faderift | [open] Riftwatchers: A New Musical

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[open] Riftwatchers: A New Musical

WHO: anyone who dares to attend
WHAT: the long-threatened play about Riftwatch
WHEN: August (August)
WHERE: Val Royeaux’s theatre district
NOTES: Lots of references, some unfavorable, to current and past characters. They are made in good fun, but if you find anything upsetting or offensive please speak to me and I will change it!

I. ACCOMMODATIONS

Riftwatchers who took Mssr. L’Euilled Ouebbre up on his generous invitation have found themselves booked for two nights into a suite of rooms at a grand hotel across the plaza from the theatre. Each room looks out onto either the plaza or the city beyond, an untimely heat wave slowing street activity to an indolent crawl in the peak of the day. Despite the weather, the city seems to come to life when the sun sets, strings of lantern lights winking cheerfully over open-air cafes as music and chatter fills the air.

While Riftwatch’s food expenses are covered only in the sense of one very extravagant dinner the night before the premier, they’re sleeping for free and treated as guests of honor as long as they make their affiliation known. The downside of this is that anyone known to be part of Riftwatch is likely accosted multiple times per day by curious theatre-goers, journalists, and the occasional inexplicable theory-crafting superfan (for a show that hasn’t opened yet). It’s a busy and exhilarating visit, blessedly drama-free apart from the literal drama that awaits Riftwatch the second night after their arrival.

II. THE THEATRE

On the second day, there having been ample time for everyone to recover from hangovers and finish visiting local friends, the Riftwatch guests are ushered into the front rows of the mezzanine in a beautiful, sprawling opera house. Patrons in the gallery below, and in the nosebleeds above, cast furtive glances at them and whisper; anyone with a sharp eye for Orlesian nobility can spot this or that lord or lady in the private boxes, vexed perhaps that the attention isn’t on them for once.

When everyone has a drink in hand and the lights have gone down at last, a hush falls over the house and the play begins.

III. THE PLAY

The curtain rises! Emblazoned in magical green flame in front of the cyclorama is a wound-like symbol, flanked below by a chorus of dancing demons. Through some manner of trickery, five actors emerge through the center of the flame and topple to the ground, each wearing a glove with a glowing green bauble at the palm.

The opening number convenes as a troupe of actors wearing Riftwatch colors parade onto the stage and begin to pantomime fighting the demons. The Rifters, as it were, are taken prisoner in a disquietingly catchy sequence wherein we learn their identities: Ellie, a brash and confrontational girl; Wisteria, ladylike and demure, the clear feminine ideal; Jace and Victor, the comic relief, one’s extreme thinness offset by the fatness of the other; and lastly, the de facto leader, an elf (!!) named Tav.

They quickly ingratiate themselves into the company via several introductory numbers. Ellie hits it off with Clarice, a native Orlesian, their scandalous interplanar (and same-sex I guess) romance interwoven through the narrative. Although the Rifters are welcomed as guests by the overall company, including the brave and honest Commander Flint, the beautiful, coquettish Scoutmaster Ysolde, and their loyal-to-a-fault right hand man Edgar, they’re met with resistance and plotting from a wicked cabal of secret rebel mages within the organization: Free Marcher Enchanter Marcus, a man whose distaste for nonmagical citizens has turned to violence; Bann Julian, secretly-magical ambassador from Ferelden who uses his bannorn to safeguard rebel mages; the sadistic Spirit Healer, Isaac; Madame Cidu, a two-faced Orlesian duchess who entertains sedition in her salons; and the weaselly young Magister Benedict from Tevinter, with his poorly-concealed loyalties to both the Venatori and Captain Marcus keeping him playing both sides. All of the above work in tandem to align the Rifters and the narrative with their own design, which appears to be total mage control of Thedas.

They are stymied in their efforts by the good-natured incompetence of Jace and Victor, who have been set to the task of learning how to close Rifts, and instead open many more, causing chaos and a great level of comedic disorganization as Riftwatch scrambles to do damage control. The Rifters, led by Tav, take the forefront of the action, heroically closing a Rift over Haven to thunderous applause as the act one curtain drops.

The second act opens on a sleeping garrison as Tav sits awake. He sings a mournful soliloquy that transitions, rather jarringly, into a confession: he has been committing murders of civilians on every mission, waiting until the dead of night to do so undetected. He can’t help it, he claims; it’s in his nature as someone from beyond the Veil.
The scene is intercut with a moment between Ellie and Clarice, in which sweet lovemaking is interrupted by Ellie’s breathless reveal that she only understood violence before now. This leads into a medley of sorts; Jace and Victor, in clandestine discussion, expose themselves as intentional saboteurs sent to Thedas to sow chaos.

