faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

Entry tags:

MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

WHO: Everyone (more or less)
WHAT: A trip to Rialto, in pursuit of convincing Antiva to give up its famed neutrality, just this once, pleaaaase.
WHEN: Cloudreach/Bloomingtide 9:48
WHERE: Rialto, Antiva
NOTES: OOC post here. Remember to use warnings in your subject lines for gore, sexual content, or anything else people might not expect to find while casually reading this log on a work computer.

YOUR DESTINATION

Rialto is Antiva's second city in importance and in population, but in many ways it is first in sheer Antivanness. When foreigners imagine Antiva, they often conjure images of graceful bridges arching over turquoise canals, lovers on a romantic gondola ride serenaded by a soprano's aria, fiery young men in vibrant leathers dueling for the honor of their houses in the piazza while down at the docks pirates share tales over bowls of seafood pasta. All of this is to be found in Rialto. While Antiva City is a teeming, bustling center of world commerce, with all the clamor and diversity that creates, Rialto is popular more with the city's uppermost classes than its vast mercantile middle, particularly the old aristocracy who prefer Rialto for its relative peace and its proximity to King Fulgeno's favorite residence. This is not to suggest that Rialto is a Hightown without any Low—like all major cities, for every palazzo-lined canal where the wealthy rest are ten more waterways packed with delivery boats and shops and taverns of every degree and description, from the broad spans edged with rows of fashionable tailors and jewelers to narrow, winding alleys of water overhung by leaning buildings of smoke-stained stucco. The docks, though neither as large nor as busy as the capital's or Kirkwall's, are still large and busy by any other measure, packed with merchants and sailors and fishermen, along with some who—uniquely common in Antiva, a kingdom founded by pirates—skirt the line between honest seamen and buccaneers.

Antivans will argue it's always a good time to visit their country, but everyone else agrees that spring is the ideal. The weather is consistently mild and pleasant, warmer than Kirkwall but without yet edging into the heat of summer the way it is in Tevinter to the north. In the city's parks and piazzas, flowers and shrubby add a few splashes of greenery and warm breezes send occasional showers of petals down from the cherry and citrus trees just finishing their blooms. Climbing flowers and arbors of grapevines are common adornments.

For the king's birthday celebration the city's elegant pale stone buildings are all decorated, with public buildings and bridges hung with bunting in the crown's favored purple and banners depicting the arms of Antiva and the royal house Campagna: a golden ship, sails unfurled, beneath a crown, the shield supported by a seahorse on one side and a stallion on the other. Along the grand canals every palazzo is bedecked in some combination of the occupant's colors and the kingdom's purple, and the theme continues throughout the city, every district finding some means to demonstrate its festive mood. The effect is only slightly diminished by the few areas where graffiti conflicts with the decorations, and Riftwatch, at least, will be pleased to see it mostly takes the form of anti-Tevinter sentiment, ranging from a scrawled FUCK THE VINTS to a few choice quotes from certain popular pamphlets and puppet plays, to a large and surprisingly skillful mural of a dragon and a caricatured merchant prince sitting together on a heap of gold playing with toy ships and dolls while behind them a fire rages.

The king's birthday is always an extravagant occasion, even more so when he hits any age ending in a 0 or a 5, as he is this year. A full week of revelry has been decreed, with each day marked by pageants and parades and games of all sorts, and every night new and fabulous parties in his honor hosted by various houses, guilds, and societies. Knowing the king's love of masquerades, many of these balls are masked, with themes ranging from House Campagna's most celebrated ancestors, to sea creatures, to all gold everything. (While fancy dress is of course always encouraged, many will simply attend in their best finery, with the intention of visiting multiple parties in the same night.) The city is lit with lanterns, torches, and even the occasional bonfire, as the bacchanal spills into the canals and piazzas each evening and continues long into the night.

YOUR MISSION

Riftwatch arrives on this scene by ship, which garners a few approval points from the merchants and pirate-descendants populating the city. The ship remains anchored in the harbor for the duration of their stay, reachable by tender and doubling as a temporary home for the selection of griffons who have accompanied them north.

