faderift | 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

He rolled his shoulders.

"More of the same. I suppose they hoped it would be more convincing in person... that I'd be more apt to listening to him." They'd been close, once.

His lips turned up, but it wasn't an expression one would be comfortable really calling a smile.

"I wasn't. I may... have lost my temper. In the middle of a chantry, and then in the middle of the street."

"Ah." He gave Maxwell a sympathetic look, and a not-quite smile of his own.

"I should have come with you. Then maybe your brother may have been the one to lose his temper, first."

"We could burst into heathen flame together. Romantic."

There a moment of silence, and then the sharp pull of his mouth softened, warmed into something more familiar. He held out his hand then, asking Gavin slightly to join him.

"I wish they deserved you," he said quietly. "That I had more to offer you than - this mess."

"And my clan is any better?" Gavin teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Your family isn't you, Maxwell. They make absolutely no difference to me - I just worry about your happiness."

He snorted gently.

"As soon as they start listening, and finally leave me alone--?" He pushed off the statue and moved close enough to reach out and touch Gavin's chin lightly. "I'll have everything I want."

"I don't know, I'm sure you could think of a few more things. Like a comfortable bed, maybe." But he stepped into the touch and rested his hand on Maxwell's arm, before suddenly going:

"Oh! I nearly forgot. I found something for you. It's not much, but--" He reached into his leather pouch and pulled out the box - just big enough to fit into the palm neatly.

He arched his eyebrows at the sudden shift.

"What is--" And then smiled as he turned the box around and realized what it was for. "Gavin, you shouldn't have."

But already his fingers were moving over it, toying with the moving pieces.

"It's not a large thing, but I - saw it and I couldn't help myself. I have no idea how it works - I think there are gears inside, but I've only been able to open three of the compartments, myself."

He paused, wetting his lips, before glancing back at Maxwell's face, as if checking to see if the dark cloud still lingered there. "At least Orlais is good for something?"

"Thank you," he said, his smile small, but genuine, touched by Gavin's thoughtfulness. "And you're right."

As tempted as he was to unpuzzle it there and then, he lowered it to focus on Gavin's face. Reaching for his belt he pulled free the small bag of candies.

"Orlais is good for a few things," he held out the treats, "...and if there are a few more things I could do with. Which-- I have something for you, have had for a bit now, but I wasn't sure--"

Gavin's ears perked up at the sight of the treats, and he reached out and took some with very little shame - already chewing on one when he tilted his head in confusion.

"Weren't sure about what?"

Despite his sudden worry, he couldn't help a smile, pleased that Gavin was by the sweets.

"It's not a demand," he said, reaching under his collar to lift the chain around his neck. The one that held his locket, that now also held two solid keys. "I know if you wanted that it wouldn't trouble you in the slightest, but it's yours as much as mine, to me, so I thought you should have one."

He freed one of the keys and held it out.

"I installed a lock on the room."

"Oh!"

Gavin took the key carefully, looking it over. "Why wouldn't I want one? I wouldn't be able to get in without the key, right?"

He turned it over in his palm before carefully pocketing it, and offering Maxwell a grin before grabbing another sweet. "Unless I broke in, I guess. But thanks. It's my first key to anywhere."

Maxwell looked at him for a moment, blinking slightly in surprise.

Just like that?

The key disappeared and Gavin went back to the candy, so apparently so.

He snorted again and shook his head, bemused by his own silliness.

"Next, I'll work on getting an actual bed in there."

"Oo, my first bed, too," Gavin teased him, crunching the candy between his teeth.

He couldn't make Maxwell's family any better, but by the Creators he could take his mind off them.

"I think anything that you'd find here would cost you a year's wages, though."

"Yeah," he drawled, head bobbing in a small nod, laugh rumbling gently in his throat. "I think we'll have to continue to suffer until we're back in Ferelden. Besides--" he leaned closer, voice lowering as if sharing a dark secret, "--have you seen the beds here? Even those have masks on them."

"That is... incredibly creepy," Gavin agreed, sliding an arm around Maxwell as he came closer, and leaning up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. Nothing too shocking. Hopefully. He wondered vaguely if Maxwell's brother would have sent someone to watch him, and - decided he didn't care if he did.

"Something from home will do just fine."

It was sweet and gentle and demure, and not nearly enough.

"I'll keep an eye out."

To hell with Orlais. To hell with Alexander and the Trevean ideal.

He knew what he wanted.

He turned his head quickly, before Gavin had moved back, to catch a true, full kiss. One that broke on a soft laugh.

"You taste like strawberries."

'Best Behaviour' he had been told, and he was relatively sure that making out with Maxwell in public didn't count as best behaviour, but - found it incredibly hard to care.

Instead, he laughed, and licked his own lips. "Those sweets, I think. You'd better put them away, or I'll eat them all."

"They're for you, have them all," Maxwell grinned. And again, his voice lowered, but this time at least he managed to restrain himself to play whispering. "But save one of the dark ones for later, they're blueberries."

He wagged his eyebrows.

Gavin laughed again, and helped himself to another of the red ones. "Duly noted," he teased as he began to suck on it.

"Now - I think you should come meet Master Fenhart - he's the one who made your box." Gavin said as he took Maxwell's arm and began to lead him into the crowd. "He's sort of a carpenter and a blacksmith at the same time, and a jeweller, and I think the two of you will get on very well."

OPEN: Halamshiral

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