faderift | OPEN: Halamshiral

OPEN: Halamshiral

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: The Inquisition Does Orlais, Pt. 1: Masks, Charity, and Tension
WHEN: Solace 15 onward
WHERE: Halamshiral
NOTES: Please note that your character's conduct and actions in this log or in other private logs set in Orlais, if observable by the public, may influence local opinion of the Inquisition and/or the balance of power among Celene, Gaspard, and the elves.

It is a smaller force that the Inquisition sends to Halamshiral than has been sent in the past; not yet able to interfere directly in the civil war, and still attempting to determine what is happening in the Anderfels, the organization is moving in not as a military force but as a stabilizing one, with cautious cooperation from the Chantry and endorsements from several among the nobility who were suitably impressed by Madame de Fer's soiree in Skyhold, to assist with the local unrest while better assessing the political situation. What is known is that a leaderless and unstable Orlais is part of Corypheus' grand scheme. What is not known is… everything else.

I. THE ESTATE

Duc Hugues Pelletier is not himself in residence when the Inquisition arrives. He was here only yesterday, they will be told, but left on urgent business, leaving behind his welcome and best wishes for helping restore the Maker's peace to Orlais. (He fled on news of their approach, gossipy staff members will later reveal, overcome with nerves at the notion of residing under the same roof as the incomparable Seeker Pentaghast.)

The Inquisition has free use of the mansion--under the watchful eyes of the duke's house staff, who will step in to politely prevent any destruction of his property or excessive raiding of his wine cellar--with his library available as a work space for those who require desks, books, and quiet, and his study serving as a makeshift office for the Inquisition's highest ranking officers. The cook does his best to feed everyone. That still means porridge and stew for most (something he offers his apologies for, as well as his personal disdain, but with this number of mouths to feed it's a matter of practicality, surely you understand) but those who seem important or are particularly good at sucking up to him might be given something special.

Day use aside, there's not room in the building to house everyone. Only the high-ranking (which the duke's housekeeper interprets to mean leaders of the Inquisition, Orlesian nobles, and non-Fereldan nobles, in that order, and absolutely no non-humans) will be allowed guest rooms in the chateau itself, while the majority will still need to pitch tents on the expansive and well-manicured grounds to sleep in. But all are welcome in the chapel, the largest and most ornate wing of the house.

II. HIGH QUARTER

Dear Inquisition, imagine music--alive and market placey--and violins taking a break up in the air with non-threatening amblings and a wreath of tambourine just lightly jangled… Imagine the shuffle of slippers on well-kept cobblestones and the pleasant murmur of voices as servants negotiate prices for their masters, who stare opulent and bored stares over the wares spread out for their perusal and consideration. Deals are struck, coins exchange hands, wares are wrapped in crisp paper or bleach-white linen for transport, and taken away to their new homes.

Have you the coin to spend in this place? Then by all means: select a souvenir. Make sure you can actually pay, for the shopkeeps and stallhands do not take kindly to a deal broken, once it has been made. And do not even think about stealing. Looking is free, but hang around too long and someone might begin to get suspicious.

The polite thing to do is to wear a mask. A supply of simple ones is made available to the Inquisition, carved over one eye with the symbol--not enough for everyone to have one to keep as a souvenir, but plenty enough for anyone to borrow before venturing into the High Quarter.

It is inadvisable for elves or Qunari to wander the High Quarter alone, period, but particularly inadvisable for them to do so out of Inquisition armor or without human company, and orders to this effect will have been passed through the ranks. The Inquisition is not here to start any riots or revolutions, and prefers its agents intact and un-arrested. Should any venture there alone and in plainclothes despite this warning, they will find themselves at the very best the subject of points and stares and rude remarks, and denied service by any local merchants or taverns.

III. ELVEN DISTRICTS

Orlesian cities do not easily come by their reputation for opulence. At some point, streets must be cleaned, bricks must be brushed, marble must be buffed, and flowers must be tended. In fact, Comte Pierre has hinted that the Inquisition's generous offer of assistance might be of use in the elven district. Unique among major cities in Thedas, Halamshiral doesn't have an alienage--or, rather, most of the city is the alienage, populated by elves and elf-blooded humans who are kept out of the High Quarter rather than kept in their shabbier streets. There are taverns and shops and a market here, too--one with fewer silks and more bruises on the apples, but cheaper and kinder to those without rounded ears--and in many ways, in most places, it looks to provide a better and freer life for its inhabitants, who are not packed in quite so tightly or watched quite so constantly.

