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faderift2016-01-23 06:39 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2016-01-23 06:39 pm
Entry tags:
- ! open,
- { adelaide leblanc },
- { alayre sauveterre },
- { alistair },
- { anders },
- { araceli bonaventura },
- { asher hardie },
- { cade harimann },
- { cassandra pentaghast },
- { christine delacroix },
- { cullen rutherford },
- { dorian pavus },
- { ellana ashara },
- { galadriel },
- { garris vakrie },
- { iron bull },
- { isabela },
- { james norrington },
- { jamie mccrimmon },
- { kallian endris },
- { katniss everdeen },
- { korrin ataash },
- { lace harding },
- { leliana },
- { lexa },
- { maria hill },
- { martel },
- { mel"sparkleprincess"ys },
- { merrill },
- { nerva lecuyer },
- { sabine },
- { salvatore },
- { samwise gamgee },
- { varric tethras }
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.
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.
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Doing his best to steel his nerves, Alayre pulled back the flap of the tent as he enters. He doesn't dare don his Templar armor here at camp today. The last thing he wants is to be reminded of his follies. Alayre has yet to get his armor fixed ever since damn near dying on the battlefield. Instead, he's been donning his usual assort of travel clothes in the form of leather jerkins and elaborate tunics.
The ensemble he wears today is the latter adorned with silver etching along the high collar and the front of his white tunic. The sleeves are billowy and long with silver accents along the wrists. Alayre completes this charming look with a black cloak, matching leggings and tall black boots. He looks less like a Templar today and more like some Orlesian Chevalier instead. It's a bit fancy for an expedition but he honestly doesn't care.
"My thanks." He says to Salvatore with a small smile. "It was getting a tad chilly waiting out there." Alayre steps forward until he's close enough to offer the wooden tray to the mage.
"I don't have much in the way of gifts but shall you share a few cups of tea with me? It's still hot." The white porcelain teapot that sits within the middle of the matching china is still steaming.
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He tries to make his space, and himself, a little more presentable. The blankets he'd piled over himself for warmth are hastily tossed off and rolled up and placed in the corner. He pulls on a cloak instead. Nothing near as fine as what Alayre is wearing, but it's new and lined with fur, and a pale blue. The trader went on and on about how it brought out his eyes, so he felt obligated to purchase it...
"You don't have to bring me gifts every time we meet." Salvatore takes the tray and sets it on the flat chest he'd been using as a writing desk. "Sit where you like. The space is mine for the time being."
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This is merely the physical aspect of his wounds. The mental still lingers in the form of doubt and self-loathing but that unquenchable rage he once possessed has faded. If anything, the poor man seems more like his old self again minus the melancholy that has him.
"I realize I don't but considering the discussion we had, I...feel the need to do so." A faint sigh leaves Alayre as he settles down upon some rickety wooden chair he found amongst the clutter. It's a tad uncomfortable but it shall do.
He winces a little when some pain shot through his torso. Detlef is an highly experienced healer but time and rest still heals best. "Never mind all that, though. I mean to apologize for my harshness."
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Sal shakes his head and takes over the tea, setting out the cups and pouring. "What was all that about anyway? Is my lack of faith truly a matter of contention?" He hands Alayre his cup.
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"If it's not faith in a higher power that connects us, then what is it? This alliance consists of cowering mages, the downtrodden and a few too many cutthroats boldly spitting on Andraste's grave and yet--" Alayre pauses briefly to take another sip. "And yet this would be the army we'll present to Corypheus and claim victory over him?" The Templar tossed his head back with a humorousless chuckle.
"Not likely."
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He's about to take a sip from his mug when cowering mages slips by. He hardly hears the rest of Alayre's speech. The mug slams down, tea sloshes over the tray, his hands and sleeves. "I beg your pardon. Is that your honest opinion of us?"
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"No." He replies quietly. "Not entirely."
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Fuming, Sal shakes the tea from his fingers, red and stinging where it had been too hot, and takes the edge of his cloak to dry them. "If the downtrodden and the cut throats are willing to give their lives to stand with you, and die beside you, the least you can do is let them spit on a grave, no matter how sacred."
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"You're right." He admitted with a sigh. "It wasn't just us Templars who join the Inquisition." Alayre sipped his tea slowly.
"Who am I to judge in the first place?"
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"I'm not the kind of man to keep beating on the same dead horse repeatedly."
no subject