faderift | NEVER FORGIVE || closed

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NEVER FORGIVE || closed

WHO: Julius and Darras
WHAT: Riftwatch sends some diplomats on a mission to deal with some pesky Fereldan lords.
WHEN: fantasy July
WHERE: certain Fereldan estates
NOTES: this job is gonna require charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent. and maybe some blackmail. annnnd they've already written off Bann Ranulf icly.

Queen Anora has discreetly requested assistance dealing with a handful of Fereldan lords who are pressuring her to make demands of Orlais—including a formal apology and a pledge of reparations for the occupation—before committing to any official assistance in repelling the invasion. The Queen thinks that these demands are unlikely to be met, that making them and then conceding would result in a loss of face, and that failing to assist could ultimately jeopardize Ferelden and all of Southern Thedas. But pushing back too indelicately against the lords may make her look weak or indifferent to those among the populace who still remember the brutality of the Orlesian occupation. A team will be sent to investigate the lords clamoring for her to make demands to see if they can uncover any potential means to quiet them down, and then to do so, with violence as a last resort.....

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Bann Osthrytha is of middle age and was born during the rebellion, which her father died fighting in. Her interest is somewhat more cynical: the power her family wielded historically was left in tatters after the occupation and much of their land parceled out to others because her grandfather and father collaborated with the Orlesians, and she's made restoring their honor and influence her life's work. She's made headway, but she's short of where she wants to be, and she thinks taking a firm stand against Orlais will help with the honor bits, while some restitution for what was lost when Orlais redistributed lands and power will help with the influence bits.

"'Riftwatch'," Bann Osthrytha repeats, dubiously. Then she lifts her glass to her lips to take a long, slow sip of fruit wine.

Osthrytha has furnished her guests with a glass for themselves as well. It's of her own vintage, she'd said, with certain pride, as her footman had poured out for them. Sweet and more syrup than wine, it had flowed thickly out of the flagon, and clings to the sides of the glass. Sure and it would be bad diplomacy to refuse, so Darras raises his glass as well, and takes a sip when Osthrytha does. Suppresses the grimace he wants to give.

The hall is modest--a high ceiling, a mighty hearth that a full-grown man might stand in--but otherwise the room is small. Straw is on the floor instead of carpet, and the only tapestry in the place is a narrow panel depicting a mighty stag brought low by a pack of dogs. The dog that is sitting at Osthrytha's feet might have come straight out of the tapestry. More scrawny than slender, all-white with pinkish eyes. She has been staring balefully at Darras and Julius since they entered, her gaze swerving only when Osthrytha pours a little more of the fruit wine into her plain silver basin.

Osthrytha repeats this now, and the bright sound of the liquid fills the silence between them. She's a handsome woman--dark hair worn in a complicated braid, just touched at the temples with white, and she wears a simple blue kirtle with close-cut sleeves and a white chemise beneath. There's a dignity to her, even while an albino dog is slopping wine at her feet, and she leans back pensively in her high-backed chair.

"Don't care for the Inquisition much," she says. "Which is why I told Clifton to let the two of you in. You're not Inquisition. Not anything, so near as I can tell."

"Not Orlesian," Darras points out. Which is maybe a little too on the nose, but Osthrytha chuckles, so perhaps that's all right.

"Another point in your favors, aye. Well, what have you got to say to me, Riftwatch? After some funding? I don't give but to charity and only then when I can spare it. Not an unkind woman, but there's mouths that need feeding round here."

She raises her eyebrows as she takes another sip, and Darras shoots Julius a sidelong look before he tenders, "Well, it's not funding."

Julius is not entirely sure whether the quick way he files each Fereldan noble in a mental index of wealth and power is a result of Petrana's influence or something he would have done anyway left to his own devices. It's not a helpful question, though, so he doesn't linger over it. Osthrytha herself deserves his full attention now, for all that he doesn't miss Darras' glance.

"We're not here to ask you for anything that you could describe as charity, monetary or otherwise." Julius has compromised in his usual mode of dress. While the staff he left in the front hall makes his origins clear enough, he's not in full Circle robes today, and his clipped Ferelden accent does a lot to make him seem to be a man who belongs here. Or at least somewhere nearby. "We're here to open a discussion. If it's a productive one, maybe we'll all leave it in a better position than we began."

Osthrytha, listening patiently, makes a gesture like go on. She doesn't offer any other comment just yet. The dog at her feet leaves off with the wine and falls to licking her chops with a delicate air peculiar to a dog of a noblewoman, as if perhaps precious resources might have been dedicated to schooling the creature in table manners.

Darras picks up where Julius had left off: "We saw the map in your front hall when your footman let us in. Sort of hard to miss. There was this castle in the center, and then the land all around it."

