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

Instinctively warding against incoming disaster, Ellis' hand comes up to her elbow to grip gently as they walk. It's a loose hold, not meant to impede her as she secures the tiles back into the parcel they'd emerged from.

"That should be easy enough," he supposes, the pressure of his hand drawing her a few steps to the left to give the laundress emerging onto the street wide berth. "You might not need to wait for a meeting, and see if someone in the market has a spare set they'd give up."

Surely not an impossibility.

"I'm glad you liked them," is quieter, a self-conscious note layered in beneath the genuine warmth of his tone.

They'd been meant as a different kind of gift. But that they'd been well-received is the point, as Petrana de Cedoux had been kind enough to remind him.

"Like them. They were a singularly lovely gift. Your skill for picking presents has truly made remarkable improvements, Mister Ellis. Not that any of the others have been unwelcome, of course. Even the shield has come very much in handy, and I at least have a use for that pretty chain and charm which you gave me with it. It is the exact correct weight of metal to melt down to cast some of the more delicate pieces for—well, you know."

The project.

"But the birds are, I think, my favorite. I have been contemplating how I will exact my revenge and have yet to decide on anything, but be warned. Retribution will come eventually. Would you mind terribly putting these in your satchel, Mister Ellis?," she asks, the parcel at last fully secured even with her elbow so studiously in his custody. "I'm afraid they won't fit in my pockets and I worry about dropping them as we go."

Ceding his grasp on her elbow, Ellis takes the parcel from her in the same movement. His pace slows slightly as he situates the tiles carefully among the contents of his pack, taking care that they're sufficiently insulated.

"Consider me on guard," he replies, warm over the words. Bent over his satchel as he is, the expression on his face is momentarily obscured. A smile, maybe.

It's something to remember, while they're here. Mechanical birds, far and away the best thing he's given her.

Straightening, and readjusting his satchel to hang between them, Ellis is quiet for a few moments. He needn't ask. Maybe the only thing that need change is the way Wysteria signs her letters. But he draws in a breath, asks her despite wishing to talk about any other thing.

"Will you tell me about your wedding?" he prompts, steady over the question.

The promptness of her agonized groan is remarkable, and for a moment it seems as if she might lapse dramatically into a full on trudge beside him. But it lasts only for as long as it takes her to declare that, "What a disaster. I am beginning to think that Riftwatch-related festivities may well and truly be legitimately cursed," and then in the next stride she has brightened considerably. For despite the rather harrowing details there at the end (or perhaps because of them), there can be little argument that the event was not memorable. And what more could she ask for, really?

"You will have heard all about the spirits by now of course. But perhaps no one has told you about the possessed helmet we discovered in the ruin's crypt. It's a shame it had to be destroyed. I should have liked to have brought it back to the Gallows with us for study. And perhaps if the spirit had been successfully calmed it might have made an excellent companion for the Skull."

With her hands liberated, they begin to float toward her pockets. It is only at the very last moment that she stops herself; it is a terrible habit to walk about with one's hands so engaged, particularly in a place which is unfamiliar.

"No, the loss of the helm aside, I must say that I was quite pleased with it. Warden Adrasteia did a singularly fine job of the thing, and even de Foncé put on a rather good show of it. He had a new coat made. In a color I told him I liked, even. Can you imagine? But I'm very sorry you weren't there. The dancing was very good. You will have to tell me all about what kept you away."

Here, finally, a more full breath and a(n admittedly) brief pause so she much consider which of all the myriad little things she might first describe to him and instead lands simply on, "Which parts would you like know the details of?"

As her hands lift and drop, Ellis' elbow knocks against hers. It's an offer easy to ignore. Here is his arm, if she cares to take hold of it.

But yes, he'd heard about the spirits. Not about the helm, but the general chaos the festivities had devolved into had reached him even with everyone so preoccupied with Orzammar and their work here.

In truth, he cares very little about the details of the reception. The questions that come to mind are more narrowly focused, and harder to ask because of it. In the space of that brief pause and in the wake of her question, Ellis takes the time to sift through all the possibilities before he asks, "Did Tony make a speech?"

As good a place to begin as any.

"He did. It was done very much in the fashion that I suspect you might imagine," she confirms while availing herself of that offered arm. Rather than simply set her hand there, she cheerfully links her own elbow with his.

"But not badly done at all, though he did tell everyone about when we nearly leveled that square in Hightown if not for the rain. I trust though that everyone believed he was joking. Or at least recognized it for a bit of hyperbole, which I myself maintain that it was."

At most they might have ruined the house. The neighboring ones were certainly never in any danger.

"He is secretly rather sentimental, you know. I think it very sweet."

Edited 2021-05-25 19:21 (UTC)

Ah, that story. Ellis suppresses a wince.

"I imagine he had to wipe a few tears away, by the end," Ellis says, by way of agreeing. Or teasing, though Tony isn't here to object to them.

A few moments of quiet follow, while Ellis sifts through conflicting impulses and settles upon some minor, easy questions to put to her. He shifts the satchel on his shoulder, considers her arm through his. Reminds himself of what a reception might be, even one taking place in a ruin and orchestrated as a near-Riftwatch sponsored event.

"And you danced?" Ellis prompts her. "And received generous gifts, I assume."

"Oh, nothing too extravagant," she says, casting his a broad smile in confidence for his gentle ribbing of their mutual friend. "But a fair amount of dancing, yes. And de Foncé means still to get me a dog, I think, as I requested."

The crook of her elbow tightens suddenly, and with a wordless exclamation her spare hand claps onto whichever of his is most convenient to her.

"Which reminds me! Is it very inconsiderate to have assumed you have some experience in the subject? Dogs, I mean. I know nothing at all about them and thought I might consult you for advice on the subject."

Of course. The dog would be for Wysteria. Ellis hadn't thought of Val's voice on the crystal, the request set aside to discuss mabari with Amos.

It makes sense.

"Aye, I know a fair amount about dogs," he answers her. "But I didn't take you for being partial to them."

Though it's been Ellis' sense that Wysteria is far better with animals than she gets credit for. She's warmed to the chickens, and Richard's snake, and perhaps gets on with Thot by now. Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise that she's considering a pet of her own, to go along with her newly-minted marriage.

"Oh not especially partial, no. But I think such an animal would be a good edition to the estate in Hightown and do us all the benefit of providing a bit of added security which might ease the minds of the likes of the Ambassador who might otherwise be rather anxious to discover what has been occurring in that house unobserved."

She gives his hand an extra shake and then separates the clasp of their fingers. Her elbow however remains hooked.

"De Foncé may resent your consult, but rest assured that I will advocate for you Mister Ellis."

His hand drops back to his side. His fingers open, then close, then open again.

"I wouldn't want to intrude," is said very, very carefully. Resent doesn't hook any other concern than what feels obvious: Val de Foncé would perhaps prefer to manage these affairs himself. It need be nothing more than that.

There is a momentary pause as Ellis navigates around a flat, blunt assessment of the Ambassador's concerns, turning it over in his mind before adding, "You'll need to be sure the dog doesn't interfere with your work."

A generous way of pointing out the house can be dangerous to it's human occupants, nevermind an animal.

"But that is precisely why I will require your assistance, Mister Ellis. It is very important that the dog be well disciplined with respect to the house's many hazards, and I know nothing at all about how one teaches an animal anything. On the one hand, I am sure the thing will arrive perfectly well educated. On the other, I believe that all animals are somewhat prone to developing poor habits if their teaching isn't reinforced and I shouldn't like to ruin it."

They have reached a crossroads here, and Wysteria uses the link of their elbows to steer him in the direction which will eventually lead them back to the Paragon's Rest. She has a series of notes she must file with the other records Riftwatch's has been compiling there.

"Hopefully it won't terrorize your chickens either."

There's a soft chuckle in response to Wysteria's recitation. And possibly because Ellis is considering whether Wysteria would take to lessons on training a dog any better than she'd taken to archery lessons.

"I doubt your dog will arrive well-trained," is Ellis granting her request, more or less, even if Ellis wonders whether or not Wysteria's new husband has the coin to arrange such a thing. "But I might build a fence round the coop until they've gotten acquainted to their new defender."

And bar the way to other parts of the house, but that's something he might do without any consultation.

"This way," he says, an undertone as he directs her across an intersection with only the light press of his hand on her wrist to signal the intent. "One more stop before we report back."

"A fence seems very logical. And besides, with the weather warming now I guarantee we will begin to see that dreadful old cat of the neighbor's along the wall again. I know the animal is rather old and almost certainly toothless, but I can't hurt to put an extra measure of security about your birds while it's likely to be lurking."

All of which she says seemingly without much thought, just as she gives naturally into the guidance of his hand and allows herself to be diverted from her earlier choice of path. Notes to file she may have, but pressing business to follow? Hardly. Not unless one counts meandering around and being seen by the population of Orzammar as work.

"Which stop would this be?"

A slight frown crosses Ellis' face at that. The reminder of the cat underscores the potential usefulness of enclosing the entire coop, but Ellis isn't yet sold on the idea. Maybe if there were a way to do so without the potential of it being coming off as an eyesore—

But that's a consideration for when they've returned from Orzammar.

"You'll see when we get there," Ellis answers. "And if the person I'm thinking of is still not in residence, the walk will have been worthwhile."

Based solely on the destination, which Wysteria might guess at before long as they veer towards the distract favored by smiths.

Rest assured that the walk there is well filled by various chatter, including a lengthy interrogation regarding the sort of work Ellis has been tasked with her in Orzammar at Riftwatch's behest. Surely you didn't follow that man around all day, and so on, which is as close as this writer will err to her own characters ever mentioning one another look I just think it's funny okay GOD.

—And descriptions of various minor adventures and the recounting of at least one spiritually fraught incident at the party following the wedding ('I know you have heard all about it, but I must tell you about how I almost stabbed poor Mister Edgard in the hand with his own knife. It was quite exciting,') so on and so forth, until at last the trajectory of their direction begins to clarify itself.

She is not so familiar with the layout of the city yet to immediately parse it. But she is quite an observant thing, and there can be no mistaking certain sights and smells and the distinct ting-ting-TANG! sound of iron work. And so Wysteria is drawn briskly out of her largely self-propelled conversation, dropping all at once into:

"Mister Ellis, it has only just this moment occurred to me that this person which we are seeking out might be a an old acquaintance of yours. Someone you know from your previous trips to Orzammar, perhaps?"

Here is a truth: there is an enduring charm in the rhythm conversation with Wysteria takes.

It's not a hardship to field her questions, listen at length to her opinions and the description of her own work. There is room for some expression of exasperation over Tevene restaurants and the amount of silverware involved, or description of the library, or expressed approval of stabbings, before abruptly Wysteria's attention shifts to their destination.

"Aye, someone I've known for a time," he answers, as they pass the first forge. Ellis guides them along until they come to an smaller smithy. The building is somehow slightly rickety, with a cracked windowpane. The door is ajar. Inside, an aggressive, rhythmic clang rises and falls, punctuated with a screechy, muffled curse.

Ellis brings them to a stop outside the threshold, before extricating his arm to knock on the door frame and call, "Aldrich?" and be answered with a clatter of iron on stone. Not exactly an invitation, but apparently it's enough of one for Ellis to nudge the door the rest of the way open and draw Wysteria in after him into the dim shop.

There is such a shock in it—to have spent such a considerable time pressing Ellis on every detail of his life, from asking questions about Ferelden and his life there and the Wardens and his time with them and his friends and family and his opinion on books, and dancing and politics and the weather and astronomy and whatever else had ever popped into her head, to have had him carefully navigate around little details like names and the description of persons, and then all at once have someone he has known for a time all but deposited directly into her possession. It strikes her nearly dumbfounded, some bizarre combination of incandescent pleasure and a strange, unnamed trepidation gripping her. She is nearly entirely silent as they make these last few turns.

When at last she ducks through the doorway after him, she discovers she has been holding a breath (surely not this whole time, but long enough that she must release it and suck in another very promptly) and that they are still connected by their linked elbows.

Wysteria quickly extracts her arm from his. She smooths her skirts with one hand and absently chases a stray bit of hair back behind her ear with the other.

The suddenness of the separation brings Ellis briefly up short.

But the hesitation passes, quashed as Ellis nods to her and invites himself further into the cramped front room, past the sloping table and haphazard array of armor and weaponry mounted on racks and barrels and crates and small black cat that hisses then flees at the sight of them through a second creaking door that opens into a smithy.

"Aldrich," Ellis repeats, pitched over the aggravated clattering. A wizened dwarf straightens from the anvil, grit in his beard, to squint at them both, then huff as he turns fully from the fire. A great scorchmark decorates his sturdy apron. An unkempt beard obscures most of his face, tufts escaping from the braided lengths of beard.

"Back again!" is more accusation than greeting. Ellis's answering laugh is so quiet that it's easily missed. He turns back to Wysteria, prepared to draw her into the room if need be.

"I've a friend who needs some tools," Ellis says, which is apparently his idea of introduction.

She does indeed require to be drawn in, lingering there in the doorway as if scarcely aware of her own presence there much less what she ought to do to alter the particulars of her body or the space she absorbs with it. It is a good thing that Ellis is there to take her by the hand and draw her fully through to the room beyond the lintel's shadow. Once there, her grip on his fingers turns thoughtless fierce - loathe to be easily disengaged - and it is with great effort that Wysteria doesn't do the thing that her impulses tell her to (which is to take shelter like a shy child in Ellis' shadow). Instead she merely draws very near to his arm. In the heat of the smithy, she is very pale and rather clean, and for a long bashful moment she forgets her manners entirely and simply looks at the dwarf called Aldrich with in his apron, with his wild beard and the sturdiness of his arm and she thinks—

Well she doesn't know what she thinks. Later, she will sort her thoughts and decide that she was very pleased. Not to look upon him, no. But to be introduced (if such a word really applies).

And then, after fumbling lapse, she flushes quite red for her own foolishness and says very quickly as if it might make up for the length of her pause, "Yes that's right. I'm looking for a very delicate set of picks and chisels and so on. It is for the maintenance of a clockwork bird. A pair of them." Also— "Hello it is very good to meet you."

Having expected Wysteria to simply take off at a clip, the tight grasp of her hand and long moment of silence is a surprise. The momentary attempt to release her hand realigns immediately, holding on obligingly. Aldrich waits the pair of them out, eyes narrowing to scrutinize her as Ellis' thumb strokes along her knuckles, encouraging.

"This is Wysteria," Ellis says, filling the space between Wysteria's request and Aldrich's consideration. His elbow brushes Wysteria's as he turns, just slightly, back in towards her to explain, "Aldrich has repaired my armor. More than once, and very well."

Aldrich scoffs over this minor fact, finally prodded into motion after having seemingly deemed Wysteria to be of some interest. He makes a minor effort to rub his blackened hands on his apron, to no effect, as he begrudgingly steps out and away from the anvil.

"Birds, you say?" asks Aldrich. "About so big?"

Hands lift, demonstrating a space about the size of an apple.

"Oh. Yes. Close to that, I suppose. They are about—" Here, finally, she unravels her grip on Ellis' hand so she might make an estimation with her own hands in return. "Yes, about this size, and painted, and each in possession of a winding mechanism."

She glances swiftly toward Ellis as if seeking out some confirmation—which is silly, as she is perfectly well acquainted with the little machines in question—and then looks back to Aldrich.

"The casement attachments seem quite delicate, and I would like to be able to disassemble and reassemble them without damaging the parts."

Edited 2021-05-31 18:29 (UTC)

A second scoff as Aldrich's hands drop. It could be mistaken as judgmental, but underneath the beard Aldrich looks more like a man considering a puzzle than a man dismissing mechanical birds. Though still—

"They're flimsy," is the immediate verdict, as Aldrich makes a second cursory attempt at wiping off his hands. "Especially if they're Yevgeniy's. He cuts corners."

Ellis' snorts, very quietly, interjects, "They aren't Yevgeniy's," from Wysteria's side as Aldrich strides past them to the shelves and baskets lining the far wall.

And it's seemingly fallen on deaf ears because Aldrich's next question is directed at Wysteria still as he roots through a woven basket: "Do you know what you're doing with a set of these tools?"

It is some combination of Ellis' willingness to spar with the dwarf and that skeptical fringe in Aldrich's voice that work in combination to spur her on. Beside Ellis, Wysteria visibly straightens. Her shoulders square a little and the angle of her chin stubbornly rises—

"Yes of course. If I didn't, I'd have simply tried bashing at the things with my own and hardly know to come looking for anything more precise."

A hmph in answer, Aldrich stopping in his work to pull on his beard rather than press her further. Observing Wysteria's growing comfort, Ellis touches her elbow once more and then draws a few steps away towards the rack of cooling work Aldrich had propped at an angle alongside his workbench. Aldrich bristles, attention diverting from Wysteria long enough to instruct, "Don't you touch anything!"

Ellis' hands raise in silent placation, thoroughly ignored as Aldrich upends the basket across his bench. A cacophony of clattering odds and ends rattles into a pile, metal and leather and crumpled paper, potentially more easily sorted through. Aldrich puts a hand on his hip.

"Well? What are you waiting for, girl? Come over here and help me find what you'll need. It's a leather case, about the size of your friend's palm."

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