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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Messere Orlov, soft, shy to be asking for his attention where others might see it, I think I'd like to walk along the Miroir for a spell. Could I trouble you to accompany me?

The walk from the restaurant to the Miroir de la Mère is pleasant, the companionable silence between them occasionally interrupted with commentary and conversation. Val Royeaux is always beautiful—it takes pains to be so—but as they step into the open park surrounding the Miroir, the full beauty of the golden hour hits them all at once. Sunset sparkles on the water, the gilded marble around them limned in soft light while the Chant drifts through the air. Birds fly overhead, the Miroir laps politely at its walls, and Royans all around them hurry about their business. There's something so mundanely wonderful about it—the sunset, the walk, their quiet conversation—as though there is no war, no Corypheus. There is just the Miroir, and the sunset, and them.

Ennaris slows to a stop near a bench, and pulls her eyes from the Miroir to look at him beside her.

Vanya Orlov is a very handsome man. She has noticed it before, of course, ever since that strange dream; she's tried not to linger on the knowledge, however, has done her best to redirect her thoughts whenever they took an inappropriate turn. Now, she lets herself look, watching him in the softly waning light of the sun for as long as his eyes aren't on her. He is tall, and broad, and strong, and her breath catches in her throat just to look at him.

She is hopelessly enamoured of him. For a moment, she allows herself to feel it without flinching.

"Messere," Ennaris starts, and then, decisively, "Vanya. I must admit an ulterior motive, in asking you to join me."

It's hard, it's so hard, but she makes herself meet his eyes when he looks to her, steady.

He always feels out of place, in Orlais. Not uncomfortable, precisely, but conscious of the cultural differences at play in a way that isn't always so foregrounded in Kirkwall. But he can't deny many parts of Val Royeaux are quite beautiful, even if its beauty is of a different character than Cumberland's. The sunset on the water is lovely. He visibly relaxes as they walk, alternating between soft conversation and companionable quiet. It feels somehow more private in a city, surrounded by dozens of strangers who don't know them or care to eavesdrop, busy with their own business.

The way she'd asked him for the walk suggested some particular object, but he's felt no need to push her. But when she stops, and when she says his name in that tone, he realizes that this conversation may well take a turn he hadn't anticipated.

He meets her gaze when she looks up, curious but not tense. "I find it hard to believe your motive could be especially nefarious," he says, gentle, not quite making a joke out of it but signaling his trust. Whatever she has to say, he has no doubt they'll make their way through it.

"Not nefarious, no," she smiles, but it is a more tight-lipped thing than usual. Nefarious or not, he may not appreciate what she has to say, now.

She opens her mouth to begin, and —

Flounders, immediately. The words won't come, the practiced phrases, the careful framing—she knows what she needs to say, the shape that the words need to take, but she didn't script it. She didn't want to sound as though she were reading her heart from a book. Her affections, however misplaced, are sincere, she'd have him be flattered by them if nothing else, but how can he be flattered by something she's rehearsed all feeling out of? The trouble there, of course, is now she's in front of him without a script, and she hasn't the faintest idea how to begin.

"I have made no secret, I think, that I hold you in high regard," comes not too painfully late, and if it's not the most graceful beginning it's no disaster, "but I think also that I have not been entirely truthful about the nature of that regard. The omission has only been to spare you discomfort, but now my hand has been forced," a strand of bitterness for Isaac's meddling, but it's lost by the next word, "and I could not stand to have you hear it from anyone but me."

Elsewhere in the park, a dog barks. A man laughs. Ennaris can feel her pulse in her throat, the desperate jackrabbiting of her heartbeat urging her not to do this. Every minute twitch of his face is a klaxon of doom, humiliation and censure only moments away and surely Isaac can't be worse than this, surely—

"I like you very much, Vanya," Ennaris says, quiet. Her eyes drop from his, unwilling to watch whatever the sentiment does to his expression. "I wish I had prettier words to say it."

dinner.

Less interested in a theatrical take on Riftwatch’s ongoing works than in using the same as an excuse to visit her grandfather, Gwenaëlle is spared the worst of accostings as the Stranges’ take up temporary residence in a suite of guest rooms in l’Duc de Coucy’s townhouse. More to the point, those doing the accosting are spared Gwenaëlle — though at dinner, which seems an obligation they ought to make an effort for, the shoe is somewhat on the other foot:

“And for the premiere to be attended by Halamshiral’s most ruthless pen!”