"I hung it there to be looked at," Osthrytha agrees, with a sigh. "A reminder to me. Used to be that land was all ours, too, before bloody Orlais and my bloody grandfather. On my thirteenth birthday, my father took me up to the ramparts and showed me. 'From that river to that river', he said, 'that ought to be yours. And it's our shame that it's not.' Well, it was our shame, but wasn't my fault. Wasn't all his fault that we lost it either. He inherited the problem from my grandfather. Lost it all. The family name's no better than the mud on your boots."

"That's not what we've heard," Darras says, with a slow shake of his head. "The part about the land, aye, that's a sad truth, but the rest of it? Your name is doing better these days, and all thanks to you."

"It's an impressive recovery, under the circumstances," Julius agrees, sitting back in his chair and sparing a brief smile for the dog before looking back up to Osthrytha. "Even if it's not what it should be, we heard your name. We're here, in part, because of it."

It's a delicate operation, this conversation, and Julius doesn't want to be hasty. But a small part of him enjoys the risk involved. Stakes make a game worthwhile, after all.

"Of course, I can't precisely understand what you've been through, but I do understand something about birth rights. I doubt you know Lady Selwyn; she's not the most prominent bann's wife in Ferelden, by any means, but she and I have a correspondence. She's told me it's been decades of upheaval, and much of that is indeed to do with Orlais - though, of course, not all of it these days."

It's a small test, an invitation to complain or not, as she likes. Let her steer, a bit, and see where she leads.

With feeling, Osthrytha turns her head and spits on the floor to punctuate that leading question. "Not all of the blame, is that what your Lady Selwyn said?"

She sits forward in her chair, her piercing blue eyes fixed on the both of them. The dog at her feet turns a look up at her.

"Then her lord must be in a prettier parcel of land than I am if she's got room to be that judicious about it. But she isn't wrong, for all that. Orlais, they're the ones that I give blame to. But it wasn't them that cut up these lands like butchers. When it was done, the carrion birds came calling from all over these lands. Carved it up, moved bits about and tried to sew it all up again like that could give it life. No concern for any of our heritage, any of what we had by rights. The people loved my grandfather, y'know, and he loved them well. Same as my father. There's folk that don't live on our lands anymore that owe fealty to me, and they'd tell you as much if you asked 'em. Yet no one gives two shits about that. They all want to harp on about Orlais? Fine. I can dance to that tune just as well if it means they'll pay me mind."

A bit quieter: "Lady Selwyn lost her son to the Fifth Blight. I imagine what disdain she reserves is for the Darkspawn. But your point is well-taken, all the same."

He leans forward a bit as well. "I can't speak for all of Riftwatch, but personally, I've every sympathy for people who take a practical approach in a poor situation. So the question now is... will it serve your long-term aims? We're not here to tell you your business, truly. I'd be interested to hear your assessment of the situation."

Osthrytha's face doesn't soften at this old news of death. Her only reaction is a small nod.

"I'm sorry for the lady if that's the fate that befell her son," she says, with a firm air. "But we've all had hard times, so you'll forgive me for not weeping for him. I spent all my tears years ago. My assessment of the situation, as you've asked for so lovely, now--that's this. I don't give a shit how I get it. I want my land. I want what's owed to me. My grandfather lost it, and I mean to reclaim it, every molehill and stone. Is your Riftwatch going to give me that, eh?"

Darras resists the urge to give Julius a second sidelong look. Is Riftwatch going to help? Likely not. An unwelcome truth won't do, so--

"Not give," he says. "But help you? That one's more possible."

"You've been straight with us," Julius says, quiet but not soft. "So I think it only fair we do you the same courtesy. We can't promise you something that isn't in our gift. But what we do have, what we can offer, is connections. We're an international organization, which means we've goals across borders, but also ears across them. We're built on favors and gratitude, which means we know a bit about helping our friends. It's the coin we pay in, often enough, and it goes farther than the gold sort."

Intent: "You asked if we came here for your coin, and I told you honestly we didn't. So honestly, now... we came because you're in a position to do us a good turn, and because we think we can do you one in recompense."

Bann Lindhard Pryan is younger and only recently inherited his title. If asked, he'll explain that it's a matter of national pride and demonstrating to the Orlesians that they aren't to be taken advantage of, that a whipped dog may run and become wild rather than answer when called, etc., but peeling back some layers will eventually show that he's also trying to impress a freeholder's daughter who frequently sings at the local tavern, usually about how terrible Orlais is.

Bann Pryan's hospitality is hearty in the manner of a young man with something to prove. His hall isn't massive, but he's a bit more extravagant a host than Osthrytha, trotting out some imported Antivan wine that he probably should be saving for representatives of a more important organization. (Not that Julius, at least, is complaining.) The food is local, but the quality is high; he's decided to treat them to dinner, not simply civilized drinks. Julius, at least, suspects this will be spun into stories of having hosted important dignitaries shortly after they depart.

The young man himself is in his early 20s, of average looks made slightly better by having the money to be clean and healthy and well-dressed. He's too young to have fought in the Fifth Blight, let alone remember the occupation. But that isn't stopping him from gamely filling the silence with a lot of big talk about things Orlesians should bear in mind, and rhetorical questions about who Orlesians think they are, and boasts about how the shoe is on the other foot now.

Julius lets him wind himself up for quite a while, glancing at Darras now and then over his wine. When the monologue eventually comes to a natural lull, he comments, "You strike me as a man ready to prove himself. Don't you think so?" Ostensibly to Darras, semi-rhetorical.

"Several somethings," Darras agrees, as he sets down his wine and leans back in his chair. His comment is a read, there'd be no denying it, but he softens it by adding, "And rightly so."

Nothing like justification to bolster the righteously offended. It proves enough to slow Pryan's slight frown and puts him to rubbing his smooth-shaved chin, trying to work out whether or not to push back with indignation or take this as a compliment. He doesn't pick up his monologue again--at least, not yet--leaving Darras room to elaborate.

"None of us here could be called a friend to Orlais. Honestly, mate, large parts of Thedas would hesitate before naming themselves as friends to Orlais. And who's going to pass up the chance to get one over them, especially one such as yourself, who's been so wronged by them."

"Well," Pryan says, slowly, and clears his throat. "Not me personally. I'm not so easy to take advantage of. It's history that I'm talking about."

"Of course," Julius agrees, easily. "But history makes itself felt, even now. It's part of what makes this such a delicate situation. It's easy to feel as if putting differences aside for a moment is apt to become putting them aside for good. Doesn't feel just." He leans forward, just slightly. "On the other hand, moments of change are when the next generation has a chance to make some history of its own, I believe."

"Well," Pryan says again. "I think that's true. Sometimes it takes a..." a stroke of happy rhetoric, "a fresh perspective when it comes to international affairs. But all the same, Orlais hardly deserves our help now, just because they're losing. Would they do the same if the situation was reversed?"

"Probably not," Darras agrees, evenly, "'cos Orlais as a whole is a bastard. And that's the rub, isn't it. You don't want to roll over for a bastard, but that means you can't keep above him, either, as he keeps dragging you down to his level. Which--and I don't have t' tell you this, mate--is low.

"So there's squabbling with a bastard--" One hand, which he holds out, empty. "Or there's getting above him." Which his other hand, with which he's picked up his wine once more. Clearly superior. "And the best part of it is, he owes you. There's nothing quite like a man owing you for some favor he can't ever repay. Until that debt means he's dogging your steps and hanging on you, then it's just irritating."

"Yes, quite," Pryan agrees. He has an inclination, it seems, to agree with the last thing said (at least to a point). "But after everything Orlais has done, should we not make them squirm a bit, at least? Owing is all well and good, but what about pride?"

Julius takes a sip of wine, evidently reflecting. After a moment: "Orlais is pride all over, it's true. But sometimes it isn't about what the bastard owing you says, is it? If he keeps his head up and pretends to go on but you know he owes you... I think there's a certain satisfaction in that. Especially if you're not the only one who knows it. Pride is well and good, but all of Southern Thedas can see that the Empire is struggling. And all of Southern Thedas will see who steps in to save them."

International heroism seems decent bait, here. Julius is briefly concerned he's laid it out a bit thick, but his expression doesn't waver.

There is a certain shine that comes to Pryan when heroism is on the table. No one could miss it. Playing at something like nationalism, appealing to it--it doesn't come naturally to Darras, whose allegiances have never been anything to do with country. Don't let the surname fool you.

Still. He knows a fool when he sees one. A bright fool, one that can be used by Riftwatch, sure--and isn't that what they're here for? So he finishes his wine in one last pull, and sets the cup back on the table when he shrugs.

"My friend there is right. What pride is there in an easy win? And that's what you'll be giving him. Might sting a little, now, but all things do." He nods, to the empty cup. "Even wine does at first. Doesn't stop you from drinking it. If you do this, now, this way, you'll come out looking a bigger man than any of 'em. All of Orlais will owe you a debt and you can thank them for remembering it when they're hailing you a hero."

"Not much glory in following the crowd," Julius agrees. "Getting out in front, though; leading the charge. Everyone remembers your name then."

Pryan is evidently mulling all this over. Being acclaimed certainly seems a glowing prospect, burnished up by his two visitors, but he's also aware of the need for reverse course. The potential awkwardness of it.

"If I were to speak in support of helping now," Pryan says, deliberately, "will I not seem a changeable man? One who doesn't know his own mind? I fear I'd be branded a coward or a fool, sooner than a hero."

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NEVER FORGIVE || closed

Bann Osthrytha

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Bann Lindhard Pryan

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