As much as Orzammar entire is profoundly alien, dizzying in scope, disorientingly skyless and crowded with people half your size, a common marketplace has all the furnishings of every other marketplace in the world. This corner of the Commons is lower ranked, situated not so far above Dust Town, and not too high that they might attract undue attention, and while attention is inevitable, being a couple feet taller than just about everyone around them—
Most residents have better things to gawk at some humans poking around the commercial tiers, and push past and through the three as they need to get to where they're going.
The marketplace is tightknit stalls, tiered platforms, and devoid of committed sections so much as repeating patterns of textiles and leatherworks and weapons and jewellery and other trinkets. They are not here for a business purpose, but Tony tries to navigate the crush with purpose, dressed plainly but nicely, everything neatly stitched and clean—which, this close to the layers of Dust Town beneath their feet, probably still translates as wealthy.
"This way," he suddenly directs, and he reaches back to grab a hand, flip a coin if you want it to be yours. "Daisy chain."
And they're going, carving a path through the crowd rather than simply being jostled by the tide. Helpfully, you can just kind of lift linked hands over the heads of dwarves, so that makes life easy. Once they're through the worst of the density, Tony has come to a stop at a stall, which has enough construction to it to be its own kind of makeshift, roofless parlour, some lamps aglow in the corners. And the sounds of many, many clocks ticking, cutting through the noise they've left behind.
There is so much of the city to look at that the relief of having the authority of navigation stripped from her is a pleasant relief. It affords her the opportunity to stare at the variety of stalls and the lantern lit squares, the variety of foot traffic, and even the great pillars stretching to the ceiling of the city pitched high, high above their heads with only the occasional remark of 'Oh, do you see that pattern there. It is almost certainly derived from one of the ancient house crests, which I have read all about in—'
And then they are drawing up. Wysteria, who in one of her simpler frocks, sturdy field boots, and wide-eyed eager expression is the very picture of some eager scholar, doesn't yet think to reclaim either of her hands as the center link of the chain. Instead:
"Do you require a clock for your new office, Provost?"
Before they'd set out, Ellis had taken care to rise early and take a soft cloth to his armor until it gleamed, went over the blue of his uniform to be certain there were no errant rips or tears he'd missed. He'd always been meticulous about the Warden-issued uniform, in spite of all the baggage, but it matters more in Orzammar.
The sigil on his chest carries a weight here that it simply doesn't above ground. He is aware of that. (And aware he may very well not be the only Warden moving through the city.)
As they walk, his thumb has been fallen into absent, anxious progression, back and forth across Wysteria's knuckles. Their shared delight is simply and straightforwardly good. Drawing up the rear of their little party, Ellis has been free to absorb their expressions as they take in their surroundings.
It isn't exactly commonplace for Ellis, but he'd visited enough times to have grown used to the wonder of Orzammar, city and market alike. Tony and Wysteria reacting to it draw some renewed curiosity from Ellis, what can be spared from observing the people passing around them.
"Hold out for the mechanical birds," Ellis advises. Wysteria hasn't let go of either of them so Ellis' grip remains, albeit loosened by a degree, thumb stilling as if the nervous tic has finally been noticed and silenced. "I remember them being very impressive."
"Kind of think I'll be in for a bad time if I'm the only person in the Gallows who knows what the heck kind of time it is, ever."
At night, anyway. People gauge something accurate in the daytime if they're hellbent, but what's the difference between a comfortable 10 pm or a black skied, lonely 3 am, when you're lost in the sauce of your work? Maybe a mechanical bird would be neat, and Tony bounces a skeptical glance off of Ellis over Wysteria's head.
He breaks the daisy chain, shaking apart the loose grip he had on Wysteria's hand as he moves on into the cordoned off area, attracted immediately to the smaller timepieces. Some of them are set in little latch boxes, and some of the most expensive closed in metal shells, a little bigger than a pocketwatch, but still impressive.
"Well I think it's a very good idea to know the time and I dislike having to remember to light a candle to do it," is not quite a protest and not quite directed at the back of Tony's head as he sidesteps into the boundary of the shop except for how it absolutely is.
With a labored sidelong look to Ellis, Wysteria breaks the remaining link of the chain and slips in after Tony.
"There is a great standing clock somewhere in the Gallows, I think. I believe Mister--Casimir was keeping it, though I can't remember where last I saw it. It must be in an archival room somewhere. Or perhaps Monsieur Baudin took it with him when he vacated the division office. I can't imagine such a thing could simply go missing."
