open | intro log.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Mhavos Dalat, resident newbie, & YOU.
WHAT: Mhavos takes stock of... all this... weird fucking shit.
WHEN: Aug 1-3ish, presumably everything in here doesn't happen the same day.
WHERE: Various places around the Gallows and Kirkwall proper.
NOTES: Poetry, discussions of slavery, a nerd whining about religious authenticit. Will update if anything intense happens.

a. OUTSIDE THE CHANTRY.

It's All Fool's Day. Mhavos has read of this holiday, but he's never been given leave to witness the celebration. He fins himself curious, and a little daring; he's got nothing else on his schedule, anyway.

Outside the Chantry, a play is being put on. In front of a respectably sized bonfire, play actors dance about, mimicking the sacred immolation of Andraste. Mhavos stands in the crowd, watching intently. At one point, he almost flinches, before crossing his arms and shaking his head. To himself, he murmurs, "That's not what happens."

b. GALLOWS LIBRARY.

Among the rows of long tables, Mhavos has collected around him a fair pile of books. He pages through one, writes something down in a ledger, scoffs, and returns it to a different pile, before selecting another. This pattern repeats, complete with Mhavos moving his lips to read each word, several times. Coming close, one will find the books are written in both Orlesian and Trade, and detail a large range of subjects.

Occasionally, one may hear Mhavos murmur, "terrible, terrible," under his breath, his Orlesian accent thicker than usual.

c. THE STREETS OF KIRKWALL.

You are presumably minding your own business, wandering aroun town, doing whatever it is you do with your day. That's fine. That's fair. Allowed.

A gentle hand taps your shoulder, or, if you're particularly tall, your elbow. Turning around, you'll find Mhavos Dalat, an elf with an Orlesian accent. He hands you some coin, or an object that's definitely yours.

"Excuse me," he says mildly, "I believe you were pick-pocketed."

d. LOWTOWN.

After memorizing a map of Kirkwall, Mhavos is set and determined to explore as much of it as possible on his free time. Lowtown is inevitable, and Mhavos isn't much afraid of it. He's just an elf, after all, and he elects to bring none of his belongings. It's easy enough to pass through without making any waves. Any ripples.

He watches a street performer, an elf juggling a series of hard wooden balls. The performer is a bit clumsy, and their clothes are tatty, and the balls are chipped from old paint, dented from years of use. It's clear why the performer hasn't moved their act to Hightown yet.

The performer drops two of the wooden balls, and they thud on the dirty ground before Mhavos deftly kicks them up into his hands, balancing them gracefully in his hands before throwing them back. The entire maneuver is quick and fluid, betraying far more grace than Mhavos had meant.

The performer thanks him, and Mhavos quickly makes his exit from the scene, walking fast, face down.

e. HIGHTOWN.

There are street preachers in every part of Kirkwall, but from Mhavos' survey of the city, the worst are most certainly in Hightown. He listens silently, walks by them, ignores them, until he can't stand it anymore.

On matters of faith, Mhavos has little care. But being uninformed...

You'll find him standing before one such preacher, an annoyed look on both their faces.

"That's inconsistent," Mhavos says, voice mild despite his expression. "Either we are bidden to choose the direction of our lives-- as you say, to be with the Maker or against Him-- or we are all acting in accordance with his will, but you cannot have both. If you preach, you are asking us to choose. If you preach that His will shapes our lives in every aspect, you are contradi-"

He's cut off by a loud shout from the preacher, and the words 'knife ear' are heard. Mhavos massages the bridge of his nose. "You clearly haven't read the Messendrine Epistles..."

f. WILDCARD.

[yo i'm down for anything, mix and match prompts, come up with new stuff, whatever. hmu @ wehwalt (i'm open to adds!) or a dm if you want to discuss anything!]

Comments

closed to nikos, ilias & kostos.

[murderbaby]

Madame de Revin had informed him in no uncertain terms that she never wanted to see his ugly rabbit face again. Fine by him; he had no particular love for the woman. There were some servants who did, who loved their masters and adored their work. If Mhavos had ever been such a person, he could not recall it.

Madame de Revin had also thrown his employment contract at him, said she'd gambled him away, and that he was to find his new masters. This was not nearly so fine, but manageable enough. It was always a risk, moving from one master to another, but Mhavos had no say in the matter, so he tamped down the usual feeling of confusion and panic, and instead set about finding these people before he was reported as a runaway servant.

