Wandering the Sunny City
While you expected it to take two weeks to reach Val Royeux, it ended up taking a little longer. Maybe two and a half weeks. Mostly due to being stopped at the border, but at least some of it was being waylaid along the way here.
Settling into Val Royeux had been something of a challenge too. There was more pointless delaying and being sent to the 'wrong house'. In the end you are given a set of rooms, not in the palace but near it.
It was, as Lady Canis pointed out at the time, the place where Emperors tended to keep their mistresses. The place you were sent initially had been Ferelden's formal quarters, but those were 'for the true rulers not rebels'.
Lovely.
Lady Canis is speaking with some minor functionary about your first meeting with someone important. Not the Empress naturally, but someone who speaks for the Empress. It all seems needlessly complicated to you, but apparently that is because you are a 'servant of barbarians who needs to learn his place'.
Given your options at that point were feeding the functionary his own teeth or leaving the building altogether, you have found yourself standing outside at something of a loss what to do.
After some thought, you decide to walk around the capital, get an idea for the people who live here.
For a moment you consider asking Morrigan to come with you but decide against it. The fact that she is still wheezing from laughing at the insult levelled at you has only a little to do with your decision. Honestly.
With Armand and Gerald accompanying you, you set out into the streets of Val Royeux.
The design of the city feels vaguely Eladarin to you. There's greenery everywhere, not trees which does feel a touch strange, but the gardens and bushes and even the tall shrubs in pots the locals insist are trees feel like things your people might do. The arches and the shining gold and white also feel like design choices an elda might make.
The green tile roofs do not really match the aesthetic though. Aside from the arches, everything is a little too straight for your tastes, too many sharp corners and harsh lines. The roads are good, paved rather than cobbled or dirt. Still, they are too wide, stretching from one wall of houses to another. It would be better if they had left green on either side.
Of course, then there are the humans.
Humans, because you rarely see an elf, and if you do it is in back streets and alleys, or in some form of service. They rather ruin the atmosphere. Partly it is the dress which is gaudy and flamboyant in all the wrong ways, too much in the hats, not enough in the sleeves. Mostly it is the way they treat you.
"Out of the way rabbit!" Some young man on a horse calls, galloping past.
"Out of my store." A merchant says.
Guards watch you constantly, always keeping weapons close. It is, frankly, rather rude. They could at least try and be subtle about it.
Naturally, you anger is simmering throughout the journey. It comes to a climax when someone spits on you.
Your hand flashes to the blade beneath your cloak, but before you can do anything a fist crashes into the man's face. He reels back, spitting up blood from a split lip. The area around you goes quiet.
"Thank you, Armand." You say calmly.
"Thought it best if I did it." He says quietly. "Think it best we get off the streets though."
You follow his gaze to see the guards looking unsure but clearly leaning towards intervening. Armand and Gerald are in full armour with heraldry, clearly escorting you. Though it is your heraldry, that is not obvious from simply looking at you. In fact, you suspect they are wondering if maybe it is some Orlesian noble they do not recognise.
Still, with every second that passes they are becoming more certain it is not. So, it might be wise to move on before they find their courage. You nod at your guards and the three of you head off.
The guards' hesitation clearly does not last, but eventually you realise someone is following you. If you were in a more populated area and not looking out for it you would miss it. The occasional scuff of a shoe, someone's breathing being forced from near silence by exertion.
The three of you redouble your efforts, moving faster and more wildly. However, while the pursuit grows more obvious (to you alone, your guards hear nothing) it does not grow further away.
Eventually, you realise why you cannot find your pursuer. Many people forget that danger can come from above, but you lack that luxury. Deep in the city, long lost in the maze of back streets, you see someone leaping across the rooftops.
You lead your guards into what you would consider the perfect ground for an ambush, at least on the surface. A dead end, with very high roofs that cannot easily be scaled. In truth this is much more a detriment for the attackers. There is no easy way down the walls, and the overhand makes arrow attacks difficult. So too is there no way to outflank you on the ground.
For a time you wait there, backs to the wall.
When no ambush comes you call out, "Well? What are you waiting for? If you wish to attack us, get on with it, I have other matters to attend to. If you wish to speak, then I must confess you have a rather strange manner of going about it."
There is another long silence.
Then a red haired elf dressed in green leaps from one roof, catching herself on another wall before springing again to land in a roll. It is a rather impressive display of acrobatics and agility, which you applaud politely.
The elf glares at you from behind her mask. "You take far too many risks, lord Russandol."
You shrug. "I have yet to meet a foe I could not best in combat, and I am confident in any game of words."
The elf gives you a cool look. "How arrogant of you. Orlais is not Ferelden, you cannot solve all your problems by simply fighting past them."
You roll your eyes. "Perhaps a demonstration? You serve an Orlesian noble, likely sent to watch the delegation of Ferelden. Knowing that, I conclude that you likely work for the Empress."
The elf deserves some credit, she barely shows any surprise at all. "That seems like a farfetched claim."
"Only on the surface." You reply. "It is clear you were watching the Ferelden delegation, as they are the only people in Orlais who call me lord Russandol. That you kept up with us as you did implies great familiarity with the city, so you are unlikely have followed us from where you were before."
"And?" The elf asks.
"It follows then that you knew we would be here today, because you are far too skilled to be left to simply watch just in case. So too, does that mean that you are unlikely to serve any of the functionaries who knew we were here." You continue, inspect your nails idly. "They would not have the resources to send you on such a minor errand. That leaves only the Empress as someone who is powerful enough to have someone like you watching us and did not have the opportunity to do so earlier."
"Unless I knew from spying on the Empress you were coming here." She points out.
"True enough." You shrug again. "Based on the evidence it is a likely though not certain conclusion. I would assume that if the Empress was being watched, she would have someone watch the watchers. You are alone."
"You cannot know that." The elf says, still keeping a very even tone.
"I am confident." You retort. "After all, you chose to reveal yourself despite how much information it gave away, that means there was no one less skilled to send. While you could be the least skilled member of a powerful group, but what little I understand of Orlesian politics, I do not believe your spies play well in groups."
The elf is silent for a time.
"Have I passed your little test, or should I also point out that I saw you at our quarters among our servants?" You ask.
The elf sighs and shakes her head. "You are not what I was expecting lord Russandol."
"It may surprise you to hear this, but that is a sentiment I hear frequently." You reply. "Now, you wished to speak to me."
The figurative mask beneath the literal mask cracks slightly, to show curiosity and suspicion. "Yes. I would know something of the enigmatic lord Russandol. What brings you to Orlais?"
"I am rallying support for the Blight that is currently under way." You reply without hesitation. "I have made no secret of this fact."
"That's…" The elf stops herself from blurting out whatever she was about to say. "No. Let me ask this instead. Why are you Lord, Russandol? What convinced Ferelden to grant you land?"
Whoever this elf is, she does an incredible job of concealing her feelings. Her face is stone behind her mask and her feelings a mystery. That said, there is an earnestness to her question, a need to know that may or may not be faked for your benefit.
Your oft concealed mischievous streak makes its presence known once more.
"Oh, is that all you want to know?" You ask lightly. "Not at all. It was, in truth, a rather simple affair. It merely required some fast talking on my part."
"Are you trying to convince me that you conned your way into becoming landed nobility?" The elf asks, something dangerous in her tone.
"Hardly." You reply as though you had not noticed. "It involves a tax dispute you see. I ran into some bandit in the forest, while I was staying with the Dalish…Actually, no, it must have been after I moved to stay with the werewolves."
Are you perhaps enjoying frustrating this elf with your out of context adventures? A little, admittedly.
"To make a long story short, I decided that I needed to make civilised folk out of those villains." You continue as though oblivious to the obvious frustration of the elf. "They invited their family, who invited their friends, you know how it goes. Before I turned around twice, I suddenly had a sizable village on my hands."
"Does this story have a point?" The elf asks.
"It is in fact the core of it." You reply glibly. "For you see, there was a noble with nominal authority over the forest who decided that my village should pay him taxes. Can you believe it? The sheer gall."
You will give the girl this much, she actually does seem to have something of an inkling about how insulting the request was. However, it is also incredibly clear that she does not care. Or at least, that is what she wants you to think. Being unable to see her face makes discerning her true emotions frustratingly difficult.
"Regardless, I took the matter to the Teyrn of Gwaren, Loghaine Mac Tir. There it was a simple matter of convincing him that Bann Bittershield was wasting his time." You shrug. "Meeting the king was a fortunate coincidence, which allowed me the chance to leverage my Dalish connections and the growing Irregular Pentagon of Trade, into a persuasive argument that I should be the lord of the forest instead."
The elf's hands tighten on the hilts of her daggers. "If you are not going to take this seriously…"
"I did, and that is what happened." You drop the light tone and the joking demeanour that has so annoyed her until now. "I may have presented it flippantly but every detail was true."
"What one earth are you talking about?" The elf asks.
You sigh. "Brecilian is only part of Ferelden in theory. Between the two Dalish clans, the werewolves and the fact that the area was positively crawling with the taint of darkness it was close to uninhabitable by humans. The title 'lord of the forest' is honorary and does not in fact contain any land."
"I see." Is that disappointment you hear in her voice.
"That was rather the point actually." You continue.
The elf's eyes snap up to you, though she does not move her head.
"By demanding taxes, Bann Bittershield stepped across a line. There were no assessable taxes owed, and it was an overstep of his role as a guardian of the forest. It proved he could not be trusted. Then, I was there, with connections and already working to improve the land." You explain. "Convincing the king that I should have the title really only required the correct phrasing."
"But what is the point of an honorary title." The elf sneers, bitterness escaping into her voice. "Just to be another pretty decoration?"
"The point was to become a noble." You retort. "Nobility, even landless nobility, enjoys certain privileges, it makes it harder to bar entry into places, for other nobles to simply kill me where I stand. With a 'lord' in front of my name and a letter from the king, doors once closed are opened."
"I suppose." The elf says slowly.
"Besides, the fact that it is unimportant, uninteresting is rather the point." You continue. "Trying to become Teyrn of Gwaren would see opposition from all sides, but trying to gain an obscure title nobody cares about that only still exists because nobody has bothered to revoke it? Nobody cares, it does not matter, why try to stop it?"
"You wish to act as a trailblazer. Setting the precedent so someone else can take up the cause after you're gone? Can't you see that all you've done is make yourself an exception?" The elf says, agitation starting to creep into her voice. "You can't just ignore the Game and expect to make any progress for elves!"
"It is not a game." You state, voice as cold as winter. "People's lives are not a game. The art of caring for them, protecting them, guiding them is more than some childish entertainment. It is not a game, should never be treated as a game."
"Is that not what you're doing?" The elf asks guardedly. "Acting as you see fit without thought to how it may impact others?"
"I act as necessary to achieve my goals." You reply coldly. "Those goals include protecting those I take under me, and the world as a whole. I treat nothing about this as a game, never accuse me of doing so."
The two of you hold each other's gaze for what feels like an interminable moment. There is something in the elf's eyes, anger or something like it. What she sees in yours you are not certain, but whatever it is, it clearly decides her opinion.
"Farewell lord Russandol, try not to die." She says snidely, turning away.
"Dareth Shiral." You reply. "Do feel free to introduce yourself whenever you remember your manners."
The elf bounds up the walls and vanishes.
Later that week, you are told that your party has been fast tracked to meet the Empress.
The Fractious Nobility
The 'Grand Game' annoys you conceptually. While you are no stranger to the importance of appearance and how there may be a mismatch between what seems and what is, the glorification of it is something that would never sit well with you.
The very idea of referring to any part of a noble's duties as a 'game'… Well, best to stop thinking about it before you lose your temper.
However, just because you are not happy with it does not mean you lack the skills to engage in it. While you are not one for deception, you are a veteran of courts more hostile than Orlais' and filled with much older and much more cunning monsters. Some of those skills transfer, and it would not surprise you if in certain circumstances you actually are the more skilled practitioner.
So, despite your interest in speaking to the Orlesian Grey Wardens, you decide that your best use of your terribly limited time is to try and learn a bit about the politics at play.
In particular, you want to know about the broad factions, who supports whom and ideally why, but just the what will do. The only question is how to find out. Obviously speaking to the nobility is futile, between their loudly proclaimed proclivity towards falsehood and endless need to keep up appearances, none of them would be honest.
Even that presumes the ability to speak to them. Which, given your heritage and the reception you have already had so far, you do not think particularly likely.
No, what you need is a group of people who are around the castle enough to know what goes on, while still being willing to speak to you. Ideally they would be placed to learn the general gist of the factions without knowing enough details to be bound to secrecy. Ideally, they would be some kind of outsider with no loyalty to any side…
Well, getting to know the servants is a classic Noldorin court tactic[1].
The guards are not happy about the idea of you leaving without them, but frankly you doubt anyone who could kill you could not also kill them. More pertinently, if the servants see you rushing around with soldiers, they are going to do what they always do and quietly disappear. For this to work, you need to seem approachable.
Whether the lack of attempts you experience going around the castle is due to disinterest or the fact you have not been here particularly long is unclear. Personally, you like to imagine that the assassins keep killing each other in increasingly improbable ways.
You would watch a comedy with that premise.
Finding elven servants is not hard. Finding elven servants willing to speak to you is. Despite what you would hope is the kinship between you, most of them take one look at you and immediately make themselves scarce as soon as possible. This is true even when you go to the effort of concealing your sword and armour.
It is frustrating.
Eventually, you manage to find a servant who is not busy and does not run at the sight of you.
"Aneth ara." You say to her. "My name is Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol, eldest of the sons of Fëanaro. Might I have your name."
The elven woman stares at you in incomprehension for a moment, before reflexes kick in and she answers your question. "My name is Nesiya, uh, lord Russandol?"
"Please, call me Nelyafinwë." You see panic flash through her eyes and change tack immediately. "Or Russandol if you prefer. Merely drop the 'lord'. I am not here in any formal position."
The elven woman fidgets. "Uh, yes, of course my… Um, Russandol."
"Thank you Nesiya." You reply with a calm smile. "If you do not mind, I was hoping to find someone who could explain a few things to me."
"Uh, what kind of things, my… Russandol." Nesiya asks.
"Well, I had hoped to find someone who could tell me of the nobles of Orlais." You explain. "Of their factions and divisions, where they stand, perhaps something of history."
"I'm not a spy." She blurts out suddenly. "I don't know anything."
Frankly you are amazed that she does not try to run[2]. "I do not ask for anything secret, nor even anything particularly damaging. Here, let us begin with something simple. Who is the Empress?"
The elf hesitates, which is telling in and of itself. "Empress Celene."
"Empress Celene." You repeat with a nod. "And does Celene have friends? Supporters? Enemies?"
Nesiya freezes, eyes widening in fear. Again, telling, but it does not help you find your answers.
"If you cannot answer, can you direct me to someone who can?" You ask.
The elf looks around, panic still dominating her features. After an extended wait you nod.
"Very well. Thank you for your assistance, and I apologise for any distress I have caused." You say, tilting your head and leaving.
The elf visibly relaxes.
It takes nearly the whole week to get anywhere with this line of questioning. It is clear that the elves of the palace are wary of anyone asking questions. Which makes sense you suppose, random loyalty questions sounds like the kind of Morgothonian control you are coming to expect from this land.
Still, slowly, you start to see some progress. Word that you back off whenever presented with refusal manages to spread among the servants. By the third day of questioning, elves will simply say when they cannot or do not wish to answer.
By the seventh day, when most of the nobility are at some religious gathering. You meet Seranowen.
This elf is old, hair grey and face lined. Her back is bent by years of work, and her hands are gnarled and withered. She dresses no differently than any other servant, mask and all. However, uniquely, she is also someone you have never seen.
"So, you're the one going around asking all sorts of questions." She tuts. "Looks suspicious to me."
"I suppose it would." You reply evenly. "I imagine living here for as long as you seem to have would make crossing the street look suspicious."
Seranowen's face splits into a great grin and she barks a laugh. "Ah, good one. Still, you can't think that people haven't noticed that you're nosing about."
"So?" You ask. "I refuse to remain ignorant, nor will I apologise for seeking knowledge."
"Even if fancy pants use it against you?" The old elf asks.
"Look at my appearance." You retort. "Whether I do nothing or something it will be used against me. Why should I bow to the whims of those who will never respect me?"
The old elf's grin falls to something more natural. "Aye. Aye. Now that's something worth respecting. Assuming you're not lying of course."
You sniff, feigning the exaggerated manner and accent of the nobles you have met here. "Please, as if I would ever allow myself to be caught lying."
She laughs again. "Ah, you're not bad for a fancy pants. Ask me your questions, I reckon I can probably answer them."
"Are you certain?" You ask, more to check whether this will be another dead end. "I have found many elves are surprisingly ignorant of the world around them."
"Ah, don't you worry." She says with another wide smile. "I might not be a noble, but I have lots of friends. I'm sure I can answer your questions."
You take a long moment, assessing the elf before you. Weighing how likely this is to be a trap, whether she will know the answers you seek. Your meeting with Briala is prominent in your mind, and you know better than to believe that her race means she is unattached to any of the nobility.
"I am interested in learning about Orlais, the factions among the nobility." You say at length. "Particularly those with regards to Ferelden."
"Woo, that's a proper fancy pants question and no mistake." Seranowen cackles. "Here I thought you were digging for who's in whose pants."
"I could not care less about the reproductive habits of humans." You grimace. "I need to acquire a grounding in the politics of Orlais and swiftly, time is short and every hour may prove precious."
"Alright, I'll see what I can do." Seranowen says, mastering her laughter with visible effort. "Ok, so, you know Ferelden used to be part of Orlais?"
"It has been mentioned." You reply, completely deadpan.
A smile fights to take over the elf's face for a time, but she manages to master it. "Okay, okay. So, the story the fancy pants tell is that Orlais is Andraste's chosen people, that it's their duty to take over the whole world and bring it to the light of the Maker."
"I am surprised the goal is so overtly religious." You note.
Seranowen actually scowls. "It's a convenient excuse is what it is. Put it aside for now. The important thing is you've got that lot. They're the ones behind the two invasions. Real traditional types mostly."
"I see, any notable individuals I should keep an eye out for?" You ask.
"Oh, there's a few that fancy pants care about." Seranowen dismisses with a careless gesture. "But nobody actually important. It's not a very big group, mostly really old families."
"I see. Why bring them up then?" You ask.
"They're there and you asked." The elf replies with a shrug. "They tend to form a block with the Revanchists."
"Revanchists?" You ask.
"Those who seek revenge." The elf replies with a roll of her eyes. "It's one of those fancy pants words nobody really uses. They're all bitter about losing Ferelden and want to take it back. Come in two flavours mostly, the ones who used to be big shots there and want it back, and the ones who think it's an insult we left."
"As I understand, Orlais was soundly routed despite its best efforts." You observe.
Seranowen shrugs. "According to these guys we could have won if we sent more legions or had better commanders or something. Don't know much about it, frankly, don't really care."
"I see, and is this the widespread sentiment?" You ask.
"Nah." Seranowen says. "It's mostly Gaspard and his cronies, little less than half the ponces that support him. Empress reckon's Ferelden's a great big trap, won't have anything to do with it. Her lot all follow her like sheep on the matter."
"A comfort to be sure." You reply. "Is that the total picture then?"
The old elf waves a hand back and forth. "Sort of. There's a lot in there. You got those who think the Imperium or the goat people are a bigger threat, those who think we need more Andrastian kingdoms as allies. A couple of bleeding hearts who actually think Ferelden has the right to decide its own fate."
"How radical of them." You state.
"I know right." Seranowen cackles. "Course you'd be lucky to find many of them, letting people choose their own fate? What's next, not hunting the poor for sport?"
Whatever your expression at that sentiment, it quickly takes the humour out of the elf's expression. "Yeah. So, short version, slightly more than half thinks we've got bigger problems than Ferelden. Rumours suggest the Empress' sweet on their king too, but I doubt it. Don't think she's that sort, if you know what I mean."
You do not, but you also could not care less.
"Thank you for your assistance." You incline your head at the masked elf. "It has been invaluable."
Before you can turn to go, Seranowen's expression becomes sly. "Well, if you feel that way, perhaps you could do something for me?"
"I will hear you out." You reply cautiously.
"So, rumours are flying all around about a 'lord Russandol'. They say he's eight foot high, got eyes that shine in the darkness, that he held a fortress single handedly." Seranowen begins.
"I was not alone, I had some seven thousand soldiers." You reply. "I could not have done it without them, their officers, and my cousin Maeglin."
The old elf's smile gets, if anything, even wider at that. "So tell me, what brings such a proud, noble of Ferelden, an elf no less, here to this miserable cesspool of a city?"
"Have you heard tale of the Blight?" You ask.
"Rumours sure. You saying it's real?" She replies.
"Yes. It is real, worse, it has been allowed to grow unchecked for a year." You explain. "The nobles of Ferelden believed the Blight hobbled by past defeats, and did not react with the alacrity required. It was only through heroic efforts that the force at Ostagar was not overcome, and even then, we could not have held another hour."
Seranowed nods seriously, eyes still fixed on you.
"I came here seeking aid. In this time, all must put aside their differences and work together or we will all fall together." You state.
"A pretty story." Seranowen says disinterestedly. "Heard it before, but well told."
You seize the elf by the shoulders and look into her eyes. "Have you ever seen a Blight? I have, and let me tell you, whatever legitimate grievances you have are not more important than stopping it. They will blight the very land on which you stand, that nothing may grow for centuries to come. They will kill all who resist and drag those who surrender to the depths for a fate far worse."
The elf steps back, and you allow her to, but you continue. "Every kingdom that falls will swell their numbers. They create an endless tide of death that knows neither mercy nor compassion. A hundred thousand assaulted Ostagar and that was but the beginning. Long you have dwelt, guarded by the arms of Orálais, but know this, should Ferelden fall, they will not be enough!"
The old elf is silent for a time, staring at you. Clearly she is weighing you and your words much as you weighed hers. Finally, she closes her eyes and sighs.
"Fine." She says. "I guess I believe you. Kind of hurtful way to put it, but I take your point."
She sighs again. "Listen. If you need information, or help of some kind. Put a red scarf in your window. We'll contact you, can't promise anything, we're not bards, but we'll do what we can. Course, as long as you're willing to do a favour or two in return?"
You shrug. "It will depend on the nature of the favour in question, but in principle I am not opposed to such a trade."
[1] To go into my typical way too much worldbuilding detail, this is true on several levels and for multiple reasons.
Firstly, manners are a big deal, kind of like Orlais. In arda moral character and right to rule are closely linked, so showing you are someone who is kind and humble enough to speak to servants is a common practice among elves.
Secondly, due to the nature of life in Aman, servants might be someone's niece or nephew, or they could be a veteran warrior sworn to the lord on a working holiday.
Thirdly, long lives mean long relationships, and servants are most likely to know things like 'what will cause an INCIDENT if I say it'.
Fourthly and finally, always be nice to everyone in Aman, you never know who is a Maiar in disguise.
[2] One of the unfortunate parts of Nelyo being used to looming over everyone is that it doesn't occur to him that from her perspective there is no point running. He would catch her before she made it two paces.