Fade Rift Mods (
faderifting) wrote in
faderift2021-05-06 08:06 pm
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Entry tags:
- ! mod plot,
- alexandrie d'asgard,
- bastien,
- benedict quintus artemaeus,
- byerly rutyer,
- derrica,
- edgard,
- ellie,
- ellis,
- gwenaëlle baudin,
- james flint,
- john silver,
- julius,
- wysteria de foncé,
- { adrasteia },
- { amos burton },
- { beth greene },
- { brother gideon },
- { erik stevens },
- { gabranth },
- { james holden },
- { jone },
- { laura kint },
- { mado },
- { nikolai lantsov },
- { richard dickerson },
- { sidony veranas },
- { sister sara sawbones },
- { thranduil },
- { zoya nazyalensky }
MOD PLOT ↠ Endlessly Far Beneath My Feet
WHO: Open
WHAT: A visit to Orzammar
WHEN: For about 10 days in early Bloomingtide
WHERE: Orzammar
NOTES: OOC post. Please use content warnings in your comment subject lines as required.
WHAT: A visit to Orzammar
WHEN: For about 10 days in early Bloomingtide
WHERE: Orzammar
NOTES: OOC post. Please use content warnings in your comment subject lines as required.

Orzammar is not all that far from Kirkwall: a short trip across the Waking Sea to Jader, then an even shorter (though much more exhausting than it seemed in dreams) hike up into the Frostback mountains brings them to the great stone doors that stand between Orzammar and the surface. Once those doors creak and groan shut in their wake—and the next set of doors, too, designed like a waterlock to keep the sky from reaching the city—it is no easy thing to open them again. No one's going to see the sun until they leave.
The great thaig within the mountains is much warmer than the chilly pass through them, thanks to the molten lake beneath it, which also keeps many of the open streets at least dimly lit 24 hours per day, until they wander off further than the glow can reach. The thaig is magnificent, brimming with distinctive angular architecture and statues honoring dwarven Paragons and ancestors. It's also sprawling. Despite giving the deceptive impression at the entrance of a hollow dome that can be taken in with a single look around, the thaig is home to one hundred thousand dwarves, give or take a few thousand. And that's with a dwindling population. It was built for even more. Buildings with narrow facades burrow and wind deep into the stone behind them. So do side streets that branch away from the Commons at every level. Most of them are lyrium-lit and safe to travel. But given the absence of any sun or moon, the way they ascend and descend and loop through the rock, they can be very disorienting to navigate without stone sense.
Among the locals on the street there's a lingering, palpable sense of relief that the worst seems to have passed, so far as the darkspawn at Orzammar's doors is concerned. It's put most people in a particularly good mood, and made them a bit more disposed than usual to treat the influx of visitors from above as an entertaining novelty. That won't stop the occasional dwarf from being suspicious of outsiders here to interfere with the Assembly or bitter that they want something when Orzammar never asked them for help, but friendly interest will be more common by far.
ACCOMMODATIONS
Riftwatch's Division Heads and Project Leaders will be the personal guests of House Bemot and put up in the house's sprawling, mazelike estate in the Diamond Quarter. The residence is brimming with artwork: statues of the house's prominent ancestors, dazzling stonework on columns and doorways, mosaics on the floors, and art both dwarven and imported lining the walls. They're given private rooms—many far from each other, down different turning corridors carved back into the stone—with large beds and hot water piped up from nearer to Orzammar's molten depths. The rooms are nice but don't mistake this for only an unfair perk; there are servants listening and marking their comings and goings at all times.
Since visitors from the surface are much rarer and their stays usually as short as possible, Orzammar is minimally equipped for large swells of visitors, so the rest of Riftwatch's personnel will be packed into one of two inns located in the tier of the Commons where merchants and other surface-dwellers typically reside when they're permitted access to the thaig.
The Paragon's Rest is the nicer of the two. Two ages ago it was the grand home of a prominent merchant house that has since died out; its name comes from the fact that two (two!) paragons have stayed there since the time it was converted into an inn. It boasts a modest number of small, private rooms and shared rooms with artful dividers, all with stone walls that have been carved with intricate geometric patterns. Meals and drinks are available in an expansive hall where local well-to-do merchants frequently play Diamondback and make expensive deals. The inn's position near the gates and something about the design and directions of the corridors minimizes the heat from Orzammar's molten center and even allows for a breeze to reach the common areas now and then.
Unfortunately, the Paragon's Rest doesn't have room for everyone, and the Buttered Nug is less pleasant. The inn was more recently a shop with expansive back storage for its inventory. The shop is now a cramped, sweaty tavern room, where no matter the hour a nug is always roasting—and constantly being basted with butter—over the fire, while more nugs snuffle in a holding pen in a corner, awaiting their doom. The proprietor tries to encourage everyone who passes through to have a plate. It's his grandmother's recipe. You're going to love it. The diners and residents are mostly merchants of the struggling and/or shady variety. The former storage rooms are unadorned, nearly more cavern than room, and large enough to be shared by large numbers of people, with stone lattice-work dividers between beds that provide very little actual privacy. Choosing the room deeper into the stone will make the temperature less sweltering but significantly increase the number of spiders in your bed.
Fortunately, no one has to do more than sleep there if they don't want to. And maybe try just one plate of grandma's buttered nug?
WORK
Riftwatch's primary objectives in Orzammar are sharing information about the war and making a good impression. While speaking to the Assembly might be the centerpiece of those efforts, it's not the extent of them. The noble caste may sit at the top of the dwarven hierarchy, but they're not the only ones with sway or useful resources and nudging public opinion more generally could have its benefits.
There are some specific ways Riftwatch can make itself visibly useful to Orzammar, to help counter the argument that the surface is asking for help without being willing to provide any in return. Assisting with red lyrium removal, installing cleansing runes, and teaching members of the mining caste how to do both for themselves will be priorities. And while the enemy's retreat to the north has lessened the pressure on the thaig, Orzammar lives in constant fear of darkspawn all the same. Riftwatch members suited for combat will be assigned shifts with the dwarven troops on patrol in the near sectors of the Deep Roads or standing watch at the great doors that block off the ancient tunnels.
Meetings with various members of the middle-rank castes (warrior, smith, artisan, mining, merchant) have been arranged and assigned, some with an explicit focus on discussing the war effort and providing information about what Riftwatch has learned and experienced, while others are focused on building trade connections or exploring potential opportunities to collaborate on research—and if opportunities to tell them more about the war effort in the process just happen to arise, all the better. These castes span a wide swathe of dwarven society between nobles and servants, and the meetings will reflect that, ranging from elaborate dinner parties with merchants as wealthy as any lord to casual chats over a pint with a busy blacksmith in a lower-tier tavern. Reactions will also vary, but most are interested in hearing what Riftwatch has to say, even if they're not necessarily disposed to agree. Nearly all visitors to Orzammar are merchants, and having access to this many surfacers and non-dwarves is a novelty.
Members of the Shaperate will take a more pointed and professional interest in their work. Shapers may set up appointments to talk to anyone who's able to speak about their experiences in the war so far, taking copious notes. (On paper. You're not special enough to go straight into the Memories.)
For everyone Riftwatch set a meeting with there are ten more they didn't, so a major part of the company's work in the city will be cultivating more casual interactions and both gathering and dispensing information that way. Someone might be assigned to frequent a particular tavern popular with Warriors and make connections there and find opportunities to discuss what's going on above. Someone else might be asked to drop in on a series of armorers and try to get a sense of current prices, how busy they are, and where most of their stock is being sold. Other assignments might be even more general--spend time in this cafe, or at the nug races, or chatting up merchants in this sector of the market, and see what conversations you can strike up or overhear. Talking folks into support for the war effort is great, but any generally positive interaction counts at this point, so Riftwatch members will be encouraged to pitch in wherever they see help needed, but also to be careful not to get entangled in controversy.
To coordinate all of this work, Riftwatch will have command of a private dining room in the Paragon's Rest to use as a meeting room, where everyone can come back to report, regroup, and strategize after a meeting or outing.
LEISURE
Anyone who finds themselves with downtime will also not have trouble finding things to fill it with. The Commons is lined with merchant stalls selling street food and a wide variety of fine dwarven crafts: metal goods ranging from knives to toys, clothing and bags covered in carefully placed little beads, intricate jewelry, and mechanical and enchanted inventions rarely seen on the surface. There's also an artisan who will hammer your likeness into a sheet of metal while you wait. It's all cheaper than it would be in an above-ground marketplace, as long as you're willing to haggle. Shops and smithies built into the stone sell weapons and armor—or do custom work, though getting anything completed before Riftwatch leaves Orzammar will require paying a premium.
The centerpiece of the Orzammar Commons in the Proving Arena. Currently there are no ongoing provings, but there are warriors and aspirants hanging around the surrounding areas to practice and posture. They might invite a competent-looking newcomer to spar.
An alternative to violence is nug racing, where hungry, specially-bred nugs are painted with house symbols and raced through open-topped tunnels, dug into the ground to allow spectating from above. With little happening in the Proving arena at the moment, this is the more popular spectator event in Orzammar, drawing observers from every caste to cheer and gamble on the outcomes of a series of bracketed races. House Etoras' Deep Fried (called Fred) is favored to win, but House Aratack's Hops & Grain (Hoppy) isn't a bad bet, and Keltar's Perfect Baby (Baby) might pull off an upset.
And there is also, of course, an enormous pit of lava below the Commons. (This is not deadly somehow. We don't know.) A favorite game of some of the local children is collecting trash and inviting newcomers to guess or wager on which items will burst into flames before they hit the lava and which will not. These demonstrations usually end by either a fake attempt to toss a friend over the edge as the final object, or a gleeful (and disprovable) explanation that this is why no one in Orzammar is ever found murdered. They only vanish. Fun!
If they'd like to explore beyond the Commons and the Diamond Quarter, no one will actively prevent Riftwatch members from venturing into Dust Town, the dilapidated sector of the city where the casteless live and the Carta rules. Outsiders might even be able to stumble into the area without realizing it, if they get turned around in some of the narrower back streets carved through the rock. But however they arrive, visitors to Dust Town are unlikely to make it very far without running into trouble.
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Has it been, in reality? Yes. Is she likely to change her behavior towards others? Signs point to no.
"I'm certain," she says, and encourages the horse to stop, reaching forward and patting it's neck. "Have you ridden before?"
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Still, he is determined not to displace her from her own mount, and so instead, fits his gloved hands across the back and side of the saddle, granting her a moment to resituate herself before he drives himself up with effort, pulling up into a seated position at her back. There’s no stool or stairstep to bear him nearer this time, but thankfully— even laden with armor— he’s more nimble than he looks in where matters of strength are involved.
And entirely careful to keep harsh armored edges away from her in the process.
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"The dwarven smiths in Orzammar are going to be fascinated with your armor, you know," she says just in case he doesn't. Clearly, he's a Rifter. Maybe from a world without horses? A strange thought; what do they use to get around then otherwise? But, she imagines it's exhausting to be asked a dozen or three questions about where one comes from when one isn't native to the land.
Honestly, it's a personal struggle for her not to side sideways in the front of the saddle in order to look at him properly, but it's a struggle she's determined to live with for now. "I'm Adrasteia, by the way. Grey Warden and Morale Officer, though the latter only matters in the Gallows, I'm sure."
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Dour declaration made at her back in the wake of her brightspark voice, he holds his own breath otherwise— at least for a longer beat or two in deep consideration (one part basking in relief from resting his heels, another because she addresses much he’d not considered), before:
“Perhaps I shall endure to ingratiate myself to them upon those grounds. I am hardly a diplomat, but if it will aid the effort...”
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A mouthful, for certain, and what does it mean? A tall human who wears heavy armor at all times, even in the dark of a night's camp from what she's seen, who doesn't ride horses but can sit in the saddle easily enough, who doesn't consider himself a diplomat. A fighter, clearly; but what do judges do if not diplomacy?
Well. Judgment, for starters, she thinks. Which, at the end of a sword, can look like a lot of things that are far flung from diplomacy.
Adrasteia lets out a thoughtful hum. "They'll also be interested in seeing you fight if you're interested in putting on a manner of display. If not... there will be plenty of opportunities to help defend the city from darkspawn who roam the Deep Roads. Have you been told anything about Orzammar? Please stop me if I'm telling you things you already know."
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Is this selecting the tutorial menu from the options list? Maybe so, but she holds herself well and conducts herself better, that much he can see even seated at her back. There’s experience to be had in someone so responsible for morale and measure, and he’ll place faith in her aggregate knowledge.
And besides, there’s no spotify in Thedas.
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However, she invited this conversation and this person into her space, no one forced her to do it; as such, she's not about to up and demand a change of subject without first meeting his request to the best of her ability. Not to mention the small sense of pride she holds in being able to explain Thedosian reality to those from somewhere else.
There's a canteen full of water in a pack attached to the saddle in front of her; retrieving it, she takes a drink first and offers it to the armored man behind her without looking over her shoulder at him as she composes her thoughts on darkspawn.
They're quite numerous, as it turns out. She relaxes her shoulders, takes a breath, and tilts her face a little towards the sun. "The Chanty will tell you a story of how we believe darkspawn came to be; the dwarves have no origin stories for them, just a bloody history of near-constant warfare for ages." Her left hand holds the reins while her right is animated, gesturing in front of them both.
"Darkspawn are the source of the Blight. The Blight is both a disease, highly contagious and affecting the land, animals, water, people, the sky, and the name for the catastrophic event that they cause. I'll come back to that." One finger in the air.
"Darkspawn themselves are... well. They're dangerous. They carry the Blight plague with them but also they attack indiscriminately. People will tell you that they're stupid, but they wear armor, set traps, kidnap women, and turn them into horrible creatures I hope you never happen to lay eyes upon, really, but the point is that they know how to... do these terrible things. At some point there were dwarven thaigs, oh, cities I mean," he has no reason to know that word she's just realized, "and that's all that was underground, but that changed at some point in the Ancient Age, and then there were darkspawn. And where there were darkspawn, there was Blight, of course." Finger two in the air.
"When there is a Blight it means that the darkspawn have left the Deep Roads and are attacking everyone who lives above ground. They need an Archdemon to do that, though, and they don't have one right now; so no Blight, at the moment."
A shudder chases across her shoulders. "The First Blight lasted nearly two hundred years. There have been five of them. But the dwarves lost the bulk of their civilization to the darkspawn first, and never regained most of it because the darkspawn never go away." Finger three. "They just retreat into the Deep Roads, which originally connected all the thaigs, I think. They can be killed. Their blood is to be avoided at all costs." Well. Most costs. But she's not getting into that bit of Grey Warden trivia. "They'll laugh at you, some of them when they're fighting, even if they can't talk."
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Still, he lifts his hand to refuse her kind offer, instead listening with full attention as she relays what she understands. He isn’t a wholly dense man, he’s capable of reading, writing, strategizing and adapting as necessary, but it’s in hearing something firsthand that he finds the most comprehension. True, it’s rarely as objective as research, but objectivity only counts for so much.
Experience, in his mind, counts for more.
It is a tragic tale, the one she recounts. Not so jarring to a man that’s known endless swaths of warfare (though there was a time in his boyhood when the concept might’ve given him a nightmare or two), but one to be pitied all the same. He’s known this world to be damaged, and mournful— and yet beautiful at times as well— but to hear it said aloud always makes it that much more palpable, just as it had been with Jone.
“And what of your Corypheus, then? Is he not also a creature as corrupted as they are?”
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It's difficult when a soul can be worn and manipulated like empty armor.
She takes a breath and this time she does turn slightly sidesaddle in order to properly look at him.
"He's likely one of the first. The Chantry's story is this: magisters to the Old Gods spent a great deal of blood, probably not their own, in order to walk into the Golden City that you could see in the Fade. When they did this, the Golden City turned Black, and the magisters were cast out and underground, the first of the darkspawn."
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He meets her stare as she turns, though it's only through the shadowed pockets of his helmet: the places where no light reaches, which hardly makes for pleasantly aesthetic companionship— but if she wishes to see him as he is, he'll not deny her.
“Though if such defiance is sin, than I am equally as guilty.”
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Everyone sins, she is certain of that much, but to be in defiance of gods is a different matter entirely. "What was the result of your behavior?"
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He would do it again, as often as opportunity presented itself— though he realizes no such sacrifice is necessary here. Whatever he knows of the Fade, and its gilded city, and current confrontation, it paints a much different picture in its wake.
"Yet I would never have acted as your enemy has. Condemned or otherwise, his ambition is unjustifiable, and his means even more so."
His helm tips downwards just slightly, attempting to regard her own much smaller silhouette.
"Still, it is good to remember that stories such as these are ever woven by those who tell the tale: their bias, their betrayal, their hurt at what transpired.”
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It's not equal to 'kindling for their own cruel sport', at least not in Adrasteia's mind, but she can understand going against one's gods for the sake of one's people. In this moment she is only hoping that she has not attributed too much essential well-meaningness to the armored man's behavior.
If she has, well. She's done similarly enough before.
"What do you mean by 'deathless damnation'?"
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"Time no longer holds sway over my life. In the past, no matter how many times death at the edge of a blade— or by magic— sought to end me, I would awaken once more just as I was. Just as I am now."
Which...he'll not visibly share in the midst of a traveling party, but with luck, the words alone will carry the point across well enough.
"I do not believe such cursed immunity holds true here. But I'll not test that theory until my work is finished."
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It can't have been easily managed.
"You can probably determine it in ways that aren't fatal. For instance, if one grows facial hair, that is indicative of a life not held in eternal stasis." Does he? She can't tell from here, at the very least, but that's fine. Adrasteia decides to stop staring at him, for now, and properly turns back around in the saddle.
"Is your work helping Riftwatch to end the war, or some other business?"
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It spares him the trial of shaving constantly, at least. Something he’s not had to worry over in so long that he might instead make a fool of himself for attempting to mirror the memory of it now.
“To end the war, and see this world made whole again would be enough.”
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Though winning the war in and of itself has not been made an easy task, either.
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"I can do no more than that."
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She glances over her shoulder and smiles at him. "Back to discussions of Orzammar: what is your armor made of?"
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But that's unimportant, he thinks, and instead shifts in the saddle behind her, helm dipping slightly downwards in deference to her stare.
"Adamantine. The strongest metal ore to exist in our world, though I believe my armor— due to scarcity— is but a composite of it. I did not think to ask when it was gifted to me."
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