Bad Company
Humans are generally pleasant people, good guests and as well-mannered as a youth can be. Their nobles on the other hand are generally the opposite. Rude, entitled, self-absorbed and all together poor company. There are exceptions, but if their behaviour when the Teyrn was here is any indication, those around you are not among them.
Unfortunately, bad guests tend to be the first to raise a fuss when they feel they are not given enough attention. Thus, you are left with the choice between visiting them and suffering their company or waiting until they are furious enough to visit you and suffer the consequences.
As with removing a bandage that has stuck to a wound, it is best done soon and swiftly. You already have plans to visit Denerim this week, so you can stop at the various homes of the Banns. The only neighbour not easily visited in this manner is the Bann of Whitecliffe, and you were already planning to deliberately snub the man who attempted to rob you.
Surprisingly, Solas is waiting in the courtyard. He had not been planning on leaving today, which makes you wonder what he is doing.
"Solas, how are you?" You ask politely.
Solas turns, no surprise in his expression as he replies, "I am well enough. I fear my sleep has been disturbed of late. I have been unable to dream, and it disturbs me."
"That would be Merrill's barrier at work." You inform him. "It interfaces with the Veil, strengthening it to the point that entry and exit are entirely impossible. It prevents dreams as a side effect."
Solas looks surprised for a moment but understanding dawns quickly and he nods. "I see. I suppose I will simply have to adjust."
You shrug, unable to offer any better suggestions. "To change the subject, I was planning to accompany you to Denerim, but I must visit the neighbours on the way. As such I will be leaving in a few hours, should you wish to accompany me."
Solas considers your words for a few moments, expression unreadable. "I think I will accompany you. If only for safety."
"Very well, go prepare. We leave in the hour. I will find you a horse." You state, walking away to do so.
"That won't be necessary." Solas states. "As soon as those Dalish merchants arrive, I should have one of my own."
"That makes this easy I suppose, do you have anything else you need to prepare?" You ask.
A smile creeps across Solas' face. "No. I travel light."
Solas may be able to leave at the drop of a hat, but you are not so lucky. You spend the time he waits for his horse giving instructions and packing food and spare clothing. By the time the trader arrives you are ready to go, but you had to rush through some of your preparations at the end.
"I am not quite sure why you want to leave three days early. I was under the impression it was a two day ride to Denerim." Solas observes as you set a fierce pace.
"I take it you have not been on a procession before." You reply over the sound of thudding hooves. "We will need to stop at every single noble's dwelling. Mostly as a short visit, but it is considered an insult to avoid anyone."
Solas' expression suggests that he has, in fact, been on a procession, and he is not looking forward to repeating the experience.
The various minor nobles you visit are barely worth remembering. They are by and large what you expect of human nobles. Perhaps they have rich inner lives with struggles and concerns they conceal from you, but if they do you never see them.
Instead, every visit is largely the same. Ride to their manor, introduce yourself, exchange pleasantries, and keep riding. Truthfully, you are glad that the meetings are so simple, humans can blow such events out of all proportion if given the time.
There are two major Banns you will be visiting. The Bann of Land's End is the closest, followed by Brecilbay. You will also be passing through Eastwood, but that is part of the Arling of Denerim, and therefore not your concern.
You hear the cry of a sentry on the wind as you approach the first fortification. The town of Wyncastel contains a castle ruled by the Wyn family. They are the first people you will visit.
As you approach the gates and hail the gatekeeper, you mentally review your plans for the visit.
"Halt! Who goes there!" The guards call out to you.
"Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, lord of Brecilian forest." You call back. "I have travelled far and hoped to enjoy the hospitality of the Wyn family."
Faint sounds of conversation, too soft even for your ears at this distance, drift down from the high walls.
A decision is evidently reached as a voice calls down. "Alright, we're opening the gates. If you're lying, we'll have you in the brig for this elf!"
"What friendly places you bring me to." Solas remarks dryly.
The corner of your lip tilts upwards at the joke as the gates open. There is a small amount of administrative argumentation. You brought the declaration of your nobility but the guards quibble and look for any possible excuse to call it a forgery. Ultimately you succeed in convincing them more by sheer force of personality and unwavering confidence then evidence. Still, victory is victory however it is achieved.
"I'm afraid Bann Wyn is busy at this minute. She extends her apologies and will be with you as soon as possible." An obsequious steward explains, bowing. "Will you be staying the night."
"I do not think so." You reply, barricading your mounting annoyance behind a wall of control. "We only wish to stay for a few hours, perhaps for lunch, but then we must be on our way ere evening."
"Of course, my lord. Please make yourself comfortable, I will inform the chefs to prepare extra for you." The steward smiles fawningly. "Should I take your servant to the kitchen, or will he be remaining with you?"
Solas gives the steward a disdainful look, and you reinforce the barriers around your still mounting rage. "I am afraid there has been a mistake. Solas is not my servant; he is a companion on my journey and my guest. I would prefer if he was prepared a place at lunch, but I understand that such things may not be appropriate. As long as he is happy, I will have no concerns."
You will give the servant this much; beyond a widening of his eyes, he barely reacts. "Of course, my lord. Does master Solas have a preference for his lunch? There is space at some of the lower tables I believe."
Solas' disgust vanishes quickly beneath his impassive mask. "I will have something simple, and I think I will have it alone. Here will be fine."
"At once, sir. My lord." The steward bows to you, and then departs; leaving you and Solas to await the arrival of the Bann.
Bann Lydia Wyn is a dark haired woman with large muscles and a narrow face. You recognise her from the Teyrn's visit. She had not been one of the more vocal of your critics, but she had hardly had anything good to say about you either.
"I have to say, I wasn't expecting a visit." Is the first thing she says to you.
"I apologise for the lack of warning. I would have sent a messenger, but I fear I would have outpaced anyone I sent." You apologise, swallowing a more scathing response.
Solas' expression suggests he is congratulating himself for avoiding lunch.
"You are forgiven. I was rather surprised that an elf managed to be given a title, even one as honorary as yours." The woman sniffs.
"When I asked the king offered me a title with more duties, but I felt that I would be unable to carry them out to a standard I deem acceptable, so I requested something more honorary." You explain calmly.
"So, you just went up to the king and asked to be made a noble?" The Bann asks sceptically.
"Truthfully, it was somewhat more complicated than that, but in essence yes." You reply.
"Truly?" Lydia asks, trying to conceal her growing interest. "Sounds like a story."
"If you have the time, I would be happy to share it with you." You offer, sensing an opportunity.
The Bann feigns a sigh. "I suppose I can allow it, if only to prove you a liar."
You relay the tale of your ascension, beginning with the arrival of the Bann of Whitecliffe. Despite her muted hostility the Bann becomes more and more interested as you speak. By the end of the tale, she is grinning widely.
"I knew old Matty was lying about something!" She chuckles slapping her knee. "So, what's the real story?"
"I have told you the real story." You reply, grateful you had prepared for the wave of irritation her doubt brings.
"Look, I believe you caught Matty with his hand in the cookie jar and the king gave you his title for it, but the bit with the fighting? No way. So what's the real story?" She says, half moving to sling an arm around your shoulders.
After a few moments she realises that given the height disparity between the two of you makes such a gesture impossible. The human aborts the movement with a surprising amount of grace, laughing off the moment of awkwardness.
"Everything I said happened exactly as I have told you." You repeat, breathing deeply to remain calm, her doubt and the fumbling attempts at camaraderie grating you equally.
"That so?" The Bann asks with a gleam in her eyes. "Care to prove it?"
In what feels like no time at all you are standing in the practice yard holding a training sword. Lydia has dressed in padded armour rather than steel, and holds a shield.
"So, I reckon if you can make Cailan dance for a full five minutes, you'll have no trouble landing a hit on little old me." The Bann says, eagerness carefully hidden.
You incline your head in acknowledgement. "I am more than capable of doing so. In truth you could bring your entire guard and I would still emerge victorious."
"Steady on." The Bann laughs. "Ladies like confidence, but arrogance isn't sexy on anyone."
You raise your blade in salute in lieu of a response. The human smiles and raises her weapons in a guard that shows a great deal of experience in combat.
The exchange lasts maybe ten heartbeats. Your blade lashes over the top of her shield from a range she does not expect. When she tries to cover the attack, you reveal it to be a faint. Your blade nearly doubles in speed as you stop holding back, and you stab her leg.
Silence falls over the practice yard. The Bann stares at you in disbelief, looking at your blade pressed against her leg, then back to your face once more.
After an interminable moment she looks to one of the bystanders and shouts, "Bring my guard here! At the double!"
Like a leaf dancing on the wind, you weave between the ranks of the guards. For the third time this morning, your wooden blade finds a gap in the target's training armour. The vengeful blades of her protectors slash at the empty air as you spring past her.
"Enough!" Lydia pants. "You're a bloody nightmare to fight, you know that?"
In Arda orcs had fled rather than face your blade. Sindar had cowered at the mere mention of your name. You were universally considered one of the most dangerous Noldor alive. This is not you at your most terrible, this is merely a game.
"I have heard rumours to that effect." You demure, unwilling to bring up the painful past.
The Bann chuckles tiredly. "Give me a few minutes to catch my breath, then we'll go again. Not as young as I used to be."
Before you can speak, the practice yard is informed that lunch will be served shortly. The manner in which the servant implied that the Bann should wash unless she wants her guests to faint in disgust causes you to let out a small laugh.
A quick scrub in a handbasin is all you need. Unlike the humans you had not been sweating heavily, so you have far less need for cleaning. You strive to make friends among the local knighthood and merchants while you wait for the Bann.
When Lydia does arrive, she invites you up to the high table. Given that you are here primarily to establish yourself as an equal to the other nobles of the Teyrnin, you gladly accept. During the meal you listen to Lydia gush about her days fighting under King Maric and Teyrn Loghaine against Orlais.
You are surprised by her tales, given that Cailan son of Maric is a man full grown. This leads to the tragic tale of the old king's life and sudden death.
"Way I hear it." The woman explains, wine spilling from a goblet as she gestures widely. "His ma died when he was eighteen, linked up with Loghaine and before we knew it, he was leading the charge alongside him. Four years later we were free and he was the obvious choice as the king."
"He sounds like a king worthy of the title." You observe neutrally.
"Yeah. Ruled for twenty five years, never heard a word of complaint." The woman's gaze turns distant, eyes on events long past. Four years ago, he suddenly died on his way to bring order to the Free Marches. We still haven't recovered"
"Cailan's not half the man his father was." The Bann continues bitterly. "He's been king for four years now, and he's ten years older than his father was when he came to power, and he still acts like he lives in some kind of fairy tale."
Lydia spits to one side as she finishes speaking. For your part, her words have raised a question you had been meaning to ask for a while.
"You said that you had fought beside Maric, yet nearly thirty years have passed since that time. I was under the impression that humans begin to look quite different beyond the age of fifty." You say, giving context to your following question. "Thus I must ask, how old are you?"
A silence descends upon the high table, and from there spreads to the rest of the hall. Expressions of outrage and shock are turned towards you. Inwardly you curse yourself for stepping into some kind of obscure human taboo, but outwardly you remain impassive.
The tense silence is broken by laughter.
"That's got to be the strangest way someone's ever complimented my looks." Bann Lydia gasps out between peals of laughter. "I'm fifty six, way too old for you kid."
That is a fraction of your own age, but you allow the noblewoman her illusions. "Then I must ask after the reason why you have not aged as your fellows have."
"I have aged, just slower than most." Lydia replies, still chuckling. "As for the how, diet, exercise and bathing in the blood of my enemies."
On closer inspection, the woman has wrinkles forming around her eyes and silver hairs thread her dark locks. "My apologies if I have given offence."
The Bann waves a hand dismissively. "None taken. Tell me your own secret and we'll call it even."
It takes a moment to realise that she is speaking of your own appearance, but once you do you respond, "I have no secret, I was born beautiful."
The Bann's laughter fills the halls once more.
Confident you have made an excellent impression on the experienced warrior; you depart in good spirits an hour later. The Bann sees you off herself, publicly, which goes a long way to accomplishing your goals.
"You seem to have a knack for getting people to like you." Solas notes idly as you ride away.
You laugh brightly. "Of course! I am a diplomat and a politician by trade, if I could not make people like me I would not be much use, would I?"
Despite himself, Solas smiles. "No, I suppose you wouldn't."
The capital of the Brecilbay Bannorn shares its name. Above the city a grey tower overlooks the bay, and the ships that sail in and out of its harbour.
As you ride through the streets to the tower that overlooks the city, you wonder who Brecil was. Do his descendants still hold the city, or have they been supplanted?
Your reception at the tower is remarkably similar to the one at Wyncastel. Given the notoriously prickly egos of the human nobles, you should have expected it. After once again establishing that Solas is not a servant, you are invited to stay for Dinner.
Frank Manegold, the Bann of Brecilbay is as much the opposite of Lydia as you can imagine. He is slim, with a narrow, hawkish face. A thick pair of spectacles perch on his nose, and his sandy hair and freckled complexion suggest he is rarely outside.
"You're that elf from the forest. The one the Teyrn visited last week." He observes in lieu of a greeting.
"Very observant. You are the human who suggested that my race precluded me from a leadership position." You reply calmly.
The man coughs and adjusts his spectacles. "Ah, you remember that. You must understand that I mean no offence, it is simply a fact that intermixing species is almost always a mistake."
Out of the corner of your eyes you notice Solas nodding slowly. A flicker of annoyance is quickly tamped down.
"You are completely wrong." You reply without anger. "While different species coexisting offers unique challenges, it is hardly impossible. In my experience, having more friends is rarely a burden."
Solas remains impassive, but the Bann leans forward eagerly. "Perhaps we should retire to my solar to discuss this in more detail. I would be more than happy to explain why you're wrong."
Gesturing your acceptance, you say, "Lead the way."
"Might I accompany you?" Solas asks. "This sounds like an interesting conversation."
The Bann gives him a dismissive glance. "If you a quiet, you may listen."
Solas chooses to accompany you, though you catch the flash of proud anger in his eyes as he does so. The solar is a small room, a few chairs and a desk before a fireplace.
The Bann sits behind the desk, and steeples his fingers. "Now I am fascinated to hear your arguments for racial integration."
You take your own seat, as Solas leans against the door. "I feel as though my arguments are self-evident. Allies in times of struggle, workers and taxable subjects in peace. Certainly, one must be careful with the differences between species, but it is nothing a skilled leader cannot overcome."
"Oh? Then what about the alienages, where elves live lives of crime among filth and squalor." The Bann replies smugly. "Or the Dalish who are little better than bandits. Surely, they are the obvious counter argument. That does not even mention the Qunari."
"I will tackle each argument separately." You open. "Firstly, the alienages are less a demonstration of the lack of care by past leaders than anything inherent to separate species living together."
"I'm afraid you will need to explain that to me." Frank interjects, frowning. "The alienages are self-governing. I hardly see how it does not prove the unsuitability of elves for leadership."
"When the elves arrived in your lands, they were refugees from a fallen kingdom." You explain, graciously ignoring his slight against elves. "Instead of taking time to think about how to integrate them into their lands, the leaders at the time simply threw them into a section of the city and told them to take care of themselves."
"What leader could possibly have made that situation work? Far from home, without friends or allies? Could you, do it? I doubt even I could do so for a few hundred of my kin who do not share my rare and highly valued skillset." You continue.
The Bann remains silent, so you address his other point. "As for the Dalish, I have found them far more than mere bandits. They are nomadic tribes yes, but if one is willing to earn their trust they can be negotiated with, treated with. If you respect them, they will respect you."
Bann Manegold smirks. "Ah, but I do not share your advantages. I could not approach the Dalish as you could, and even if I did I suspect I would receive a very different welcome."
You smile back, calmly. "Then you clearly do not know the Dalish very well. They despise all outsiders, not merely humans. They care little for their city elf kin, so long as I do not bare tattoos in their style, I am received no more warmly than you would be. That I received an invitation at all was fortune on my part, nothing more."
"Does that not support my point? If these Dalish would turn aside their own kin over such minor differences then clearly mixing races is a far greater barrier to overcome." The human argues.
"That hostility is returned in kind by all humans I have met in their company. You rebut. "Yet once I managed to speak to them as an equal, I found them to be hardly different to any human I have spoken to, and the interactions I have facilitated within Brecilian have proceeded unimpeded by this 'mistake' you claim such acts to be."
For a moment, the human is silent. When he speaks, he does so with more respect than had been present at the beginning of this conversation.
"I do not find flaws with your logic." He states carefully. "Yet, I must say I find it unconvincing. Perhaps you are correct that the elves were disadvantaged, but they survived and continue to live in squalor. As for the Dalish, I do not believe your words on their supposed tolerance."
You pause, considering. Admittedly, your arguments have hardly been ground-breaking, mostly based on your own experience. Still, you suspect that for all his pretence of logic, it is not logic that will convince the Bann you are correct.
A gamble is called for, you decide. "I wish to tell you a story. Some time ago, my brothers and I enlisted a number of humans to aid us in a battle. During the battle those my brother had brought turned on us, costing us victory."
"Then you have seen what I say in action. It is simply real politics at play, people will always favour their own kind." Bann Manegold says, leaning back in his chair.
"Then why did the ones I brought remain loyal?" You ask neutrally. "They were close kin to those who betrayed us. They had not been forewarned, but it was clear that the odds were with the traitors. Why did they choose to fight by my side? Why did they die, not for their fellow humans, but side by side with the Noldor?"
The Bann says nothing. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty, still he does not speak. The three of you are called to dinner. You are again placed at the high table, the Bann seems to return to life. Speaking with those around him, even you. He even offers you a room for the night.
You had thought the conversation forgotten, until the next day, before breakfast, when you prepare to depart. The Bann comes to see you off personally.
He walks up to you and says, "I do not know. My views have not changed, but I cannot answer your question. Much as I cannot account for why some humans fall in love with elves. I concede the argument for now, though I still believe you are wrong."
It is perhaps the strangest farewell you have received. Still, you are certain that the Bann will not be forgetting you anytime soon.
Underbelly
The ride to Denerim comes to an end. It has been a busy journey, but now it is over. Solas accompanies you beneath the gates and into the city proper. The sounds colours and smells of a busy market flooding your senses. Both of you pause to dismount, the press of people preventing easy passage.
While you are working your way around the edge of the central square, you catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye. Your reflexes carry you safely out of its path, but Solas is not so swift. A small stone hits him in his bald head, leaving a streak of red upon his pale skin.
Your eyes trace the arc of the projectile back to its source, more out of habit than anything else. When you find the source, rage rushes to the surface. A group of idle children are snickering and celebrating, rocks about them and in their hands.
The crowd parts before your expression as you stride to the children. A few of them notice you coming, but they are unable to convince their companions to flee in time.
Looming over them, you ask in a cold voice. "Which of you threw that rock."
Their eyes reveal the culprit even as they stubbornly refuse to answer you question. The boy they look at, a larger boy with the beginnings of muscle on his arms and a shock of brown hair, meets your gaze defiantly. A light touch of your mind to his confirms that it was he who threw the rock.
"Why do you choose to throw rocks at people?" You ask chidingly.
"Didn't do nothing." The boy sniffs derisively.
"On that we are agreed, you did not do nothing. You threw a rock at my friend." You reply. "What I want to know is why."
"Well, I don't have to tell you nothin' knife ear." The boy smirks, looking to his friends for support.
By this point, Solas has joined you, looking at the children with a frown on his face. The wound on his head has been healed, the lingering sensation of fade energy clinging to his face, but the blood remains.
"You are correct." You observe neutrally. "You are under no obligation to tell me anything. If you do not choose to tell me why you are doing what you did, then I am forced to assume the worst case scenario."
The children are becoming more and more uncomfortable as you continue to speak. Vaguely you hear the sound of metal on metal and assume that guards are approaching.
"The worst case scenario is that you were trying to kill my friend. In which case I would have to take this case to the local authorities." You pause to let the implications sink in. "Or you could tell me what actually happened, and we can discuss your actions like civilised people."
"There a problem here?" A rough human voice interrupts you.
The guards you heard earlier have arrived. They are wearing breastplates and carrying polearms. Both look at you and Solas with suspicion.
"This child threw a rock which hit my friend here." You answer, watching their reactions carefully. "I was attempting to chastise them to prevent reoccurrence."
"He's lyin'." The child who threw the rock yells. "We was jus' playin' an' this elf comes up and starts yellin' about rocks an' stuff."
"I see." The younger guard says. "You got a name elf?"
It seems the guards will be taking the children's side. It is one thing to hear of discrimination, but experiencing it is likely to become annoying swiftly. Fortunately, you have an advantage most elves lack.
"Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, eldest of the sons of Fëanáro lord of Brecilian Forest." You introduce yourself.
The older guard narrows his eyes at you, trying to remember something. The younger smirks at you.
"Sure, and I'm Queen Anora in disguise." He drawls.
"A rather convincing disguise your majesty." You reply, if only because the twins would never forgive you for letting the joke pass you by. "Regardless, if you doubt my words you are more than welcome to enquire at the castle. I believe Teyrn Loghaine is away right now, but the king should recognise me."
The younger guard looks on the verge of violence, when the older one puts a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry m'lord. Didn't recognise you. We'll take these kids off your hands, get em straightened out and send them home."
You stare at the guard, trying to place his face. "I cannot say I recognise you, have we met?"
"I was on the gates when you were sparring with the king." The guard replies humbly. "Was a way off so it took me a bit to place you."
Solas is giving you a look that suggests this conversation has moved far beyond what he is comfortable with. You happen to agree with him on that matter.
"That will not be necessary. If you could see them home, I'd appreciate it, but there is no need for a punishment beyond a stern warning against throwing rocks in future." You state.
"No worries m'lord. We'll see it done." The guard says, hurrying the children away.
You sigh as the crowd that gathered continues to gawk at you.
"Perhaps it would have been wiser to allow the children to go without any trouble." Solas muses, half chiding and half considering.
You shake your head. "If this behaviour is permitted, they will grow up believing it is appropriate. It will do them grave harm in the long run."
Solas gives you a disbelieving look. "I'm sure that's why you made sure to intimidate them so."
"It is not that simple." You reply, brushing away loose strands of hair. "Whenever one disciplines a child, they should always strive to have the child's interests at heart. Punishment for its own sake does not help the developing mind. Even if I wished vengeance for your injury, that the perpetrators were children complicated the matter."
"I suppose I must defer to you on the matter, I have no children." Solas states. "Well, let us put this behind us. Who were we going to talk to again?"
"The alienage should have an elder, a hahren." You answer Solas' question. "I do not know his name, but if we ask after him we should be able to find him easily."
Solas grimaces. "Alienage, what a charming name. I suppose we should also ask for directions as to where that is."
Keen Eldar eyes spot a sign on a distant gate. "I do not think that will be necessary. I think that is our destination."
Solas follows your pointing finger to the gate and shakes his head. "If you are right, I'm going to owe Merrill an apology."
You are right, and Solas mutters under his breath about the keenness of your senses. Since you care nothing for his theories about magical alteration, you take stock of the place where city elves dwell.
You smelt the place before you saw it. While the city was hardly a clean place, with animals and animal leavings covering the square, this place adds a sickly sweet odour of rotten wood mixed with fertiliser. The streets here are dirt, not stone, and you are frankly amazed by the lack of plants beyond the large central tree.
The best word to summarise your impression of the buildings is atrocious. That thatch is used for many of the rooves is not itself concerning, that most of it is in dire need of replacement is a telling sign. Most buildings are in dire need of new paint, and you pass one that has holes in its exterior walls.
"Unacceptable." Solas says as he sees that particular building. "Why has nobody repaired it?"
Curious yourself, you run an expert eye over the wall. Something about the ragged edges tugs at your memory, and you grab a board and give it a tug. There is a wet tearing sound, and the board comes apart in your hand.
"Rotten through." You state, casting an eye over the discoloured wall. "I suspect the whole wall is structurally unsound. It cannot be repaired, it needs to be replaced."
"I assume its residents cannot afford to do so." Solas states, looking at one of the elves who are glancing at the two of you from an alley.
A glance reveals the reason for his belief. The clothes of the locals are heavily patched, yet still worn in many places. The skill of the patching indicates a need to do so frequently, and when combined with the poor state of the buildings, the logical conclusion is poverty.
"Perhaps, or perhaps those who used to live here simply decided it was the last straw and left." You state, more out of hope than any real belief.
You approach the two women in the alley, but they scurry away quickly. For a moment you are surprised, then you remember that they live among humans. You cannot blame them for their caution.
Finding a ragged old elf sitting on a step, you address him instead. "Excuse me sir. Can you direct us to the hahren?"
The old elf glares at you. "Bringing another poor sod to hell, human? Can't just let him live his life?"
"I am not a human; I am only here to talk and even if I was not, it would not be any of your business." You reply coolly. "Please direct me to the hahren."
The old elf sneers at you, but points at one of the houses. "He should be there."
"You have my thanks for your assistance." You state, as you turn away.
The hahren answers the door a few minutes after you knock. He looks at your armour and cloak, then up to your face. You admire the way he hides his fear and the speed with which he does so.
"My lord, what brings you here." The old elf says in his surprisingly deep and steady voice.
"There is no need for such formalities." You smile widely, to put him at ease. "My companion Solas wished to speak to some city elves, and since this is the closest alienage, we came here. I hope we are not imposing."
Solas interjects at this point. "I have a number of questions, and I believe you are the best person to answer them. Is now a good time or would it be better to come back later?"
The hahren looks between the two of you for a minute, then shakes his head. "Now is fine. I'm Hahern Valendrian, leader of the Denerim Alienage."
Solas and you introduce yourselves in turn, then Solas begins asking his questions. "Tell me, what exactly is an alienage."
"Well, it's our home. A place for elves to live among human cities." Valendrian answers wryly. "But I suspect that is not what you are asking."
"No, I was more interested in its legal existence, and also how that manifests in a practical way." Solas agrees, clarifying his question.
Valendrian nods, stroking his chin. "Well, legally we're a self-governing autonomous enclave. Practically, all elves have to live here, but all the work is in the rest of the city. As you can see, it makes life a challenge."
"I see. What about culturally?" Solas asks. "I know the Dalish try to maintain the culture of Elvhanen, but I'm given to understand that you are somewhat different."
"Oh you've been talking to the Dalish?" The hahren snorts. "Backwards savages and snobs. We maintain our traditions as best we can in the circumstances, and what do they do? They deride us for lacking authenticity, because our traditions are alive and not a stagnant monument to times long past."
The elf's voice is swelling with rage, and you sense it is time to cut him off before the topic gets too off course. "I have noticed a degree of distaste among the Dalish, it is why we wished to learn of your traditions from a city elf. The Dalish are far too biased a source."
"Well, we don't really share that sort of thing with outsiders…" Valendrian trails off, unsure how to tell you to leave without offending you.
"Well, fortunately, Solas here is an elf and a scholar of elven traditions. Unfortunately, I will not be here for that conversation as I have an urgent need to examine that house to make sure it is not going to fall on top of me." You state cheerfully.
"I had someone look at it, but I'd value a second opinion." Valendrian agrees with relief clear in his voice.
The house is currently fine, but you suspect it will not remain so indefinitely. You could have eavesdropped on the conversation, but you chose not to. If these people wished to keep their practices secret, you would not take that decision away from them.
What draws you back into the conversation is the sound of Solas' voice rising. "That's not how it works. You've completely misunderstood the entire point of the ceremony!"
There have been many times you have been thankful for the speed of your feet and length of your legs, this is just one more on the list. A hand on Solas' shoulder cuts off his rant before it can become more than an impassioned speech.
"I believe the human saying is 'I'm on your side'." You remind him calmly. "These people are trying their best and hardly want some foreign scholar to swoop in and tell them their traditions are wrong."
Solas looks at you, fury simmering in his eyes. You maintain your gaze and calming hand, until the fury drains away.
"Yes, you are correct." He says, turning to Valendrian. "Forgive me, I am very passionate on this subject, I meant no offence."
Valendrian's gaze softens, but does not return to its previous welcoming state. "Forgiven, it is hardly unusual for different elves to have different views on tradition."
You sense that your welcome is starting to wear thin. You could let Solas continue his questions, but the sight of this place disturbs you on a fundamental level. It will take a significant event to force you to leave without at least attempting to alleviate the problems you see.
A quick glance around reveals potential farming opportunities. Nothing major, much of the ground is taken up by houses or tents. Still, there is potential. With enough care, small gardens of edible roots could be grown here and there. It would not solve all the alienage's problems overnight, but it would be something.
Though you are tempted to offer your knowledge of the subject to the hahren, you decide against it. Farming is labour intensive, and these people seem as though they are already working themselves as much as they dare. If you want to help, you will need to take people out of the city.
Therein lies your problem. Surely there have been people who have come before you claiming to lead people to a better life. How often had those people been monsters in human flesh, bringing only more harm on the desperate. What of the humans who will surely take notice of an exodus from their city?
Another glance draws your eyes to the squalor and devastation of the buildings around you. You smell the waste and the despair in the air. Doing nothing is not an option, you refuse to pass by on the other side of the road.
Once your decision is made, the only question is the best way to go about enacting it. The hahren might be suspicious of you, but if you can get him on side that would help get others to trust you. Spending time convincing people personally might also work, relying on your personal charisma.
As your mother used to say 'if two options seem equally good, see if you can do both'.
"Hahren Valendrian, I have a proposal for you." You say. "This is the first time I have been to an alienage, and I find myself horrified by what I see within. If it were in my power, I would have your people moved somewhere safer and tear the whole thing down, given I cannot I am limited to offering alternate accommodation to any who are willing to accept it."
"You are hardly the first to say such things. I'm afraid that the people who live here have lived in the city all their lives, they are unsuited for life in the countryside." The elf replies, clearly making an excuse.
"I am more than willing to house them for the duration of their training, though pay will of course wait until they are actually working." You assure him. "It might be possible to create a village for them, if there is sufficient interest in such a thing."
"Are you not also in need of builders, tailors and other such professionals?" Solas unexpectedly supports you. "I understand that such people are likely in high demand but any who wish a different life would be more than welcome, and well paid as I understand such things."
"This all sounds very convenient." The old elf says suspiciously. "While I can't stop you asking about, I see no reason to support you."
Solas grimaces, clearly unsure of how to proceed, you however have one last card to play. "I understand your fears, and your suspicion. I wish I could offer a guarantee of my good intentions, but such a thing is impossible."
You bend down to look into his eyes, willing the truth of your words to be evident. "I want to help you, I have come without guards, without any of what I need to force people to follow me. I could have, I still could bring the guards into this, as a noble of Ferelden they would obey, but I will not. I want to help. Please, let me."
It is not clear what about your plea moves the old elf. Perhaps the legends of the Light of Aman shining in the eyes of the Eldar are true, perhaps nobody has thought to beg to be allowed to help before. Whatever the reason, Valendrian's eyes soften.
"I will put out word that there's a noble looking for workers. Is this for any particular project, or do you just need extra hands?" He asks.
"I will take anyone who wants to go." You reply. "If it is not a problem, I will also be going about asking people if they are willing to take a risk for a better life."
"Of course. You can tell them to assemble beneath the tree, I will speak to them before they leave." The elder assures you.
"I will also do what I can to find people who are willing to join us at Forest's Heart." Solas speaks up again. "I will meet you back at the tree."
The three of you do as you had agreed. Solas vanishes into the depths of the alienage with a degree of familiarity that is strange, given how obviously unused to the place he is. You return to the marketplace and speak to the elves going about their days.
By the time evening has begun to arrive, approximately forty elves have assembled beneath the tree. Most of them are families with children, and a few have grey hair. You had found approximately seven specialists, a skilled weaver and her apprentice, and a pair of amateur cobblers. There was one woman who said she could sew, but had not found employment in the area.
Your best find was an elf by the name of Mihnowen. Grey haired, she had approached you while you were searching.
"You got a healer for this damn fool plan?" She asked brusquely.
"No, though I have a mage specialised in the practice at our destination, if you are concerned." You assured her.
"Right, then I'm coming. Anyone gets hurt or sick I'll keep them alive till we get there. You ain't leavin' anyone behind." She proclaims.
The assembled group is given some kind of quasi-religious blessing by the hahren, and they listen as you explain your next day's travel plans. After the group disperses to pack, three more elves approach you.
"Heard you were looking for people with skills." The leader, a shady looking male with dark hair, drawls. "We're pretty good at getting at things that we ain't exactly supposed to. Figure a fancy noble like you might find our talents useful."
You give them a single look before responding. "The penalty for theft in Endataurëo is the loss of a hand. Between my investigative skills and the two mages I have, I will find the guilty."
The leader raises his hands and steps back, swallowing nervously. "Right, clean noses, I get it. Strictly rob people you tell us to, understood."
The judge within you rages against accepting these people, yet you do. In the end, whatever their crimes you doubt they are infamous kinslayers. Who are you to deny someone a chance at redemption? You resolve to watch them, but they are brought along with everyone else.
Organising the march in the time you have, with so few resources is a miracle of logistics to most people. For you, it is a Tuesday in Beleriand. Assembling a few days food is a challenge, but you manage it through some careful trading and a few scrawled notes proclaiming a certain trader a 'valued partner'.
The march itself is helped greatly by Solas. The elf seems to have made it his personal mission to ensure the success of this venture, and he displays great ability to keep a group together without training. Your new friends among the nobility help, when you are recognised, barriers mysteriously disappear.
Thus, you reach Endataurëo before the end of the week. Faith takes one look at the number of elves, and immediately sends someone for Karla. Organising shared bunk rooms for most, and shared guest rooms for the occasional overflow causes hours to fly by almost unnoticed.
"They're more than I can manage alone, sir." The young woman confesses. "We're gonna need more staff."
"I can lead them for now." Solas volunteers. "Though I have no experience with city elves, I have led their kind before. I will even find some candidates to replace me."
"Thank you, Solas." You say, gratefully. "That is a relief. What about tension? I remember the Dalish were a bit of a challenge to integrate, and this is far worse."
Behind you, Anneth laughs. "Think you'll find that most of us are pretty zen about working with an elf at this point."
Faith glares at the officer, then turns back to you. "In all seriousness, between the Dalish traders and the ones who live here we're all pretty well adjusted to working with elves. You won't have any problems beyond what's normal for getting new workers."
Weekly Report
"Did you have something to report?" You ask your officer after everyone else has left.
The human smirks. "Yeah, there was an enormous column of like forty elves moving through the forest the last few days."
You glare at her. "I am aware. Anything else?"
She shakes her head. "All quiet this week, probably going to be trouble later."
You nod, familiar with the paranoia a quiet week of patrols can bring. "Perhaps we will be lucky enough that it is only a quiet week and nothing more."
"With all due respect, sir." Anneth replies. "Since I met you, there hasn't been a week something dramatic doesn't happen."
You sigh, resting your head in your hands. Unfortunately, your heritage means you are doomed to live an interesting life. Sometimes you envy the no name peasants of the world, who can live their lives content in the knowledge that nothing will happen.
Then you think about it for a minute and realise that sounds incredibly boring.