Griffon riders will make the trip back and forth from the ship most often, as they'll be assigned to shifts that keep one or two of them in the air at all times, day or night. The outward justification for this is to entertain the Antivans below them; they're encouraged to fill some of the time with acrobatics over busy squares or particular parties, at times with banners and streamers to trail behind their mounts. Those with griffons who don't startle easily might be entrusted with a few fireworks to set off from the air. But the real purpose is surveillance, of course, and to serve as emergency back-up or ambulance for anyone who finds themselves caught in a tight spot and calls for help. Riders will be equipped with vials of antidotes to some common poisons, and particularly at night, anyone with healing magic or medical skills might be asked to ride along.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, a steady stream of influential merchants and socialites will want an interesting Riftwatcher or three at their dinners and private parties, each presenting an opportunity to impress upon influential people the importance of the war. These gatherings will range from stiff, formal affairs to wild bacchanals, depending on the host. Of note: a moonlit evening with a chamber quartet on Antonio Luppi's pleasure yacht, famously large enough to have a croquet pitch on the upper deck, a days-long Wicked Grace tournament with rising stakes where Marco "il Calabrone" Molinari defies anyone to beat him, and a race through the canals on gondalas owned by Antiva's who's-who. There are no rules, so finding ways–even magical or new-technological ways–to improve the odds of the more invested racers may win some favor, and a number of competitors are eager to see if Riftwatch has some arcane way to give them an edge.

Outside the city gates, on a grassy cliffside that overlooks the Amaranthine Ocean, there's a faire for the workers and peasantry. There's dancing, a series of field games (tug of war, footraces, horseshoes, wrestling, hammer throwing, blindfolded stick-dueling, mob football, and whatever the heck wallop is), a bonfire each evening, and young people goading one another into cliff diving and climbing back up, sopping wet, using stairs and handholds carved into the cliffside. While no single one of the participants is as influential as the better-heeled set hosting gathering elsewhere, it's still good politics to put in an appearance, play some games, and dispel any lingering perception of Riftwatch as a weird heretical sect or pack of wild demons.

They'll find similar opportunities scattered throughout the streets of Rialto: full tables at taverns who might listen raptly to their accounts of the war further south, minstrels and players who might be persuaded to change their tunes to whip up sympathy or anger for Corypheus' targets, and lower-level independent tradesman who might be persuaded to stop doing business with Tevinter or push for such an agreement within their guilds.

Riftwatchers who are especially active in outreach in these working-class quarters may find themselves approached quietly by representatives of I Figli Della Brace, an underground network of agitators that sprung up in the wake of Riftwatch's prior propaganda efforts and has been wreaking minor havoc by destroying Tevinter goods, carrying on the tradition of vandalism, and hassling those who do the most business with Tevinter and the Anderfels. They're loosely helmed by Vieri Fontana, who already trusts a few members of Riftwatch, and in exchange for Riftwatch's assistance with a few sneaky favors and quick but rowdy demonstrations of disobedience, they'll promise a strong showing of angry common folk outside the palace when it's most needed.

And through all of this, Riftwatch members will need to be looking over their shoulders, watching their drinks, avoiding dark alleys, keeping an eye out for snipers on rooftops, and staying wary of alluring strangers, because an untold number of Antivan Crows are out for their lives and/or anchors.

The purpose of all of this hobnobbing and sneaking around and dodging of murder attempts awaits at the end of Riftwatch's stay: King Fulgeno the Merry and all of the Merchant Princes have agreed to give a contingent of Riftwatch diplomats a moment, the day after the king's largest birthday feast, to plead their case against continuing to trade with Tevinter and the Anderfels. Winning them over would strike a significant blow to the enemy, already cut off from trade with much of the rest of Thedas, and bring Antiva that much closer to actively assisting with the war effort.

Should this meeting involve the support of a few more Merchant Princes, the dramatic unmasking of a traitor among the Princes and a conspiracy among the Crows, and shouts of support from people in the street echoing in through the windows, there's a good chance they'll pull it off.

YOUR ACCOMMODATIONS

The canal-side palazzo where Riftwatch is residing during its visit is the summer property of Merchant Prince Amancio Vivas. Unlike some questionable accommodations provided to Riftwatch in the past, Palazzo Vivas is roomy and lavish, brimming with expensive decor and labelled artifacts and comfortable seating. Anyone needing space to work or plan will find multiple nooks and tables in the library, and Riftwatch has collectively commandeered a secondary dining room (there are several) for meetings.

For those needing a break from work, actually, Palazzo Vivas is well-stocked with books and all of the necessary equipment for parlor games, plus an echoing ballroom equipped with a pianoforte. There's a cabinet of decent wine and spirits available, or a locked cellar full of the very good stuff for the particularly enterprising. The palazzo encircles a central courtyard garden with enough tall hedges and trees that someone might disappear into it. Currently it's in full bloom, including some rare night-bloomers, and at all hours bustling with some combination of insects, birds, and bats. Also featured: two small fountains and a canal-fed wading pool.

The beds, unlike most of the Gallows', involve feathers rather than straw. The sheets are soft. Everything smells like lavender. Everyone can have a bed if they're willing to share with at least one other person; those who are unwilling will find themselves on the floor or a settee.

Everyone will be asked to take on some additional tasks in the palazzo. Most important is guard duty, including some overnight patrols to make sure there are no intruders or disturbances. But as only a skeleton staff is present in the palace, idle Riftwatchers might be sent out to Rialto's bustling markets for food and supplies and/or pressed into making vats of porridge, pasta, or seafood stew to keep everyone else fed while the single cook is attending festivities elsewhere.

YOUR LEISURE

Between assignments, Riftwatch members may find moments–or even several consecutive hours!--to enjoy Rialto. Cautiously, on account of the assassins. But still. In addition to partaking in the merriment, entertainment, and games purely for fun, there are street performances to watch, gondolas to hire for leisurely floats, markets and shops stuffed with goods from throughout Thedas, bath houses, and, only a short hike or shorter griffon ride away from the city, a pristine white sand beach on a calm cove, littered with sea shells, without a single decomposing shipwreck in sight. It's not something they're going to find in Kirkwall, so no one can be blamed for wanting a peek.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Gwenaëlle shifts, wherever it is that she is, possibly her room, equally probably not— just the faint sounds of someone rearranging themselves more comfortably. Settling in.

“As long as you understand if I have advice I won't wait to be asked, and don't care how you feel about it, then yes.”

It's an honest out; Abby might prefer not to take the risk.

Abby understands. Gwen recieves an amused snort as her answer. The sounds on her end are ones of getting up- the gentle creak of a bed, and rustling of clothing being pulled slowly on. Fishing her braid out of the back of her shirt, she stands, and has to search for the crystal in the bedsheets.

"Anybody sharing your room with you?"

Could come over. Or, "Just me in mine."

“Not at the moment,” because presumably Gwenaëlle is sharing a room with someone, but who that person is, dear reader, is anyone's guess, “and I'm not risking the less tubby Averesch deciding the bottle I've got is one of his uncle's by walking it across the corridors.”

It isn't; it's from her grandfather's private stores, packed directly from them herself. Arguing the point in the dead of night sounds like asking for trouble, though.

The dead of the night is a less fun time to argue. Take it from somebody who was very recently doing it.

"Hang tight."

And she only makes one wrong turn along the way. What is this place so fucking huge for. She should be grateful that they aren't all staying in separate housing dotted across the Rialo coastline-- wait a second, what was her point again? That sounds so much better than this cursed summer camp alternative.

Having already resigned herself to getting little sleep tonight and feeling nightmarish tomorrow, she slips into Gwen's room to talk. Pauses, in the middle of slipping her shoes off at the entrance to note, "Wait, are you drinking in bed?"

Genius.

Gwenaëlle's working leathers are laid out, neatly; the smaller, travel-sized sewing kit with its more specialized needles and supplies next to it, showing some sign of use. Hardie raises his head from where he's sat sentinel at the side of the bed, then lowers it again upon recognizing Abby as no intruder — everything is, as Gwenaëlle's spaces tend to be, very tidy.

For the most part, including Gwenaëlle, who is curled up in the middle of the palazzo's enormous bed allocated to her (and whoever), her hair neatly braided for sleep and her nightgown less suited to her wartime occupations and more suitable for seducing absent husbands. Probably she had picked it out, once, with someone in mind; probably Thranduil, but she does like to hang onto things, so maybe not.

And yes: she has an open bottle of wine with her, and a notebook that she sets aside. (Just the notebook.)

“I wasn't planning on getting up to do it.”

The lacy, fine thing that Gwen wears is not a surprise at all but tickles Abby anyway because she hasn't seen much like it in real life. On another person, anyway. Négligées exist in old magazines spreads or movies, else they're typically found strewn across ruined mannequins and completely unsalvageable, so. She looks.

Only for a second, and then she goes to greet the dog.

"Yeah," because, "Why would you," when you have that huge, empty bed to starfish out in? "The blankets just got stolen off of mine, so it isn't as comfortable."

The frown isn't for Hardie, it's just in his direction.

Hardie lays his head down across his paws. Who could frown in this direction. What kind of monster, etcetera, etcetera. He never even knew his namesake, so Gwenaëlle isn't sure how he manages to be so much alike to him.

“Well, then, you're in luck.”

What with this big expanse of bed, and better quality of company. She pats the space beside her — “Come and tell me your troubles.”

After an apologetic rub of Hardie's ears (oopsie), Abby takes a seat at the edge of the bed.

And flops down onto her back with an exaggerated sigh.

She appreciates this, really. Everything explodes out of her, "I didn't pay any attention to the sign-up for the rooming situation, and of course I got paired with Ellie goddamn Williams. I'm so fucking sick of her."

Lifting her head up by millimeters to check Gwen's expression after she says all of this is a little late but, "You're not friends with her, are you."

“Friendly,” Gwenaëlle decides, judiciously honest. It'd probably be the right moment for some kind of white lie, I absolutely hate the bitch, now, why do we hate the bitch? but she's still not very good at those, particularly, they'd probably just get derailed by Abby picking holes in how much less convincing she is when she's not being a fucking pedant. “We're friendly. I don't know her particularly well, we've not worked together all that much.”

Or socialized together all that much, either; enough that Gwenaëlle has mentally designated her both tolerable and competent. Pleasant company, even.

Makes this quite the development on her end, and she nudges Abby with her knee. “So what have I missed?”

Abby makes a sound of consideration in the back of her throat, stilling, but not for long. Evidentially, 'friendly' is not enough to hold her back.

"A lot," she admits, frowning at the ceiling. The camaraderie of the knee-nudge is silently appreciated. "I dunno if you know, but we came to Thedas from the same world. I knew her from before." Gesturing above her head with one hand, she indicates: some other nebulous time, and space. Obviously.

Continuing, "We have bad blood. I ran into her for the first time in Lowtown, and she stabbed me. So I'm not exactly thrilled that she's here."

Friendly is also not enough to stop Gwenaëlle from saying—

“And I assume you reported the assault to her division head.”

"I didn't," Abby interjects, avoiding looking directly at her when she says it, "I assaulted her back."

You know. To keep from getting murdered in the street. She keeps going, explaining (not wanting to give Gwen any more room to make very good points), "We called a truce, and we've been sticking to it too well. I keep getting paired up with her because people think we get along when we don't."

Oftentimes, Gwenaëlle is not difficult to read. Usually, the rare occasions where she manages to be at all enigmatic are either because the observer is less familiar with her tells, or because she doesn't know what she's feeling. Don't worry, though, no matter how long it takes Abby to look back at her, she's still going to be visibly not angry, just disappointed.

(Not surprised, either.)

“Well, maybe if you'd reported the fact that she apparently thinks stabbing her coworkers is acceptable if she doesn't like them,” did you think she wasn't going to come back to that, Abby, “a more realistic image of your working relationship might have formed for people.”

What if it takes Abby years to look back huh. What then. She gets the gist anyway from the little silence that falls temporarily between them, and frowns, eventually meeting Gwen's disappointment head on. Stubborn, to the end, "She wouldn't stab anybody else."

Why the fuck are you defending her. As if Abby knows. "Just me. You're not in danger, if that's what you're worried about."

“I realise,” Gwenaëlle says, slowly and deliberately, “that to many people who come through the rifts, Thedas is like some kind of...inconvenience to your real life, an interruption. It isn't your world, this isn't your war, these aren't your people. So why would you treat us with any real respect? Why would you take what we're doing here at all seriously?”

It's deceptively lulling, the way that she speaks with such delicate precision. It is also a warning signal.

Gwenaëlle is never so calm as when she's angry.

“Do you think the two of you are fucking better and more special and more real than the Templars and mages and everyone they hurt who have to set it aside because we are at fucking war? Where the fuck do you get off telling me that it's fine if you want to stab each other in the street while we had to work alongside the spoiled psychopath who blew up the Chantry and started the rebellion for years while he pissed and moaned about how everyone was so mean to him for one little war crime? You think no one in Riftwatch has any reason to want to hurt each other? We're fucking adults. We're in a war. We're our only allies. You're going to sit here and petulantly whinge to me like a spoiled little baby that you didn't stab her rudely enough for anyone to notice? And the problem is you have to work with her?”

She exhales—

“I think you should get out of my room.”

Abby's mouth drops upon in unpleasant surprise.

"I didn't–" is the immediate response, the prickle of unfairness hot and deeply uncomfortable, but Gwen keeps going over her and she has to shut up, even though she wants to tell her to, in no uncertain terms, go fuck herself for presuming, for describing the entire situation like this and attacking her personally. She's being unreasonable for wanting to keep what festers between her and Ellie between them so that nobody else has to fucking deal with it? Really?? Their beef is personal, not professional.

Abby takes a steadying breath. She likes Gwen a lot, which is why what she says hurts more than it was intended to. Or at least that's what she hopes.

Either way she'll get out, and gets up from the end of the bed instantly.

At the door, because she can't leave without defending herself, she adds, "You're putting a lot of fucking words in my mouth." About being better, more special, more real, she lives here now, came into the war right out of another one, and she wasn't given a choice. Thedas is her home, and has to be. Riftwatch, her people. Abby's voice is low too, simmering away, "And you're wrong. I've been working with her this entire time, that wasn't the goddamn problem. I drew the line over having to share a fucking bed with her, so sorry for wanting to whinge about that to a friend."

Not like she didn't warn her before she came here! Her face is hot. She says, "See you around," even though that's the last thing she wants to do, and plucks her shoes from beside the door before she leaves, only just resisting the urge to slam it shut behind her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject