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.

Threaded | Flat

I. The Estate

Plain meals and tents aren't a great hardship for someone who has endured both as a constant in the past year and a half. Inessa accepts them without complaint, not interested in the attention from anyone of influence in Orlais as it is. She's not entirely certain her Grey Warden status will protect her in a land where the Wardens' recent colossal blunder took place.

She'll be spending her scant free time curled up at the library absorbing as much of its contents as possible, with her mabari snoozing at her feet. (Go ahead, staff, try to move him when he doesn't want to be moved.) Other likely locations include the grounds, so that Garahel can get some exercise (likely through a game of fetch) or possibly the healing tents just to see if they need an extra healer for any spells, not actual medical work that she doesn't know.

Throughout the stay, she's polite and non-disruptive, though her mabari accompanies her nearly everywhere. (Damn Fereldans.)

III. Elven Districts

Visiting the elven-inhabited portion of Halamshiral, Inessa's strongly reminded of her own past. Her alienage days are far behind her, the majority of them barely more than blurry memories from before the Templars took her away, but she remembers the dead-end hopelessness, the doubt that things would ever get any better. Walking among these streets, she has a strong sense of deja vu.

The stares don't go unnoticed, though she tries her best to ignore them. A woman clad in better armor than they'll ever know, with a staff on her back and a mabari at her side? She doesn't blame their envy, even as she wants to tell them that protection comes as a dire cost. But they won't care, not when it seems that no one cares about them. It's a feeling she remembers, and understands. She'll spend as much as she can afford on the local businesses, doing what she can to support them rather than the High Quarter.

It's not long before she stops short to stare at the large swath of devastation, caused by the order of Empress Celene herself. She absently pets Garahel, who whines softly beside her, but doesn't tear her own gaze away from the ash-streaked streets as they walk past. She's fought her way through darkspawn nests, witnessed the horrors of Weisshaupt, but this...this is far more unsettling to her than all that, because she can stare at those twisted building frames and imagine what it must have been, imagine all the elves who only wanted a better life, and died in the flames for it.

At some point, resentful muttering just loud enough to be overheard reaches her ears. "...fucking flat-ear. She doesn't belong here, too good for the likes of us anyway. What right does she have...."

V. Wildcard?

[Give me whatever!]

Edited 2016-07-22 20:53 (UTC)

I. The Estate

Preferring tents to some stuffy noble's mansion anyway, Korrin's just fine with setting up on the grounds. The food, however, is an issue. Leaving Rivain -and her grandmother's cooking- only to endure blandness yet again is too cruel. Fortunately, she returned with a selection of exotic spices from the east, willing to share a portion with the cook in exchange for food that actually has taste. Perhaps she'll share, if someone enters the kitchen around that time.

Othewise, she can be found training, or wandering the grounds to see if an extra pair of hands is needed anywhere. The evenings might have her raiding the wine cellar, but she's brought plenty of her own, so that won't be more than an occasional (and compensated) thing.

II. The High Quarter (maybe?)

Knowing where she's not wanted, Korrin nonetheless finds herself at the edge of the High Quarter after a morning of exploring the elven side of Halamshiral. The Vashoth woman hasn't gone past the point where she would attract the wrong sort of attention, but that doesn't stop her from staring ahead and pondering. She knows she'll enjoy herself away from snooty, bigoted nobles anyway; their racism is as much a part of Orlesian tradition as are the masks and tiny cakes. And yet, there's a strong temptation to go in there and force them to acknowledge her unholy 'Qunari' self. She hasn't given in to that temptation yet, knowing that the Inquisition needs everyone on their best behavior, but every time the guards look her way, the temptation mounts. Someone stop or at least accompany her and be a human buffer for a while?

IV. The Countryside

Now, this is more like it. Tired of the estate and the alternately depressing or rage-inducing aspects of the city, Korrin is more than happy to turn her attention to the outskirts. Though she can't close any rifts on her own, the Vashoth mage is ready and willing to provide cover for those who can, eager to lose herself in battle for a while. Of course, it's not all about that. Upon reaching those cluster of homes and hearing the screams following that awful roar, Korrin blurs ahead, one hand holding her staff and the other her spirit blade.

"Keeping running! I'll hold it back!"

Edited 2016-07-22 20:51 (UTC)

III. Eleven Districts
[Bruce hates wearing armor.

It's not because they're uncomfortable or because they're unwieldy - though it does play some part into it. No, he doesn't like it because of what it represents and means. Armors are what soldiers wear, people who want to fight and are asked to fight. Wearing this armor implies that Bruce has to do the same, and fighting is the last thing he wants to do.

But since having been forced to reveal his mage status the Inquisition has been more adamant in sending him out to the field now, especially since he's proven to be able to defend himself. Bruce doesn't like it, but he knows that the help is necessary, and so he goes with the armor they've provided and the usual borrowed staff strapped to his back. If he has to come out this often now, he probably should eventually get a proper staff of his own.

Its not exactly something he wants to think about just yet.

At least working under the sun helps to keep his mind occupied. Bruce keeps to his tasks of clearing the streets, preferring the strain of manual labor but is forced to pull out his magic from time to time when the requests come and the need is obvious. The silence is strange, especially for Bruce who is used to silence and relishes it in. But as long as nothing blows up (again) he keeps his head low and focuses on helping where needed, and when he takes his breaks he hangs around in the lighter corners near by the other members of the Inquisition (though not too close). He's heard the stories and the rumors and while he doesn't worry so much for himself, its better to stick close and hope that the numbers deter any unwarranted incidents from taking place.]

IV. The Countryside
[Of course there had to be rifts out here. Of course one of them had to open while he had been in the area. Of course there would be demons involved.

Bruce fights because he has to and every moment drains more of his energy; he can feel the pull of the Fade from the splintered Rift as they battle, the thing inside of him reacting to the close presence of the Rift. Nothing as strong as in the Approach, but the sensation still wasn't pleasant.

For better or for worse, the fight doesn't last long and soon the rift is sealed. Bruce manages to stagger himself over to a nearby tree and throws himself against the trunk, sliding down against it as he takes several moments to catch his breath. He waves for the others to head back first when they start to make a move - he'll catch up with them once he stops feeling like the world is going to turn sideways on him.

This is why he doesn't like using his magic.]

0. Wildcard!
[Hit me with anything and everything /o/]

Having gone onto Halamshiral from their jaunt in Val Royeaux, Sina has become a little more aware of how matters are conducted here, and is learning to comport herself appropriately. She finds the masks distasteful and stressful due to her inability to read anyone's facial expression, so she avoids the fancier areas as best she can, including the estate itself. Sleeping outside has always been more comfortable for her anyway.

III. Elven Districts

Though at first nervous that her encounters with these city elves will be similar to what she experienced with the small group she approached back at Skyhold, Sina's fears are quickly put to rest when she's offered a smile and gives one in return. There are those who are afraid to approach her because of her shard, but as always, she has an easy bearing and is able to get along pretty well amongst the townspeople.

And here, also, is where she finds herself most useful: she spends nearly all of her waking hours trying to find life within the scorched greenery, laying her hands on the trunks of the trees like a healer would a patient. This being her area of expertise, she focuses almost entirely on healing the growing things around the district, those that can be saved.
Naturally, frequent breaks are required due to her state of health, but she seems actually quite rejuvenated and intensely glad to be of so much use.

V. Feel free to drag her to another area.

She can be persuaded as long as it's free of rifts and she feels well-prepared.

Edited 2016-07-24 21:34 (UTC)

II. High Quarter

He couldn't avoid it. Orlais, the Inquisition said, so to Orlais he went. He had some hope - it was a big country, and while his family was large, it was scattered - but it had been a long time since the Maker had answered any of his prayers.

As he'd headed through the market, running some messages but in no real hurry, his name was called. By a voice he hadn't heard in years. A voice, not dissimilar from his own - a little deeper, a little slower, - from the door to the gilded chantry.

His brother.

He dropped the missives in his shock, and Alexander Trevean moved to help him recover them. There was a shaky greeting, an uncertain embrace, and then quiet suspicion as Alexander urged him to join him in the Chantry to talk.

~.~

However it felt, it wasn't really all that long before Maxwell appeared again, striding purposefully back out into the street, shaking his head as his brother's voice called after him.

"Maxwell, be reasonable--"

"I'm not going back." Quick, harsh - before he turned, and lowered his voice, remembering where they were. What Orlais was. "It might have been home once, before-- but it hasn't been for a long time. And I'm not going back there. This is where I belong. This is where I want to be. Tell them that."

"Maxwell--"

But he had turned again and was moving away, back straight, eyes forward.

Without a single glance back.

V. Choose Your Own Adventure

Edited 2016-07-25 12:12 (UTC)

THE BURNED AREA;

[ It's so quiet. This is what strikes Sabine the most. This piece of the city is a graveyard, and she wants to stop everyone who walks with reverence to tell them that it was not, that it was noisy, to tell them what her people used to be, when they could be.

There's the sound of Inquisition activity, of rubble being shifted in carts, condemned structures being torn down.

She is still, watching the bones of the city more than seeing those around her. She is dressed to work, sleeves rolled high, fitted trousers of canvas, boots sunk proud into the earth that is soft with black debris. Problem is not entirely knowing where to start, her expression drawn tight, making freckles stand out, and dark hazel eyes big and button-like in her head. Spirals of red hair are tamed with a leather ribbon, always in a perpetual state of coming loose. And then, she's moving.

A bucket of water slops past its rim as she marches towards where a brick-cobble wall is still standing, blackened from smoke and soot. She sets the bucket down heavily, takes out te scrubbing brush from within, and begins to work in long, shoving strokes.

It takes a while.

But eventually, soot is scraped back beneath water, bristle, and latent anger, and colour begins to show through. Old paint, a patch of blue, a splash of green, is slowly revealed by the time murky grey water begins to run down her forearms. ]

THE MARKETS and TAVERNS;

[ Sabine isn't shy about the people she knows. She has memories of when she was a six-year-old, all limbs and a face like a boy's, sitting cross-legged and threading beads on string while her aunt sold jewelry to those who could afford it, as many travelling merchants as native elves. They were always made of wood, necessarily, clacking painted beads and fine, curling ear-pieces. She has memories of when she was sixteen, carving her own, selling her own.

There isn't much of a market for that these days. She buys a spotted apple. She encounters known faces, and rapid fire Orlesian can be heard in as many terse exchanges as there are fierce embraces.

A young girl, on the cusp of adolescence, sells flowers. Long stalked tulips. Sabine buys one of those as well, and crouches when she speaks to her quietly.

Find Sabine in the tavern, tipping a finger of whiskey into her ale and drinking it at a long, eye-rolling pull. Find her purchasing supplies here and there (a handful of rooster feathers, several spools of thread, scraps of leather, silk string). Find her breaking away from some reunion or another, grim-faced and steely. Find her sitting on the edge of a rooftop, turning a tulip in her fingers, thoughts elsewhere. ]

HER HOME (CLOSED to MARTEL);

[ It shouldn't surprise anyone that Sabine's origins are humble. The dimensions of her apartment are small, and fire has eaten into the floor from where it had begun in the ground level shop below. Getting in had required careful feet, and at least one hand up.

It also shouldn't surprise anyone that Sabine rarely cares what anyone thinks of her, even Martel, and any grim stoicism on her part is for her alone. The glass is gone out of the street-facing windows. It is likelier emptier than it used to be with the evidence of looting in the way a slim bedframe has been turned over, a blackened chest of drawers with its innard removed, tumbled to the floor, emptied.

She kicks aside a piece of debris. ]

There are less mice, now, [ she mentions, a touch wry.

It's still light out, but curfew isn't too far off, and she isn't in Inquisition armor. The air has cooled. She picks her way around the two-roomed space like a prowling stray feline. ]

Estate I.

Sadira sat quietly on a stone bench as out of the way as she could get. All around her, the bustling Inquisition camp continued with its day-to-day as it sprawled seemingly endlessly out on the manicured lawn of the estate. With her was a large lexicon and a sheaf of papers as she tirelessly read through notes and occasionally muttered to herself a word or two that sounded oddly like Orlesian. It appeared the dark haired mage was brushing up on her language skills, muttering under her breath. It also seemed from the frown on her face that she seemed to be having some difficulty with the language as she tapped the book more than once and then looked over her notes.

“Maker preserve me from Orlesians,” she swore softly rubbing at her temple. It wasn't that the language was hard. She was just a perfectionist and was trying her best to get rid of her marcher accent as she spoke.

Estate II.

Although she'd gotten used to the heavy bustle, noise and crowding of Skyhold, the old fortress at least had places where someone could go to escape for a little while. The Chateau offered very little of that, even with well cared for lawns. Instead, she found herself wandering into the chapel, hoping that it would offer her some peace and quiet. Only as she entered, all thoughts of sitting in some obscure corner was soon forgotten as she strolled around at first in silent reverence staring at the opulence. Eventually, however, she began to mutter to herself, finally speaking loud enough for others to hear, “Not even in three lifetimes could I afford this much wealth.”

High Quarter

The mast was hot and sweaty on her face, feeling entirely uncomfortable as she resisted reaching up to adjust it for the hundredth time. The mask offered anonymity, but it also was annoying ash her obvious discomfort marked her as anything but Orlesian. Sadira wanted so very desperately to fit in and be normal for once without anyone knowing that she was a mage that she didn't even pay attention to where she was going until she accidentally bumped into someone.

The Countryside

As much as Sadira wanted to pretend that she was nothing more than an average human, she was not. Nor could she allow herself to be lax in her training for more than a few days. So when word cropped up of a demon attack, Sadira took it as an opportunity to head out and try her hand at fighting a rift spawned monstrosity.

Lightning crackled along the length of her staff and sparked in her hand as she summoned a static cage around one of the weaker green tinged wraiths, trapping it. A fierce little grin appeared on her face as she put all of her efforts into using her magic. Something that until recently she had been terrified to do.

Wildcard!

Sadira will be wandering pretty much everywhere over the duration of the Inquisition’s stay in Halamshiral. Her most frequent stops will be the library, the chapel.

Will match prose or brackets!

The Estate

The Ostwick Templars wouldn't be seen much within the walls of the estate itself - honestly it made them all feel a little ... odd without the duke there. Instead, James encouraged his people out to do 'good deeds', and gather what information they could. Still, they had to rest, had to recoup from their days afield, so you'll find them in their little circle camp. James is there, camped out with his men. He could have taken a room but he preferred to be out there with his people.

Reading his reports, drinking something hot out of a tin mug, he is using a board for his paperwork. He looks, honestly, like a man who wants to be distracted.

Elven District

James knew that here, of all places, that Templars would not be welcomed with open arms. However, he also knew this was the area that needed the most help. So he and his men loaded up on food, blankets, and other provisions, and went in to see what they could do to help the needy.

They didn't offer to rebuild the broken areas - something about the way the elves looked at them with a sense of pride made James wonder just who started the fight to begin with.

Beside him, Interceptor loped along, and it was a good thing that he did. The elves might not like humans, but every elven child loved a puppy.

Wildcard!

Find something for James to do with yours in Halamshiral!

The Estate
Kirk doesn't believe he has ever been inside of a palace or manor of any sort in his life. Not that would be counted as someone's personal home, anyways. Even when they visited other worlds, most of those buildings were for government use. As such he is rather curious, walking about the place as much as the servants will allow. Perhaps it's his captain's air that make them give way and he can explore a bit further than most, but he doesn't press his luck.

Mostly he spends a lot of time in the library when he is there, tugging out books to read, curling into chairs or before the fire, flipping pages and if he can find something to do so - make notes. It's interesting, to say the least. He can even be found in there at meal times, absently eating at a bowl of porridge by firelight.

If not that, he is certainly out by the tents, though unlike some he will often move his roll outside and lay in the grass, looking up at Orlesian stars - even sometimes signing under his breath.

The High Quarter
The mask felt uncomfortable on his face, but he wore it because it was the polite thing to do and he did not want to cause a scene. The whole affair of the High Quarter reminded him of earth malls, alive with voices and foot steps and music and the seductive calls of people and shops to entice you in. He is glad that before they came he had asked Samouel to help him purchase affordable, semi-Orlesian clothing, so he stood out less, though why did they need quite so many layers? He would tug at them slightly as he walked through the Quarter, eying the various goods for sale.

Now and then paused to inspect something, but he rarely bought anything. More often than not be might by a treat or a drink and stand to the side, observing the hustle and bustle. Of course, if one of his non-human friends wished to enter he was happy to walk with them, though it galled him to have to participate in such a practice. Still, no sense in getting themselves or the Inquisition in trouble.

Of course, this was Jim Kirk. Trouble tended to find him.

The Countryside
Kirk is glad he chose to wear his wraps around his hand here, hiding his gem from few, keeping him from obviously being singled out as a Rifter. In this place, well, it didn't seem like a good thing to be called out on, not with demons wandering through. How could the problem be so bad here? What was different here than around Skyhold or in the desert wastelands?

He hears of the problems, and being himself he cannot well ignore it. He would get a party together if he could, but if nothing else he would go alone to scout and offer what advice he might on battle. It seemed wrong, to him, to sit and do simply nothing, no matter if he is contributions might be small. It makes him sick, on the whole though - that the Orelsians would let such things happen in the name of a ridiculous civil war, that those of "better" birth would leave these people to fend for themselves.

He wasn't like that, he wouldn't be. So he wandered the villages, knives and staff in hand, extra supplies in the pack on his back in case he came across anyone - or needed to jump into the gray.

Wildcard!
Make your own adventure ~!

I. The Estate

He's rarely here, but when he is, he's just outside one of the tents with a book borrowed from the library, stew cooling nearby with Purrelden more than likely sticking nose or paw into it. What he can glean from these texts he's not sure, but this may be his only chance to read here and he's going to take it.

Most of the texts are political in nature; he needs a crash course in them, as much as he can get. And most of the expressions on his face are frowns as he tries to follow names and history. Anders could most definitely use a hand.

II. High Quarter

He doesn't have much in the way of coin, which means his browsing is cursory. All the same, it's satisfying to be able to browse with a staff on his back and know he's not going to be turned away because he's a mage. That doesn't mean he's stupid. Every time he leaves the estate, he has one of the half-masks on.

Still, despite his lack of funds, Anders does stop to touch a few of the finer coats and prettier hats. From time to time he'll even ask about price, or the make of something, but as he's fairly certain few people want to exchange healing potions for their merchandise, Anders moves on before too long.

III. Elven Districts

His movements here are stiff, stilted, despite how thoroughly he works his magic into the ground to smooth the cobblestones and level the road. Anders is angry. Purrelden, playing with some of the burnt grass, doesn't help. His people are free and getting their tiny chance to prove themselves, but still another group is expected to keep their heads down? And then there's the guilt. If he hadn't carried Justice for so long, would he even care? How much of this is him, and how much is residual?

He doesn't know, and that frustration only helps to make his expression severe. This is where about half of his time is spent, working on road and structures, kneeling every now and then to patiently try urging something half-dead back to life. All he can do is hope that the restoration of the area gives the elves hope. For what, he doesn't know.

IV. The Countryside

"Oh. Of course." It's not going to be an easy job of cleaning up a few demons and healing people. No, of course they're late. Are there even any survivors? Anders might be starting to understand why people hate Orlais.

"Right." He drops off his horse and puts barriers up, already looking for the source of the roar. "Someone play the big strong muscle so I can hide behind you and keep the both of us intact while we take that thing down?"

V. Wildcard

[[ooc: hit me up on plurk or Discord, suggest something, and let's play!]]

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)

i. the estate

It is a relief beyond words to find, upon reaching the Pelletier estate, that the duke himself is nowhere to be seen. The pervading gossip is that Cassandra herself is the cause of his sudden departure, netting her curious stares from the estate's servants. She takes no note of them, tending to her own not-insubstantial business with her head held high.

