OPEN: Halamshiral

[visus]

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.

Comments

[heda]

The braided Avvar bastard's eyes follow Bellamy's hands but her own remain where they are on the puppy rather than going for a weapon in turn. She looks away from him pointedly too as she says, "You're welcome," but her focus on Clarke is both irresistible and practical as the mage comes close to take a look.

Dally's squirming forces Lexa to shift her hold, letting her stretch to lick Clarke's hands and biting briefly on the inside of her cheek to hold in a smile as it happens.

"It doesn't look serious," she says as she helps get that paw into view. It involves freeing the tail, which flicks against her cheek twice before she manages to tip her head out of the way. "But I thought you'd want to check. She'd gotten it caught in a log. Probably going after a mouse or something."

[levered]

"What were you going to do with a mouse?" Clarke asks Dally. Conversationally, a little exasperated, no baby talk. Bellamy might be able to let her do whatever the hell she wants with minimal worrying, but--well. They've already had that fight.

She doesn't quite register Bellamy's hand on his knife. She might realize, if she thought about and processed it, without even having to look again, but she does actually trust him to behave. And Lexa she--also trusts to behave. She focuses on the paw.

"That's not bad. I can fix it." She should take Dally, probably. She doesn't. She glances past the puppy to Lexa's face, briefly. "Do you want to sit down?"

Sorry Bellamy.

[nonsibi]

Bellamy breathes out, one short sharp huff of breath. He is not impressed. But Clarke also knows what he thinks--he's made his point clear--and here she still is, asking Lexa to sit down, so, fine. Whatever.

Not whatever. The opposite of, actually. He hauls himself to his feet anyways, and chucks his remaining crust of bread into the fire.

"I'm getting more firewood."

He grabs the utilitarian hatchet from where it's leaning up against a rock and shoulders it. One last look at Clarke, Lexa, and Dally--who is squirming now to be put down so she can gallop over to Bellamy, her tail shuffling back and forth across Lexa's chest. It's not easy, but he ignores the puppy and gives Lexa a firm look, something like a warning.

Firewood isn't very far. Like he'd letting this go on without being closeby. He turns to go anyways.

[heda]

Lexa's face is tipped toward Dally, watching her squirm and flap her tail with more obvious fondness than she ever displays for anyone or anything (except occasionally Clarke when she thinks no one is watching). She glances up when offered a seat, and nods.

She settles on one of the logs they've rolled up around the fire, adjusting her hold to try to keep Dally from leaping out of her arms to go chop wood before Clarke can see to her paw. It's not easy, between the tail and the wiggling and the need to be gentle with tiny puppy bones. And also Lexa's need to meet Bellamy's stare over the fire, giving him a flat look in return. She's not going to hurt your dog, jeez.

In her distraction she lets her left hand close enough to Dally's mouth for the dog to hook a claw in the palm of her fingerless glove. She tugs it away sharply as soon as she notices. It's not as subtle a reaction as she'd like.

"This character you named her after. What was the book called?" A pause before she explains, "I am going into the city tomorrow and I thought I might look for it."

[levered]

"We--" Clarke starts to say to Bellamy. They don't need more firewood. But they also don't not need more firewood, really, and she change her mind about trying to force him to stay.

Mostly because it wouldn't work. At worst she'd be ignored. At best they would bicker in front of Lexa, and Clarke hasn't let her guard down far enough to be interested in that. She watches him walk for a moment before she kneels to look at Dally's paw.

It really is just a scape. Easy magic, a faint glow that keeps her faint smile from being hidden entirely by shadows while her back is to the fire.

"Hard in Hightown," she says. "It's set in Kirkwall." Kirkwall isn't Kaiten, but in Orlais, it's close enough for her to be almost patriotic about it. Almost. "If they don't sell it here, Skyhold has a set."

She rubs her hand over Dally's hand when she's done with the paw, flattening and wiggling her ears.

[nonsibi]

Dally is only briefly distracted by the tingle of her healing paw, her ears comically perked. As soon as Clarke flattens a hand on her head though, she's back to squirming, with cheerful puppy gnnnnrs, too yawpy to be any kind of real protest. She wriggles half onto her side, back paws treading at Lexa's arm, front paws slapping at her hand and tugging down on the loose bit of glove and wrapping.

Bellamy, meanwhile, goes off only a few feet and loudly gets to work hacking at a large fallen limb in the underbrush. Chopping wood just happens to be something that he's good at, plenty of mindless manual labor that requires brute force. He might be making noise to remind Lexa and Clarke that he's back here, or to drown out the low murmur of their nice fireside conversation--but probably it's both.

[heda]

"Like The Tale of the Champion," Lexa replies, nodding. She's read that one. "Have you been to Kirkwall?"

Clarke's faint smile and her playing with Dally's ears and little puppy growls all tug Lexa's mouth into a curve of its own, the suggestion of an answering smile at the corners. Dally's squirming even comes close to getting a laugh out of her, a huff of surprise that might almost be a chuckle as the pup rolls around and feet thump against her arm, scrambling like she's on a treadmill. Sure, Bellamy's wood-chopping is conspicuously loud, but just for a minute this is...nice.

Nice enough that she forgets to pay attention to Dally's paws, batting at them playfully and not noticing when a claw catches and a green glow shows through the hole.

[levered]

"No," Clarke says. The word coincides with the slam of Bellamy's axe, drowned out beneath it, so she pauses to wait for the off beat to repeat, "No. By the time I'd ever left Kaiten, it was a ruin. It wouldn't have been safe before then, either, with the--"

The Templars, the Templar presence, the Gallows' fearsome reputation. But never mind any of that. Clarke's looking down at the puppy, seeing green, and cutting short so she can grab Lexa's hand, forget hesitance or permission, and tug the glove to reveal more.

That means dislodging Dally. And once she's had confirmation--just a closer glance, that's all she needed--she feels bad enough about that to let go of the glove and rub her hand over Dally again instead while she just.

Stares at Lexa.

Which continues to leave Bellamy out, but maybe the silence is noticeable.

[nonsibi]

The silence is very noticeable. For someone trying not to listen to anything going on at the camp, Bellamy sure is listening for what's going on at the camp. When the murmur of conversation stalls out, awareness pricks at the back of his neck like a needle.

He pauses a moment; listens. Then he yanks his hatchet out of the wood and shoves it through his belt for safe and easy carrying, and grabs up what wood he's cut in his arms. It's only a little, but it was never really about cutting wood anyways.

Back at camp, Dally is playfully languishing under Clarke's hand. She yawps when she notices Bellamy, and tries to twist away so she can run across the brief space to him. Bellamy drops his armload of wood, pointedly, loudly. He's grabbing his hatchet from his belt when he notices the flash of green as well--maybe when Lexa is hastily adjusting her glove and wrapping; maybe before she's even noticed what's exposed.

Bellamy's fingers curl on the haft of the hatchet. He's got more than a good guess of what he's looking at.

"When the hell'd you get that."

Not impressed. Wary, as always.

i'm buying lexa high-waisted shorts in orlais just for mj they come with a giant floppy bow enjoy

[heda]

Lexa is listening attentively, and petting Dally, and maybe almost just enjoying herself for two whole seconds, so it takes her another to realize why Clarke has stopped. And when she flinches back away from Clarke's searching hands, it's just a moment too late to prevent the mage from seeing. And Bellamy too, apparently, as his return and the wood-dropping and the question all manage to raise her hackles even further. She's immediately on the defensive, shoving her glove back into place and closing her fist around the light trying to shine through the palm of it as she pushes abruptly to her feet.

"You can't tell anyone."

It's not a request. It's also not the right approach with these two; she knows this. But command comes more naturally than anything else, and is a comforting shield to step back behind when she is caught out and off-balance like this, a secret she hadn't meant to reveal shoved out into the light. She can't growl at Clarke to get out, this time, so instead she fixes them each in turn with a hard stare, angry mostly because angry is better than nervous.

i've never been so happy

[levered]

Not the right approach at all. Clarke's expression goes flatly challenging while she restrains the puppy--out of reflex and instinct, mostly, too preoccupied to notice that there's no real reason Dally can't run to Bellamy if she wants to. When she does notice, she lets her go, and briefly looks away from Lexa's face to watch her try to eat his boots, to life her eyes to his face and raise her eyebrows like isn't it cute that she thinks she can boss us around.

Cute, and also cute.

And really, they probably can't tell anyone. If they start telling people things, she might start telling people things, too. She knows that. She looks back at Lexa with her eyebrows still up, still seated.

"You have to tell someone," she says. "It could hurt you."

STARES INTO THE MIDDLE DISTANCE

[nonsibi]

Dally is cute. Lexa is not cute. Nor is her attempt to order either Clarke or Bellamy, especially Bellamy, who is more likely to do the opposite of what Lexa presumes to order. Maybe not always. If her interests would ever align with his, he'd do some version of alignment in return. Still not obedience.

All this is to say that Bellamy meets Clarke's eyes, warily, his mouth pressed in a tight line. Crouching feels like giving up some measure of power, since now Lexa is standing as well, but Dally--growling, biting at the toes of his boots--needs to knock it off, so, fine, Bellamy crouches and lets the puppy bite at his arm and hand instead.

"You're not exactly in a position to be telling us what to do," he adds. Which is reasoning that is a good deal more threatening than Clarke's more personal appeal, but that's to be expected. Some of that threat is mitigated in the way that he looks, again, at Lexa's hand, at the thin strands of light that peek through her clenched fist. Whatever he's thinking, he keeps to himself. For now.

[heda]

Clarke's response is surprising, and it gives Lexa pause for a long enough moment that it cuts in on the urge to snap back at Bellamy and escalate his threat with something more concrete. Your sister lives on my lands, maybe, or something equally ill-advised. But there's a split-second where it seems possible that Clarke might care a little about her being hurt even if it is probably just related to the aforementioned people on her land, and the stupid puppy is still being stupidly cute attacking Bellamy's boots. It's difficult to seriously threaten someone when an adorable puppy is attacking their boots.

She glares, instead, eyes hard and nostrils flaring for a moment, definitely incensed but at least not making it worse. Another breath, before she responds. Not to him.

"No one needs to know," she tells Clarke, tugging her eyes back to the mage but always keeping the templar in her peripheral vision, "Coming to the Inquisition eases the pain, there's nothing else to be done until they find a way to remove it."

[levered]

At least that explains why she's still here.

But it leaves a dozen other new thing unexplained. Many of them--do her people know? do they understand why she has to be here? how did it happen? when did it happen? how badly does it hurt?--are not Clarke's business, really, and she restrains herself. But one of them is definitely her business. And Bellamy's business. And Dally's business, since it concerns her--

no. Clarke is not going to think of a puppy as having a grandmother or an aunt. She's not that far gone. She is very serious and very grown up and pulling all of the weight she might have set down during the last few months, what with all these actual adults running around being competent, right back onto her shoulders.

"Who's in charge, if you're here that long?" The question warrants standing up, fists at her side. "Are our friends safe?"

[nonsibi]

Clarke's second question is the only one that matters. Bellamy knows enough about the shards to know that the Inquisition is nowhere near close to solving the problem of them. He's spent a lot of time with Gwen. He offered to hurry up the process for her through intimidation tactics.

At present, Bellamy's potential for intimidation might be slightly mitigated by the puppy licking at his fingers. He doesn't ignore Dally, but he doesn't acknowledge her either, lets her do what she wants while he stares fixedly at Lexa, waiting for her answer. The darkness written across his face will still be visible even in the peripheral.

He doesn't say anything. Tension keeps his jaw wired shut for the moment, sparing her and Clarke from his commentary. Not that he's easy to forget at the edge of this scene.

[heda]

Of course. She should have known that would be the real concern. It's fair, and reasonable, and obvious, and she kicks herself for having had even a second of hope that it might be anything else.

"Your people are safe," Lexa says, voice steady and firm enough to reassure. "I'm still in charge. I go back and forth and when I am away we remain in communication." By bird, but she's not about to start detailing her methods with Bellamy listening. She flicks a look his way over Clarke's shoulder, watching for a reaction, but continues to speak primarily to her.

"I have given strict orders. As long as your people continue to live peacefully as they have these past months, they have nothing to fear from mine. Indra and Marcus Kane are in touch should any problems arise. They seem to have become..." she hesitates a second, and her shoulders roll in a hint of a shrug. "Friends." Weird.

[nonsibi]

Bellamy jumps in early before Clarke can answer (or tag back by email) because, hey, now he has a contribution, which is: to laugh, once, short. He doesn't sound very amused. Dally stops chewing on his arm and stares up at him, tail wagging expectantly, but Bellamy looks up at the dark sky with an irritated sigh.

"Maker's ass."

Kane and Indra being friends is weird. Bellamy trusts Kane. He doesn't trust Indra. And he sure as hell doesn't trust Lexa, shard and all, so he levels his gaze back on her again.

"And we're supposed to buy this? You know we can check all this out, right? Write to our friends, make sure all this is going just how you saying it's going? You know we're in communication, too, right? Hey, so when I found you, out there--" Remember your broken leg, Lexa-- "This is what you were coming to Skyhold for? Yeah?" Without waiting for her to answer, he answers for himself: "Yeah."

[levered]

"We can write to Kane," Clarke says.

She's trying to do several things all at once--agree with Bellamy and remind Lexa they're watching, to quiet Bellamy because Lexa certainly knows and there's no need to be hostile about it, to make a decision for her own sake--and the result is that her tone comes out a little strained from being pulled three ways.

She takes a breath and gets a handle on it. Looking at Dally helps.

"Just to make sure everything is all right," she says, more subdued, and frowns again at Lexa. "Does anyone else know?"

[heda]

Lexa actually rolls her eyes at Bellamy, and when Clarke makes a decision Lexa makes a dismissive, permissive gesture with the hand that isn't stuck full of green Fade-light. "Write if you like. I assumed you did so regularly already."

It's a little bit of a dig, cast Bellamy's way with flat dry disinterest and her eyes over Clarke's shoulder again, unimpressed with this threat if that's what it's meant to be. She looks back at Dally too, without really meaning to except that her swishing tail and growling draws her eyes and they stay there for a second, temper easing.

She gives Clarke's question a small shake of her head. "Just my augur, and the gods. Now you." There's something rueful around her mouth, and her lips shift like she's about to say more, but she changes her mind.

[nonsibi]

You includes Bellamy, unfortunately, who does not want to deal with the burden of this information. He would rather punch Lexa in the leg again, especially when she rolls her eyes at him.

If Clarke is going to play cool about this, he'll at least do something like the same. Hardly placated, he huffs another laugh and looks away, out into the trees around them.

"The Advisors," he adds to Lexa's list, "and your augur, your gods, us--" Not just Clarke; he would underline that for her, if it was in writing. She has to deal with Bellamy knowing her little secret too. "Or did you go to that Solas guy directly? Skip everything else?"

Look how much he knows about shards.

[levered]

Children, Clarke's face says, complete with briefly lifting her hand to her eyes to squeeze her fingers over the sockets and against the bridge of her nose.

"Sister Nightingale knows everything," she says, a little out of loyalty but mostly because she believes it. If Lexa hasn't told the advisors, they'll find out sooner rather than later.

That's her only contribution. She doesn't know much about shards. They haven't been relevant to anyone she cares about yet. Now--

Maybe she'll talk to a rifter.

[heda]

Lexa's deep breath is subtle, through her nose, exhaled slowly as Bellamy keeps talking. She has had enough, and this time doesn't even look at him to acknowledge his presence.

"No," she replies to Clarke, calm, steady, absolutely certain. "No one else knows. And if they find out, I will know one of you told them." And that will go poorly, suggests the way her voice darkens and her brow furrows. She doesn't wait for argument, just turns on her heel and sweeps off, though the lack of her usual long coat makes for a less dramatic exit than she's used to.