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Entry tags:
player plot | meanwhile, in orlais,
WHO: Anyone
WHAT: Orlesian hangout interlude
WHEN: Late Wintermarch 9:50
WHERE: Halamshiral
NOTES: OOC post including some historical context that didn't fit well into the body of the log here. Mentions of fantasy racism and related violence in the log text. Use CWs for threads as needed.
WHAT: Orlesian hangout interlude
WHEN: Late Wintermarch 9:50
WHERE: Halamshiral
NOTES: OOC post including some historical context that didn't fit well into the body of the log here. Mentions of fantasy racism and related violence in the log text. Use CWs for threads as needed.
There was a time not very long ago, like just six months ago actually, when the Baroness Egelatina de Martigny was only the Lady Egelatina de Martigny and it seemed possible she might die that way. She'd spent her entire adult life on the modest allowance granted to her by her aunt — several years younger than her, as these things sometimes happen — who held the title and the family land. But now her aunt is dead, the new Baroness de Martigny is in charge, and this winter she is starting off with a bang by filling her freshly reclaimed ancestral property with professors, artists, and Riftwatch. This is not madness. Egelatina is savvy and mindful of her reputation. But the reputation she cultivates is one of a knowledgeable, eccentric supporter of arts and cutting edge ideas. She loves interesting anecdotes and shocking company, so long as the shock isn't that they're boorish or foul smelling. Whatever aid Riftwatch can provide in that endeavor likely to be rewarded: she's freshly rich, childless, unmarried, and without any close heirs, and she has disclosed an intention to spend her inheritance on her passions, causes, and friends rather than die wealthy and have everything go to her excruciatingly dull seventh cousin.
All of this to say: through her old pals Alexandrie d'Asgard, Byerly Rutyer, and Bastien Bastien, Riftwatch has received an invitation to send representatives to stay with her for a week in snowy Halamshiral.
HALAMSHIRAL.
Halamshiral as Riftwatch finds it is a sea of small houses and single-story workshops and market squares, though the hilly terrain and strips of snow-coated greenery that the city's original elven planners left behind mask the extent of the sprawl from any viewpoint outside the High Quarter. The main streets have been rebuilt and improved upon; while the nobility generally won't deign to visit themselves, rather than sending their staff, there are some charming market squares, affordable taverns, and the shops of tradesmen and artisans. On these streets Halamshiral is a city like any other, save that the majority of its citizens are elves.
Venture off those streets, however, and find clusters of shacks among patches of half-completed reconstruction — walls half finished, stacks of rotten lumber that never made it into the shape of a house — and pockets of outright ruins, evidence of the fire and violence that caused them still there. The poorest and most neglected denizens of Halamshiral, mostly elven but some human now as well, live in lean-tos and shabby tents around the edges of these areas.
That they live on the edges, specifically, is due to the hauntings. Typical for sites of violence and fear, the veil has thinned in Halamshiral. Glimmers of past conflicts show through it — a glimpse of ghostly elves cowering before Chevaliers, spirits clashing in the Exalted March of the Dales, an elven lullaby from an unseen source. Shades and demons of despair or rage may lurk in the dark corners of ruined buildings. Inquiring among the locals will reveal the troubling news that these occurrences have become much worse over the last month or so.
HIGH QUARTER.
On a completely different note, the High Quarter where the nobility sequesters itself each winter is a gated community, literally elevated above the rest of the city on the hilly terrain, that progresses from fine inns and stately close-quartered apartments and townhomes near the gates to more impressive mansions with sprawling gardens the nearer to the center you go. The center itself is the Winter Palace, but Riftwatch isn't invited there.
Instead, they're invited to any number of other gatherings at smaller estates. The finest and largest of the week is a soiree hosted by the Duke de Freyen, for which nearly everyone who is anyone puts in an appearance; even the Empress might be glimpsed for a moment, though briefly, and approaching her before she departs will be impossible. Every evening there are several other somethings going on: banquets, card tournaments, chamber concerts, smaller dances in smaller ballrooms, and other genteel gatherings. Together they provide a variety of opportunities to impress, whether that's with fashion and dancing or skillful cheating at cards or allowing tittering lords and ladies to feel your arm muscles.