An interlude follows: two fancily-dressed and mustachioed commentators discuss an upcoming mission on the edge of the stage, their witty wordplay suggesting that neither of the evil factions or the pure-hearted nonmagical natives of Thedas have any idea what’s coming. The scene behind them opens onto a group number of everyone ostensibly working together, their heartening chorus peppered by cynical remarks from the two fops. Everything seems to be going well, until a Rift is opened all but on top of the chorus.
A scramble to act leaves several deaths in its wake, including Clarice’s beloved chambermaid Abby, poor loyal Edgar, and, surprisingly, Enchanter Marcus. The ensuing investigation reveals the underlying animosity between the rebel mages and the Rifters; Magister Benedict is murdered in his attempt to spy on Tav, and Clarice is injured attempting to defend Commander Flint from Ellie, who has gone out of her mind with paranoia. Commander Flint puts down the rogue Rifter and gathers his remaining allies, including the shaken Clarice, and the native Thedosians barricade themselves in their keep as the remaining Rifters lay siege to it from outside.

It’s only now that, via Ysolde’s discovery of Benedict’s maimed body, the rebel mages’ plan is blown open; those still alive are immediately taken into custody by the good Commander, never to be seen again.
Outside the gate, Tav laments his terrible purpose as Jace and Victor sing a lively song about how much they enjoy being evil. Wisteria, who has remained stolid and quiet until this moment, appears from offstage to aim a deadly-looking contraption at the gate and blow it open, killing several more characters and culminating in the rowdy finale.

The Rifter-on-Native and vice-versa body count increases exponentially during the final number, ending at last with one solitary figure onstage: Tav, holding his bloody dagger, who drearily explains that it was always meant to be this way. He turns slowly to look over the field of death as the curtain gently drops.

The audience, jarred into pensive silence, takes a few moments before erupting into thunderous applause.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Benedict's mouth twitches irritably, his desire to snap back warring with the diplomat who's lodged himself in a spoiled lordling's brain.

"We close rifts," he says impatiently, "we rescue rifters, fight demons. We've made some strides in freedom for mages." A furtive glance down the hall, where no one else is visible; this isn't an exceptionally safe place to talk about it, but perhaps no one's listening.
"I'm sure you've heard all about how rifters are demons and sent to undermine the good people of Thedas. It was the easiest, laziest, stupidest theme to lean on, when so much of our work counteracts that."

The way his rant has almost shifted to Cassian instead of at him; Benedict is steamed, unconsciously seeking an ally in his outrage despite the precedent set by their previous interactions.

"It's just stupid propaganda for people who've always wanted blood." He stalls, realizing he's been rambling, and adds in a sulk, "...I wasn't even there for the interviews."

“Seems like an oversight,” Cassian says, and there’s an easygoing sort of agreeableness to the way he says it: he’s agreeing with the other man. Public perception’s a currency and a resource in this war as much as anything else, and this one has clearly gotten fucked somewhere along the way.

“Should’ve had someone steal the in-progress manuscript, go over it to make sure Riftwatch approved.”

Is he kidding?—maybe yes, maybe no, six of one and half-dozen of the other. His arms are crossed, and he follows Benedict’s glance down the corridor; also perpetually aware of corners, angles, open areas where someone might be listening. Old habits died hard.

"Apparently."

It's a clipped agreement, disgruntled. The subject of How Could This Have Been Prevented rankles him for the same reason it does Gela, no doubt; that they didn't know it was this bad, that they were sleeping on the job, as it were.

His temper slightly cooled, Benedict stands with his arms tightly folded and his lips pursed, his glance down the hallway redirecting to look Cassian over in a manner suggestive of reassessing a threat.

"Is that all?" he says calmly, warily.

Is that all?

“Of all the characters on that stage,” Cassian says, ruminative, “I only recognised you, Abby, and the Scoutmaster.”

It’s not a question. Maybe it’s not entirely clear what he’s asking; he’s not even entirely sure himself. Just— the gap of knowledge here, and wanting to bridge it. To him, most of the figures in the musical might as well have been fictional caricatures, an actual play, a fiction. He’s used to walking through a bustling Shadow Dragons hideout and at least recognising most of the inner circle, rubbing elbows with the most entrenched long-term spies, having his close cohort around him, the survivors who’d been through hell together.

Here, it’s all new. He still feels new. A little adrift.

It's Benedict's first instinct to take another jab at him-- guess you're not doing your job then, Shadow Dragon-- but he's tired, a little buzzed, and not an overly confrontational person, so this evening has taken a lot out of him.

"Would you like to come in," he says, a little flatly, gesturing to his door; his water pipe calls to him from inside (of course he brought it with him) and, in the spirit of being the Personnel Officer, maybe he owes it to the snippy newcomer to get incredibly high with him. Worst case scenario, Cassian kills him, and he doesn't have to deal with the fallout of the play.

“Sure,” Cassian says, easy and off-beat, because the thought had already been coiling in the back of his mind that a public inn hallway isn’t the best place to carry on a potentially sensitive conversation. He doesn’t like open unsecured spaces like this; it’s an old habit. He isn’t reading too closely into the invitation otherwise.

But once Benedict unlocks the door and lets him into the room, Cassian automatically looks to the windows and the space to size it up, and —

“Your room’s nicer than mine,” he points out. Partly because it’s true — he knows this comes from a position of responsibility in Riftwatch, having a real job-job tacked onto your name and title — but partly because he suspects the other man might get a kick out of the Shadow Dragon’s affront and getting to be a little smug about it.

True, Benedict's kneejerk reaction is to smirk in that knowingly superior way of his, but perhaps not for the reason Cassian assumes.

"I wasn't going to miss an opportunity like this," he snorts, waving Cassian over to where he's set up the water pipe on a table by the window, between two comfy chairs. There's a plate of nibbles by it, and a carafe of wine, called up from the kitchens below in anticipation of his return; when he learned they'd be staying in a nice hotel, he knew exactly what to do with it. The niceness is, naturally, by his own design.

He sinks into the chair opposite Cassian's and begins to set up the pipe, pointedly not looking at him. "Do you smoke?"

Before taking that seat, Cassian roams a little to the window first. He checks the rooftop angle (suitable to slide down if they need to make a quick getaway) and the sight-lines from the building opposite (not tall enough for an assassin to grapple in here or shoot an arrow). Paranoia was hard to shake. Once the environment’s to his satisfaction, then he finally turns and settles into the comfy, squishy chair.

“I do,” he says.

And he’s reminded, fleetingly, of Brasso rolling his own tobacco and passing him an uneven cigarette. Raucous card games with too much drinking, laughter, inside jokes, an arm slung around his shoulder. Friends. All his friends.

“Usually cigarettes,” a water pipe took more time and space and preparation, it was clunkier versus just stuffing some rolling papers into your pocket, “but this is alright too.”

In a similar fashion, Benedict silently sizes up Cassian himself as he works. Conjuring a flame, he holds it against the coal and gives the hose a test puff, quickly looking away if Cassian should meet his gaze. He only fully relaxes, taking a deep draw, when his guest sits down.

“All right,” he scoffs, handing the hose over and exhaling fragrant smoke, “try that and tell me if it’s all right.”

Cassian isn’t watching Benedict take that exploratory puff (his mouth, the curve of his lips) but rather focusing on the movement of his hands, the spark of magic, fire summoned out of nothing rather than using the flare of a matchbook. His mouth thins, his expression turning a little stiff around the edges.

But as Benedict passes him the pipe, he snorts in turn.

“My standards aren’t exactly the highest,” he says, with another small eye-roll, and takes a drag. The water pipe burbles and Cassian exhales the smoke, slow and steady. The taste is smoother and richer than anything he’s used to. Grubby-handed miners out of Ferrix.

“Good, then. It’s good.”

“That’s better,” Benedict lilts, his little smirk returning. “And I suppose you can be forgiven for limited taste.” All things considered,

“So. What else about that pile of shit has you unsure?” The disgust in his voice is, at least, reserved for the play and not his conversation partner.

“The details,” Cassian says promptly. “They must have originated somewhere. You as a turncoat, I can see where that idea came from,”

it’s not purposefully meant to offend this time, just, y’know, it’s the truth,

“And the Scoutmaster could look beautiful and coquettish, if you’re just seeing her from afar, or going off rumour. I read about Poppell’s contraptions in the reports. But what the fuck was up with the rifter killing everyone?”

Benedict wrinkles his nose, but actually doesn't argue-- instead he pours himself a glass of wine, taking a sip as he beckons lightly for the hose back. Gimme.

"Oh, he--" Benedict almost laughs, but suppresses it just in time, "he was... possessed? Or something? Always going on about how he would murder all of us. But not want to, of course."

He's the picture of decadence, pulling from the hose with one hand and glass of wine in the other, which he sips from after exhaling.

"Really handy in the garden, though."

It’s hard to stay sitting stern and upright in such a squashy armchair, so Cassian’s sunk back a little into it, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He’s made himself comfortable, but not quite the portrait of insouciant calculated ease that Benedict manages.

“Did he? Murder anyone?” he asks, mildly alarmed. The word possession sets so many alarm bells ringing, for a man who’s spent his life wary of mages. You expect attempts on your life from the Venatori, but not from within your own organisation, damn —

In answer, Benedict laughs, a throaty giggle that seems completely incongruous with the topic at hand.
"No," he scoffs, "asked to be killed at one point, but that's living in the dungeon for you."

