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.

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"I used to be a..." there really isn't a word for it. "Let's just say this ain't new. Except the monster thing."

So, yeah, he's killed a lot of people. What're you gonna do, greenhorn, call the cops?

"We make an okay team." Amos lifts his forearm, displaying a tattoo with a stylized A. "Name's Amos."

Ellie gives him a look, a quirk of the eyebrows that says no shit, Sherlock. Like recognizing like. Neither of them got this good at killing things from noble practice in a training yard and they both know it. Amos doesn't fight to subdue or disable, and neither does Ellie.

"Same," she answers. "But the monster thing isn't new."

She tilts her head to get a good look at the tattoo, flashes him a smile.

"Ellie. And yeah, we do." She gestures to the tattoo, leaning in. They have a few minutes to kill before something else tries to murder their whole expedition, surely. "That mean something special where you're from, or just something you liked?"

Amos sits, takes the waterskin back to take his own drink, and settles in for a short rest. You take what you can.

"Let's talk about your ink first. I got a lot." Wearing an armless shirt and now sitting closer to Ellie, it's pretty obvious he sure fucking does.

Ellie sinks down nearby, putting her bow within reach, and looks over his ink with an approving nod. Cat would've loved a lot of his work, especially the devil face.

She nudges her sleeve up, though it's mostly out of the way already, and extends her arm so he can see the whole of the work. It's older and sun-damaged, laid down over bad scarring and pushed in deep, but it's more than legible, the moth and two ferns standing out starkly against her skin.

"Got this when I was sixteen. Friend of mine was learning how, and I've got a high pain tolerance."

"That's pretty fucking good for sixteen," Amos says. It's a lot of ink and a lot of sessions and more than a little commitment. At sixteen, all Amos' tattoos were one session quickies, paid for with favors after drunken impulse.

"Where'd you get the design? Very Earther." He says it like it isn't a good or bad thing, just a fact.

"Thanks."

Ellie stretches her hand back and forth, looking over the skin. It had been a lot of sessions, a lot of itching, a lot of healing. But it was worth it to shift the attention from the acid burn scars.

"She came up with it," she explains, then draws her fingertips lightly over the moth, thinking back. "... I just wanted the moth. It was on the fretboard of the guitar I-" she pauses, swallowing back the lump in her throat. It's easier now, but far, far from gone. "-learned to play on."

Pausing, she glances back up at Amos. "What's an Earther?"

Amos sees the missing fingers, hears the way her voice stumbles over the guitar. He figures those two things are connected, but honestly? Not his business.

"Somebody born on Earth," Amos says simply. "I don't live there anymore. Belter ink is more... geometric." He runs his finger over the lines on his inner arm, the hexagons below his wrist. "Don't find a lot of moths and ferns out in the black."

Ellie appreciates the tact.

Earther. Belter. It sounds familiar, but it's not something Ellie can fully put a finger on. She tilts her head to look down at the tattoos again, the careful shapes. They don't look like the things you find in nature, but she's seen plenty of them in science books. Chemistry.

"Out in the black? Do you mean like space?" her tone picks up. "And Belter- you mean like an asteroid belt?"

"Yeah. I'm a mechanic on a gunship. We mostly work with Belters, when we can."

Like that explains everything. He could go into more detail, but since Ellie made the correct guesses, he figures she pretty much gets it.

That definitely sounds familiar. A lot more falls into place, and she flashes Amos a smile.

"Do you have part of your crew here? Because I think I met him."

"You met the Cap? Shit, Greenhorn, you get around." Amos takes another sip of water before getting up to stretch. He hasn't heard anybody coming yet, he just knows they will eventually. "Did he sound righteous about politics, or complain about coffee?"

"Nah, but he made sure to tell me your ship did above-board stuff." Ellie gives Amos a shrug, a flash of a smile as she gets to her own feet. "Ice-hauling. Didn't tell me it was a gunship."

Apparently the Cap is leaving a few things out, especially if this is his mechanic. Something to remember, even if she's personally not all that concerned with it.

She wrinkles her nose. "Politics?"

Amos considers, for a moment, if the Cap is trying to spin a lie, and Amos has just stepped in it. He'd like to keep confidences as much as possible, a wavelength of understanding between himself and Holden, but he can't see the benefits in lying to this girl. Especially when it's so clear she's not from their world. She moves and talks like tough muscle, especially in how she fights, but with a bow?

She's an Earther, but she ain't from their Earth.

"Must've been talking about the Cant. We met on that hunk of junk; it was an ice-hauler. And ice-hauling has to pay so many gang dues and union feels, nothing's above board."

Amos rotates one arm, trying to get blood flowing again. "Yeah, politics. He helps a lot of people, mostly by pissing them off and then proving he's right. He wouldn't say it that way. But, shit, I couldn't do it. And he couldn't fix a coolant leakage in a G spiral, so I guess we're even."

Look, some people want to appear shinier than they are, and Ellie's got no qualms about white lies or omissions, especially when it comes to people's pasts. She has enough of her own.

"Sounds like the two of you make a great team, actually."

She flashes him a smile, then furrows her brow, trying to follow.

"I don't know shit about spaceships, but that sounds fucking awesome, even with the politics. And he seems like an okay guy."

No word on Amos yet, but he's been good to her, and sometimes that's what matters.

"Well, we're not dead yet." As though that's the only qualifier.

(It isn't.)

"What've you got against politics, Greenhorn? Politics is why we're here."

"Right."

Ellie snorts, giving a nod. It's the most important qualifier. Everything else can change.

She frowns, unsure of how to answer, fingering her bow to try to work it out.

"It always boils down to some kind of dick-measuring contest about who should be in charge, or who gets the credit. People spend more time arguing or fighting each other than actually doing things."

She glances down the cavernous corridors of the Deep Roads with a sigh.

"Fighting Darkspawn seemed like a thing I could be doing, so here I am."

Amos considers that, giving her a quick lookover. She couldn't be older than 24? 25? It's hard to tell when they're malnourished. He knows the signs.

"You care about people?"

It's a genuine question, but that may be difficult to tell, based on his totally flat delivery.

Maybe it's a weird question to be so genuine about, and had someone asked it a couple of years ago, Ellie would've been shocked. Yes, of fucking course, she cares about people. What kind of asshole wouldn't?

Now, though- she sees more nuance in the world. She cares both more than she ever did, and far less. Trying to think about it makes her mind blur at the edges, at a loss to explain, but it sounds like Amos might get that.

"Most of 'em. The ones worth caring about."

She answers just as flatly, and it hurts, dully. She knows that's not the right answer. It might not even be the true answer. But saying otherwise feels like lying. She's not an altruistic person who cares about everybody, because if she did, would she have done everything she's done?

"Do you?"

"I don't," he says, just as flat and honest. "But I get that I should."

The world is awful complex when you're wrongly made for it, but Amos simplifies it as much as he can.

"If you care about people you never met, you should care about politics. It's like anything. Hard to win, but worth it." There's a long sigh. "You should ask Holden. That's his whole life."

The admission doesn't seem to put Ellie off. If anything, she can kinda appreciate the honesty, even if she doesn't fully grasp the depth of what he means. She nods, tugging at the scars, the blunt ends of her missing fingers, where they itch sometimes.

"I'll ask," she concedes. "But I'm mostly just good at pissing people off."

"If you can piss people off, but be right," Amos says with the shadow of a grin, "that's the definition of a good politician."

Ellie snorts aloud, doesn't bother holding back the laugh. It's not mean, she just can't picture herself like that.

"You can do that without being a politician."

"Yeah," Amos says, "but you don't get anything out of it that way. Help people or get paid. Whatever."

"I guess. But I'm not used to getting paid for anything. You just do shit to keep yourself alive, you know? You and your people."

It's a narrow view of the world, one that Ellie can't help. For her, for a long time, it's been the only realistic one. She tests the edge of her knife as she speaks, mostly to have something to do with her hands.

She'd have liked to have helped more people, a long time ago.

"But I guess maybe here it could be different."

So she's from a place so poor money doesn't matter. Some parts of Baltimore are like that, the parts gang bosses don't bother touching. Surviving that with a sense of humor-- she deserves respect.

"Could be," he says quietly. How many times has he said the same? Him and his tribe. "It's worth digging yourself outta that hole, while you still can."

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notathreat - 2021-05-29 16:45 (UTC) - Expand

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