Caught off-guard, she pauses, wine-glass in mid-air as she’d lifted it.

“… well,” demurring, “I don’t believe I was invited in that particular capacity.” To be fair, upon consideration, if her name had been given particularly ahead of time she might not have been invited at all.

“Perhaps the Lady Morray will favour us by opining, if you mean to remain opaque,” the gentleman suggests, eyes gleaming as Gwenaëlle immediately frowns.

“Well, we’ll see.”

(Not lost on her, either, that it is Halamshiral, now, where ten years ago it would have been the high quarter.)

theatre.

Several minutes into the second half, readily audible to all seated near her, Gwenaëlle leans into Stephen’s shoulder and says, “So this is a shitshow.”

aftermath.

Outside the theatre, afterwards, Gwenaëlle gestures to footmen attending the de Coucy liveried carriage waiting for her party to cool their heels while she very quickly sorts out what exactly the rest of this evening is going to look like with her fellow attendees. And then reconsiders, spinning on her heel to catch one of those young men by the arm:

“Send back to the house for a rider. I need a man back here in the next hour to carry several messages and I need them delivered before sun up at the absolute fucking latest.”

for gela.

With Gela’s elbow firmly in her hand, Gwenaëlle sweeps past the lounge room where her grandfather is winding down his own, less eventful evening—

“How was the play, cherie?”

—barely hearing his greeting, much less responding to it, which she will probably be very contrite about come breakfast tomorrow. In the meantime, desperately not wanting to let Gela feel obliged to answer that question before they’ve had the opportunity for several stiff drinks, she ushers her upstairs to another sitting room nearby her guest bedroom.

“I realise how terrifying a thing this is to say about the home of an Orlesian aristocrat,” she says, closing the door, “but no one’s going to hear you scream if you need to.”

wildcard.

( available for other val royeaux adventures while we’re in town! )

Bopping Around (ota)

Finally, some decent fucking accommodations. If he had to be dragged along-- and he did-- Benedict is at least glad there's a level of hedonism involved, and he spends as much time as he can manage just enjoying the hotel and its amenities.
Meals, however, are spent out in the plaza, lounging for hours at a cafe in his finest fashions (which are a bit out of place in Orlais, but fuck the haters). His resting bitch face and silent, pretty smoke-blowing while he sips his coffee or nibbles canapés is enough to deter the average person from speaking to him, but a coy little finger-waggle stands to invite any familiar face to come sit with him.

The Play (closed to Basterly)

Trapped cruelly between Byerly and Bastien, almost as if they thought he'd make a run for it (to be fair, he tried during the act break), Benedict spends the duration of the performance sinking lower and lower in his seat with an expression that went from mildly displeased to full sulk in record time. He does not stand to applaud at the end, but he does glare up at Byerly. is this what you wanted

Aftermath (ota)

A quick cocktail in the hotel bar to take the edge off quickly became three, and when an excited fan manages to clock the identity of the Riftwatcher with decidedly Tevene motifs to his style, the conversation goes downhill quickly.

"Of course it's not fucking real," comes Benedict's shrill castigation over the buzz of the evening crowd, "I'm right fucking here, aren't I?"

Someone might want to intervene.

Byerly’s arms are crossed. His mouth is twisted in a scowl. His eyes are narrowed. One might think that he’s angry about the grotesque misrepresentation of their company - at least until he leans over Benedict to speak to Bastien, demanding -

“Where the hell are we?”

Gela immediately laughs and it's worse than a scream for a moment, loud, almost hysterical. Holds a little too long.

"Maker," she breathes out at last, both hands caught and holding at the back of her neck where she's scooped her hair there automatically to comfort herself. "What the fuck is this job!"

No wonder nobody wanted it!

“Easily the worst one Riftwatch offers,” is not a new thought for Gwenaëlle, who has avoided at every turn being roped into any sort of diplomacy as much as she can manage. Half the time she’s not even sure what they actually do, besides — she assumes — develop ulcers. She’s already at the sideboard, because this does feel like the occasion for a drink,

though she pauses to say, “Wine or something stronger?” before she adds, “I’ve reached out to my publisher. Before I was sent to Skyhold, I wrote art critique here.”

And as rare as it is for her to voluntarily offer her services to the diplomacy division, well, she sort of hates to imagine someone pointing out that she hadn’t for this.

