faderift | open | intro log.

Entry tags:

open | intro log.

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!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Proving Mhavos right that her emotions are right there for all to see, her reaction to his contract--his life basically--being gambled away is to look horrified.

"Oh. Well, that's good," she says, nodding, then glancing sidelong at him. Second-guessing. "Right? That's a good thing?"

Seeing someone worried over him is a boost to his ego, and Mhavos is just self-aware enough to realize that's plain manipulation on his part. He could have said that up front. Is he really that desperate for importance?

Apparently. But keep a lid on it.

"I prefer it to the alternative," he confirms, "philosophical considerations aside, can you tell me the name of this alley? If it has one."

The alley doesn't have a name. It's one of those incidental alleys that only came to being because someone built a building with ample room for Andraste between it and the next one, and it became a convenient shortcut for foot traffic. Like most alleys in Kirkwall, when referencing it one need only say the alley between such-and-such and so-and-so.

Unlike Cutthroat Alley which was named after a series of grisly murders, and to this day sees its fair share of bloodshed.

"--you'd think that people would steer clear. Nope. Cutthroat Alley? Sounds like a great spot for a stroll. Oh, I think it's over past that side of the market. The drop, not Cutthroat, that's down by the Docks."

She's trying to be a decent tour guide, but she also wants to make sure her contact gets their payment as soon as possible, so she keeps a fairly steady pace weaving through the crowded street towards a wider expanse of cobblestone.

He's having a little trouble inferring the in-betweens, but it only means he'll have to be back later. He wasn't expecting chance to gift him with a gifted, accurate guide with an intention to detail. His luck is aggressively average, at best.

"Inventive," he murmurs. "Better than Rue de l'abattoir," he drawls.

He follows deftly. He has no difficulty navigating a crowd, Heaven forbid. "This is a path you take often, or am I steering you out of your way?"

"Rue the wha?"

She sidesteps a gaggle of children running up the path, gently slapping a grasping hand away from her dagger like the act was a common occurrence. It doesn't slow the children's flight or her own traversal. She walks backwards for a few steps to address Mhavos and shrug, hands wide for the effect of the gesture, but not colliding with anyone.

"Neither? I only had one thing to do today, and usually I don't get reverse pickpocketed so I guess we'll call this a fun little detour."

Beyond all the market stalls, the buskers, and the Marchers who wish they were in Val Royeaux, the path splits into two narrower ones, the left grading downward, the right ascending.

"Street of the slaughterhouse," Mhavos says. "It was a street by a slaughterhouse."

Mhavos passes through the children and deftly steals their ball, which he then throws down an another alley. They chase after it while swearing at him. His smile is light.

"Yes, well, I do apologize. I'll try to be less, how did you put it, altruistic? I'll have to pay you back for this, of course. You're still doing me a favor."

"Or maybe I'm trying to lose you and you're just too good at keeping up with me," she jokes. You can tell it's a joke because she laughs at it. She laughs at her own stupid joke.

It isn't even funny.

Taking the right path leads them to a row of closely-packed buildings, some of them shops and some with the appearance of residences. Athessa approaches the door to one, and pauses with her hand on the door.

"Oh. Actually I think you will be able to help."

The door opens in on a cluttered, dusty bookshop.

He laughs too, a little hollow, but still. It's pleasant. Talking to this girl is pleasant. He likes her. He'll have to keep an eye on her; she's not only useful, but enjoyable to be aroind.

People don't generally laugh around him.

And then, ah, a bookshop. "Ought I look like a respectable servant retrieving books for my master?" He can already see the shape of it. And he's... excited?

She's not sure what he's suggesting, but despite her confusion she nods indulgently.

"Um. Sure, if you want." She glances towards an aisle, trying to discern the genre labels.

Alright, one of them is missing a step, and he isn't sure which. He tilts his head to the side, an obvious tell he wouldn't allow himself normally, and considers it. "Perhaps I should ask how I could help, instead of suggesting...?"

A furtive glance, covered by her established seeking-the-right-aisle attitude, determines that nobody is visibly within earshot, and she strolls down an aisle, dropping her voice just to be safe.

"Well, ok, so there's a book somewhere around here," she explains, gesturing. There are lots of books around here. It's a bookshop. "With a little compartment in the spine. Thing is, it's one version of the book, and I have to pick the right one."

It's not a hard task, for most anyone else. After a beat, she tilts her head, mirroring Mhavos'. "What was your plan?"

"Oh, of course," Mentally, he adds, and you, like most elves, cannot read. He knows not to say it, less from kindness and more from the careful organization of traits required to stay in as many good graces as possible. Odd he should need it here.

"Elves are not usually allowed in bookshops, in my experience, unless they're on errands for their master." Said with a shrug. They're clearly not in Orlais anymore. "Which book is it?"

"I'm starting to think Orlais is actually the worst..." Barring people from somewhere as boring as a bookshop has got to be one of the most ridiculous insulting things she's heard of.

"It's called In the Shadow of Suspicion: The Establishment of Truth."

"I think a system for grading such a thing would be difficult- ah, well, we're in the wrong section. That's got to be philosophy. Have you got the name of the author?"

Mhavos walks quietly from one aisle to the next, checking the scrawled signs hanging before each.

She could probably come up with a grading system for worst places. Might do it back at the Gallows, just to prove a point.

"Symou O'Ann. I guess whoever wrote it didn't want to be associated with it."

"Ah." Mhavos says, repressing a snicker. He takes a half-step over, and finds the book in question, running his hand down the spine. In a stage whisper, practiced only to carry to his companion's ears, "I should assume it isn't booby-trapped?"

"It won't be, but--" She looks at the one he pointed out, then at the other versions next to it. To her, they look juuuust about the same.

"--the one with the compartment is the red one."

Was he already looking at the right one? She can't tell. Two of the three volumes on this shelf are bound in green-stained leather, and the third is red.

Mhavos considers it. "Interesting tactic. You must rely on the books not being interchanged." He picks out the red book, and flips through the pages with the care and patience of someone with great experience with-- and respect for-- books.

"Here we are." Deft fingers snap the compartment open.

"Yeah it's apparently a tactic better used in a library, but I guess whoever sets up the drop points knows the owner or something."

Inside the compartment is a tiny roll of parchment wrapped around a stick of graphite. Athessa takes these, dropping the coins into the compartment in their stead, and scribbles something on the parchment.

Her handwriting is terrible.

She returns the message to the compartment as well, and nods.

"That's that. My contact should notice that they don't have their coins, and hopefully will remember this drop." Though, this one was set up by the Inquisition, not Riftwatch. Maybe this one's no longer being watched? A problem for tomorrow.

"Oh and don't go blabbing about this," she says, fixing Mhavos with a look. "Or I'll have to kill ya."

"An academic library, I'd hope..."

And then he's threatened with murder. Should he be more or less shocked? He probably shouldn't be relieved. He squints a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to remember how a normal person would react to death threats. He comes up with nothing.

"I... what?"

Well, that's a good enough cover, then.

Her eyebrows shoot up at his reaction, and the nudges him amicably.

"I'm just fuckin with ya," she's quick to assure, laughing. "Thanks for the assist."

He lets out a little huff of laughter. Of course.

"I never expect to be threatened with murder. Rather inconsiderate."

He pushes the book back in place. "Thank you for showing me about the town. You wouldn't be able to point me back toward the Gallows?"

"Totally fair, that's my fault for having a weird sense of humor." She and her friends threaten each other with murder all the time! It's not that weird!

"I can do ya one better and take you there. You've probably guessed by now that I'm with Riftwatch, right?"

"I hadn't." One brow tilts up. "I am as well. Was this... business for them?"

...Oops. Good thing he's with Riftwatch too or else she'd be in SO MUCH TROUBLE.

"Ohhhkay that's also my fault, for assuming--and uh...yes," she lies. "Yeah."

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