faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

WHO: Open
WHAT: A visit to Orzammar
WHEN: For about 10 days in early Bloomingtide
WHERE: Orzammar
NOTES: OOC post. Please use content warnings in your comment subject lines as required.

Orzammar is not all that far from Kirkwall: a short trip across the Waking Sea to Jader, then an even shorter (though much more exhausting than it seemed in dreams) hike up into the Frostback mountains brings them to the great stone doors that stand between Orzammar and the surface. Once those doors creak and groan shut in their wake—and the next set of doors, too, designed like a waterlock to keep the sky from reaching the city—it is no easy thing to open them again. No one's going to see the sun until they leave.

The great thaig within the mountains is much warmer than the chilly pass through them, thanks to the molten lake beneath it, which also keeps many of the open streets at least dimly lit 24 hours per day, until they wander off further than the glow can reach. The thaig is magnificent, brimming with distinctive angular architecture and statues honoring dwarven Paragons and ancestors. It's also sprawling. Despite giving the deceptive impression at the entrance of a hollow dome that can be taken in with a single look around, the thaig is home to one hundred thousand dwarves, give or take a few thousand. And that's with a dwindling population. It was built for even more. Buildings with narrow facades burrow and wind deep into the stone behind them. So do side streets that branch away from the Commons at every level. Most of them are lyrium-lit and safe to travel. But given the absence of any sun or moon, the way they ascend and descend and loop through the rock, they can be very disorienting to navigate without stone sense.

Among the locals on the street there's a lingering, palpable sense of relief that the worst seems to have passed, so far as the darkspawn at Orzammar's doors is concerned. It's put most people in a particularly good mood, and made them a bit more disposed than usual to treat the influx of visitors from above as an entertaining novelty. That won't stop the occasional dwarf from being suspicious of outsiders here to interfere with the Assembly or bitter that they want something when Orzammar never asked them for help, but friendly interest will be more common by far.

ACCOMMODATIONS

Riftwatch's Division Heads and Project Leaders will be the personal guests of House Bemot and put up in the house's sprawling, mazelike estate in the Diamond Quarter. The residence is brimming with artwork: statues of the house's prominent ancestors, dazzling stonework on columns and doorways, mosaics on the floors, and art both dwarven and imported lining the walls. They're given private rooms—many far from each other, down different turning corridors carved back into the stone—with large beds and hot water piped up from nearer to Orzammar's molten depths. The rooms are nice but don't mistake this for only an unfair perk; there are servants listening and marking their comings and goings at all times.

Since visitors from the surface are much rarer and their stays usually as short as possible, Orzammar is minimally equipped for large swells of visitors, so the rest of Riftwatch's personnel will be packed into one of two inns located in the tier of the Commons where merchants and other surface-dwellers typically reside when they're permitted access to the thaig.

The Paragon's Rest is the nicer of the two. Two ages ago it was the grand home of a prominent merchant house that has since died out; its name comes from the fact that two (two!) paragons have stayed there since the time it was converted into an inn. It boasts a modest number of small, private rooms and shared rooms with artful dividers, all with stone walls that have been carved with intricate geometric patterns. Meals and drinks are available in an expansive hall where local well-to-do merchants frequently play Diamondback and make expensive deals. The inn's position near the gates and something about the design and directions of the corridors minimizes the heat from Orzammar's molten center and even allows for a breeze to reach the common areas now and then.

Unfortunately, the Paragon's Rest doesn't have room for everyone, and the Buttered Nug is less pleasant. The inn was more recently a shop with expansive back storage for its inventory. The shop is now a cramped, sweaty tavern room, where no matter the hour a nug is always roasting—and constantly being basted with butter—over the fire, while more nugs snuffle in a holding pen in a corner, awaiting their doom. The proprietor tries to encourage everyone who passes through to have a plate. It's his grandmother's recipe. You're going to love it. The diners and residents are mostly merchants of the struggling and/or shady variety. The former storage rooms are unadorned, nearly more cavern than room, and large enough to be shared by large numbers of people, with stone lattice-work dividers between beds that provide very little actual privacy. Choosing the room deeper into the stone will make the temperature less sweltering but significantly increase the number of spiders in your bed.

Fortunately, no one has to do more than sleep there if they don't want to. And maybe try just one plate of grandma's buttered nug?

WORK

Riftwatch's primary objectives in Orzammar are sharing information about the war and making a good impression. While speaking to the Assembly might be the centerpiece of those efforts, it's not the extent of them. The noble caste may sit at the top of the dwarven hierarchy, but they're not the only ones with sway or useful resources and nudging public opinion more generally could have its benefits.

There are some specific ways Riftwatch can make itself visibly useful to Orzammar, to help counter the argument that the surface is asking for help without being willing to provide any in return. Assisting with red lyrium removal, installing cleansing runes, and teaching members of the mining caste how to do both for themselves will be priorities. And while the enemy's retreat to the north has lessened the pressure on the thaig, Orzammar lives in constant fear of darkspawn all the same. Riftwatch members suited for combat will be assigned shifts with the dwarven troops on patrol in the near sectors of the Deep Roads or standing watch at the great doors that block off the ancient tunnels.

Meetings with various members of the middle-rank castes (warrior, smith, artisan, mining, merchant) have been arranged and assigned, some with an explicit focus on discussing the war effort and providing information about what Riftwatch has learned and experienced, while others are focused on building trade connections or exploring potential opportunities to collaborate on research—and if opportunities to tell them more about the war effort in the process just happen to arise, all the better. These castes span a wide swathe of dwarven society between nobles and servants, and the meetings will reflect that, ranging from elaborate dinner parties with merchants as wealthy as any lord to casual chats over a pint with a busy blacksmith in a lower-tier tavern. Reactions will also vary, but most are interested in hearing what Riftwatch has to say, even if they're not necessarily disposed to agree. Nearly all visitors to Orzammar are merchants, and having access to this many surfacers and non-dwarves is a novelty.

Members of the Shaperate will take a more pointed and professional interest in their work. Shapers may set up appointments to talk to anyone who's able to speak about their experiences in the war so far, taking copious notes. (On paper. You're not special enough to go straight into the Memories.)

For everyone Riftwatch set a meeting with there are ten more they didn't, so a major part of the company's work in the city will be cultivating more casual interactions and both gathering and dispensing information that way. Someone might be assigned to frequent a particular tavern popular with Warriors and make connections there and find opportunities to discuss what's going on above. Someone else might be asked to drop in on a series of armorers and try to get a sense of current prices, how busy they are, and where most of their stock is being sold. Other assignments might be even more general--spend time in this cafe, or at the nug races, or chatting up merchants in this sector of the market, and see what conversations you can strike up or overhear. Talking folks into support for the war effort is great, but any generally positive interaction counts at this point, so Riftwatch members will be encouraged to pitch in wherever they see help needed, but also to be careful not to get entangled in controversy.

To coordinate all of this work, Riftwatch will have command of a private dining room in the Paragon's Rest to use as a meeting room, where everyone can come back to report, regroup, and strategize after a meeting or outing.

LEISURE

Anyone who finds themselves with downtime will also not have trouble finding things to fill it with. The Commons is lined with merchant stalls selling street food and a wide variety of fine dwarven crafts: metal goods ranging from knives to toys, clothing and bags covered in carefully placed little beads, intricate jewelry, and mechanical and enchanted inventions rarely seen on the surface. There's also an artisan who will hammer your likeness into a sheet of metal while you wait. It's all cheaper than it would be in an above-ground marketplace, as long as you're willing to haggle. Shops and smithies built into the stone sell weapons and armor—or do custom work, though getting anything completed before Riftwatch leaves Orzammar will require paying a premium.

The centerpiece of the Orzammar Commons in the Proving Arena. Currently there are no ongoing provings, but there are warriors and aspirants hanging around the surrounding areas to practice and posture. They might invite a competent-looking newcomer to spar.

An alternative to violence is nug racing, where hungry, specially-bred nugs are painted with house symbols and raced through open-topped tunnels, dug into the ground to allow spectating from above. With little happening in the Proving arena at the moment, this is the more popular spectator event in Orzammar, drawing observers from every caste to cheer and gamble on the outcomes of a series of bracketed races. House Etoras' Deep Fried (called Fred) is favored to win, but House Aratack's Hops & Grain (Hoppy) isn't a bad bet, and Keltar's Perfect Baby (Baby) might pull off an upset.

And there is also, of course, an enormous pit of lava below the Commons. (This is not deadly somehow. We don't know.) A favorite game of some of the local children is collecting trash and inviting newcomers to guess or wager on which items will burst into flames before they hit the lava and which will not. These demonstrations usually end by either a fake attempt to toss a friend over the edge as the final object, or a gleeful (and disprovable) explanation that this is why no one in Orzammar is ever found murdered. They only vanish. Fun!

If they'd like to explore beyond the Commons and the Diamond Quarter, no one will actively prevent Riftwatch members from venturing into Dust Town, the dilapidated sector of the city where the casteless live and the Carta rules. Outsiders might even be able to stumble into the area without realizing it, if they get turned around in some of the narrower back streets carved through the rock. But however they arrive, visitors to Dust Town are unlikely to make it very far without running into trouble.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It's during one moment of quiet, in Byerly's room at Bemot's estate, that By suggests cheerily to Gabranth: ]

Do you want to trade?

[Yes.

And no.

And the way Gabranth’s brow twists tight at the abruptness of that question— hands still perched across the front of his blade from where he’d been tending to polish and cloth— makes the matter as transparent as glass most likely.

Still, it does feel a bit like being run over by a horse, so thank you for that, Byerly.]

—what?

[No, hold on. Let him try again. Squaring off his shoulders where he sits, his lip curling downwards just faintly at its corner:]

Do not tease me so.

I'm not.

[ His smile is wry and easy. ]

I've slept in plenty of low taverns. And worse. Far worse. I don't mind it one bit. If anything, I sleep worse on silken sheets.

Too many memories of home?

[It thins whatever reflexive response had initially reared up, but his hands don’t resume their work, his pale stare unwavering for a beat longer.

Replaced by genuine curiosity, perhaps.]

[ That's so abrupt, and so altogether unexpected, that for just a heartbeat, Byerly's reaction is genuine. And his genuine reaction is one of - not displeasure, precisely, but uncertainty that borders on discomfort, that borders on pain. A narrowing of the eyes at the corners, a tension in the neck muscles. No matter what By pretends, his attitude towards home is not blase, not easy, not amused.

And then he smiles, the expression droll and wry, and it's like that distress was never there. ]

Oh, Maker, no. The beds there were shit, too. No, it really is just that I've slept on so many lumpy divans and scratchy area rugs that that's what comfort feels like to me.

[He knows nothing but the skeleton of those circumstances by Byerly’s own telling, but that— that glancing catch of a subject that cuts too close to the bone in regards to the past— is something he knows all too keenly. So it isn’t status or rank that brings about a faint flicker of remorse in Gabranth now, only the understanding that he’s not deft enough in conversation or compassion to undo what he’s done.

But it’s Byerly that manages it first.]

Then I would argue you need the acclimation far more than myself.

[His gloved fingertips return to the task of buffing out faint nicks, barely noticeable scratches. It spares Rutyer his attention. A mercy, by his own estimate.]

Besides, you cannot be seen in such fallow company. It does not suit.

Would you say that you're sleeping well, dear fellow?

[ By, meanwhile, returns to scanning letters, even as they carry on their conversation. He can multitask. ]

[No. Terribly. 0/100.]

I need little rest.

[The faint rustle of paper, the sound of whetstone against metal— both fill the space more than Gabranth’s willingness to entertain suggestion.

Because it occurs to him then that if he’s not being mocked by way of this offer, that it must be related to the quality of his work.]

Place faith in my ability to endure: I’ll not embarrass you for lack of peaceful slumber.

[ Byerly arches an eyebrow. ]

You had better not. I demand to be the only person who embarrasses me. If anyone else starts to encroach on my territory, I get very defensive.

[ Then - ]

My fear is hardly embarrassment, good man. Why, I'd say I have no fears. Save the pang of my shriveled little heart when I see your face when it becomes clear you have to go back to your abode.

[That takes him entirely by surprise; truth or platitude, his fingers bear down between cloth and stone, pulling out a low scraping sound. Something to mask the way his own brow cinches in shadow— his stare wavering.

And then it’s gone.]

Then put your heart aside. The dead need no consideration from the likes of those yet living.

[Your heart is still too soft, Byerly. His prior assessment holds.]

[ A twitch of his lips in amusement/bemusement. ]

What, have you been inspired by the dwarves? Joining the Legion?

[A quick puff of air curls his upper lip as he exhales, that undercurrent of petulance making itself known only in private space.]

Your Fade did not pull me from blissful slumber, Byerly Rutyer.

So perhaps you can understand why I am disinclined to acquiesce to your generosity.

[Or, because perhaps not might still exist in this equation:]

It would be a waste of resources.

On the contrary.

[ By gives an easy, cheerful shrug that gives absolutely no indication how he feels about all this. ]

As a living man, I have countless opportunities to be self-indulgent. A dead man must snatch his opportunities where he may.

Or he may instead choose to fulfill the last of his promises to the living in what little time yet remains.

[This time he stops, cloth held in hand, his eyeline lifting so as to fit Byerly with the full measure of his stare— whether or not it’s a gesture returned.]

I know why I am here, and it is not for respite.

[Says the man soaking up space in fine quarters.]

[ He gives a wave of invitation. ]

For what purpose is it, then?

Your world is broken. Surely I need not tell you this, for you yourself have taken up stance against its ruin.

[Riftwatch, he means. For all its faults and gleaming qualities, he thinks it just in purpose— and thus also stands Byerly within it.]

If your world demanded aid, if it is so desperate in its outcry, then I was undoubtedly beckoned to it to stay that anguish by blade and by blood.

You think the universe is rather more just than I suspect it is. Bringing you here for that.

[ His tone is light. ]

I have drawn breath for more years than you will ever know. Between us both, I would argue I am right.

[He would argue that anyway, to be fair.

Still, as he watches Byerly work— narrow fingers flitting across fine parchment— it occurs to him then that diligence makes for a strange bedfellow to a man who seems to have a faint fondness for trouble.

He is not like Yseult, nor Flint in that respect. At least not by Gabranth’s own comprehension.]

Will you not delegate some of your work? Take leisure while you are here?

[ A skeptical noise in response to drawn breath - of the two, one of them looks rather older than the other. But he's not exactly qualified to debate a Rifter's claimed history. ]

This is not exactly the most pleasurable place to take leisure, you know. And there's some delicious gossip in these letters.

[The look Byerly earns for that scoff.

Still, though— ]

Of use to you, or to Riftwatch?

Well, I am Riftwatch, you know.

[ He touches his chest, apparently brim-full of irony. ]

So...Both?

Had I known Riftwatch itself was offering me sublimed board, perhaps I would have reconsidered.

[There’s always an edge to his voice: too long developed to be either forgotten or abandoned— but the words themselves bear humor. Don’t let him fool you.]

I’ll not pry in your work. keep your secrets as you will.

[ That earns a half-rueful laugh. ]

No, you mistake me, dear fellow. I'm not being secretive. [ With a shrug - ] Truthfully - and please do keep this quiet - I'm actually just doing it because it needs to get done. Sounds hideously diligent, no? Tell no one, or my reputation will be destroyed.

[He turns his blade over, setting to work on the opposite side, the dull scrape of it counting seconds like a watch. A truer timer of sorts, as once he runs out of excuses to linger, he’ll be gone without dragging ceremony.]

Why would you wish for this not to be known?

It would only further your regard amongst your peers.

[Is there not merit in that? Trust or— respect even, when so much must surely rest along the knifepoint of compromise, or at the very least shared planning.]

[ He shudders theatrically. ]

Exactly.

[ Then: ]

What's the reward for a job well done?

fresh air

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