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!]

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Ilias successfully suppresses a roll of his eyes at the pair of them, but takes an extended sip from his wine rather than intervene. Kostos at least, for all they dislike each other, he trusts to be more brawler than murderer, whatever the result of their chase. If they're determined to make a scene, at least they'll be doing it somewhere else.

"We will find a place," he assures Mhavos, as if he has any more than a vague idea how things like finding employment and earning a wage actually work. Don't worry about it.

"Please, sit. Wine?" He gestures with his cup to Nikos's abandoned chair, and flags to the barkeep for another glass.

Mhavos sits a little slowly, letting too much of his genuine expression (deep confusion) show on his face. He takes the wine gratefully, but does not drink it, wanting to be in full control of what remains of his wit.

"What- I..." He takes a moment. Inhales. "Did I offend...?"

"No, not at all." Their faces are always like that; unsaid, humor curbing in light of the look on the elf's face. "Your former employer, however..."

An equivocal rock of the hand. Loyalty develops where it develops; Ilias tries not to make assumptions, for however little good that may do at times.

"The indefinite term of your contract is quite illegal in Kirkwall. --Well, and everywhere else outside Tevinter, but perhaps in Orlais that matters less. Here, it matters a great deal."

"You're telling me they're just... particularly enthusiastic about the law?" To his credit, his tone is only a little incredulous.

"In any case, I'm sorry to have caused such an uproar. What are they planning on doing with the contract?"

"I assume Nikos intends to burn it in the square if the opportunity arises." At least Ilias sounds apologetic on his behalf. "But more to the point, no one will be signing it." A beat. "Ever."

"It isn't the law that bothers them, you see, or me for that matter. It is more--" A bob of his head to one side, searching for the words-- "That you ought to have a choice. Who you work for, what you do, for how long, all of it."

Mhavos is silent for a moment, thinking on what to say, how to say it. In the expanse of this newfound freedom, he's entirely unsure what is politic.

"Forgive me if I am rude in this statement, but... I have read revolutionary pamphlets. I understand the theory. It's all an... admirable ideal." But it's theory, all theory, and it always ends in purges.

"I simply don't understand... They are educated human nobles with great belief in manumission, yes? As are, I assume, you." He doesn't want to leave him, this Ilias, out of something he believes important.

Ilias is content to let him lead in this. It is strange sometimes, how a life centered on grief has prepared him for things quite unlike it -- or perhaps how everything else prepares one for grief.

That wording earns a slight wince, though. "I would not call them nobles to their faces, if you can avoid it."

"Nor are my own beliefs particularly great. But yes, essentially. Is that so surprising?"

He looks up curiously. "Oh? What are they, then?"

Mhavos considers his undrunk wine, watching the stray ripple and letting himself relax. "I've read pamphlets written by revolutionaries, listened to speeches when I could. They aren't rare. I'm aware forced manumission is a moral failing."

A light way of putting it.

"But I've rarely seen a human push for it, much less with such... unsubtlety." He worries his lower lip a moment. "May I speak plainly?"

"Nobles who like to pretend otherwise," is his answer to the first. Exiled or no, mage or no, Ilias doesn't feel obliged to act like they don't all have a tidy sum to fall back on if they needed it.

"Please." A broad gesture. "I promise I am difficult to offend." If your name isn't Averesch, at least.

Mhavos droops forward. The wine is becoming tempting. "So my fate is held by impassioned fools."

Speaking of speaking plainly.

"They have lofty ideas. I can respect that. But... do they have any clue how to enact them? They seem more interested in punishing than saving." It was rather unnerving.

Sorry. Ilias gives an apologetic tip of the head, a bit charmed by his candor.

"Nikos might have a notion. He was involved in some manner of politics in Nevarra." --is one way to put Tried to assassinate the king. Anyway. "I can't speak for Kostos."

He sighs. "They remind me of every young idealistic aristo I have ever met. They all find laurels to rest upon eventually." It's not said without fondness. Idealism has its place. It just also gets people killed, if unchecked.

"May I ask one more favor of you? If I am to be freed... how do I tell them apart?"

"Mn." A breathed smile. "It is difficult with the stubble, but Kostos has the scar, now." Two fingers trace down his own cheek, cheekbone to jaw. "And the better abs."

Not that Ilias has ever seriously considered either.

Ahem. "Do you know what you would like to do next?"

Mhavos scrunches his face up a little. Humans. He'll focus on the scar, thank you.

"I would like very much not to be a vagabond."

"I imagine we can do better than that." Somehow. There's that easy confidence again; never mind where it's rooted.

"What skills have you?"

"I-" I kill people. Can he say that? Would the only person in Kirkwall to show him kindness take well to that?

Best not risk it.

"I was a clerk. And I managed postage-- a scrivener. I helped organize personal libraries. That sort of thing."

The pause is noted, but neatly filed away.

"There are houses in Hightown large enough they might need such help, but I don't know that any would be very much improvement for you."

Paid, voluntary, but you don't hear of Hightown servants moving up in the world terribly often. Ilias taps his fingers on the bar top.

"What do you like to do? If you'd your choice of any sort of work."

Mhavos lets out a bitter laugh. "Excuse me, but- were I to say, what, politics? Painting? You would scheme a way for my entrance into these careers? I appreciate your kindness, truly, but I know the respectable boundaries of aid for strangers."

He rubs at his face. The weight of all of this just keeps falling down on him. It's like a bloody torrent.

"My great desire is to do work and be paid for it, with the option of leaving if I so choose. I can balance accounts, manage correspondence, organize catalogs..."

I know the exact sound a man makes when his throat is slit. Oh, for Andraste's sake, he wishes his subconscious wasn't so bloody dramatic.

"Ah, fair enough." Ilias softens a touch. This is rather a lot at once. "As it happens, I know painters better than nobles, but perhaps an income and flexibility are goals enough."

For now, at least.

"Have you heard of the Inquisition?"

The scandal that ate Vauquelin- "Yes, I've heard of it. Are they that hard up for employees?"

But, already, he can see his uses. Organizations like that, they need spies. They need killers as well.

"Corypheus holds the majority of Tevinter and the Anderfels." Sobering somewhat. Orlais has taken the brunt, after all. "I would say they need every hand they can get."

"Riftwatch, is the name of the organization the Avereschs and I are affiliated with. It is their ally here in Kirkwall. Not as well funded or closely linked to the Chantry, but I believe it vital to the war effort."

"They provide room, board, and pay, and the work is-- varied." To say the least. "For me, it has offered opportunities I would not have found elsewhere."

That catches Mhavos' interest. The idea of working for a cause is so alien an idea he never realized it was something he wanted.

Perhaps that will make the killing more palatable.

"What opportunities were you given? If I may ask."

Ilias hesitates; this isn't anything he's tried to put into words before, and in a more casual conversation he might decline still. But he wants Mhavos to know what he's getting into, insomuch as anything Ilias has experienced is similar in the least.

"Understand that I was in the Necropolis, before this." Does that mean anything, to an Orlesian? Would it even mean what he means to a Nevarran? A little frown, trying again. "It is less strict than a Circle, to be sure, but similar in that the scope of one's life can become somewhat— limited." There. A fine word for a fine cage.

"Here I continue my research, certainly, but I also have a position as liaison to the Chantry. I have had the chance to travel, to fight, negotiate alliances, and work with all manner of people I would have otherwise had no cause to meet. It is silly, perhaps, but I find it broadening."

"Broadening," Mhavos says. To live a broadened life. He doesn't know much of his parents, only really their names, but he knows most parents wish their children to live such things. The idea is... heartening.

"I would not mind working with such an organization. If they would have me." Now, finally, he takes a small sip of wine. "And you will have to tell me more of your... nécropole." Yes, he's heard of them. "As coworkers."

His smile is quiet and personal; entirely his own.

Glad for it, Ilias lifts his own glass a few inches in toast. "As coworkers."

And with that he drinks, letting the moment after stretch and settle, as much for Mhavos as himself. Decisions such as this should have room to breathe on either end. But eventually, setting his glass back against the table:

"You must come, when you've settled. Off the herb garden in the Gallows, they have allowed me a work space. I did not bring much of Nevarra with me, but some."

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murderbaby - 2019-08-12 14:25 (UTC) - Expand

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