Chapter 1 - Griffon Wing Keep

Maxwell was having mixed feelings about being back at Griffin Keep having served here in the Inquisition has the supply sargent. On one hand he enjoyed the time he served in the Inquisition but on another he was really enjoying the life he started when he left after it was decided that the Inquisition was to end. Having joined up with a somewhat successful mercenarie company, he started to rebuild the life he had before he joined the Inquisition. Even though he had started this new life he couldn't help returning when he got word of something not right in the area.

A mist of golden sand rolls up and over the shifting ground around Saara's feet. Just as the heat of the desert sun beats down upon the stone-grey skin of her back, so do her sandals pound into the dust. For so long, the regular thud-thud of her step has been the only sound in this barren expanse. Now however, as the sun begins to settle into the horizon, the sounds of military men and those in their charge carry across the golden dune to the Qunari's ears. Cresting a steep rise with her hands and feet, a splendid sight greets her weary eyes. A great and mighty fortress of sun-baked stone and metal pierces the solitude and the sand. From her height atop the dune (and the considerable length of her legs) she spies hundreds of colourful specks milling around atop the ramparts and inside the courtyards.

Saara produces a scrap of yellowed and weathered parchment from her pocket. On it is a notice, clearly taken from a board of the type found in backwater hamlets and farming villages. "To all able-bodied and soldiering-types. Strong men and women needed for mercenary work and contracting." she reads as if for the hundredth time. "Destination: Griffon-Wing Keep in the Western Approach. Inquire with Knight-Captain Rylen." Her tone hardly mimics the enthusiastic spirit of the notice, but it has a hint of anticipation, and a stronger sense of relief. "Better hope they're still hiring."

Dusting herself off after descending the dune, the Qunari makes her way toward the main gate. Asking the gate guard for directions to this 'Rylen' and receiving the curt, gruff answer customary from all gate guards, she strides inside. She comes to stop at the door of the main hall. Trying to open it gently, but giving it a push tantamount to the shunt of a battering ram, she crouches through the doorway, her horns scraping the arch as she enters.

Saara stands arms-crossed just inside the doorway almost to its height. The rough lines of muscles wend their way across her steely skin, catching the pleasantly dim light of the hall. A tangle of chalk-white hair is draped between and over her coarse and cragged horns. Grey-black leather and bands of red fabric and rope make up a traditional garment in the style of the Qun - exotic here, but familiar to its wearer. The top winds its way around her chest and shoulders, leaving her midsection exposed but allowing for flexibility in her arms and torso. Short greaves of leather fastened with steel studs and buckles comprise the lower half, along with hobnailed leather sandals with thick, boiled soles to support the considerable weight above. Well worn bandages wrap around her wrists and the backs of her hands. An enormous blade slung on her back gleams in the light. Anyone else in her situation might look like a barbarian, but it is all carried off with an air of grace and martial poise. Not enough to get by in Orlais, but this is not Orlais.

"Knight-Captain Rylen, I presume," she greets him politely. "My name is Saara. I heard you were in need of blades and hands to swing them."

Antoine de Mournier—former Lord of the Lake Celestine Houses, fifth cousin, thrice removed of Emperor Gaspard de Chalons, and one-time paramour to Duke Cyril de Montfort—stands miserably in the Main Hall. It's his third night here at Griffin Wing Keep, the type of place that passes for civilization in a misbegotten pit like the Western Approach. He's loathe to call this region part of Orlais, even if the maps say otherwise. There are no cultures here, no art or fine wine—just desert, and the wretched creatures who call it their home.

Though, Antoine supposes, he is one of those wretched creatures now. He needs to escape the Game, and the West remains blissfully free of those who seek to play it. There are no masks here but his own. It almost makes this darkspawn-infested hell bearable.

"My lord?" The voice pulls him out of his introspection.

"Hm, yes, dear?" He glances up at the young woman in front of him. She's an elf, apprenticed to the local merchant; pretty, even with the ears.

"You never finished your story. About the Duke of Lydes?"

"Oh! Well, there's not much more to say. After the hog was dead, Remache apologized to the Revered Mother and walked away with the mud still on his mask!" He laughs the well-practiced laugh of someone born into the Game. "I was never invited back to his estate. Not that it mattered much, of course. My cousin Gaspard—Emperor Gaspard, that is—ended up killing him during the war. Nasty business. They say there was nothing left of his face." The elf gasps in shock.

Smirking, Antoine takes another sip of his lukewarm wine. It's shit, but he drinks anyway, desperate for a taste of home. With his other hand he wicks sweat off of his large mustache, speckled with grains of sand and dust. The torchlight dances across his face, shimmering as it reaches the silver inlay of his porcelain half-mask. He is, objectively, the best-dressed person in the entire keep. Even with his sun-bleached silks and battered felt hat, he carries himself with air of elegance...and arrogance. For the nobility of Orlais, the two are often one and the same.

Kelsie sits unobtrusively at the corner of one of the long dinner tables that stretch the width of the hall. She picks at her food, then blows a lock of bright red hair out of her face. Watching the crowd, she looks for any signs of home, the certain cut of clothes or trace of accents. Home. Has it really been ten years? Someone must be heading back to Ferelden. I just need to convince them to bring me along. Pushing her plate aside, she stands and starts to mingle, hoping to find a group heading East.

"I hate sand."

Thinks the merchant-woman to herself, as her feet slide haphazardly down the latest dune in the area. She wasn't even sure why - or how, for that matter - she was here. She recalled, several days ago, she had asked where a good place to restock on wares might be, and to offload some of her own. The kindly traveler she had proposed this question to had said that heading west would be a good idea (At least, that was the gist of it).

The question now was whether or not this was too far west. Or maybe not west enough? That said, this area was almost criminally flat, and she couldn't make out any signs of civilization in the distance. Where had she gotten turned around this time? Was she even going west? It wouldn't surprise her. As per her usual luck (And ineptitude), Carmen had been traversing undergrowth and marsh, then rock and mountain, and then suddenly, before she knew it, stone had given way to sand.

Her bag was weighing on her back, and despite her Rivaini heritage, the sun was beginning to get to her. And just as she let out a sigh of desperation at her most whimsical misfortune, she opened her eyes to see a stark change in scenery - An imposing fortress, carved into the cliffside, seemingly active. A steady stream of comers and goers seemed to be filtering through the gates, and Carmen's eyes lit up. Finally!

Hurrying inside, introducing herself to the guards, the merchant made a beeline for the nearest spot of shade that had decent footfall. She had a few odds and ends she could pawn off cheap, and hopefully barter for some new wares.

Picking up here, with everyone in the greathall...

Rylen takes in Saara's entrance, somewhat taken aback by the tall Qunari woman, but not alarmed. "Indeed, Saara. I thank you for answering the call. You can see that few have come. I'm afraid that I can't - "

The door opens again, and a Rivaini woman (Carmen) hurries in. Rylen looks over at the Orlaisian carousing against the wall, as if expecting something.

Before anyone can move, the doors burst open on Carmen's heels. A guard comes in propping a bedraggled commoner on his shoulder. "Sir, dire news."

Rylen steps forward and the commoner bows, which causes the Knight-Captain to frown slightly. "Speak man, you're not from the Keep. What had you out on a day like this?"

The man clutches his vest lapel, and chews his words for a moment. "It's me wife, lord. She attacked me."

Rylen examines the man head to toe. "You'll pardon my saying so, but doesn't look like she did a good job of it.?

The man stares wide-eyed. "What? No, you don't see. We buried her three days before!"

The wind shrieks, the shutters banging loudly, and several of you can't help but start at the sound. The widower is no exception, and only the guard's assistance keep him from backing away.

"Kelsie." The former Templar turns his head, taking in the red headed woman. "What say you?"

Kelsie looks down, chewing her lip. She clears her throat, then addresses the Templar. "The dead rising is not unprecedented, though uncommon in these parts. Perhaps a Mortalasi is afoot?" She pauses, frowning slightly at Rylen, then looking to the widower. "I am sorry for your loss, sir. Did she seek you out, or were you visiting her grave when she rose?"

Rylen double takes, muttering. "Some barmaid, but I suppose you hear all sorts of fancy words under the barrel."

The commoner gapes at Kelsie, answering, "Yes'm. I was in the graveyard, laying a poem I'd penned. I was leaving when I heard this scrabbling. I turned and there she was, covered in dirt, in the clothes we buried her in. She died of fever, you see."

She bristles at Rylen’s words, spinning on her heel. "My apologies, Knight Captain. I thought you wanted my opinion, since you asked for it. Perhaps I was mistaken. Though if the dead are rising, perhaps you and yours should take care of it." She pointedly looks at his shield with the Templar insignia, then sits down with a huff, hands shaking slightly.

He clenches his teeth. "It would seem you are looking for a caravan east, miss. Look into this, find out what caused this incident, identify the culprit, and I'll pay your way myself." He sighs and straightens his doublet.

"Anyone who joins her will share the reward. The dead are an implaccable foe shouldn't be underestimated. Trust me."

The Qunari places one enormous hand on Rylen's shoulder. "For once, it seems," she muses, "work has come to me." She takes one long stride toward the widower, shaking the Knight-Captain as she swings her hand back to her side. She sinks heavily to one knee, bringing her her red-painted face level with the trembling man's. Putting on a stoic, respectful look, she addresses him, "Where was the attack?"

Antoine watches, eyebrow cocked behind his mask, as the scene plays out in front of him. He chuckles quietly at the commoner's words to the Qunari. He tosses his head back, drains what's left of his wine, and drops the goblet to the floor with a clatter, announcing his presence to the room at large.

"Maker's breath," he says with drunken swagger. "You people actually have villages out here? Surely there are quicker ways to die."

Finally speaking up from where he was in the corner, "I don't know about the rest of you but it might be a good idea to evacuate the villagers somewhere safe, namely here and it best done sooner than later. I for one am all for going now. Anyone else with me?"

Initially stunned by the sudden (And shocking) announcement from the local, Carmen processed for a moment that people lived here. Presumably voluntarily, on a permanent basis. She remained stuck in that thought for a while, until a new voice chimed in from the corner. She looked at the speaker, then sighed. "I can lend a hand." She announced. Her father had always said that a bleeding heart was the bane of a merchant, but he'd still never managed to shake it, and she'd inherited it as a result. "I'm not the best in a fight, but I have a way with people. I'll help evacuate them, if that's the plan."

Catching the new woman speaking out of the corner of her eye, Saara rises to her feet. She casts her eyes over her briefly as she begins to march towards her. She looked to her like a merchant-type, an able negotiator and perhaps the only one for leagues around in a place such as this. The cast of her skin and hair was familiar to the Qunari - distinctly Rivaini. She had had the pleasure of visiting in times past. "Such skills are always useful, as is your willingness to apply them." A sting of remorse pinched her as she was reminded of the teachings of the Qun. "It is necessary for different talents to serve the whole. That said, I believe I could lend my blade if it comes to that."

Kelsie stands and walks towards the group. "Excellent. It is always good to have safety in numbers, though the weather may make for our fiercest adversary at the moment." She gives a curt nod to each individual. "I can lead us to the village. Shall we?" Without waiting for reply, she turns and exits the hall, stopping briefly in front of Rylen, giving a small curtsy. "Hopefully we shall return with good news soon, Knight Captain."

Heroically, if recklessly choosing to leave at night, Knight-Captain Rylen thanks each of you, and loads you up with several days of non-perishable food and wine. He explains that the well water requires boiling before use because of the bodies that had been thrown into it, so wine is better for travelling.

Like any good commander, he checks each of your loads before you leave. He tightens Kelsie's straps a little too roughly, and she sees in his eyes all the mistrust she expects. Rylen speaks briefly with Kelsie, confirming she knows the way - you should be there by dawn, longer if you make a wrong turn.

The keep's gates open, and a blast of sand stings your eyes. Your lantern, hooded against the wind, gives scant light, and you exit into the wilderness.

The day's heat has long passed, and tears run freely from your straining eyes as you follow the lantern. Your tongue feels coated in the acidic sand.

GM prompt: Pausing here to give you a chance to roleplay the journey.

There had been a vain hope for Saara that she wouldn't be back out in the treacherous sands quite so soon, even if it was what she had come here for. She might have been more comfortable now that the sun and its blistering heat had settled into its rest below the horizon, had it not been replaced by a cutting wind and bone-chilling cold. To say nothing of the hail of daggers carried on the air, blasting her skin as dry as the landscape. A far cry from the humidity of Par Vollen, she reminisces bitterly. In the feeble and dusty beams of the lanterns she can just about make out the shapes of the Rivaini, the Orlesian, the mercenary and the redhead. "When you said you could lead us there," she bellows through the cacophonous gale to the latter, spluttering out a mouthful of sand. "I hope you have a good nose because eyes are out of the picture."

Antoine trudged miserably through the dunes, his weathered hat pulled low to keep the sand from his eyes. He squinted at the motley group around him, taking in the oddities. The mercenary was so painfully Fereldan, he practically smelled of wet dog. The Rivaini seemed as out of place as him, but the crossbow she carried told him she could take care of herself. The Qunari was...well. She didn't need that blade on her back to be dangerous. It was the girl, the redhead, that worried him. She wore no armor, and that staff on her back...

"Excu-" Shit, sand in his mouth. Ugh. He spat several times and started again. "Excuse me! Girl! The one leading us through a sandstorm! Are you a mage?"

Kelsie stopped, holding a scarf against her face in a feeble attempt to block the sand. She turned around, bright red hair whirling around her in the storm. She looked briefly at Saara, then Antoine, her eyes watering. "I am a mage, so if any of you wish to turn back, now is the time. I’ll understand." She looks down, scuffing the sand with her toe. "I live nearby, so I can get us to the village." Coughing, she pulls the scarf tighter. " We may wish to wait for the storm to die down."

Carmen's head raises a little as she hears the noble express his concern, and the mage confirm it. As far as the merchant went, said mage had given her no reason not to trust her. The Orlesian, however, seemed to be clinging to old blood. Sensing tension and wishing to sever it before it became uncontrolled, especially in a place like this, Carmen placed a hand on Antoine's shoulder before he could respond to Kelsie.

"Bit late for that concern, your lordship." She said, with what she could muster of a smile in this storm. "Sure, you can turn back if you reckon you can navigate this sandstorm, but right now, I think it's safer if we stick with her. That way, we can get to where we're going, then get back with as little trouble as possible, right? She's not even doing anything magical right now, far as I can tell, so I don't think any of us need to worry about anyone spontaneously combusting into anything." She released his shoulder and kept walking.

Antoine stared down at the old man's sand-caked form. With one deft movement, he snatched Maxwell's discarded wineskin from the floor and finished off the dregs. Wiping the liquid from his mustache, he turned to face his companions.

"Bit rude of him not to offer the bed to us, eh? No matter. Now that we are out of that infernal storm, perhaps we should get to know each other. If we are to face the dead, we should at least exchange names." He gave a pointed look at the Qunari. "Those of us who have them, anyway. Allow me to go first. My name is Lord Antoine de Mournier, of the Lake Celestine houses. Perhaps you've heard of my cousin, Gaspard de Chalons?"

Maxwell gives a snort and jerks awake at the sound of talking. Grabbing for his wineskin he s disappointed to find it lying empty on the floor. Cursing to himself he sits on the bed and waits for the storm to pass. Responding to Antonia's question, Never heard of him. Is that supposed to be someone important? Never mind, I don't really care unless they can help us with are current situation. Though I'm not sure how knowing each other's name will help us face the dead but give us something to put on a tombstone but if you must have one you can call me Maxwell Shadecrest.

Carmen is about to suggest turning back to look for Maxwell when he stumbles into view. The Rivaini cocks a brow as the noble among them snatches his wineskin and downs the last of it, but she says nothing on the matter. Instead, she cracks a smile, glad to be out of the buffeting sands, and introduces herself with a flourishing bow. "I am Carmen Palomo, of Rivain. Nothing much but a simple merchant, mind, but I can't say I don't enjoy it."

"Good morrow to you Jonas. My companions and I heard a tale of some troubles in your cemetery and wish to lend our aid."
She gestures to the old farmer. "This gentleman arrived at the nearby keep yesterday where we were meeting and asked for help dealing with some newly risen village folk." Frowning, she looks around, then back at Jonas. "It seems at peace here though."

"Can you tell us a little more on what this something is, we may be able to help."

"Jonas?" Antoine said, astonished. "From the Lady Cocteau's spring hunt? Good to see you again, my friend!"

He strode forward and clapped the man on the shoulder. "You have my word, sir, that I will do everything in my power to defend you." Antoine paused, smirking beneath his mask. "A village is besieged by the dead at night. How very...Ferelden."

OOC: I'm using the "Bon Mot" stunt.