VI. CLOSED.

[glandival]

WHO: Pel Ashara and Sabine
WHAT: A visit and learning experience.
WHEN: Mid-Solace.
WHERE: The Val Royeaux alienage.

[ It isn't like Halamshiral. In fact, it isn't quite like anywhere, not even other alienages.

Ten thousand elves are packed into a space the size of a marketplace. The first time Sabine had seen it, she'd been-- shocked is probably the word, but it hadn't felt like a sudden jolt. More like a tidal wave flooding in, sinking her senses, absorbing this place that made the elven slums of Halamshiral look sprawling, an idyllic example of metropolitan existence. You know, before they were burned to black.

But this isn't her first time, or even her second and third. She is more aware of Pel, as they slip through the gates in the gentle morning hours. Sabine leads the way, not in a rush, but with a destination in mind. It's early, and so the sun is low in the sky, and thus entirely unseen in the dark, shadowed space of the alienage, where impossible walls block off view of the outside world, stained in woodfire smoke run off.

The streets are narrow and dirty and the buildings ugly and pragmatic, but one can sense a life boarded up inside of them.

Sabine doesn't blink as a pack of small, skinny-limbed elven children rush between she and Pel, flowing around them like water breaking, the dirt-black soles of their feet flashing in loping leaps. Sabine swats a hand after one, a natural kind of gesture, a flash of a smile on her face even when that hand wanders back to her hip to check nothing's been stolen from her. ]

Notice anything odd about this place?

[ A little wry in delivery. There's a lot of things to notice about this place. ]

Comments

[mythalenaste]

[It's like stepping into some pocket universe. It's like a place that doesn't really exist. The first thing Pel notices is]

The smell. [Like fetid waste, rotten garbage, and rancid urine. There must be urine everywhere, flung out onto the streets when it could not be used for washing. Woodsmoke. Some days-old carrion that's probably a few streets down, unseen.

She's not carrying money, doesn't even think to pat herself down after the kids ran by. She does watch them depart, looking and feeling oddly numb.] Are they allowed to be out?

[The curfew is still clearly in effect, or has only just been lifted. Does that put the children in danger? Or does it mean the children are the danger, recruited by some criminal underlord for their innocent looks and deft fingers?

Okay, this isn't one of Varric's books. The truth, she suspects, is bleaker than that. Kallian described alienages as being rather like a clan. But she didn't talk about the smell. She didn't talk about the rules, how very close together everything is, or how you can't see any of the rest of the city from the inside. It really is a pocket universe, someplace beyond the Fade that is precisely the size of these few acres of living space. A whole world, seen in a glance.]

[glandival]

[ ooc ; kicks in door, so sorry, let's do this. ]

[ The smell is the kind of answer that has Sabine's hackles up and is also utterly fair, but Pel's attention is, quite rightly, reflected outwards, and so a slightly haughty firming of Sabine's jaw can probably get a pass.

They move like they are headed somewhere. They are, but it's also best to keep moving. ]

Oui et non.

[ Pel, inevitably, will attract stares, but it's not uniformly antagonistic. Inscrutable glances will soak in the marks on her face when they catch sight. Distrust seems like a wise default, but otherwise are simply curious. Sabine has known the Dalish are real since she was little. There are some who may still harbour suspicion that they're a myth.

Sabine watches these signs of curiousity too. She doesn't think she will have to defend the Dalish woman she's let into this world, but if she does, she'd sooner act herself than have any magic get thrown around. ]

We can leave. They can leave. But you understand -- it is not always safe to leave. This place is safe, in that way. Safe from shems.

[ A little dry; ] That is what I was calling your attention to. It is a city without humans.

[ Which has its advantages. But it also has its downfalls. ]

This way.

[mythalenaste]

[It does belatedly occur to Pel that commenting on the smell was sort of a terrible thing to do, and she winces. But she does give another good look about, taking in that this enormous gathering of people in such little space. Not a single one of them human. But it feels right, that way. Before the Inquisition, she had seen only a handful of humans in her life, and never lived with any of them. Now, it's a distorted familiarity, ten thousand elves calling this home, and not a human among them.

Without another word, she trots after Sabine, feeling very small indeed, and very guilty at her arrogance that she at any point thought she had ever known hardship in her own life. She has only ever known freedom with no walls. How very privileged she has been, without ever understanding.]

[glandival]

[ The more they walk, the deeper into the heart of the alienage they go. It doesn't quite improve, except that one gets a sense that it's preferred to be further away from the gates than inside, and there are less lonely looking souls crowded shelterless in doorways. They move down a street made skinnier thanks to the market carts lining it, and the morning sunlight is attenuated where overhangs of cloth stretched across above their heads, rain stained but colourful.

For sale: peasant vegetables, hard bread, bundles of dried herbs, jars of honey, small tubs of lard.

The street opens like a vein into Sabine's intended destination, and now, beneath the stench of smoke, sewage, and garbage rotting in the sun, a whiff of something else. Something green.

In the high summer, what leaves the massive oak that stands in the centre of the square have turned out are vibrant, if sparse. It bares scars and rot, but it struggles on, and surrounding it is a circle of tribute -- at this hour, none of the candles are burning, but they are well-used and numerous, surrounded by small offerings and tokens, some on the ground, some dangling from the lower branches. The trunk itself is painted as high as someone could comfortably reach, and there are dirty mats and cushions where those that wish to can kneel.

As for Sabine, she lets out a breath, a little relieved. It's not uncommon, sometimes, for alienages to let their tree die, or to cut it down in need of the wood. She wouldn't have been surprised if Val Royeaux had done the same. ]

The vhenadahl, [ she says, drawing to a stop. ] Our heart. I thought, if you saw anything, you should see it.

[mythalenaste]

[Pel looks up at the tree and remembers what her people say of the city-dwelling elves: that they have forgotten who they are, and submit to humans. But here, surrounded by humans on all sides, they plant this reminder of who they are, as blatant a defiance of both those things as Pel can think of. Obviously not everyone reveres it the same, but it is still part of the culture. This is how they remember.

She approaches the tree and reaches out to touch the gnarled bark, flattening a hand against it. A silent prayer is sent up to Mythal, asking forgiveness for her arrogance and protection for her People in the city.]

You are also the last elvhen, [she says softly.] My people are wrong. You haven't forgotten. You know exactly who you are.