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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"If they're connected to any high-ranking Venatori, I'll probably recognize the families."
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“You will use caution, correct?”
He isn’t anxious about the meeting, he trusts in Riftwatch to be thorough in its dealings, but he won’t be there, and that alone is reason enough to need assurance.
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Having called for a bath to be drawn in the shared room, the pair are delayed some minutes as the attendants go up ahead of them, but the tub is ready and steaming when Gabranth and Benedict finally make their way in. The latter waits until the former is settled behind a screen, then stretches out on his bed, hands behind his head, to wait and converse.
"I'll be cautious. It'll just be a bunch of talking, I'm sure."
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“If you give me your word you will be on your guard, I expect nothing less when you are beyond my gaze.”
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"...I won't," he says evasively-- as in, he won't make idle promises-- and turns to rest on his elbow with a sheepish, placating smile toward Gabranth.
"I want it to go well. For everyone."
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His wording is sharp, but there's no real bite to it: he can make no adjustments, and he'll waste no more time on snapping teeth over hypotheticals. Instead, his eyes shut, shaking his head as he dips back behind the screen in order to speed along ties and tethers, clasps and buckles— all the myriad of protective reinforcements that keep him secure in the heat of battle, now more hindrance than help.
"Still, I am glad you were permitted leave for this."
It's progress. The promise of it, though still nascent in its formation. Evidence his urging petitions hadn't fallen on deaf ears, and that alone is enough.
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"I am too." He speaks to the screen, making no move to see behind it or comment on what occurs there; he relates more than Gabranth knows, to the experience of having so little privacy.
"Before we went to fight the dragon, I hadn't left Kirkwall in..." He counts on his fingers, tracking months, "...almost two years."
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He cannot imagine how difficult a transition it’s been on both sides: for Riftwatch, for Benedict, each of them struggling for equilibrium as their paths irreversibly intertwine.
“The first of many outings, I hope. You should be sure to thank them for their generosity— the leaders who saw fit to grant you such mercies. They owe you less than nothing, and yet still they afford you trust.”
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"...I will," Bene mumbles, looking down at his hands, one of his upturned feet kicking lightly against the wall next to his bed. It might not be immediate, but he'll get to it when it feels right. When he gets the sense they can stand his presence.
So after everyone is dead, probably.
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A faint clink of armor meeting flooring, carefully setting aside one piece after the next. There’s no point in pressure, no gain to be had. Much of what Benedict knows of the world is stilted— painted by experience uncommon, and so in the wake of that Gabranth supposes it can’t hurt to impart his own.
“It was his father who bid me spy on him, betraying what trust laid between us. To say he was unhappy when he learned of this...”
Well, understatements, and all that
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"What happened?"
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There is a dryness to that particular point of his confession, all made subtle by the screen between them.
“Yet I had no choice but to continue to impress myself into his presence when he ascended as Archadia's successive Emperor. To keep myself from his sight would have spared me the harshness of his glare— his unmerciful demands— but it was in meeting all of it that I was able to earn his trust once more.”
The faint sound of water interjects, lengthening their conversation with nothing for as long as it takes Gabranth to sink in up to his shoulders, his subsequent exhale drawn out into something thready.
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He'll never be anything but a traitor, if he doesn't bother.
"...what if they reject me? Or think I'm trying to pull one over on them?" He winces. Merely existing in Flint's presence seems to make the man angry, and Yseult's coldness is a message in and of itself.
At least there's Byerly. And the Provost has changed since everything happened.
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“They will not like you. You will not charm them, nor make them laugh, nor will they think you capable of guile. Put all hope for peace from your mind, and when you deliver news of your success in this endeavor here, thank them for the opportunity— and take your leave.”
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His toe thuds gently into the wall once more. "...what if I write them a note instead?"
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That one you can have, Benedict. Gabranth still finds it a less-than-ideal habit on Flint’s part, though he won’t dare voice it aloud.
“Adjust your strategy appropriately. I leave it in your care.”
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Falling silent a moment, Benedict lounges over the bed and thinks on Gabranth's words. Then, after a while of letting the man bathe in peace, he props his chin on his hand and speaks up again.
"You fell into trouble when you were given conflicting orders," he muses, "...but did you ever-- like, was a fuckup-- sorry." He should be more refined.
"Was a mistake ever your fault? That you had to answer for?"
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For a held breath there’s only silence, the faint sound of rippling water, idly lapping at the edges of the bath rather than a response to any real movement on Gabranth’s part.
“...yes.”
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"...will you tell me about it?"
He knows that if he demanded it of him, Gabranth would likely acquiesce. But that's not the kind of relationship Benedict wants.
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“Vayne Solidor killed his father to become Emperor.”
An accusation at the time, one he dared not voice— but here, so far away from the danger of it, with balmy heat wreathing his shoulders, he can speak the truth. It was Vayne that killed his father, not the senate. “I was meant to keep watch over his ambition, to warn Emperor Gramis and keep safe his youngest son in the shadow of Vayne’s designs. I failed. And the price to be paid was the death of— ”
What is he to say of Drace? What can be said that wouldn’t dishonor her memory, or what her legacy truly meant? His words feel hollow. His lungs pitifully empty. None of it is enough.
“I had but one trusted ally in the whole of my life. And to fulfill my sworn duty as Judge Magister, Vayne demanded I put her to the sword.”
To someone else, he would not confess this. There is no one within Riftwatch he would want knowing the worst of his regrets, or the full depth of those buried scars. But he and Benedict are far too alike in understanding the concept of shame.
The inescapable map of it, stitched like leylines beneath their skin.
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What rings familiar is the sense of trust misplaced, faith held in the person who guides one's hand and abuses its works.
"I'm sorry." He knows, in a similar position, he would have acted similarly. Some people are born to be followers.
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It is done, there is no going back. For all his long years dwelling in exile he’d hoped he might catch glimpse of her once more— but that was a fool’s dream, and nothing good would have come of it. Better him trapped in undeath than her.
“Had I fled, she would have been killed regardless. Had I refused, the magistrate would have outnumbered me and ended my life, leaving Prince Larsa without an ally at his side.” He’s thought it over a thousand times, and there was no alternative route: once Vayne ascended, his world was irrevocably undone.
“We bear the sting of our mistakes always. Let it steer you better, grant you resolve you would otherwise lack.”
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"...maybe you'll be better off too, eventually. Maybe you were brought here for a reason."
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Warmth beyond steamed water or hypogeal heat.
“I would argue you are correct, as our own meeting was its end result.”
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"I'm glad you're here," he murmurs.
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