After Mhavo gave the names Madame de Revin had told him to the woman keeping bar, he was pointed toward a table with three gentlemen seated around, apparently in the midst of some heated discussion. They didn't look like nobility, but it didn't matter. Work was work. His life was his life.

He walks over and cleared his throat, waiting until expectant silence stetted. He then holds out his contract, crisply folded, to no one in particular. Someone would take it.

"Mhavos Dalat, a pleasure," he says in Orlesian-accented-Trade. "Madame de Revin said she would have the remainder of your winnings sent to you."

The contract reads, in both Trade and Orlesian:

EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT for indentured servant MHAVOS DALAT, elf.

The owner of this contract, undersigned, has in their employ the talents of INDENTURED SERVANT. INDENTURED SERVANT'S services shall be rendered until the time of which UNDERSIGNED OWNER consider his services no longer necessary, for the duration of UNDERSIGNED OWNER'S choosing, on the understanding that in return UNDERSIGNED OWNER shall provide food and clothing for INDENTURED SERVANT. If UNDERSIGNED OWNER wishes to sell, trade, gift, or otherwise give over INDENTURED SERVANT'S services to another, UNDERSIGNED OWNER need only to either give this contract to their intended recipient, or have a copy made and notarized, with the name of NEW OWNER written in.

Underneath the terms and conditions, Madame de Revin's name is scratched out, and the words bastard foreign gamblers is scrawled in.

Mhavos has, of course, read it. He coughs politely. "You need only to write the appropriate name. Or names."

[exequy]

Kostos—previously interrupted by that throat-clearing mid-Nevarran sentence in an argument about whether or not a misdeal several hours prior should have invalidated the hand, the game, the entire evening, anything to let him live in a world where he'd never lost a game of cards to Ilias Fabria—is closest, when the contract is held out, and in exactly the mood to take it like it's his to take.

He reads it. Twice. Scans the Orlesian, for good measure, even though he only sort of understands it.

He hasn't spoken more than a monosyllable directly to his brother all night, but it's him he holds the document toward next, not Ilias, while he looks at Mhavos Dalat with a sort of perplexed outrage. The outrage isn't directed at him, of course, but he's the current physical embodiment of the source, so he's the one getting scowled at.

[libratus]

Ilias — two fingers still poised at his temple, either from the amount of wine that'd made him think gambling with the Averesch brothers would be a better way to spend an evening than literally anything else, or from the burgeoning regret for having actually won — has taken the chair between them out of some form of masochism.

He does not bother reaching after the paper. The tick of his jaw at its passage from hand to hand twists instead into a restrained smile for their guest.

"Ilias Fabria," he offers to the elf in turn, wielding congeniality with spiteful determination. His own Trade is heavy with Nevarran vowels, as out of place as the dark robes he wears. "My associates are Kostos and Nikos Averesch, tragically raised by wolves. My apologies for the circumstance."

[exsecutus]

Nikos looks up from the paper to give Fabria a look that could wither grass. The fact that he is made of flesh and not grass means it has little effect on him, but it feels good.

Having come here to gamble and finding Kostos already within, he'd decided that purposefully approaching his brother would be his response to the circumstances, and to Kostos' disregard of him. The whole effect had been less satisfying than he'd wanted--Kostos bearing his presence with steel and chill and no real acknowledgement at all--but he'd dug in, stubbornness winning out over frustrated revenge.

Which hadn't meant a win at cards for him, which is what put him at this table, still, perfectly in place to accept the contract from Kostos, if only so Fabria didn't get hold of it first.

"For what circumstance," he says, as he turns the contract about so Fabria can see it. See, and not take. He's got his hands on it. "Ownership? Where is this de Revin?"

This last part is, obviously, to Mhavos Dalat. A pleasure.

"If this is a fucking joke, I'll dip this parchment in wine so she can eat it. If it isn't a fucking joke--"

It'll be worse. It's in his tone, and the trail off, though it goes unsaid.

closed to yseult.

[murderbaby]

It took some doing, some convincing, but Mhavos has managed to secure an appointment with the head of tradecraft ('scouting', they call it. Mhavo had read that the proper pronunciation for l'espionnage was tradecraft, but the book was rather old).

He waits, standing dutifully and staring at nothing, until he's informed that the Division Head will see him now.

This entire time, he's been wondering how he ought to address her. In Orlais it was always very simple, but Kirkwall has entirely different forms of address and prestige, nevermind the fact that many of those working within Riftwatch don't hail from Kirkwall originally. The name 'Yseult' could be from any number of places, the majority of which Mhavos is woefully unfamiliar. He braces himself, internally, for reprimand, and makes his best guess.

"Messire Yseult," Mhavos says. He stands before her desk, every inch rigid obedience. "Thank you for seeing me."

He is an elf, after all. Always best to make oneself appear grateful.

[hassaran]

If Yseult has any objection to the form he's chosen, she does not show it, well-practiced at such things. (Nearly anything is preferable to the 'Scoutmaster' title popularized by the office's previous occupants and she bears that with good grace every day.) Her office is furnished with the sort of understated elegance that plays second-fiddle to functionality--handsome and comfortable but only out of necessity as a room in which much time is spent--and as a frequenter of the homes of the wealthy he may recognize the quality as decidedly middle-class.

Yseult herself is perhaps less-easily measured, looking up from behind a desk neatly stacked with papers to offer a polite smile and gesture toward the chair opposite. "A pleasure to meet you, Mhavos. Please, sit." She tidies up the space directly in front of her as he does, paper tucked away in a file, pen returned to its holder, and folds her hands together on the blotter. "What did you wish to discuss?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos sits more out of duty than comfort; it's an order, one to be followed, and he does immediately. He nods his head, obliging.

He wishes he could glean more from this encounter. Orlesian nobles, he knows how to read, servants as well, courtiers and troubadours and bards and other players in the Great Game. But this is a woman working for her own goals, and he has no clue how to model himself to meet her.

There is a painting in the Musée de la Grâce Perdue, depicting a conquered Fereldan bowing before his new lord, throat bared. Ever helpful, his subconscious flashes that image, lovingly painted and softened by memory, behind his eyes.

How bloody melodramatic.

He straightens his poster further than it was before, and speaks even-toned, though one with an eye for such things may catch hints of well-buried anxiety in his tone and bearing. "My employment with your organization," he says. "My previous... work in Orlais. I was known to most as a clerk and a scrivener. However..."

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he lets out a quiet sigh. "To put it plainly, I worked as a spy and occasionally an assassin. My clerical work was largely a cover to allow me to go unnoticed."

And then he waits for a reaction. If this woman is worthy of her position, he doesn't imagine he'll see much of one.

the streets of kirkwall.

[elegiaque]

“What? Motherfucker,” is not, typically, the sort of thing that one expects to hear out of a young woman with an accent like hers—she might have been dragged out of Orlais's upper echelons, but she still sounds like a High Quarter princess, aggrieved when she accepts back the delicate and costly bracelet she hadn't noticed being slipped off her thin wrist.

Snapping it back into place, she appraises him—a little shorter than she is, but not much. Elven. Oddly proportioned in the face, but she's hardly one to talk about great big eyes, or to try and claim that a goodly portion of her acquaintance couldn't be described as 'mildly unsettling at best'.

“Thank you,” seems appropriate, some of the tension that had coiled in her like a spring on being touched lessening. “I'd have been annoyed to lose that.”

[murderbaby]

Mhavos pauses a moment, unsure. He was expecting to be accused of extortion, or being the pickpocket himself. What does he do next?

It's only a second's pause, though. Hard to notice, harder to comment on, if one is bound to the rules of propriety. Anyway, he can always just state his expectation. It feels like a lie, but only because it's convenient; it's very much the truth.

He nods, a little dip of the head. Her Orlesian accent is unmistakable, and he can feel a Madame or Mademoiselle hiding beneath his tongue. He tries to forestall anything overt, but he does fall back on old habits, an almost courtly obsequience. "Of course."

He turns to go, wanting to detach himself from this unwanted memory, when he hears shouting. It's profanity and invective, knife ear and thief and bastard. The man running toward them has a bloody nose; Mhavos remembers it well. He took great pains to remove all signs of blood or fighting before returning the jewelry.

He's still not sure why he did it. It was something to do?

The pickpocket-- for that is obviously what he is-- comes at them running. Mhavos stands in front, sighing, braces himself.

"You can go," he says over his shoulder.

[elegiaque]

Her first instinct is one she tamps down, immediately; as satisfying as it would be to sweep around him and raise her shield (and it would be, because she's seen things collide with her barrier before and she doesn't get bored of it), it would also be courting clusterfuck on Kirkwall streets, liable to have her mistaken for a mage by locals less familiar with the precise details of the anchor-shards certain members of Riftwatch bear, and potentially provoke mage-related unrest in her immediate vicinity. Which she has definitely lectured other people about, and which she could expect them to waste absolutely no time in reminding her—

but for as small as she is, she still has weight to be thrown around, and she draws herself up to her full height of fuck all, fingers curling around his elbow, objecting immediately and implicitly to the way that this has been framed.

She could go. She doesn't, skirting around him (literally; they are heavy, even the lighter fabrics in this summer heat, and they swirl around his ankles with the speed of her movement) to plant herself and her spoiled, expensive humanity between him and who she surmises to be in fact her pickpocket. It is no less literal a barrier than the one she might have exploded out of her left hand.

“Felix,” she says, tranquilly.

The aging, gaunt Orlesian man who rejoins her has at least a foot on the both of them, and every appearance of having also probably just the one expression.

“This man wishes to apologise to me for his theft. Assist him.”

One small elf is one thing; the crowd would have been on his side. Guilfoyle moves like an assassin because it's what he was before he was anything else and he might be slower than he once was, but not so much that he can't take full advantage of the pickpocket's forward momentum to prevent him from making it very quickly backwards momentum, catching him by the collar of his shirt.

b

[wythersake]

Terrible, terrible,

"Dog-eared as the east." In agreeable Orlesian. A belated gesture to the book pages (of course that's what he meant); Isaac pulls out another chair. "I'm sorry to interrupt,"

He's not, or he wouldn't have.

"Is that a catalogue?"

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is not, in fact, one of those creatures overinvested in the well fare of books. Perhaps it's because he's never owned one, but their upkeep is always the responsibility of others. As long as the tome is legible, he reasons, it's fine enough for him.

He's almost confused a moment, before realizing the man's meaning. He ought to be annoyed at the interruption, but it doesn't cross his mind; he's human, after all, and his Orlesian accent is unmistakable.

Mhavos looks up from the books he's comparing. One of them is, indeed, a catalogue. "Yes," he says mildly. "It lists eminent translations and their sources."

He wonders if he should complain, before realizing the man can't penalize him if he does. Right? Best phrase it mildly.

"Though 'eminent' may be a stretch."

[wythersake]

"Really?"

Translations have always interested Isaac in the manner of brightly coloured trousers, or trust falls. Theoretically useful, occasionally necessary -- and best avoided for the sake of his dignity.

"Between what?"

Languages. Material. Kirkwall has always been a port, but half the Gallows' stock has come in more piecemeal (the reason, itself, to seek a scribe).

a

[rowancrowned]

“Is it,” the older elf says, turning his head to look down at him.

It was the flinch, the unselfconscious nature of it, that caught Thranduil’s eye. It draws his attention away from the play. He is here to be seen here, as Riftwatch and Rifter both, but that does not mean he cannot divert himself briefly.

The Chantry has done a great deal to wound him, as of late—the turn of his cheek during a play cannot match their insult.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos likes to think he's generally unflappable. He's kept an idea of what the world offers him, and rises to meet it.

An elf over six feet tall is not something he's prepared for.

He gapes like a guppy, and it's a credit to his meager ability at self control that he only does so for a handful of seconds. Recovering himself (though he can feel a blush rising on his cheeks, how idiotic) he swallows air and says, "Their- their portrayal of the denunciation of Maferath is inaccurate according to their own scripture."

Well? What else is he supposed to say? Are you what happens when an elf fucks a qunari?

[rowancrowned]

He’s been in Kirkwall long enough that the reactions have generally tapered off to the occasional new merchant looking briefly confused come market time, so this is novel. He smiles (indulgently, tilted head and all-- ) and follows that up with, “—perhaps, but it is meant to be entertaining. This is not an unfamiliar portion of the Chant, but this version far more riveting.”

Particularly the jingling hat worn by Maferath.

After a moment of further consideration: “Or were you referring to this play? I will confess I have not seen another to compare it to.”

on a rooftop

[notched]

She's never stopped scuttling the rooftops of Kirkwall and the Gallows. She's been warned on more than one occasion that she's going to get herself shot through at some point. Every time she's repressed a smile: they can certainly try. She's been scuttling the rooftops of Yharnam while under attack for what could possibly be an eternity; time doesn't move there, it's always the same night and the Hunt is always on.

It makes her feel safe to move the rooftops, to memorize all the tiles that slip, all the crumbling walls, and opened windows. In the event the town really were attacked, she would be a nasty little weapon creeping upon the unsuspecting from all her little hidey-holes and secret runs.

She does it every night, and it's rare for there to be anyone else about...

gasps & claps.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos is not up here in service of clandestine skullduggery. He's trying to get a better sense of Kirkwall's layout, and he doesn't want people knowing he regularly scales walls. So, dressed in the black leather armor that makes him far more difficult to see in the dark, he sits quietly at the highest point, and tries to sketch out the rough shapes of a map, going from the lamplight of the city. A boisterous one like this never quite settles into complete darkness, and his eyesight has always been sharp.

He hears... something, and it's only from years of training that he's able to catch the blur of another person up on the roof with him. Some ways off, on a parapet, someone was moving.

Quick as a flash, he folds the map away, and crouches low behind a flagstone. Has he caught a murder in process? He watches, eyes wide, for any other signs of movement.

[notched]

In the last days of Yharnam, no one could be trusted. No other hunter was your friend, most likely they wanted to kill you and take your equipment. Resources were scarce with the city a cadaver, with all the sects that had once maintained workshops and laboratories dwindled. She herself is a creature in black leather. A large floppy brimmed hat, face covered to the nose, and a fire-ravaged coat that smelled of the person who died wearing it. She had taken it off his corpse. She had taken many things off many corpses, just like any other Hunter.

The little scuffle of the map is all it takes for her to flick loose her whip. It glitters in an arc but then she's gone back in the shadows as well, watching for any smudge of movement.

One day, she might learn that Thedas is a different beast. But she also fears becoming complacent. As much as she enjoyed Thedas in the daylight, at night fear still ruled her.

c. pockets?? we don't need no stinking pockets!

[sulahnan]

For a split second after he taps her shoulder, she looks like she might punch him. She doesn't, but her first instinct when taken off-guard is to get her dukes up. Her second instinct is to cover the first with a dorky laugh and a crooked grin.

"What? I don't even have..." The grin freezes on her face as she sees the coin in the elf's hand. "...pockets. Oh."

It's true, she doesn't. She's apparently been taking style advice from Kostos, as she's sporting all black clothes today, but other than the dagger slung across her hip she doesn't really have any pick-pocketable compartments.

But the money was hers, or rather had been. She knuckles her forehead.

"No, that was a drop."

bless.

[murderbaby]

Oh, thank the Maker, an elf. He can speak frankly. And he does-- a short bark of laughter. "And I've botched that royally. Apologies. I'm still dreadfully new to this city."

[sulahnan]

Sigh.

"It's ok. I mean, it's not ok, I'm pretty ticked, but it was an honest mistake I guess." Now she has to remember the secondary drop location, because there's very little chance of her tracking down her contact on the streets.

"I'll give you some advice: unless you're a pickpocket, pay more attention to your own pockets than someone else's. People around here aren't exactly trusting of altruism."

e.

[hornswoggle]

After a year in Kirkwall, there's little to be gleaned from the street preachers. John does not find that they vary their approach, but that doesn't mean there's nothing to be learned from them. He's not a man of faith, but he does like to know what's being shouted at pedestrians, and how many stop to listen.

And it's always interesting when someone stops to shout back. John never will. (He's learned to ignore the worst, to remain untouched in the face of very specific insult.) It's all the more interesting when someone is objecting on the basis of lack of knowledge rather than skipping directly to more colorful invective.

"It's a lost cause, but that was a nice attempt. You might have had a chance, if they cared very much about accuracy."

And John certainly isn't a beacon of honesty and truth in his public speaking ventures, which is why he is probably qualified to make this assessment.

[murderbaby]

"It's-" Mhavos snaps, "it's just laziness. He clearly hasn't read Pulpaterities. Why have I and not-" And then he catches himself, massages his temple, shakes his head.

"I am sorry. You're quite right. It's a futile effort; I'll be lucky if someone doesn't throw something at me."

He waits a moment, as though boredly expecting to be struck.

[hornswoggle]

"It's not entirely a waste of time, unless you're expecting them to use your suggestions to improve." John answers, though he isn't sure it's deliberate laziness so much as a recognition that they know enough to make a particular case to the crowd and be well received. It's a rudimentary approach. Effective up to a point.

Not that John is all that familiar with the texts Mhavos is referencing. He's been reading since he's arrived in Kirkwall, but making up a lifetime of poor education takes time. A few days spent in the libraries aren't going to correct his deficiencies, especially with John's priorities being continually superseded by other things.

"The question becomes, what are you hoping to get out of heckling a few preachers?"