But if she is slightly more willing than usual to show her affection for Martel in public, slightly less inclined to put a stop to any gossip regarding her own personal life...well. Perhaps the Seeker is simply learning to lighten up a bit. Or perhaps she is not so terrible a player of the Game as she claims, and knows as well as anyone the value of a well-placed rumor.

All in all, her stay at the estate is nowhere near as dreadful as she had imagined. Her room is comfortable, private, and elegant, the food is exquisite, and those statues of Andraste the duke has set everywhere are stunning. (Besides, he's not even here.) Why is everyone complaining?

iii. elven districts

As expected, Cassandra spends more time than she'd prefer cooped up in the study-turned-office at the estate. But not even the Inquisition's leaders are forced to attend meetings all day every day. When she can, she slips away.

For the most part, she avoids the High Quarter, preferring instead to spend what free time she has in the city's elven quarter. There is no shortage of work to be done, and besides, she is much less likely to be recognized here. Much better to spend a day hauling cobblestones and collapse into bed with her muscles aching than to face masked fans clamoring for a smile or a signature from the Hero of Orlais.

iv. countryside

Maker be praised, she finally gets to hit something.

Thank Andraste for demons.

v. wildcard

I. THE ESTATE

It had been some time since Nerva had returned to her homeland, but this part of Orlais wasn't as familiar as it should have been. She had never been on the richer side of the spectrum, so standing around the manor - in full armour, of course - made her itch. She frowned at a fountain in the courtyard, as if it would answer her questions, and couldn't help but openly stare at any servants who happened to come under her gaze. Inquisition members, however, got a slightly more cordial head-nod.

II. HIGH QUARTER

How she ended up with 'undersirables' as friends and companions was anyone's guess, but Nerva had never dealt very well with people telling her what to do when she didn't want to do it. So she offered her services to anyone in the Inquisition who wanted to go shopping with a well-armed escort - Elves, Tal-vashoth, the works. Even mages had been offered her services. After all, she was a native - she spoke the language, and she wore her armour well: few dared to mess with her.

And at least this way she could keep an eye on anyone from the Inquisition that might be interested in starting trouble...

V. WILDCARD

Lexa keeps to herself in Halamshiral. She's shed most of the trappings that mark her as Avvar (especially as their leader), everything but the braids exchanged for plain, generic alternatives. Dark colors, simple cuts, a slightly different coat. She blends in even as she sticks to the edges of the camp by a small tent under a tree, or wanders the streets of the city, peeling off from a pack of roving Inquisition agents or soldiers.

The point is they haven't really crossed paths til now, when a yip in the darkness has her helping a fox-orange puppy get her paw free from a hole in a log. She's not really injured, just a bit scraped, but instead of running home she tugs at Lexa's bootlaces until she scoops her up and carries her back toward the part of camp Lexa's been avoiding.

"I found Dally out on the edge of the woods," she says in place of a greeting as she steps up to the fire Clarke and Bellamy are sitting around. "She scraped her paw."

i. ESTATE (CHAPEL)

Josephine may not be as devout as the other advisors of the Inquisition, but she is still Andrastian, and with her faith in herself wavering ever-so-slightly of late, it is perhaps time to put her faith into something else. You may stumble upon Josephine sitting upon one of the pews, lips moving quietly as she recites part of the Chant.

"... We are Yours and none shall stand before us."

While she is not praying, Josephine can be found socialising amongst those who have assembled. And if there are members of the Inquisition who require assistance navigating Halamshiral, Orlesian culture or the Game in general, Josephine is always ready to dispense her advice.

ii. HIGH QUARTER

Josephine has missed Orlais: the lively music; the decorated buildings; the furtive motions of the Game, well played. While the High Quarter is no Val Royeaux, it more closely resembles her comfort zone than the frozen Frostbacks.

She does not wear a mask as she wanders the stalls, had not covered her face the last time she was here. It is a statement, after a fashion.

While she ostensibly appears to be looking for items that might be useful in decorating Skyhold, she can be seen loitering near a vendor selling beautiful carvings of miniature ships, a wistful look in her eyes. )

Threaded | Flat

Inessa | OTA

Korrin | OTA

Bruce (Banner) | OTA - prose/brackets all welcome

Sina | OTA

Maxwell| OTA