A warning bark of 'Don't touch!' from the eagle-eyed merchant across the stall has Wysteria's hand snapping back from the verge of opening the panel at the front of a mantle clock. With a gentle repositioning of her body, she resumes her inspection.
Recipient of both gazes, Ellis nods to each in turn. Yes, these are valid looks of judgement, of course. To the agitated merchant, Ellis lifts a placating hand as he shadows the pair of them in their inspection of the stall's offerings.
"It might be in one of the storage rooms," Ellis suggests, before adding, "Though if we bought a large clock it would be difficult to transport all the way back to Kirkwall, and up the stairs in the Gallows."
Not impossible, just. difficult. Delicate internal machinery is a tricky thing to insulate in the back of a cart.
"Someone would notice you."
A secondary concern, but one Ellis suspects Tony would be more interested in.
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fine dwarven crafts.
Most residents have better things to gawk at some humans poking around the commercial tiers, and push past and through the three as they need to get to where they're going.
The marketplace is tightknit stalls, tiered platforms, and devoid of committed sections so much as repeating patterns of textiles and leatherworks and weapons and jewellery and other trinkets. They are not here for a business purpose, but Tony tries to navigate the crush with purpose, dressed plainly but nicely, everything neatly stitched and clean—which, this close to the layers of Dust Town beneath their feet, probably still translates as wealthy.
"This way," he suddenly directs, and he reaches back to grab a hand, flip a coin if you want it to be yours. "Daisy chain."
And they're going, carving a path through the crowd rather than simply being jostled by the tide. Helpfully, you can just kind of lift linked hands over the heads of dwarves, so that makes life easy. Once they're through the worst of the density, Tony has come to a stop at a stall, which has enough construction to it to be its own kind of makeshift, roofless parlour, some lamps aglow in the corners. And the sounds of many, many clocks ticking, cutting through the noise they've left behind.
no subject
And then they are drawing up. Wysteria, who in one of her simpler frocks, sturdy field boots, and wide-eyed eager expression is the very picture of some eager scholar, doesn't yet think to reclaim either of her hands as the center link of the chain. Instead:
"Do you require a clock for your new office, Provost?"
no subject
The sigil on his chest carries a weight here that it simply doesn't above ground. He is aware of that. (And aware he may very well not be the only Warden moving through the city.)
As they walk, his thumb has been fallen into absent, anxious progression, back and forth across Wysteria's knuckles. Their shared delight is simply and straightforwardly good. Drawing up the rear of their little party, Ellis has been free to absorb their expressions as they take in their surroundings.
It isn't exactly commonplace for Ellis, but he'd visited enough times to have grown used to the wonder of Orzammar, city and market alike. Tony and Wysteria reacting to it draw some renewed curiosity from Ellis, what can be spared from observing the people passing around them.
"Hold out for the mechanical birds," Ellis advises. Wysteria hasn't let go of either of them so Ellis' grip remains, albeit loosened by a degree, thumb stilling as if the nervous tic has finally been noticed and silenced. "I remember them being very impressive."
no subject
At night, anyway. People gauge something accurate in the daytime if they're hellbent, but what's the difference between a comfortable 10 pm or a black skied, lonely 3 am, when you're lost in the sauce of your work? Maybe a mechanical bird would be neat, and Tony bounces a skeptical glance off of Ellis over Wysteria's head.
He breaks the daisy chain, shaking apart the loose grip he had on Wysteria's hand as he moves on into the cordoned off area, attracted immediately to the smaller timepieces. Some of them are set in little latch boxes, and some of the most expensive closed in metal shells, a little bigger than a pocketwatch, but still impressive.
Like, he's grading on a curve, here.
no subject
With a labored sidelong look to Ellis, Wysteria breaks the remaining link of the chain and slips in after Tony.
"There is a great standing clock somewhere in the Gallows, I think. I believe Mister--Casimir was keeping it, though I can't remember where last I saw it. It must be in an archival room somewhere. Or perhaps Monsieur Baudin took it with him when he vacated the division office. I can't imagine such a thing could simply go missing."
A warning bark of 'Don't touch!' from the eagle-eyed merchant across the stall has Wysteria's hand snapping back from the verge of opening the panel at the front of a mantle clock. With a gentle repositioning of her body, she resumes her inspection.
no subject
"It might be in one of the storage rooms," Ellis suggests, before adding, "Though if we bought a large clock it would be difficult to transport all the way back to Kirkwall, and up the stairs in the Gallows."
Not impossible, just. difficult. Delicate internal machinery is a tricky thing to insulate in the back of a cart.
"Someone would notice you."
A secondary concern, but one Ellis suspects Tony would be more interested in.