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

[murderbaby]

"All fair points. My expectations were irascible at best." He makes a gesture of deference, not from habit, so much as acknowledgement. He can see, with this council, that he was coming from the wrong perspective from the onset.

"Treatises on religion will tell you that the glory of the Maker cannot truly ever be replicated. The architecture and finery of His chantries are the best attempts man can make to show the people His finery." His tone is carefully even, showing neither adherence to, or ironic disbelief of, his statement.

"As accuracy of spirit is impossible, I would hope for accuracy of word. It would likely be dreadfully boring." Now, the hint of amusement curves his lip. "I am not much for the creative."

The truth of that statement lies in semantics.

"And you? Would you improve it?"

sry for numerous errors, phone tags

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil opens his mouth to reply, stops, and looks down in the direction of his boots, smiling. He shakes his head, and tries again, glancing sideways.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I have been rude. I sought too eagerly to coax you to my way of seeing things and neglected attempting the same from yours.”

Then he looks from the elf to the stage, taking the play and players in as if they are new again, mouth set in a brief frown. It takes a moment, but—

“I would have it set to new music.”

no worriessss.

[murderbaby]

"I couldn't possibly see your way of things," Mhavos says, dry as desert wind, "not without stilts."

He turns back to the display before him, listening to the music. He likes music, though it's not a soul focus of his enjoyment. It's hard to catch any when he can't read sheet, and Orlesian musicians are reserved for special occasions.

"What sort of music? More somber or more jovial?"

[rowancrowned]

“No?” Thranduil says, and again, a smile. “Perhaps I might find you a chair to stand upon.”

He does take a moment to consider—he’s no great patron of music. Murals, though, and poetry—those stir him in particular. Perhaps he might see if the poems could not be set to flute accompaniment.

“For this? Jovial into somber, so that the audience may leave reflective.”

There is, too, a second thing he would have included, but it is wholly dissonant and he is not so stupid as to proclaim things in public.

[murderbaby]

Mhav smirks. "A ladder, surely."

He takes a moment to consider the proposal. "Ouds and flutes," he says, "no brass or drums. Too loud."

He finds he likes the idea. What this lacks, he thinks, is the seriousness he would prefer to be given matters of faith. "In Orlais they would all wear masks. I'm not sure if that would aid or harm. Perhaps it depends on the mask."

[rowancrowned]

“Heeled shoes might become fashionable again,” he offers. He’s fairly sure Yngvi would love to have someone stand on his shoulders in service of making Thranduil feel short.

“Something to suit the character. Something to make it clearer to the audience, even in the cheaper seats.” He wonders what they are doing in Lowtown. He wonders what they are doing in the Alienage—but Iorveth’s empty apartment is a space like a lost tooth; he cannot keep probing the absence.

“Provost Baudin,” he says, and sketches the sort of bow that a crowded space permits.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos plays at mock offense. "I'd break my ankles."

At the mention of the Alienage, Mhavos barely represses a shudder. "Hopefully, taking their day off to sleep."

He gives Thrandruil a querying look. "Excuse the imposition," he says, falling back on his manners as a matter of course. "You do not strike me as... Orlesian."

Or anything. Ever. From anywhere.

[rowancrowned]

“Nonsense,” and he waves away the protest with an elegant sweep of his hand. “My wife says it is easy enough to learn.”

Rest—he hopes so. Kirkwall is quieter than other cities. Maybe it’s the Dalish living so close by, the Riftwatch members in the Alienage itself, but the city is not as bad as it could be. How easily his thinking shifts to fit the constrictions of Thedas.

“It is an understandable thing to be confused about,” he soothes. “My wife is Orlesian. I took her name. I am—where I am from, we do not hold to family names, only patronymics or matronymics. But that means little when no one here knows who my father was.”

He gestures—helpless, the bumpkin, the foreigner. The hand he does it with is that with the (faintly) glowing shard.

"And I like it. Baudin."

[murderbaby]

"I assume she has more training in this art."

But- ah. Is this man one of those 'rifters' he's heard of? It would explain a great deal. Creatures coming from the rifts are not just demons, but men and women (and, presumably, other things entirely) finding themselves in a world not their own. From the stars, or the lands across even the Fade, Mhavos does not know.

He realizes he's staring again.

"It- it's a good name. It can mean joyful."

[rowancrowned]

“I have not asked, but her graces are beyond number, so it is a fair assumption.”

Thranduil really, really loves his wife. Thinking of her is always pleasant, enough to be distracting, if only briefly, from any lapses in manners.

“I would have had it even if it had been more ominous.” He hums a single, brief note of consideration. “But I will take the good omen happily. ‘Joyful’. I will tell her when I see her next. Thank you.”

But his brows climb again, even if he is nearer to teasing than admonishing when he says, “I do not have your name.”

[murderbaby]

Mhavos looks up with confusion, just a half second. Why would this man, this strange automaton escaped from some surrealist painting, ask his name?

Because he's polite. Pull yourself together.