During the day, at least. There's still a curfew--one inapplicable to members of the Inquisition, if they're wearing their armor, but at night the streets empty save for the occasional dart of someone trying to make it home undetected by guards or Chevaliers. And at all hours there's an odd tension in the air, a combination of simmering resentment and pervasive defeat, the kind of feeling best encapsulated by quick, sullen glances up from an obediently bowed head.

If one needs evidence of the root of that tension, it isn't difficult to find. A large, unmissable area of the city, once the center of life there, has been burned down.

This is the area where the Inquisition's help is needed, according to Comte Pierre, who loves Halamshiral itself more than he cares for Celene, Gaspard, or the feelings of the local elves. It isn’t anything a lot of elbow grease can’t fix, but the state of these city streets is sorry indeed. Everything is streaked with ash that's been blown about and rained on but never cleaned. The few trees in the streets have been burnt black, and their bare limbs twist up toward the sky like desperate claws. The houses, the little market stall tucked into the corner of the main square--even the grass growing up between the cobblestones--everything has been burned. The bodies were collected, but you may still find a fingerbone or teeth knocked loose in the battle among the cobblestones or old rust-brown blood stains on wood. Gaunt windows stare down at you, watching your every move.

There are supplies waiting. But the work is mostly conducted alone. The elves, what little are still hanging around, keep to themselves as they pass by. Some may even look to resent the progress being made there, though they know better than to say why. The upstanding citizens of Halamshiral don’t seem inclined to come down this way, or even make casual use of the nearby alleyways.

A woman, selling worn steel scrap some streets over, is happy to tell you why, whether or not you ask her. The elves deserve what they got. They should have kept their heads down, just like everyone else. Even before the fire, she says, no one much wanted to hang around down there, on account of the crime. A notorious band of thieves were hidden among the elves of the alienage, a group of rough elves known for stealing anything from anybody. She’ll warn you to keep any valuables close while you’re working down there: “Poor souls need the help, but you can’t let yourself be robbed while you’re fixing their problems.”

It’s hard, perhaps, to imagine what she means. The destroyed blocks, as you work them, will be largely deserted. An eerie calm hangs over the place, almost as if the secluded wreck has become unmoored from the city proper and drifted away across a still and dead river.

IV. THE COUNTRYSIDE

All the wealth of Orlais can’t save them from some of the more common problems around these days. Even in the country, the tension of the city is palpable, like a current that runs through the air.

Of these tensions and worries, first and foremost are the rifts, a threat that plagues the outskirts of Hamalamadingdong far worse than the central spaces. Demons of varying strength can be found wandering and unless they are stopped, they will become a worse threat.

Whatever your political leanings, you have been asked to protect the people of Orlais. One small cluster of homes in particular has been complaining most bitterly about this threat. Worried and harried by demons, they have finally made themselves heard enough, and the Inquisition has dispatched aid. But as you arrive, you and your party will find the homes to be quiet. A little… too quiet.

The roar of a demon soon puts an end to that, and a chorus of screams follows.

Elsewhere, you may notice part of Orlais’ defensive problem: there are no brave young men to step in and fight off demons. In the High Quarter, a few callow young noblemen lounge around sipping from goblets of wine and laughing at their own jokes, but every able-bodied soldier who's not found some way out (or publicly refused to care, at their own risk) is presently occupied with the War of the Lions. Of those who remain, the young are very young and the old are very old.

Even among the gentle country gentlemen and their ladies, elves and Qunari will find themselves to be points of interest. No attacks are likely, but expect to weather gossip, whispered comments, and frank open stares. No one is foolish enough to turn down aid, but they can still be wary of these… others among them.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I. The Estate.

Pelletier was the only Orlesian Pel managed to get to talk to her at Vivienne's soirée. They hadn't made friends, or anything. He hadn't even seemed especially swayed by her. But he had listened. She had hoped to meet him again, see if she'd been memorable, but he is gone, and she is not permitted to sleep in his house. Well. Too bad, then.

She's not in the mansion much. The only time she's on the property at all is at night, when she returns, smelling of horse and heaving tiny relics (bits of broken things, really) that she wants to study later on.

II. High Quarter - Closed to Morrigan

Pel is distinctly uncomfortable with wearing a mask. It covers her vallaslin entirely, first of all, and second of all it's just uncomfortable. And she has to be accompanied by a human. Val Royeaux provided her with a perfect example of why, but it doesn't make it feel less demeaning. But Morrigan herself restores some feeling of dignity. Pel is wearing her best dress, which is still quite plain, but she doesn't look exactly like a wild thing today. Her silver hair is braided and pinned around her head--a deceptively lazy hairstyle that's practical and still looks nice. An enameled hair comb is tucked tastefully into the side.

She is peering over a selection of jewelry--earrings, specifically. One small hand goes to touch one of her ears.

"How much does it hurt to pierce your ears?"

III. Elven Districts

It's a marvel to walk these streets and wonder how different they used to be. This was once the reward for the elves' long walk. Pel hadn't known so much of it was still inhabited by elves. Most of her time here is spent cleaning up the area that was burned down, but she also tries talking with the locals and buying or trading wares. Some are fearful of the Dalish, some disdainful and some reverent. Almost none of them treat her like they would any other elf.

IV. The Countryside.

If Pel is not in the elven districts, she is generally riding her horse into the countryside to do some surveying. Ruins or old outskirts, sometimes even just riding to be out in the open air where her people once lived as their own nation. Run into her however you like.

Edited 2016-08-04 22:55 (UTC)

Unlike so many, Morrigan does not wear a mask. She did not in all her time by Celene's side and she does not know with the Inquisition; she has always thumbed their nose at their traditions yet did they not scurry to follow her when all the gowns were suddenly darker than they ever would have dared in the past? Her own gown is rather less elaborate than what she wore to the soiree, yet still elegant enough to not cause a scandal.

These people still know her as the arcane advisor after all, some small murmurs following in her wake.

"The lobe? Barely even a pinch. Any higher the ear is rather more solid." And because it's Morrigan, she shrugs lightly, lifting up a pair to examine better herself. "A needle heated then cleaned in alcohol, a cork on the other side to ensure you do not pierce too far by mistake? Many have it done when they are small. I had a Chasind girl pierce mine."

(Imagine if you will, Flemeth trying that shit.)

"How could you pierce too far? Aren't you meant to go through to the other side?"

The vendor titters behind her fan at the elf's ignorance. Pel lets it be. Plenty of better fights to fight. Plenty of people pierce their ears among the Dalish, but Pel never seriously considered it before. She's certainly not considering doing it here, wearing earrings purchased from the High Quarter. That wouldn't be possible. But maybe someone is selling something simpler and cheaper in the elven districts.

"The Chasind," two words in Morrigan's voice can cut through glass, through steel, through bone, the vendor turns the colour of sour milk under her stare that she holds as she continues, "use a very long needle. Twas not a simple needle a girl might use to stitch a gown for mine, but even so, I doubt you wish it going into your neck."

Even a small needle would sting. And it might not be clean - so close to the throat and who would wish to take the risk? Morrigan sets the pair in her hand down since she is able to make a statement somehow through those she favours and does not, and this vendor was rude so she will choose not to grant favour. The Game is a ridiculous thing, she hopes the war forces it to devour itself whole.

"The Chasind also stretch their lobes in places, that is far more permanent." If the vendor throws up, she wins.

So you don't stretch the ear out when going to pierce it. Makes sense, Pel supposes, due to not having a wonky hole in your ear when you're done.

"Would you pierce mine, when we get back to the estate?" She begins to move away from the jewelry stand, so she doesn't have to hear the vendor declare that she is unfit to purchase any earrings for knife-shaped ears.

The vendor, however, does not appear to be about to say anything of the sort, having gone rather grey at Morrigan's words.

Edited 2016-08-20 16:02 (UTC)

If Morrigan does miss the Wilds, she misses the rare times the Chasind would allow her close when they weren't afraid of bringing Flemeth's ire down upon their heads. They had such elaborate piercings, and she had never quite been brave enough as a girl to do what they had done. It makes her wonder too, if there are rifts there, if any will listen, or if they will be dismissed as easily as the Chasind had been in Lothering as they had told their tales of the Blight swallowing up their homes.

The request takes her aback for a moment, though she recovers well enough, nodding before she speaks. "Certainly, if that is what you wish." Inclining her head to move them away if only a little ways for some privacy. "Why now?"

They walk for a second or two of pensive silence before Pel answers, "I don't know."

She touches one earlobe, then tugs on it a little as if in frustration.

"Everybody wants everybody else dressing up and looking pretty. Appearances mean a lot. And it's clear I'm not making enough effort."

Or at least, it seems like everyone else is making a great deal of effort and Pel is just making sure her hair is brushed and braided in the morning. She believes in the Inquisition. She has to. So she has to do her part.

Edited 2016-08-21 23:09 (UTC)

Perhaps this some strange penance for how she speaks of the Game to so many others, or how she has casually disregarded it the entire time she has been in Orlais prior to the Inquisition. When she cares now, it is not for herself, but for something rather larger. Something that makes Leliana's life easier, though that is never for anyone else to know. (If a suspicion is ever brought to her, the evisceration will not be pretty.)

"Perhaps there might come a time where the Game matters not." Scandalous, the mouth her mouth twitches when she says it given that she would prefer for Celene to stay but there is no telling who will emerge triumphant, and Gaspard is a warmonger, everyone knows that. "Everybody?" She asks, a gentle prod, by Morrigan standards at least.

Being back in Orlais definitely had Blackwall on edge, though having a few familiar faces around was making the trip tolerable. Having excuses to be anywhere but where a bunch of nobles are is also making things much more tolerable. This is exactly why Pel has a tag along on today's trip into the elven district of Halamshiral.

"What a mess," He sighs, trailing along behind her and taking in what's left of the buildings, "What are you hoping to accomplish here, Pel? Looks like we're far too late to make much of a difference..."

"Clean up and make things half-normal again for these people," Pel says flatly, marching toward the remains of one charred building. "Seeing a great eye sore where part of their home used to be is no good. The sooner it's gone, the sooner they can move on with their lives."

Burnt-black sections of wall are being knocked down and set on a cart, primarily through the use of a pulley. She stops, taking a grounded stance, and raises her hands. It's not the kind of effort it would take to physically lift the ruined planks. If it were, there would be no point to it. But it's still effort, raising one plank from the ground into the air with the force of magic, guiding it, and setting it carefully atop the others on the cart. A boy in the cart adjusts each plank to make sure as many as possible will fit.

Normally, she doesn't like such public uses of magic. But she can hardly carry these planks any other way, and this is what needs to be done. As she is in her Inquisition uniform, there is minimal scuffling and nervousness from the public. Other mages are doing the same in other places, after all.

She nods toward one plank wedged too tight for her to lift. "Loosen that a bit for me and I'll get it up and out."

"Hmm... That's rather optimistic of you," He says thoughtfully as he starts picking up debris to toss into the cart. He casts a quick, anxious glance in the direction of the boy and anyone else around, but no one seems to be interested in listening. That, or they're wearing Inquisition colors.

"Seems like we're just helping to clean up so new houses, for new residents can be built. I heard this fire, in this very particular part of the city, wasn't an accident. And if that's the case, the old residents won't be the ones moving back in," It makes him question the Inquisition's position regarding all of this. What kind of message were they sending by aiding the Empress with clean up.

He walk over to the plank in question and give it a few shoves until he cracks and half of it tumbles to the ground.

"What's your point?" Pel lifts the plant and guides it over to the cart. She likes Blackwall. But she's going to give him a shot at explaining instead of assuming he's trying to talk her out of helping clean up a burned-down area of a financially limited town for free.

"My point?" He asks, frowning as he tugs at another large, charred chunk of wood and tosses it into the cart.

"I suppose my point is - doesn't it feel like the Inquisition has us helping the wrong people? Doesn't it feel like we should be doing more for the refugees, more to ensure they're the ones going back to these houses if they choose to?" He asks, tossing another armful of crumbling wood into the cart.

It was important to help these people, sadly, he'd heard rumors that when the district was rebuilt they wouldn't be the ones living here.

She returns with her horse-scent and relics, and Alistair swoops (insert joke here) in with his empty hands upturned and wiggling. Carrying things. His true talent. Let him feel useful.

"Where've you been?" he asks, as if she's been sneaking around. She hasn't--or if she has, he wouldn't know. He's been busy, too. This isn't Warden business, but it's business he cares about, that keeps his hands busy and his conscience a little soothed and his feet from setting course for the Anderfels straight away.

She hands him a stack of things and bumps him with her shoulder. Familiar, loving contact without a show of sentiment. That's how it's comfortable. "Working. Where have you been? Do the Wardens know you stowed away with us?"

"They're not the boss of me," Alistair says loftily while he accepts the bump with an obliging sway and fixes his grip on his Stack Of Things. "Or one of them is the boss of me. But he's almost as disinterested in what I do as my actual father was--"

Several parts of this are untrue. He's aware of about half of them, grinning and intentionally ridiculous.

"--which is probably why I want to please him so badly. So don't tell anyone."

"Not if you paid me. That's Blackwall, isn't it? Not having to talk when I'm round him is why I spend time with him. It's actually the reason I propositioned him. That, and Wardens not having children."

Yes, she really thinks Wardens are better than birth control.

Edited 2016-08-20 19:13 (UTC)

That--

is a problem. But the bigger and more immediate problem, the one that has Alistair scrunching up his face in distaste, is, "Can we have maybe a five minute separation between my comparing Blackwall to my father and your mentioning you propositioned him, next time? I don't mean it's your fault. It's my fault. But--no."

No.

Then the other problem:

"My mother was a Warden."

Chill, Alistair. It's not like he's your actual dad. But then Alistair says the other thing and Pel looks at him sidelong, face completely blank. In her head, she asks him if his mother was a Warden when she had him and her head provides don't be silly, Pel, he wouldn't have said it otherwise.

"Then where did I hear Wardens can't have children?" she wonders aloud.

"From us, I'm sure," Alistair says. "It is very rare. And I guess 'it would be remarkable if I got you pregnant' is less reassuring than 'I won't,' given what kind of—situations we normally find ourselves in."

Situations with serving girls rather than wives or long-term lovers. Not that Alistair is very familiar.

"Maybe it's easier for Warden women, since—" Broodmothers. Since broodmothers. He stops himself short of actually thinking about it, thank the Maker, and instead repeats, "Maybe it's easier. Be careful, in any case. Teren has already threatened to murder me if I create anymore bastards, and she likes me more than she likes him. I think. Maybe. It's hard to tell."

"What?"

Alistair has the rare pleasure of seeing Pel completely taken off guard, eyes widening and mouth opening.

"Any more bastards?" Or did he mean anymore bastard children of Wardens in general? But no, that does not sound like the sort of wording one would use to describe something one is not already involved with, even when Alistair is clumsy with words the way he is. Still best to give him a chance to correct himself.

Alistair stares at her for a moment, because he hadn't been thinking at all, really, but he doubly hadn't been thinking about that.

"Well," he says, and he's thinking now, and speaking more slowly for the effort, "I'm a bastard. Obviously that's gone very well for me and I have no emotional problems whatsoever, but it's not a thing I plan to pass on." More than he already has. But Kieran isn't really a bastard. He's Kieran. And hopefully the fact that it's sort of an awkward subject will explain why Alistair is being sort of awkward about it. "Especially when—the queen was going to execute me, you know, just in case, before Cousland stepped in."

And now Cousland is gone. And maybe Anora has discovered some chill in her middle age, but Alistair hasn't dropped in on her for tea to find out.

"So I don't—I mean, I'm very—"

What's a good way to say in mixed company that he tends not to put his dick in anything that ends in a womb. I'll stick to the lamppost licking and and jellied ham eating and—no. No. He can't awkwardly rub his mouth because his hands are full, but he does clear his throat.

"Let's talk about something else."

Edited 2016-08-22 13:49 (UTC)

Oh. Oh! That's good. That's a relief, though Pel is not sure why. Probably something to do with Alistair having a bastard whose life he is not a part of, when the two of them have talked at length about having been abandoned and unloved. Instead, Alistair won't have bastards because their lives could be in danger.

"I see!" A flash of smile. Faintly embarrassed that she mistook him so badly. "Ir abelas. I know you wouldn't do that. And it's. Good to know about Grey Wardens, especially since Blackwall's..."

Human. Pel stops herself right before saying that to an elf-blooded human.

Edited 2016-08-22 15:44 (UTC)

If Alistair has any idea what she was about to say, he doesn't show any signs—which means he has no idea, really. He's not that great an actor.

"Ancient?" he prompts instead. "More hair than man? So quiet you occasionally want to grab him by the shoulders and scream into his face to make sure he isn't sleeping with his eyes open? Orrrr is that just me."

Sure. She'll go with it.

"The Dalish frown upon having children who are half-elf, half-bear," she deadpans. "And I like that he's quiet. But he has other things going on that he would need to sort out first. I can't carry another like I did Gavin."

Edited 2016-08-22 16:05 (UTC)

OPEN: Halamshiral

Pel | OTA

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iii elven district

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the estate.

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