player plot | meanwhile, in orlais,

[cozen]

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.

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.

Regarding Masks
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.

Pleasant as these activities might look at first glance, there's an ever-present undercurrent of passive aggression, gossip, and scheming, punctuated by occasional grandstanding accusations and deadly duels: the Grand Game. Riftwatch members are unlikely to find themselves involved, save as pawns in someone else's attempts at impressing or humiliating their neighbors, but being a pawn isn't exactly a great, safe gig.

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.

Comments

[cozen]

The length of Bastien's hum and the ensuing pause after the hum reaches a point where continuing it further would be ridiculous is not about a lack of interesting things or the need to work to recall them. It's about trying to match the sprawling web of facts and opinions, not yet fully processed and categorized within his mind into boxes like mages or Ferelden rather than existing as a series of moments he connects with chronology or the speakers relationships—trying to find something there to match to Julius, who he only knows so well.

In the meantime he's stretching his neck. Rolling his shoulders. Releasing some small amount of the tension that's built up over the last few hours of minding his every move.

"The Marquis de Montsimmard has relocated the library and art from the Circle there to his own property," he decides on. "Lady Isolda Vallotton, she is upset about it. Not because she thinks it belongs to all of you, but she, uh, she thinks it should have been sold off to compensate landowners for damage from the rebellion. But her sister thinks he does not plan to keep it and it is only that with the war he could not spare men to guard the Circle from thieves anymore."

[overharrowed]

"I confess, I never feel more Fereldan than when I am working to understand Orlesian nobles' attitudes toward Orlesian mages," he comments, more a placeholder while he's thinking than a genuine observation that begs a response. Still, the information clearly catches his attention, and he files it away. Worth remembering, even if he doesn't see a use for it in the immediate.

"I did hear," speaking of, "more than one of them expressing surprise I was able to walk without tripping on my own feet, but I'm reasonably certain that was about my nationality and not my magical ability." Considering that those making the remarks had assumed Julius didn't understand spoken Orlesian, it felt like a safe assumption. "I'm not averse to trading on novelty if we must, but it would be nice if that weren't the only play available."

[cozen]

Bastien smiles, agreeable with a touch of knowing. But any explanation—or the many explanations, more like—he could offer as to Orlesian attitudes toward mage going unsaid because he can read an alcove well enough to recognize when someone isn't actually asking.

At the second part, first his face crinkles in sympathetic distaste. And personal distaste, actually. That's new. Four years ago he might have secretly found it a little funny.

Then he tilts his head so far his ear nearly touches his shoulder. Part neck stretch, part thoughtful. He stays that way.

"It is not entirely personal. Novelty is a good play for anyone in Orlais."

The frenetically shifting fashion. The buildings left to crumble when the shapes of their windows and roofs become too gauche. The people feted and forgotten and feted and hated and feted again.

"Between you and me," he says in Orlesian, part test and part enjoying the contrariness of it, "I did enjoy the Landsmeet more."

[overharrowed]

He laughs quietly, and responds in Orlesian that, while obviously accented, is meticulously correct in grammar. (The language of someone who learned it from a book, but gave that book sufficient attention.) "Ferelden makes up in entertainment what it lacks in subtlety, I understand." It's only a little wry; it's not as if he's had much opportunity to participate in Ferelden politics personally thus far.

He takes another sip of champagne. "I hear a great deal here, myself. I cannot, at least, complain of being bored."

love to be like wow what happened to that sentence @ my tags

[cozen]

"What we ever strive to avoid," Bastien says, on behalf of his entire country—though of course a peasant in Orlais is just as exhausted as anyone by the entire thing. So on behalf of the titled and landed and moneyed. None of which he is, himself.

He straightens his head, sniffs against the cold.

"Anything fun in particular?"

who among us has not been there

[overharrowed]

"Nothing particularly useful so far." It is, perhaps, telling that he answers a question about fun with utility. He does add, "I did very much enjoy, however, one long and particularly personal-sounding critique of a new opera from a composer the speaker seemed to have met personally. The listener was clearly a bit mystified by the ... thorough nature of the speaker's objections, but I also managed to gather almost the entire plot as it was picked apart point by point."