MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[coquettish_trees]

"A mutual acquaintance," is the warm reply. A momentary pause, and the Lady's eyebrows raise slightly in question. "Although I have heard that may well count as a quarrel?"

She extends a hand, still dutifully gloved despite the needlessness of protecting herself from the sun. "Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard."

[poleaxed]

"Oh, shhhhurely it's a pleasure to meet you, Madame d'Asgard."

She's not going to murder Gabranth for this, but she is going to vividly imagine the deed a bit later. For now, she needs all her lesser mental powers to deal with an Orlesian noble. Again. At least she's sweet to look at.

Jone takes the hand and bows her head, lips hovering just above the kidskin knuckle. All practiced from years of bouncing about Orlais, taking Orlesian coin, being a prancing doglord and not complaining one bit. She'd grown tired of it, at the end, but only at the very bitterest of ends.

Falling back into it now is like putting on old clothes you haven't worn in years and are shocked still fit.

"I hope you had a good talk? Uncommon courteous, he is."

Well, no, but Jone can't picture him stabbing a woman who looks strangely incomplete without a parasol in hand.

[coquettish_trees]

"Indeed we did. I often have cause to wind sighs over the uncommon nature of courtesy in our beloved organization, and it is always a delight to be surprised." It's said with a brighter smile, and a little tilt of her head that includes Jone's own greeting on the list of such delights.

"I have, however, sought you out entirely of my own volition to inquire after whether or not you were still intent upon the idea of a tournament—" and to see if I can measure your feelings on the matter of one Judge Magister "—which is information I am certainly prepared to pay for with a round of your own."

Alexandrie's smile twitches at the edges with mirth. "Two, if you are indifferent about quality."

[poleaxed]

Oh, so this is one of the talky ones. Jone is glad-- she knows how to deal with those-- but the idea of the Madame waxing rhapsodic about flowers or whatever to Ser Buckethead is a fine image indeed. It brings a smile to Jone's face, which means she can bow courteously and it won't come off as stiff.

"No need to butter me up, ma'am." She waves the thought away. "Though I appreciate it, I do, but dwarven drink isn't to me liking. Lived the last decade or so of me life in Orlais, and it's spoiled me for drink."

One, it is important to flatter an Orlesian's culture. Two, it is important to let an Orlesian know she has lived rather long in Orlais.

"I do wish to go forward with the tourney, strewth. I were thinking a joust, a melee, quintain, and the pas d'armes. Gabranth would be just perfect for it, don't you think?"

Petty, of course, but Jone decides this will be her revenge. She'll drag him kicking and screaming into this tourney whether he likes it or not.

[coquettish_trees]

"Oh, entirely so! He cuts such an imposing figure I should think a great number of combatants should be encouraged to take part if only for the potential bragging rights."

Jone will not be doing the dragging alone.

"Is there no ill feeling betwixt the two of you, then?" Alexandrie's concern is palpable, visible both in her face and in the appearance of the fan retrieved from somewhere in her skirts to flip open and flutter like a nervous bird at her chest, "From what I gathered it sounded very much as if you were no longer keeping company."

[poleaxed]

Jone snaps her fingers, grinning delightedly in what is genuine pleasure at someone agreeing with her for once. Especially a rich, pretty someone. "You have it in one. And Black Knights are always the grandest at tourneys."

So what if she has opinions on this. It's fine; it's her stupid little tourney. Still, her grin fades when Lexie changes the subject. The slip is into confusion, though, not sadness. She rolls her eyes, stalling for time while coming up for an answer suitable for peerage.

"He's... Gabranth is a mate, and I don't say that lightly. I trust him and I've fought by his side. He's good for his word, which is more than can be said for most Thedosians." She tries to turn that up into a bit of a joke, oh, you know how it is. It doesn't quite catch the tone she wants. She moves on.

"He's a stroppy bastard when he's in a mood, but ain't we all? He'll come around."

[coquettish_trees]

'He'll come around'? Not the both of them worried about proximity, then.

"How patient of you!" is the exclamation. "I have a truly awful time waiting to speak with anyone I care for after having fought with them." Alexandrie pauses as if she's thinking, making room for any other expressions Jone might like to have, before she perks up again.

"Perhaps his mood shall be enlivened by fighting a long row of gallants." A smile, and then she tilts her head in further thought. "How long a line might we have? Were you intending this to be a Riftwatch tournament or to invite all who might wish to try their hands?"

[poleaxed]

Jone shrugs, head tilting to the side. She doesn't deny that she cares for him. Doesn't think to. "Mind, I'm a fighter by nature; if I couldn't handle a row or to, I'd be terrible at me job."

She manages to cough up an earnest laugh at the Lady's suggestion. "I doubt he'll find cheer in anything, of late, but if he manages it in a bout, I'll kiss your slippers in thanks, ma'am."

Jone tries for rustic, friendly, dumb. It generally serves her best, when speaking to a new Orlesian who could crush her skull with a snap of the fingers. A canny ear will even notice Jone's accent thickening.

"I'd like it to be grand as could be, meself," she says, "depends on resources, 'specially in a time of war like this. I'd not dream of asking you to put yourself out."

How big? As big as Madame D'asgard delights it to be.

[coquettish_trees]

It's a bit like sparring in the ring; one moves, and the other must decide what that movement means, and how to move in return. You learn a little bit, if you are clever, about every other battle your opponent has had.

The shift is caught, the settling into the earnest houndlike affect marked, and Alexandrie is impressed— it's precisely what would place her into the good graces of the sort of Lady Alexandrie had brought herself to their meeting as. Been in Orlais indeed... and not just selling her sword to private guards or militias in the countryside.

"Oh, I quite agree— all tournaments ought to be as grand as possible," Alexandrie replies, her fan fluttering in consideration, "Have you any support from the organization, or are you relying entirely on the generosity of benefactors such as myself?"

[poleaxed]

Jone scratches the back of her head, as though she's not sure what to say to that, but rouses herself. In truth, she knows the next but, but doesn't want to look anything other than blithely humble, like a good dog lord ought.

"Felled a dragon on the Thenuviet estate, I did. Me and Gabranth, mind. He took an interest in me, Lord Thenuviet did, likes tourneys well enough..." she shrugs. "Don't know him well enough to ask just yet. Awful sorry for bringing it up with you, our first meeting'n all."

Scratching her head again- "oh, and Commander Flint said something about prizes. Frankly, I imagine what the winners'll want is bragging rights."

[coquettish_trees]

"I am sure there are plenty of things that we might offer at little cost; ribboned trinkets and such, to supplement the bragging rights." Alexandrie waves the thought away with her fan as something for later.

"I imagine if you tell Lord Thenuviet of your idea and mention that you have one patroness already it should motivate him to contribute, and I shall begin to make mention of it when I go to salons or the theatre. Perhaps we might induce people to sponsor particular champions! It is ever delightful to cheer for a combatant one might call one's own. Bragging rights for us as well!"

The fan closes with a satisfied snap, and Alexandrie beams. "I am sure we shall have it a very popular occasion indeed."

[poleaxed]

Jone grins. That was... more painless than expected. Long ago having given up on the idea of good 'uns among the Orlesian nobility (or the Fereldan, or anywhere, really) she wonders if the pain will come later, or if this Lady is just silly with her power. Then again, she married a Vint. She may just have different aims.

Only time will tell.

Jone keeps that grin firmly in fucking place. "I look forward to it, ma'am. Quite right about all this, you are."