Edited 2025-08-19 03:17 (UTC)

It's not that he meant to eavesdrop, exactly, but she's not trying to keep her voice down that hard (and also he's sitting directly behind her). Vanya leans forward and asks, with a sincerity that is possibly much more damning than the archness another man might employ for the question: "...is this not normally what plays are like?"

Genuinely possible he spent all of the first half blaming himself for not being sophisticated enough to enjoy ... all of this. Either way, his voice is a bit lower than hers was but still perfectly easy for her to catch.

It takes a moment for him to fully catch up to what she's saying. Not because he's slow or unobservant, but simply because it's so far away from any of his guesses as to what the conversation might be about that he has to make a rather dramatic shift mentally to catch up. With her looking down, it might make for a nerve-wracking beat or two while he figures out how he wants to reply.

When he adjusts, though, he steps forward and, if she allows him, takes her hand. "Ennaris," the familiarity deliberate here, given that it has hardly been habitual with him up until this point. "You have not caused me discomfort, nor do you need dress the truth in prettier words for my sake. I do not ... It was so far from my mind that you might think of me in such a way that I'm afraid I do not have any sort of satisfactory answer prepared for you. But I do know you've said nothing you need feel ashamed of."

He's not sure what he feels, no, but he's very sure that it took her courage to say what she has. The responsibility of holding a delicate thing isn't something he's inclined to shrug off. And while there are some who might feel shame because of what he is (what he used to be), he knows her well enough to be confident it's not that.

The wait for him to respond is—agonizing, almost beyond her ability to bear. When his hand closes on hers, Ennaris jumps a little, so tightly wound she's become in the course of his silence, and her fingers twitch to escape his grip—

But she takes a deep breath, and leaves her hand where it is. It takes a little more effort to meet his eyes again, but when she does, it's with a thin but earnest smile.

"That's the second time you've told me I needn't be ashamed of something, you know," she says, tone halved between affection and reproach both. "You must stop being so wonderful, it's not helping."

Now it's her turn to process for a moment, digesting what he's said and reminding herself not to think about it too hard. He says what he means, so she just has to trust him; Vanya isn't uncomfortable, she hasn't ruined one of the nicest things to ever happen to her, he's just surprised, because what she's said is objectively surprising. But there is something that catches her ear, something which must immediately be made clear.

"I'm not telling you in hopes of an answer." In fact being rejected out loud with words is about the worst thing that Ennaris can imagine at the moment, so if she can just head that off at the pass right here and now that would be fantastic— "I harbor no illusions about the nature of your feelings toward me. This—infatuation, such as it is, it will pass without encouragement. You needn't worry about how to let me down politely."

She's already done that for him, see, it's so much more efficient that way—

“Well,” Gwenaëlle hedges, leaning back in her seat to meet him halfway — don’t worry, Stephen, you’re at least her third favourite old man, “I suppose when you put it like that, ‘open propaganda against their subjects’ isn’t breaking incredible new ground as a genre, but to be clear, this also isn’t good.”

It isn’t entirely clear to her to what degree the writing may be suffering from the authorial bias or if they’re simply punching their exact weight class, but she’ll probably be devoting several paragraphs to exploring that before tonight is through.

Thank the gods for a crisis that's more important than her rapidly spiraling personal life—or maybe it's fuck them for it, not sure yet.

"Captain," Ness approaches Gwenaëlle, having caught the tail end of her instruction to the footman, "do you know of any publications in Val Royeaux that accept column submissions, or at least complaints?"

"So."

They're packed up, heading back to the eluvian, and Benedict is nursing a hangover with characteristic grace. One would have to be a total naïf not to notice that Gela was a Bit On Edge the night before, and it's for this reason that Benedict speeds up to keep pace with her, a weak and sympathetic smile pulling at the side of his mouth.

"That's what we get for stepping out on the job, I suppose." ha ha?

“No,” she says, briskly, restless in that particular way of someone who has about thirty directions she’d simultaneously like to go in and no ability to do any of them as immediately as she’d prefer. “I’m going to be meeting with my publisher, my literary agent and an editor in the morning,” if all of the above know what’s good for them, “so if you have something you want me to put in front of them while I’m there, I need it delivered to l’Duc’s townhouse before the start of business. Otherwise, I can give you my agent’s name.”

It’s not out of the question that a cold approach might still get somewhere — the Riftwatch association, the immediacy of a potential public relations nightmare for them, favours owed and bartered — but it’s not difficult to see which option will probably be the more immediately effective one.

