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

He approaches, openly dubious.

"If you're planning on stabbing me, you'll want to take it out of the scabbard first."

Spoken with about as much seriousness -- or concern -- as the sentiment deserves.

“Do not start.” He warns mildly, though his expression doesn’t bear any anger or irritation beyond usual measure, pulling a small whetstone kept tucked away at his belt.

Then, at last, he sets the sheathe aside, leveling the blade’s duller angles in a straight line across his legs.

“Keep it angled like so, when it becomes damaged. You’ll need to keep vigilant watch for nicks or deeper cuts, then set the flat of your stone to it and bear down across in the same direction. Be patient, go slowly.”

“A blade is your life. Should it falter, should it shatter, your last breath may very well chase it in turn. Tend to it as though it shelters your own heart, and you will live longer for it.”

And he would care to see Holden live much, much longer.

He pays attention, really. Watches the way Gabranth angles the blade, handles the whetstone (did he really just have that in his pocket? Is this something Holden should be thinking about doing? Every time he thinks he's gotten used to ye olden life — ), nodding as the other man talks, and hears the lesson for what it is.

Well. It's sword maintenance advice, which wasn't entirely asked for. But it's also concern, in a way. It's a sort of kindness.

"I'll take care of it," he promises. Then, "But it'll probably be a while before it comes to that. I doubt I'll be fighting anyone with it anytime soon."

A finer blade that someone with his talents deserve, etc.

"Do not be foolish." Hardly unusual for the pair of them to meet in one singular point of contention, but this time there's a different quality to the sharp-cut tone of Gabranth's voice.

Weighty it rests in the air between them, stolid and stoneformed as the earth beneath their feet.

"You will keep this on you at all times, save for when propriety dictates elsewise in private meeting."

He cants his head, clocks the difference in tone. He might have fallen right back on sarcasm otherwise, but instead asks,

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

“There is no telling when you might have need of sound defense. You, a captain, must no doubt understand this.”

Holden is no ghost of a man by Ivalice’s demanding standards— perhaps by Thedas’ as well, and though Gabranth fears the worst may find him if he is unguarded regardless, he’ll not speak it aloud.

Not so openly, at least.

He makes a thoughtful sound, and there's a brief, wry tilt to his brows.

"I wouldn't learned it, quick, even if I didn't. My first mission here was a routine rift closure. It went smoothly, but then our innkeeper tried to murder us."

"What?" His head turns at that, almost looking offended on Holden's own behalf.

"Why?"

Holden, on the other hand, is blasé enough about the topic to shrug.

"People like him don't need a reason. We weren't even the first people he'd done that to, just the last."

AKA: he is dead now, and good riddance.

"Repulsive." He's changed much since his time in Ivalice, that much remains true: Gabranth is less bloodthirsty, less searching to sate the fury that once crawled incessantly through his veins, leaving him to use his own grim duty as executioner as catharsis.

Still, even now, he thinks no mercy ought be spared for such creatures. Let them rot where they must surely lie.

"But I am relieved to hear you grasp the full weight of my counsel, if this is so. Your sword will be your shield, treat it not as you would a tool, but your arm."

He remembers something else, too, a dreamed reality where everything had gone wrong. Many of the memories have blurred around the edges — some faded completely — but tendrils of the horror and hopelessness snaked around his heart, his lungs, in ways impossible to root out. A better sword arm wouldn't have prevented his situation, truthfully. Nothing he's willing to change about himself would have. But it can't hurt.

"I'll do that," is said as he sits as well, less a promise to be as intense as Gabranth is as a statement of intent. He could move to take the sword back, but it doesn't matter, here or now, and Gabranth isn't likely to try walking off with it after that lecture. He's quiet instead, before, "Is it really that much worse at the Buttered Nug? It's not right that some people got to stay here, and others got dumped over there."

Space or no, like, c'mon.

"It is...taxing." Is the confession he finally allows himself, visibly at odds with the decision to speak even the slightest disagreement, for fear of its weight if overheard by anyone else.

Holden he trusts to say nothing, at least. And he hopes that faith is not misplaced, for small as this may seem, beneath the surface it is utterly glacial in depth.

He does not do this lightly.

"But I am capable of enduring. Always."

"You can stay here if you want."

It's not hard to imagine that Gabranth is understating how bad the other inn is; and while Jim's room isn't exactly big, the bed even less so, he's willing to offer.

It's not as if he's sleeping every night, especially down here.

“No. I—“

He realizes it is too sharp, too iron-clad for the kindness of Holden’s offer, and instead corrects himself through the quieting of his own voice. The forced softening of his features.

“Thank you, Captain. But I would not wish to be seen as either weak or disrespectful for choosing quarters aside from the ones I have been given.”

It would be shameful at best, and pitiful at its worst.

He raises his eyebrows.

"Who do you think is going to judge you?"

It's not a hard guess that Gabranth is in Forces, and like, it's hard to imagine Flint giving a shit.

He has no answer to that.

In truth, there isn't one to be found, regardless of his own, immediate floundering in the face of Holden's counter: Riftwatch is nothing in structure or practice like the rigid hierarchy of Archadia and all its governing hands— there is a remarkably high possibility that he could simply opt to sleep amongst the rocks along shadowed roads and no one above his own station would pay even the slightest heed to it, provided his work was completed as asked.

So instead, he makes only a paper-thin sound, letting it sit in the base of his throat.

"I do not know."

Not anymore.

"Perhaps no one."

"If anything, your roommates," if he has any, anyway, "might appreciate the space."

Old habits: he sees that frustration, the brief floundering in the wake of his question, and he doesn't ask. He spent five years aboard the Cant, careful not to tread on the question of where anyone came from — because no one, himself included, was involved in long-range shipping because their lives before the job had been fulfilling.

They've all brought their demons with them to Thedas, to Riftwatch; and it's similarly not his place to push.

He adds, light, "Especially if you're taking that thing off at night."

Piles of armor, things which are well-known not to be heavy or take up room.

Edited (clunky wording) 2021-05-29 19:12 (UTC)

"...if I am to agree to this, it will only be during waking hours, when you've no use for the space regardless."

Thank you is what someone else might mean to say here, but Gabranth makes his own feelings more than clear: gratitude will always come second to respect, to the quiet dignity that colleagues and allies must share between them, rather than useless feelings of concern or care.

"You're overestimating how much I sleep down here."

Or like, in general. He's not unused to artificial day/night cycles — of course not — but it's a hell of a thing after spending so much time planet-side, after Ilus. But he holds his hands up as if in surrender, adds,

"That's fine by me. I can tell you when I'm out."

"Then do so." Gabranth concludes, raising high that now-sheathed sword and pressing it down into Holden's arms instead, stubbornly insistent in ways only he knows how to be.

It might seem unnecessary, it might in fact seem extreme and absurd, which ought to come as little surprise considering Gabranth's own rituals involving armor and masked humanity— but this is his way. His language. And he must be met within it for now.

Or not at all.

"Until then I shall wait for your word."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet

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would've*, god

cheers to my ADD, I actually thought it said would've (͠≖ ͜ʖ͠≖)👌

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