CLOSED | there's no place like home

[pittance]

WHO: Holden, Mhavos, Sawbones + Vance
WHAT: Making my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass.
WHEN: Vague timing.
WHERE: Orzammar.
NOTES: HMU in Discord with any questions.

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PRE-ORZAMMAR | group thread, short n spammy

[pittance]

They’ve taken the route overland. Fortunate timing: A cousin of a cousin, a wagon going south. The little bundle of merchants have been busy at their own work. Occasionally one offers a smoke, or a hand of cards on watch — but for the most part, they've been content to ignore the hitchhikers.

They’re close now. Winter comes early to the mountains, and steam curls on every breath. Over the past day, Vance’s demeanour has grown narrow, preoccupied.

"An hour, maybe two." He hauls himself back beneath the awning. "We’ll be staying with my brother’s family. Or —"

He exchanges a look with Sawbones. It’s difficult to read.

"Sister Foresa offered an alternative."

INTRO FLAVOUR

[pittance]

The gates of Orzammar stand open to trade. Goods, animals, and a skinny dwarf winging correspondence to those parked beyond — but the guards that peer from iron visors step no further into light.

They have papers. Vance has a conversation: It starts with Riftwatch, and ends in my lord. The hall beyond is cavernous, a pit in the earth; abyss hewn into sharp geometry. As they descend, great blocks of stone reveal themselves for the helms, faces, bodies of enormous statues. Careful where you step. The Ancestors are watching.

Beneath, Orzammar blows herself into orange and crimson, a blast of heat and noise and life. For all the bluster of the hour, the mood of the crowd hovers tense; stares that start rank, stay nasty. Eyes that once might have shut from Sawbones stutter instead on the seam of her robes. Holden and Mhavos are by turns objects of fascination, and dismay.

They’re soon accosted by a young dwarf with a mane of black curls. The hug she throws upon Vance will clarify: His niece. She’s friendly, and witty, and quick. Her glance skates over Sawbones like rain.

Sister Foresa waits beside her. A dark-eyed human woman of smooth demeanour and indeterminate accent, she radiates a deep calm. She apologizes to not extend her hospitality any further than Sawbones, but there is only so much room; and already guests to keep. It’s her fond hope that they’ll return to speak with her the next morning.

It may be Mhavos' imagination that she does not look him in the eye.