"In a better play?" Bastien proposes, unruffled to the point of unsympathetic, but he lifts his hand — over Benedict, sorry Benedict — to give By's goatee an affectionate tug. "Although they at least do have all the facts correct."

Benedict scowls up at them, refraining from commentary. He’s trying to pout here.

Stephen wishes he had popcorn.

Weirdly, this isn’t his first time experiencing something like this. Because he had, of course, been to see Rogers: The Musical on Broadway, with all the safety of knowing Doctor Strange hadn’t rubbed elbows with the Avengers in that particular stage of their careers. Here, he’d experienced Riftwatchers’ Act One in a kind of watchful terror beside Gwenaëlle, waiting through gritted teeth for some expy version of himself to swan through the scene— only for the curtain to fall on the first half, and to find himself vaguely disconcerted at the exclusion. He thought he’d wanted to evade notice, but now can’t decide if he prefers it this way or not.

For lack of modern snacks, he’s been munching on some grapes and nuts purchased from the market outside; he automatically offers the bag to Gwenaëlle, the literal peanut gallery. Half in response to her, half reacting to the Tav thing on-stage, Stephen mutters under his breath, “He really shouldn’t’ve been so open about the urges.”

The intervention comes from perhaps unexpected quarters.

Cassian had been seated on the edge of the Riftwatch contingent with their comped tickets, dressed like a typical Orlesian commoner and doing his very best to blend in afterwards, anonymous and fading into the crowd. The musical is some of the funniest shit he’s ever seen and he had an absolute blast,

and he might have successfully peeled off after the hotel bar and vanished and avoided notice, until he hears Benedict’s voice rise above the crowd, the familiar sound of a fight brewing. So a moment later, he sidles up next to the other furious Tevene, and bumps his shoulder with his own by way of hello. Attempting to cleanly redirect the other man’s attention and ire with:

“Are they asking for autographs?” he asks innocently over the edge of his wineglass. “You should indulge your fans, Artemaeus.”

Cassian's arrival is enough to temporarily quell the argument-- such that it is, even if the other party is less 'arguing' and more 'disappointed by a reality check' as Benedict inflicts upon them the full force of his upper-class disdain.

"What do you want," he snaps, taking the bait without straightening; he leans with his elbows back against the bartop, a glass of wine held delicately in one hand.

"Well, yes, obviously, the factual accuracy can't be denied," Byerly agrees, sounding perfectly sincere. "But I was looking forward to being lampooned. I don't want to be in a better play, Bastien; I want to be in this one."

“I’m absolutely certain you weren’t the only person to say so,” in a dry undertone as she remorselessly picks out the best of the grapes, nudging them out of the pile of nuts. “On the bright side, there’s every chance the mage politics of this fuck us so hard that doesn’t even matter.”

Hm.

That might not actually be a bright side.

“I suppose having them assassinated is shutting the barn door after the horses.”

Trying to explain the lengths he and Cosima went through to help the elf fix that very thing, now being sensationalised on an Orlesian stage, isn’t exactly a conversation he can safely have in public. There’s a curiously wistful sensation, too, watching this odd fictionalised version of the druid he’d known: they had been friendly, if not exactly friends.

But then he’s derailed by her next comment with a strangled laugh, almost choking on his grapes. A man shushes him loudly from behind, and Stephen leans closer to Gwenaëlle to keep his voice quiet.

“Who, assassinating the producers?” He wishes, for a fleeting moment, that he could make a Springtime For Hitler reference without it being wholly lost here. “L’Euilled Ouebbre himself? I think that’d just give it infamy and more popularity.”

"You've taken me by surprise," he says, and this time there is not a hesitation. "But I would ask ... There have been many times in my life others have told me how I feel. I know that you now wish only to put me at ease, and I do not take the intention amiss. But I would ask you, if I have earned your respect, to give me the time to determine for myself how I feel. Even if it takes a bit of time."

His voice is kind but not hesitant. It is a request and not a chide, but there's still a firmness to it that he's seldom reached for with her.

"I do not need time to know," he adds, easing a bit, "that whatever comes next, it is not hardship to continue to be kind to you and that I have no inclination to stop."

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Page 1 of 5

[open] Riftwatchers: A New Musical

various starters

for vanya

no subject

no subject

open + closed starters.

dinner.

theatre.

aftermath.

for gela.

wildcard.

benedict | open & closed

After the end of act one

me

no subject

theatre

no subject

no subject

no subject

aftermath.

for Gela (day after the play)

no subject

no subject

no subject

theatre.

aftermath;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject