Over the river and through the woods (OPEN)
Characters: Zevran and anyone else! (He's friendly and doesn't bite unless it's specifically requested.)
Setting/Location: Caravan balcony
Date & Time: Day 4, very early morning
Warnings: None, shockingly
Summary: After Cid Amon's little announcement, there's a great deal to think about--and do, presumably.
As helpful as it had been the past few days traveling via ogre--and this was something the Wardens back in Ferelden would have to consider as a possibility for speedier transport in the future; it was so much easier on the legs and feet, not to mention it allowed one to avoid all the mud!--there were a few drawbacks; the first being the occasional, overpowering stench, the source of which Zevran tried very hard not to think about, and the second being the lack of bridges that were ogre-sized. This was especially difficult when they came upon a river that was perhaps even larger than ogre-sized. To assume that they were all about to get very wet seemed the best and most practical course, and Zevran had already wrapped his good boots and a few of his nicer things--his daggers and different ingredients for potions, for example, which needed to be kept dry in order to maintain their potency--in a tarp he'd found in the kitchen.
There was nothing more depressing while traveling through unfamiliar and potentially deadly territory than squelching boots and soggy deathroot.
Well; no. There were a few things. But since there were no Mabari nor any belching dwarves on the caravan as of yet, those discomforts that remained could be easily taken care of. Zevran's bed would eventually need to air dry, but if the entire caravan capsized, then he supposed the bed itself would be the least of his worries. He'd slept in more uncomfortable places before, besides.
What intrigued him--he would not go so far as to say it plagued him, but it definitely raised more than a few concerns--was the matter of the missing caravanites. (Would that be what they were called?) Whoever they were, there appeared to be an epidemic; the halls were far quieter now, as were the devices known as the Junogams. Where there had once been a cacophony of different voices--all, it seemed, attempting to speak at once--there was now an eerie, malingering silence. Missing people, the Way-Warrant had said, immediately following it with a general not my fault, which in Zevran's experience always indicated guilt of some kind. If, as Morrigan had suggested, the hapless fools had been fed to the ogre in order to keep him energetic for the duration of the trip, well then...
Zevran had to hope its favorite flavors did not include sharp ears and tough, sun-browned skin.
All these were heavy topics to consider, and while Zevran was not averse to thinking in general--on the contrary, he preferred to do it as often as possible; it kept the mind limber, after all--he was no longer accustomed to doing such thinking alone. By no means was he the sort to position himself as a leader; yet no leader had stepped forward, at least not one with a shadowy enough moral code to accept Zevran as an agent. So, it was...difficult.
He found that some fresh air helped, as did a view of the river. As he'd expected, it was indeed very wide, and even from this distance, appeared quite deep.
"No," he murmured, talking to himself, "it can never be easy, can it?"
Setting/Location: Caravan balcony
Date & Time: Day 4, very early morning
Warnings: None, shockingly
Summary: After Cid Amon's little announcement, there's a great deal to think about--and do, presumably.
As helpful as it had been the past few days traveling via ogre--and this was something the Wardens back in Ferelden would have to consider as a possibility for speedier transport in the future; it was so much easier on the legs and feet, not to mention it allowed one to avoid all the mud!--there were a few drawbacks; the first being the occasional, overpowering stench, the source of which Zevran tried very hard not to think about, and the second being the lack of bridges that were ogre-sized. This was especially difficult when they came upon a river that was perhaps even larger than ogre-sized. To assume that they were all about to get very wet seemed the best and most practical course, and Zevran had already wrapped his good boots and a few of his nicer things--his daggers and different ingredients for potions, for example, which needed to be kept dry in order to maintain their potency--in a tarp he'd found in the kitchen.
There was nothing more depressing while traveling through unfamiliar and potentially deadly territory than squelching boots and soggy deathroot.
Well; no. There were a few things. But since there were no Mabari nor any belching dwarves on the caravan as of yet, those discomforts that remained could be easily taken care of. Zevran's bed would eventually need to air dry, but if the entire caravan capsized, then he supposed the bed itself would be the least of his worries. He'd slept in more uncomfortable places before, besides.
What intrigued him--he would not go so far as to say it plagued him, but it definitely raised more than a few concerns--was the matter of the missing caravanites. (Would that be what they were called?) Whoever they were, there appeared to be an epidemic; the halls were far quieter now, as were the devices known as the Junogams. Where there had once been a cacophony of different voices--all, it seemed, attempting to speak at once--there was now an eerie, malingering silence. Missing people, the Way-Warrant had said, immediately following it with a general not my fault, which in Zevran's experience always indicated guilt of some kind. If, as Morrigan had suggested, the hapless fools had been fed to the ogre in order to keep him energetic for the duration of the trip, well then...
Zevran had to hope its favorite flavors did not include sharp ears and tough, sun-browned skin.
All these were heavy topics to consider, and while Zevran was not averse to thinking in general--on the contrary, he preferred to do it as often as possible; it kept the mind limber, after all--he was no longer accustomed to doing such thinking alone. By no means was he the sort to position himself as a leader; yet no leader had stepped forward, at least not one with a shadowy enough moral code to accept Zevran as an agent. So, it was...difficult.
He found that some fresh air helped, as did a view of the river. As he'd expected, it was indeed very wide, and even from this distance, appeared quite deep.
"No," he murmured, talking to himself, "it can never be easy, can it?"