual. ]

Sabine, [ she says, appending no last name to that, on account of not having one. ]

You are [ she gestures to him, up and down, with the liquor bottle ] the Alistair. I did not know you were a defender of female dignity as well as all of Ferelden.

[ The Alistair, and his smile stretches tight-lipped and grim for a moment, like his name is moderately bad news he was expecting but still hates to have confirmed. It doesn't last very long, though. Sabine is pretty. The name. You know. He smiles for real. ]

I never actually cared about Ferelden. It's just that it's half women, you know, and darkspawn don't discriminate.

[ Or they do, actually, and in the worst ways. But those aren't details to share during introductions. Or ever, on the off chance he's stumbled upon the last person in Thedas not to have horrific nightmares about something or other. ]

Are you all right, though? Really?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

outside a tavern. closed to alistair.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject