After resting up in Haven, my crew and I headed back to the Storm Coast, where we’d gone to meet Bull’s Chargers, to give it a proper inquisiting. It could be a nice place, with some stunning vistas, beaches and rock formations, and numerous caves and dwarven ruins to explore. But it doesn’t stop raining. Ever. Seriously, I went there several times over the course of my adventures and it was a torrential downpour every single time. Despite that, people do live there, most notably a group of warriors that call themselves the Blades of Hessarian. I just called them annoying, because first they killed the men the Inquisition had sent to see what the Blades were about and later they died by the wagonload as they kept attacking me on sight. Fortunately, I found a helpful note that let me know that, if I displayed the right medallion, they would not try to kill us on sight. So, I gathered the requisite supplies and had my men knock one up, then headed into the Hessarian compound to talk. And by talk, I mean challenge their leader to a trial-by-combat so I could take over the group. According to the Blades, in order to be the man you have to beat the man.
And right here on the Storm Coast, I’m the man. WOOOO!!
It turned out the Blades weren’t that bad, their code just said they had to follow their leader until someone could defeat him. And the last guy was an arsehole. The new guy is not. With the Blades on our side, wandering around the Storm Coast got a lot easier. There were more RaMOs everywhere, along with the usual tasks of finding campsites, clearing rifts, and collecting plants and ore. That last one has always bugged me, it seems there has to be a more efficient way of gathering essentials like iron and Elfroot for the Inquisition. One interesting encounter was a random insane mage we happened upon. He was fighting off two bears when we found him, but took it upon himself to fight us, as well. Turns out he was tougher than he looked and taking him down was no easy feat. Which means there was no real danger, it just took a while. When he went down, we found a glowing key on his body. Which was useful, because earlier, we’d found a house with a wooden door. Because it was locked, we had absolutely no way of penetrating it. The glowing key did the trick, however, and we discovered some quality gear in the mage’s basement. Along with a dark altar and a bunch of corpses. I’m glad we killed the crazy bastard. After that, it was time to make our way to our next destination, and hopefully out of the rain. Alas, I had no idea about the misery that was in store for us.
This right here, this is why mages can’t have nice things.
With great glowy-handed power comes great rift-destroying responsibility.
As a Dalish Elf and member of the Inquisition, I have traveled a great deal. The Free Marches, Ferelden, Orlais, all over. I tell you that not to brag, but to add some context and weight to the following statement: The Fallow Mire is, without doubt, the most unpleasant place I have ever been. A plague-ridden bog infested with undead, demons, and another group of blade-wielding people who wanted to kill me without ever having met me. Oh, and remember the “it’s always raining” complaint about the Storm Coast? Well, consider that to be outdone, because in the Fallow Mire there was always a thunderstorm banging away at the already miserable landscape. With all of the nice parts of Thedas that I’ve seen, I honestly have to ask: who got to a place that had or would earn the name “Fallow Mire” and decided to stay? What is the thought process there? “Yes, I know there are huge stretches of wonderful fields, forests, and mountains to settle down in, but I think this stinking swamp is the best option.”
Home sweet screw this place.
Not only was the Fallow Mire miserable in and of itself, there was nothing terribly interesting to do there. Kill demons, close Fade rifts and send a never-ending stream of walking corpses back into the muck they crawled out of. There weren’t even any RaMOs lying about! The reason I was there in the first place was the only semi-interesting thing in the whole area, but it was also utterly infuriating. Some of the Avvar, a tribe from the Frostback Mountains, had come down from their homes to screw with me. I’m not even joking about that. They heard about me and the whole Herald thing, and, because they worship their own mix of deities and nature spirits and ancestors instead of Andraste and the Maker, decided to have a god-measuring contest. So, one of their leaders kidnapped some members of the Inquisition to make me show up. That annoyed me to begin with, you don’t mess with my people, but he exacerbated things by wasting my time. Remember, the Avvar live in the Frostbacks. Which is where I live. This idiot, some pissant son of a chieftain looking to make his name over my dead body, who called himself the Hand of who gives a damn he’s dead now, decided it was a good idea to go in the opposite direction from me and lure me into a fight there. When he could’ve saved us both a lot of time and misery by just strolling into Haven, grabbing a guard, challenging me to a duel, and getting his face melted like everybody else, after which I would’ve been able to sleep in my own bed instead of tromping through the Fallow bloody Mire just for the privilege of ending this imbecile. I honestly don’t enjoy killing people, even monumental morons like this one, but gods, it was satisfying to set him on fire.
Nothing cures stupid like a heavy dose of fire and brimstone.
For future reference, if you want to fight me for whatever reason, just come to my home to ask me to fight. And, unless you want an intensely painful death, leave my people out of it, and definitely don’t make me travel halfway across Ferelden into a bog to fight you. Anyways, moving on before I get angry all over again, I rescued my soldiers, recruited the only reasonable Avvar there to the Inquisition, and gleefully left that place behind me. Now I just use it as a punishment assignment for Inquisitionites who annoy me.