As quickly as a candle being snuffed out, the smile drops off his face and he cuts his eyes to Cassian. you didn't hear that and I didn't say it

“Mm.”

Cassian had, of course, gone digging into the reports. It was one of the first things he’d done after arrival, when his stab wound was slowly healing and getting itchy and he couldn’t be too physically active yet: he read and read and read. It was important to get up-to-speed on who and what and when and where, and old Scouting dossiers, and perhaps he’d dug a little deeper on Riftwatch’s once-Venatori captives in particular. It had been riveting material.

That slight panicky edge to Artemaeus’ expression, however, gives him pause. Maybe this isn’t a wound to press his fingers into. Tease the man about his snobby tastes and old vacation homes, sure— but a stay in the dungeon when by all accounts he’d reformed and done the right thing after—

“Speaking from experience,” is all he settles on, neutrally.

Using the silence that falls between them to school his expression back into something lazy and indifferent, Benedict nonetheless feels the anxiety of the situation warring with how relaxed he's attempting to get. He pulls from the hose again, breathes the smoke out, keeping his gaze fixed on the plaza below.

"Speaking from experience," he agrees sulkily. There you have it.

Ugh. It’s so much less fun to bully Artemaeus when he’s already looking so sad and miserable; there’s no satisfaction to it, it’s like kicking a small dog, not an entitled magister.

And despite himself, at the end of the day, Cassian does have a sympathetic streak: that warm heart, his capacity to worry about the people he fights alongside. You don’t fight for a better tomorrow if you’re not an idealist at heart. You don’t take up arms to change things if you don’t care. The smoke in addition to the wine from earlier has been mellowing him out, too. So he shifts a little forward in his seat, leans in to pat Benedict’s knee, the other man’s shoulder being too far away. Vague reassurance.

“I’ve been a guest of imperial prisons,” he says; not oneupmanship, but an attempt to relate. “Cages are shit no matter where they are.”

Speaking from experience.

Benedict's eyes follow the path of Cassian's hand as he motionlessly allows the touch, then flits his gaze upward again to meet the other's. Still a bit sulkily, but with an air of cautious truce, he passes the hose back again.

"What for?" he hazards. Shadow Dragon stuff, no doubt, but as long as they're sharing.

Cassian takes the hose, and inhales a small, lazy drag while he considers whether or not he wants to answer that. He’s not eager to; it kind of punctures the whole cool, mysterious, capable spy thing, and in front of someone who’s not even a friend.

But if he thinks back to the version of himself he’d been then, there’s a lingering distaste: an irritation and disgust with himself for the short-sightedness. Pockets loaded full of gold, a random woman in his bed, no other thoughts except idle enjoyment and partying and picking up more stimulants and enjoying his cut from the job. Idiot.

“If you promise not to tell anyone,” he says, which probably bodes well. Then, ruefully: “If you can believe it, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’d actually robbed the fucking Imperium, but they arrested me for— I don’t even know. Loitering on a beach in Vyrantium. Just goes to show. They didn’t even know who they’d grabbed.”

The smoke is starting to really work its magic, and Benedict perceives that distinct feeling of serenity washing over him. He picks up his wine glass to nurse at it, watching Cassian with an increasingly languid attention.

He snorts a laugh; no matter how you look at it, the irony of that is pretty funny. "A crime of fashion, maybe," he remarks wryly.

The corner of Cassian’s mouth ticks up. “Maybe,” he acknowledges. “I was probably wearing some awful tourist clothes. Trying to blend in.”

Like some of the ephemeral passersby, seasonal visitors to the shore, versus the magisterial families with more permanent summer-houses. Maybe that was part of what had grated at him so.

This elicits another chuckle, in part because the drugs are hitting, and in part because this has brought to mind an image of Cassian wearing the tackiest tourist clothing Benedict can conjure.

“Mixing stripes with florals,” he decides, giggling stupidly, but has enough presence of mind to add, “what did they say it was for?”

The faint smile’s still sitting there on Cassian’s face, he hasn’t wiped it off yet; it is a pretty funny mental image and such an utterly fucking stupid chapter of his life.

(Still, though, he can’t fully laugh at it either. He still remembers the uprising, the desperate swim off that island fortress, the drowning men.)

He can answer the question, though. He remembers what the official charge sheet said. Will probably always remember it.

“Officially? Civil disruption, anti-Imperial speech, fleeing the scene of anti-Imperial activity, and attempted damage to Imperial property.” He shrugs. “All true, of course, just… not then and there.”

Benedict’s smile doesn’t leave, but he tosses his head with a scoff before draining his glass. He’s in it now, his suspicion and annoyance melting away in the face of his hedonism.

“Dramatic fucks,” he drawls, rolling his eyes. “They just want to boss people around.”
Even the wealthy don’t care much for the fun police.

[open] Riftwatchers: A New Musical

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