thenewways: Kira will trust you if she has to (a matter of trust)
[personal profile] thenewways
WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: The garden
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: OTA, with locked log for Watney
STATUS: open (OTA)

It's clear to nearly everybody (and that's despite everything that's come up to divert the attention of the group, particularly of late) that the change of seasons is upon them. Even though Nerys doesn't have any solid sense of Earth astronomy at all, and has no clue that autumn is nigh, she's not completely oblivious to the shift herself, even if the weather's been veering frantically over the course of the last month. Apparently staying firmly put in the 'cooling down' column isn't really how this works.

Either that or the observers roll the damn dice every day to see what the weather's going to be. Today it is absolutely frigid, to the point where Nerys had to pull out a couple of layers of sweater this morning just to steel herself up to the notion of working outside. She's wrapped her hands firmly as well, as much for the warmth as to protect them from her tools.

If there's anything that Nerys is good at, it's getting on with the business of surviving--while the village and the other finds intrigue her somewhat, they unsettle her even more. These days, the chill in the night air (and now the day too) means it's nearly harvest time, and if they don't start canning up what they've got right now, it's going to be a lean winter again. Not to mention that there are more people around to feed, and she has no intention of anyone starving on their watch.

It's not like the garden hasn't been through enough this year, the plants hanging on to their lives with a sheer tenacity that rivals the sentient beings of the village. Hell, rivals the damned foxes. The latter have, over the last few weeks, been making a mess out of what's still left to be harvested. Sure, using blood- and bone-meal for fertilizer probably attracts them, but that doesn't really account for the sheer maliciousness of what's been done--vegetables left in neat piles with a single large bite taken out of them, mounds of chewed up berries, holes dug in very precise locations. It's enough to piss a hungry Bajoran the hell off.

[kind sir, be civil, my company forsake - OTA
So that's why Nerys is out hoeing up potatoes on a freezing cold afternoon. If they can get these down into the cellar space at the inn, they'll last a few months, though not as long as if they could leave them in the ground a while yet. She's already cut an armload of late zucchini and squash without much incident, but word gets around both among the humanoid and vulpine populations, it would seem.

A pack of three foxes have spent the last ten minutes slinking up to and around the potato patch, circling Nerys in slowly narrowing concentric arcs. She could swear that they keep looking at her, with the kind of expression that indicates they want her to know they're looking. Despite herself (come on, the Cardassians have played this game with much higher stakes), the frustration's built up to the point of snapping in two. One fox tries to move a little too close, pushes the envelope, and Nerys finds herself snarling, brandishing the hoe like a pike at him.

"Get!" she shouts, voice cracking. "Damn it...all of you, get!"

The fox doesn't, though all of them freeze; instead, they seem to give her a look that asks her who exactly the animal is meant to be in this situation. It's not lost on Nerys, who bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Fuck, come on," she says, almost pleading. "We just want to eat."

The foxes are, unsurprisingly, unmoved.

[sly, bold Reynardine - for Mark]
The potatoes are in, or at least as many as Nerys dares to harvest right now today. Midday's long gone and it's not gotten much warmer, and all she can think of is frost on the vines. So, despite herself, she's kept on working, switching over to the remaining beans. The goal with these is to can them in the containers from one of the earlier feasts, cap them with beeswax, and call it a day, hoping it won't kill them all.

It seems like a worthwhile thing to try, at least.

Nerys' got a half a bag full already when she realizes there's a fox watching her from over by the wastewater tub. Five minutes later, it hasn't ventured much closer, so she's pretty sure it's just a scout. She makes a silent snarling face at it, before shifting up to her feet to ease the strain on her hamstrings for a second--and in the process, ends up snarling at Mark across the plot of beans. The color of her face after she figures that out probably rivals the turning leaves across the field.

[refs are to the British/Irish were-fox folk song 'Reynardine'; Rhiannon Giddens does it well.]
babyhunter: (Turning)
[personal profile] babyhunter
WHO: Clary Fray/Fairchild
WHERE: All Around 7i
WHEN: September 8th – 9th [Friday – Saturday]

Clary had sorted through Isabelle's closet and, mixed with what she found at the inn, she was now wearing a pair of tight black yoga leggings, well-worn boots and a black crop top. Her fiery red hair was back showing off the runes burned into her skin. She had her backpack with her and a borrowed pair of daggers from the inn. It was a little odd that weapons had been carelessly tossed into the storage area but Clary wasn't going to question it. At least, not until an axe murder showed up and the valley turned into a B-rated horror movie.