Within the High Quarter, a clear view of anyone's face is very rare. The nobility have their elaborate and unique masks, and every servant has a simpler version to indicate which household they belong to. Meanwhile, the Orlesian commoners who are present, from the untitled wealthy to visiting workers, paint their faces in the nobles' presence at a minimum and may wear high collars or low hats meant to obscure their faces further. It's good manners. But not such required good manners that they expect it from Riftwatch and other outsiders; showing up with your whole nose and both cheekbones out for the world to see is more the equivalent of arriving underdressed and barefoot, not naked.
For the visit, Riftwatch will have available a quantity of simple masks — more like those worn by servants than the elaborate ones worn by the nobility — painted the slate grey and green of their uniforms. Opting to wear masks is a statement, which might be regarded as presumptuous by those around them and may ultimately be considered a signal of Riftwatch's entry into the Game (and submission to the rules, such as they are), especially in conjunction with any other perceived maneuvering for influence. But it's fine. It's an intentional statement. And those who would prefer not to wear a mask still have the option of maquillage or a gauche naked face.
As is always the case, these gatherings are also lousy with entertainers who might also be bard bards. While there's no general directive to assassinate Riftwatch members, anyone trying to sneak and snoop in private rooms while parties carry on elsewhere, searching for hints of conspiracies in letters or signs of eluvians in attics, may stumble on an assassination in progress or run into someone else trying to rifle through correspondence and willing to kill to be first.
INSIDE.
In the house where Riftwatch is staying, things are less fraught. Though only ("only") a Baroness, Egelatina is on the wealthier end of the Orlesian nobility bell curve, and her expansive property has a lot of comfortable beds and oversized fireplaces. The decor has some nods toward the latest of Orlais' fast-moving trends, for appearance's sake, but the Baroness has put more effort and money into filling the library with more interesting books and the gallery rooms with more unusual art than her aunt preferred. A greenhouse in Serault glass is kept warm and sticky-humid even in winter, filled with rare flora from Thedas' northern tropics and a collection of live butterflies. Her most cherished prize, on a second-floor balcony, is a large telescope for the clear nights.
The telescope is a popular focal point for her little gatherings, when she invites whomever has caught her interest that hour to join her and encourages them to talk to one another. So is the oversized chess board now laid out in the center of her ballroom. Smaller game boards are scattered throughout the house, and in the evenings — or the late afternoons, or sometimes the early afternoons — the bulk of the guests might gather around card tables to drink and carry on their debates while trying to take one another's pocket money.
A rotation of visitors drop in to visit day to day, but in addition to Riftwatch's number, the guests staying in the house include: Lord Remonet Nicollier, a writer of praised but unprofitable imaginative fiction about a land on the other side of the Amaranthine who wants nothing more than to tell everyone about his plans for the next chapter; Josset de Rodin, a naturalist and explorer who was on the edges of the Donnarks cataloging wildlife when the Anderfels imploded and adds new harrowing details to the story of her escape back to Orlais every time she tells it; Gaultier Boucher, a professor at the university now doing work on authenticating the details of the Canticle of Shartan with the help of his elven research assistant who is actually doing most of the work, Maren; and Mathé Leroux, a middle-aged, taciturn commoner and former sailor in the Orlesian Navy, prior to his honorable discharge after the loss of his arm, who now paints unusual, emotive portraits with remarkable talent but little recognition (yet) and lives in the Baroness' household on a permanent basis. (They're bangin'.)
OUTSIDE.
While the Baroness de Martigny is more of an indoor cat, many of her friends and neighbors are not. This time of year Halamshiral is covered in a thick blanket of white snow, and aside from one evening in the middle of the week when a snowstorm rolls through to add to it, the weather stays clear and ideal for getting out to enjoy it. The neighboring mansion's back garden has been sculpted into an ice maze, with glowstones frozen into the ice so it can be enjoyed night and day. There's also an annual snowy hunt for a snowy wyvern; it's only successful once every five years at best, but still a rousing adventure during the other four, and Riftwatch members might field their own attempts to catch the beast for clout or accompany any number of curious lords and ladies who'd like their help while they "track the beast" (drink and walk) through the surrounding countryside. They can also take a sleigh ride, participate in a snow sculpture contest organized by the legion of servants during their free time, or join Halamshiral urchins in a snowball fight. Because there's snow. If we didn't mention.
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He jerks his fashionable half-cape off his shoulders and wraps it around hers. It does not match her outfit in the least, but provides some protection from the cold. Less a gesture of concern than an indication that he's fully expecting her to go with them.
"Bards," Byerly says to Barrow and Lazar. "So young idiots or not, this will be dangerous. She's one too - Bastien's old partner." There's a sort of pleasure in not even bothering with the typical courtly double-speak. Just spilling all the secrets.
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"Alright," Seems there's a clear path to follow. "So it's not knowing where, it's getting there without walking in a trap."
Lazar squints between the three: I'm a bit dim, correct me -
"Figure they're looking for you to vault in the window or some shite -" To Ines.
"But reckon he sets off different alarm bells." Byerly. A thief, well. No one's getting talked to death. "Maybe him and one of us, we all go at it as dumb foreigners. Not playing by the rules. Trying to negotiate in the open like dogs. Be a,"
He struggles to find the word.
"Distraction." Yeah, that. "Get some cover for the other half."
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He tips his head in response to Lazar's suggestion, his eyebrows climbing in silent agreement. It's not the worst plan, especially from one generally so determined to be unremarkable.
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Byerly can't follow that thread right now. But he tucks it away for later.
And he nods. "If Bastien is unable to walk - " He says that with an aloof iciness that betrays his terror far more than a more honest expression of emotion would have - "He'll need someone to carry him. Barrow, I suspect you are rather categorically incapable of sneaking; is that true?"
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But Bastien was a liar, she's thinking. This Fereldan isn't very funny at all.
For most of Lazar's plan, she's fastening the half-cape so it won't fly away when, yes, perhaps, she vaults in the window. She might keep it. The cape. Once she's satisfied with the pin and chain holding it in place, she gives Lazar a considering look and a smile. A good thing after all, that the contract on his life—easy money from the sound of it at the time—was something of a conflict of interest for her.
"That could work," she says. The highest praise.
It could also get their chosen distractions stabbed to death at the entrance, but that's no harm to her reputation.
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But it's plain he's just as baffled the plan's been taken up. Lazar grins back at Ines, and almost follows up with: We could set it on fire, burn them out -
Doesn't. Rutyer's talking, and - right. Hostage. Right. He nudges Barrow with an elbow,
"Heroic rescue," He intones, "Sounds knightly. I can climb,"
He adds, in Orlesian, and doesn't sound very Ander at all. In Trade again:
"Or we post Barrow under the window, have him catch what you push."
A shrug. Entry's a decent choke point. Need to bust far enough in to not get shot in the back, is all. His eyes linger on the bard. Maybe Rutyer's pretty, if you go in for that kind of thing. But Ines,
Say jump.
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"...as long as it does not involve sneaking, yes." He puffs smoke out the side of his mouth.
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The undisguised trail ends at the expanded edge of the High Quarter, outside a still-in-progress house on a patch of land freshly claimed and walled away from the burnt-out sprawl of the old slums. The owners aren't living in it yet, clearly, but it's too late for the fresh footprints and firelight from the downstairs window to be the work of a construction team.
The young man who meets Byerly and Barrow at the door is almost as tall as they are, masked like a noble, and—despite perfect Orlesian—clearly Antivan, when he speaks Trade to greet them. Friendly. He says, "This is not your house, is it?" as if it's a real possibility. "We thought it was still empty."
Elsewhere, Inés is considering the house. Between her and Lazar and the unfinished roof are three stories, each with windows that might be unlocked, one with a narrow balcony and door.
"If they are expecting anyone, they are expecting the roof," she says, "but it will be the clearest view of what we are jumping into. Can you make it?"
In case he might worry she's doubting his general ability, she casts a glance assward.
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"Easy," He lies. The scaffolding's a plus, he can put more in the arms. "It gets bad, I'll off on the balcony. Pincer it."
That's bad numbers when they're already divided, but the surprise might balance it out. Better than falling off the side onto his fucking neck. Lazar pockets a fat flap of cheek in his teeth, and starts to climb. Skin and muscle stretch, tear.
He's quiet, chews down the groan. Blood in his mouth, heart in his ears, and one dead-weight leg.
(He's certain to fall behind her.)