A half bow. "Mhavos Dalat, Messire. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

[rowancrowned]

He gestures at Kirkwall beyond the play, alludes to the harbor with a turn of the wrist. “Are you new to this fine city-state?”

It’s the play, and—well, it isn’t that Thranduil is infamous, but the business with his lady-love, the Inquisition, then Riftwatch, and his general manner means that he’s recognized. He thinks of it as a neutral fact, neither flattering or insulting. But Mhavos is an elf, a new elf, and Thranduil collects the first and is drawn to the latter.

Which means Mhavos is in receipt of the whole of his attention, rather than the play, the crowd.

[murderbaby]

It's not frightening, but it is like finding oneself at the bottom of a long, dark well, while the Maker personally shouts words down at you. A bit unexpected.

"I am... very new." He says. "Three days with Riftwatch. A scrivener."

Isn't he usually more eloquent? Maybe it is heatstroke.

[rowancrowned]

“Ah!” he says, delighted, because ‘person who writes things’ usually falls under the auspice of ‘books, etc’, which is his. But he does not recall that name coming across his desk. “And of what Division?”

[murderbaby]

"Scouting, at the moment," Mhavos says, drolly mixing truth with lies. He tries to ignore his excitement at Messire Baudin's excutement, like being smiled upon by some unknowable sun god. "I work as a clerk as well. They have accounts to straighten, the like."

[rowancrowned]

Three days—there was a time, more than two years ago, now, where an elf would not have stepped foot on the Gallows without Thranduil knowing of it. But that was before a great many things he has come to prefer more, and he will feel the nostalgia and then release it, content with what he has now.

“And how did you come to join us?” A believer—no shard, so circumstance cannot have forced him.

[murderbaby]

Mhavos says it before he realizes he should probably affect some shame or regret. But it was such a part of his life for so long, he feels nothing for the circumstances but bewildered pleasure at their ending.

"My employment contract was gambled away," he says calmly. "I was an indentured servant in Orlais. A member of Riftwatch happened to win the contract, and my services along with it."

[rowancrowned]

“I see,” Thranduil says, even-toned and posture unchanged. So unchanged that it is an almost unnatural stillness. “And how many years left are there on your contract?”

[murderbaby]

Mhavos' life has necessitated being very, very good at reading people, and yet the man before him is unspeakably different from any people he's ever before encountered. He can sense a change, but beyond that, he has only context clues. And, well. He has a few of those.

Mhavos adds 'consolatory' to his generally calm tone. "It was indefinite," he says. "Most in Orlais are. Luckily," cough, "the fellow who gained it ripped it up. I chose to work for Riftwatch in... thanks."

[rowancrowned]

“Ah,” Thranduil says, and the chill melts away into animation once more. He has questions to ask of certain people, later, a lag in his responses to suggest some other matter sharing his thoughts. “Well, I am sure we will be glad to have you.”

His attention wanders back to the play. There is a great deal happening, and he could follow it if he carried to reapply himself to it—he knows the story well enough, after all, and too much variance would be heresy.

“I hope you will not miss Orlais too much.”

[murderbaby]

It's all... curious. Mhavos isn't sure what to make of it. Is he in trouble? He hopes he hasn't stumbled upon some faux pas this indescribable creature holds dear.

If he's suddenly eaten by a six-foot elf-shaped being of pure light and green silk, well. There are worse ways to go. Hopefully he goes straight for the jugular.

"I miss the language," he says somberly. "The architecture was atrocious." Hopefully he can inject some spirit of lightness back into things.

[rowancrowned]

“Trade does lack a certain something,” he replies, in Orlesian. His accent leans south-east.

He takes the offered topic change with as much gratitude as can be expressed with a sideways glance, and continues on.

“You are not fond of the tiered-cake style of architecture? You have found your city in Kirkwall, then. Here, it is more…” he gestures, futilely, like trying to swat a moth, “—oppressive boxes.”

[murderbaby]

Mhavos tilts his head an inch, a ghost of a smile playing over his expression. "The style is called brutalism. The idea behind it is to emphasize the utility of the building, and respect the material it is made of, placing that at the forefront to be appreciated. I'd read of it, but never seen it before..."

He looks appreciatively over at the chantry before them, all hard angles.

[rowancrowned]

“It is the core of the city,” he says. Nearly dwarven in the carven utility of it, but at least they had the courtesy to throw in some curls, some knotwork to make it pleasing to look at. Kirkwall has gutters that research suggests were used for blood magic rituals. “You will see it every day.”

It’s a surprising and sudden depth of knowledge. It must be his background, what he came across while doing work. “Is it to your taste?”

[murderbaby]

"After a lifetime lived in a city of finery built on the back of unpaid labor?"

He looks out at Kirkwall. "Forgive me if I tell you what you already know, but Kirkwall was once a slave port. The statuary depicts this, meant to cow the slaves into terror. But when slavery was outlawed, they were left up. The city is... not conventionally beautiful, I grant you. But neither is it hiding its past, or making excuses. It is honest."