That would suck.

Clary wasn't looking for anything specific when she journeyed to the other side of the breach but on her list of stops was the peach orchard, the river and eventually the ocean. She had told Isabelle that she would be in the other village for a few days but she didn't want to stay away for too long. Knowing her luck, she'd somehow be trapped on the wrong side of the breach.

| September 8th |

Clary had been at the river when the mayhem began. She had a black fur cloaked laid out on a rock with a blank bit of paper in her lap. She had taken off her shoes and socks to feel the fur beneath her feet as she began to draw. Clary was planning to make a map of the new area but for now, she wanted to sketch in the relative quiet of the river.

Her pencil scratched against the page as she poured her thoughts onto the white canvas. She didn't notice the bright orange foxes as they stalked closer too absorbed in the world of her drawing. Soft scratching noises finally pulled her out of her thoughts.

Clary turned to see the bright orange creatures running off towards the town. She looked down at her things to find that her socks were gone. "You can't be serious?" She groaned as she ran, barefoot, after the fox. "What kind of creature steals socks!?" Everything in the village was limited except for socks. Of course, Clary didn't want to make the walk home without them and she hadn't thought to bring a spare. With the thought of foot pains in mind, she couldn't just let the sock disappear. This was somehow worse than the endless void beneath her bed.

"Come back here!" She cried as she ran after the fox.

Through the rest of the day, Clary could be found chasing two foxes, each one with a sock clamped tightly in its mouth. She cut paths all over town, through the park, passed the dried fountain, around the inn, and through the blacksmith.

| September 9th |

After retrieving her socks, Clary returned to her things by the riverside. She should have realized that there were more foxes. "You gotta be kidding." She exhaled as she watched a bundle of bright orange peek its head out of her backpack. A book was in its jaws with the words 'Don't Panic' written across the cover. "There is irony in there somewhere." Clary groaned as she ran towards her things.

The fox bolted back towards the town except that this time Clary packed up her backpack, taking everything with her before searching for the stupid fox. She should have just left it, except that the notebook it had stolen wasn't technically hers and it was partially filled with notes that she did not want to lose.

She searched high and low for the fox, only to end up back at the empty fountain. Clary slipped her backpack off her shoulders, looping a leg over it so that another creature wouldn't go through it without her noticing, and took a break.

"I am so done with this."

She exhaled, feeling her limbs tingle with exhaustion. Clary was used to running around but not like this. What she was experiencing now was a nightmare.

[ooc: Feel free to run into Clary at any point during any of these. She is missing two socks and a book. She's also super tired by the end of all of this. If you'd like to run into her after wards at the 6i inn, grumbling about stupid foxes and Japanese fox lore I can totally set something up with that too.]
wittyskepticism: ({ 074)
[personal profile] wittyskepticism
WHO: Astrid Hawke
WHERE: House 49
WHEN: during the plague stuff, backdated
OPEN TO: Fenris
WARNINGS: will update as needed. Likely talk of death to start.

Days have passed since Fenris fell sick, since his fever and hallucinations and whatever else began to manifest. Days since Hawke started to really worry for him. She's not a healer; she can't cure this. Even if she were a healer, her power would have been stripped from her and she wouldn't be of any use. If only she could find some decent elfroot here, she could make a potion or a poultice to help him. But she's got nothing but time and energy, both of which are fading into exhaustion.

She keeps a compress on his forehead and water by the table, but it never seems to be enough. If he's dying, she can't tell, but she might lose herself if he is.

The Champion of Kirkwall ― the woman who never broke in the face of a crisis, not even when her own lover turned out to have used her to help him destroy the Kirkwall Chantry and was responsible for the deaths of countless innocents in what was no more than a power play to force a war ― had long ago taken Fenris' hand in one of her own, her head and arms resting against what little space is left to her on the bed. He's asleep, she knows he is, but she can't find it in her to try to rest herself. Instead, she's let the mattress and sheets get wet, the only sign that she's let tears fall at all.

"Fenris," she croaks out after a while, her voice thick with worry and fear and pain. "Maker, please. Please let him survive. Let me wake up tomorrow to him as he always is. I miss his grumpy self already. It's endearing."

It's more than endearing, but that's too hard to admit. His grumpy self is comforting to her, the one constant in a sea of confusion and turmoil. He and his friendship are the two constant things she knows will stay with her, but this sickness of his has brought up her fear of losing everyone. Of forcing them away. Her life is like a trash fire. Eventually, she loses everything.


"Not Fenris. I can't lose him, too."
lastofthekellys: (rabbit and dandelion stew)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 15th August | Noon
NOTES: All sections are completely free for all! You can handwave your character helping out or thread it out, or just jump in to them eating. All characters are ICly invited, as they are every day. In light of the illness plot, feel free to use this post as an excuse for your characters to catch ill or spread the plague around.
STATUS: Open and ongoing!

Rain, hail, shine; blizzard, earthquake or lightning storm, the meals at the Inn have continued. People can, and do, wander in at breakfast and supper - as long as the stores are enough for three meals, anyway - but the main meal remains the one at midday. It's this meal which is the main event that Kate structures her day around, making sure volunteers arrive to help prepare, serve, and then clean; double-checking that there is enough food for all, that stores aren't too low and that fresh greens have been gathered. With the village chickens now producing eggs regularly there's a welcome addition of protein to the foodstuffs, and by now there are a number of experienced cooks in the village. At least, experienced in the ways of cooking communally and with what's on hand.

The main room of the Inn is swept, dusted; cutlery and bowls, plates are laid out on the sideboards in piles to be collected as people need. Everything is as it should be, even if some people - Kate included - are feeling a bit under the weather. But that's to be expected, isn't it? Everyone gets run down, has a day or two of feeling off colour. Certainly, it's nothing to worry about.

So come on in, help at the kitchen or pull up a chair at a table and enjoy some warm food and company while the outside confusion stays firmly outside.
wittyskepticism: ({ 028)
[personal profile] wittyskepticism
WHO: Hawke
WHERE: Dragon Age House + all over
WHEN: July 1st, a while after the earthquake
OPEN TO: ALL + closed starter for Fenris
WARNINGS: None for now, will update if needed

Natasha had wanted to stay for a while to look over some of those papers. What Hawke could gleam from them didn't make much sense, but Natasha seemed to think it was worth looking through just so they wouldn't lose anything. That made sense, given that the first papers they tried to take out of the pod disintegrated. So she did her best to look over a few of them, too, though her memory wasn't the best for things like this. Besides, Natasha was also right in that this scary metal thing would probably survive better than they would if the cave system fell apart around them.

What that would do to everything inside they couldn't say, but both of the women seemed more willing to take their chances here than outside.

Everything changes when Hawke finally steps outside to see the damage. Maybe those tremors they were feeling were worse than they'd thought. She pauses for a time just to take it in and for a moment, for one long moment, it's like standing on the edge of Kirkwall after that last talk with the Arishok. After Isabela had run off with the relic, after Hawke and Aveline had failed to talk down the Arishok and the order to attack Kirkwall came. It's like the final confrontation with Meredith. Just in that long, terrifying moment, Hawke feels the fear all over again, briefly paralyzed with the worry that the city, the town, might be gone for good or that all of the people might not survive. That her friends, her sister, might pay in blood for something she'd done.

It doesn't last and she snaps out of her thoughts, her gaze drawn immediately in the direction of her claimed house. "Fenris." Not that he can't take care of himself, but he's the one remaining piece of her life in Thedas. The most important part of her life here. "I'm going to help people," she tells Natasha, "but first I have to find Fenris."

And then she's off, tearing across the ground as quickly as she can. "Fenris!" she yells as she nears the house, praying to a Maker that might not be capable of listening that he's all right. "Fenris!"

Once she's sure that Fenris is okay and the house will survive, Hawke will take to the streets as she always does. A crisis is always a reason to be out and about. Hawke has never shied away from helping people in need and now is no different. If someone needs help getting somewhere or finding someone or getting dug out of rubble, she's there and she will help. It makes her miss her family mabari, though. Cailan would be vital in helping her sniff out people trapped or injured. But all she has is herself right now; that's always been good enough in Kirkwall, so she's determined to make it enough here.

"Are you all right?" she always asks whenever she runs into someone else out here. "Do you need anything? Are you looking for someone?"

In its own way, those simple questions are a cry, a plea, for the one thing Hawke has always wanted in her life: Let me help you.
zomboligist: (oookay)
[personal profile] zomboligist
WHO: Ravi Chakrabarti
WHERE: Inn, near the Kitchen
WHEN: June 3rd
OPEN TO: All! Mingle post!

