open: something grabs ahold of me tightly

[faderifting]

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

Comments

[glandival]

[ 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?

[byblow]

[ 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.

[glandival]

[ 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.

[byblow]

[ 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?

[glandival]

[ 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.

[byblow]

[ 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?