There's another one of those strange boxes sitting on the porch of their home when Ravi gets up to another scorching, awful day. He's not sure what switch they hit to get this sort of weather, but he wants them to take it back, seeing as he's been sweating so much that he has to do laundry practically every day to cope with the ridiculousness of it. He can't go shirtless because he has absolutely no will to show everyone the out of shape disappointment that it his torso.

He bends to pick up the box and bring it inside, but hisses when his fingers contact something frosty cold at the bottom of the box. Opening it in a hurry, his eyes widen and he tugs the box to his chest as best as he can, taking off in a completely ungraceful run, heading straight for the inn and shouting as he goes. "Ice cream!" he says, like the world's skeeviest ice cream truck on legs, luring children in after him. "Ice cream, there's ice cream, it's going to melt," he warns, because there are six tubs of it, but he fears that in this heat, it's not going to last very long at all. Scientifically, he knows that it's just going to be calories that generate heat, but science can go take a backseat.

He unloads the toppings and the various six flavours (ranging from vanilla to chocolate, cookie dough, mint chocolate chip, butter pecan, and even a treasured cherry garcia), the sprinkles and peanuts going with the caramel and hot fudge sauces. He could weep because there are even serving spades, bowls, and spoons. He knows he ought to be wary about food after the whole chocolate poisoning incident (if it really was the chocolate), but it's just so hot and he's just so hungry.

He'll chance it, because if he doesn't, he just gets some delicious flavoured ice cream soup soon.
primals: (06)
[personal profile] primals
WHO: Corsina Surana
WHERE: The fountain park, the inn
WHEN: May 21st
OPEN TO: Corsina's arrival is locked to Hawke, and I'm taking up to five threads for the OTA portion at the inn.
WARNINGS: N/A, will update if needed.

the fountain; locked to Astrid Hawke

The first thing Corsina is conscious of is that she can't breathe. Her lungs feel on fire, burning pain and a tightness in her chest like — like drowning, and the second thing she realizes is the reason her limbs feel slow and heavy: she's in water, although she can't for the life of her recall how or why. Among the things Corsina learned at the Circle and with the Wardens, swimming wasn't really one of them — but she can tread water a little, and her arms and legs work just enough to propel her to the surface.

She breaks through the water with a gasp, and probably would have sunk right back below the surface if not for the instinctual grab at something that turns out — when she can get her breath and her bearings enough to focus — to be the rim of a stone fountain. She clings onto it for a while, trying to get a sense of where she is. She's in what looks to be a courtyard of some sort with the fountain at its center, but there are buildings in the near distance; this must be a village of some sort, although not like anything she's ever seen.

Corsina pulls herself out of the fountain, waterlogged and still gasping for breath a little. She remembers where she was — in Denerim, although she was supposed to travel to Amaranthine in a few days, to take up possession of the fortress Vigil's Keep as a new central base for the Fereldan Grey Wardens. This — she doesn't know where this is, but it's nowhere near Denerim nor Amaranthine, of that much she is certain. She's dressed in strange clothes — trousers and shirt made of some plain blue-green fabric, and heavy brown boots with laces — and the heavy weight on her back turns out to be a pack, though she doesn't yet try to open it to see what's in it, overwhelmed just from the realization that she's nowhere near where she was and fighting not to panic at the idea that she must have been kidnapped somehow, there's no explanation for this that makes sense otherwise.

"Where in the Maker's name—" she manages, half of a breathless sentence as she sits right back down on the rim of the fountain.

She'll recover in a few minutes and get to finding someone who can tell her where she is and what's going on. She will. But right now — right now this is all a little bit much.

the inn; open

Corsina's had a few things explained to her now, and realized a few things about herself and why she feels so strange, but even so, there's still a sense that maybe this isn't really happening. Everything's fine; it has to be. This is a dream and she'll wake up, or someone will come and rescue her, or — something, because she's not processed the idea that being trapped here might be for good.

Hawke has been kind to her, but eventually she has to leave the house to take a walk, try to clear her head and get a sense of her surroundings. She's trying not to be intrusive and look into people's houses, but there's a large building that looks like it might be a common building of some kind.

Stranded in this strange village she might be, but she pushes open the door and — well, she knows a tavern when she sees one. There's a small sigh of relief — finally, something that makes some kind of sense — and she takes her time to look around, examining the tables and chairs, the fireplace, and then moving a bit further into the kitchen.

Corsina doesn't know what she was expecting, but she startles a little on seeing someone else in the kitchen. "I'm sorry," she says. "I... didn't realize there was anyone here."

It sounds silly as she says it; she's not quite blushing, but a rueful, self-deprecating smile pulls at her mouth. Everything about this entire situation is throwing her off. Warden-Commander she might be, but right now she feels more like the sheltered girl from the Circle that she used to be than anything else.
perseverances: (Default)
[personal profile] perseverances
WHO: Cullen Rutherford
WHERE: Fountain, around town
WHEN: May 11-13
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Nothing yet.
STATUS: Ongoing


There's something that tells him to open his eyes. Something deep within that tells him something is wrong. When isn't something wrong, his brain wants to argue, but the need to breathe takes over, and he opens his eyes. Underwater, unlike when he last remembers being back dry at Skyhold. Had he fallen asleep amid the festivities? Was this a dream? Something that he'll wake up from soon?

The need for breath is suddenly present, and Cullen pushes himself to the top with ease - something that makes him wonder, considering the armor he had been wearing and should be wearing - and breaks the waterline with a gasp for air. A quick swim to the edge, and he holds on for a minute, pushing hair from his face while he looks around. A fountain? He doesn't recognize this place. He pulls himself out, and once on dry land he leans forward to take a few more deep breaths before straightening. "What in the Maker's name...?"

He had to be dreaming.

[Around Town]

He's not sure what to make of it all.

It's not a dream, nor some haze of a nightmare from lyrium withdrawal. Quite real, he had been assured, and frankly, there was something deep within him that just felt wrong. That he didn't want to accept that somehow he had pulled here against his will and was, for lack of a better term, stuck.

Cullen's taken to observing as he walks around, trying to figure out this place. He's nothing like Leliana; he doesn't know how to lurk in the shadows like she can, he's too clunky and loud for that, despite him not having his armor. But he does know how to watch, how to figure things out tactically and strategically. Eyeing buildings and whatever defenses the town might or might not have.

And how strategic it might be to drink until he wakes up from this. Either might be good.
not_a_slave: (I do not brood)
[personal profile] not_a_slave
WHO: Fenris
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: May 8 - 10
WARNINGS: ... nothing yet

i. avanna, soporati | fountain park

It is cold in Ferelden. Cold, with the clamminess of skin-piercing damp, in a way Minrathous never was, a cold that seems to seep into the bones over the course of a night in camp. Not like this. This is cold and splash and the feeling of disorienting movement, as though he'd been thrown into the lake as he slept. Fenris' mouth opens involuntarily, and he swallows a mouthful of water as he forces himself upwards, the only thing he can focus on. He's not a strong swimmer, for what reason would a slave have to need the skill? He'd learned of necessity as he ran from the slavers, but he'd mostly learned to force his way through the water, rather than to swim, and he forces his way now, until one of his reaching arms breaks the surface into free air.

He coughs as he grabs onto the stone wall of what seems to be a fountain, grabs it and pulls, hauling his body out of the water. His feet are heavier than they should be, and when he glances down he sees boots instead of the stirrup heels of his armor leggings. That's not all that's wrong; his clothes are too light, fabric, not metal, and when he reaches around his back for the Blade of Mercy, he finds a backpack instead.

He should run.

That life was years ago, but it's never left him. Something is wrong. Something has broken into his camp, taken his blade and his armor, and an anger swells in him, stirs deep in his veins and under his skin.

"You will not take me!"

He reaches into the anger, reaches down under his skin for the power resting here, and finds ... nothing.

The sensation jolts, like a foot breaking through a rotten plank, and suddenly defiance seems dangerous in a way it hasn't in as long as he can remember.

ii. benefaris | Inn

It is some time later, after Hawke has explained to him, that Fenris reluctantly leaves the house to explore some of their surroundings. There is a mill, a river, a path that leads into a forest which would be easy to lose pursuers in.

He'd never lost the ability to read a location and see what he can use if he needs to flee. A coward's way of viewing the world, perhaps, but a practical one, for a fugitive slave. He follows the path away from the woods, past the mill and across the bridge, and finds himself in the midst of a small village, the houses built in a style completely unlike any he's seen in Tevinter or the Free Marches. The basic shape, yes, shares something with the buildings in Ferelden, but little enough that it all seems strange and unfamiliar.

It's perhaps incautious to follow the person ahead of him into the large, two-storey building, but it's the one place other than the mill which he can wager the purpose of. As he steps inside, it's with a certain sense of smugness that he looks around.

"Ah. This would be a tavern."

Very unlike the Hanged Man, but that is hardly a criticism.


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