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The most unusual part of Orlesian theater, appropriately enough, revolves around our southern neighbor's love of masks. Every actor wears a mask, and every mask follows a hierarchy of shape and colors that indicates to the audience the character's importance. Half-face green masks indicate a leading male role, for example, while half-face purple masks are for primary female characters. Full white masks are reserved for roles of no clear gender, such as spirits, except for demons, whose masks must always be black and red. Further complicating matters for those new to Orlesian theater, an actor's race or sex has no bearing on the parts they can play.
If a director believes they can sell the part, men can play dowagers, women can play dukes, and even an elf can play a king. Once donned, the mask is understood to be absolutely them. None of the actors I spoke to could explain to me the history behind this tradition, but bristled when I suggested other nations find it strange. There is a strong bond of trust between Orlesian theater troupes and their viewers. Indeed, I have rarely attended such attentive audiences than in Val Royeaux. It is my guess that Orlesians, surrounded as they are by masks in their daily lives, both require and fully respect a place where the objects boldly display their wearers' intentions for a change.
An appendix at the back of this volume lists the appearance and meanings of Orlais' theatrical masks. These conventions are vital to understanding the history of its finest theater, a journey I hope you will find as rewarding as I have.
It's little wonder King Drakon's life is one of the most popular tales in Orlais. After founding both Orlais and the Chantry, the charismatic young noble battled the Second Blight for the rest of his reign. Freyette's plays are notable for being the first to portray Orlais' founder as a man beset by doubts, as are we all, instead of an idealized cipher. A few grand clerics attempted to ban the play, saying it criticized the current state of the Chantry, but The Sword of Drakon proved too popular among the masses and the nobility and remains a staple of Orlesian theater to this day.
Rife with betrayal, revenge, and a thundering climax, The Heir of Verchiel is performed each year in the city that gave it its name, a lavish production put on for the nobility who visit from nearby Halamshiral. The first performance of the play featured the noted actor Victor Boyet as the Duke Le Seuille. A city elf from Val Royeaux, Boyet took smaller roles for five years before convincing Legrand he was fit for the part. His first performance in the capital was so well received that when the cast came out to thunderous applause, the current emperor rose from his seat when Boyet took the stage.
Elves have done well in Orlais' theaters, much to the surprise of those outside the country, but actors' lives are hotbeds of scandal and intrigue that would make even the bards blush. It is unusual at first to see elves openly tolerated and sometimes even welcomed into their betters' circles, but Orlais treats its actors as a breed apart.
This play enjoys enduring and, some might say, embarrassing popularity, never failing to draw a large crowd during a festival or market. The fictional Fereldan village of Wilkshire Downs is the setting for over three thousand lines of increasingly outrageous situations begun, worsened, or ended by flatulence.
These lines are from a play said to have been one of the strangest works of its time. Bartlet was a writer of small repute who died when a fire swept through his pauper's hovel. The Setting of the Light takes place in the mysterious city of Demhe, implied to be another world that somehow becomes our own moon. Accidents, madness, and suicide plagued the first production, and some historians claim that the play's conclusion was at once so hauntingly beautiful and shockingly vile it sparked the Great Riot of Val Royeaux in 4:52 Black.
Incredibly, this enjoyable if somewhat predictable melodrama begat a storm of debate. At the end of the piece, the murderer of Lord Carcasse changes into a villain's mask before giving an elaborate confessional speech. At the time, masks in Orlesian theater were fixed to each role. Plays were written with the assumption that the masks gave audiences vital information a play's characters might not possess. Death in the Mansion ignored this implicit contract, shocking the audiences at the time.
Armand was nearly destroyed by the attacks on Death in the Mansion by both her theatergoers and Orlesian critics. Many accused her of an unforgivable violation of the spirit of the theater. A vogue for "False Face" stories caught on among the foremost writers of the time, however, and today Armand's techniques are seen as wholly unremarkable. It only goes to show how easily the alchemy of time shifts the outrageous into the everyday.
The news is dire. There are rumors that our Warden brothers and sisters in Ferelden have all perished. Without the Grey Wardens, the Blight will take Ferelden. Then it will undoubtedly spread. It will go north to Nevarra and the Marches. It will come west to Orlais. At the head will be an Archdemon, and in its wake will come thousands upon thousands of darkspawn. We must be ready to stare squarely into the eyes of oblivion.
Many of you have asked why we remain here when such threats are mounting in the east. The problem, you see, is not a new one for us. Politics. To say Ferelden and Orlais have been at odds is an understatement. These two are like dogs and cats. We Wardens are Orlesian by address only, but that does not seem to matter to Ferelden's leaders.
Word is that the King of Ferelden is dead. And his successor, Loghain Mac Tir, decrees that no Warden set foot in the country. Mac Tir, a national hero who helped expel invading Orlesian forces from Ferelden, seems to have it out for our Order, too. Maybe he doubts our abilities. Maybe he is more foolish than the history books make him out to be.
Surely you must have heard of the Paget's failing fortunes? They've lost almost everything. The lord made some bad decisions and trusted people he shouldn't. All that's left is La Maison Verte, in the Dales. They have to sell it and move to the city. I was called upon to find someone willing to buy the house. You would be so proud of me. I surpassed all the lord's expectations.
I looked into La Maison's history first. Did you know it was built in the time of the elves? It was a sanctuary dedicated to Andruil, goddess of the forest; the house was built around the ruins. The heart of the shrine was an etched stone altar, now in the grand hall. It's quite spectacular. Any noble in Val Royeaux would be envious of something with such historical significance. I planned a party to show off the house and its elven altar. We had it decorated with white flowers and candles, even brought in some harts to graze in the garden outside. The effect was stunning.
During the party, I talked about how the house was a haunt for sad elven spirits. They ate it all up. Romantic, they said. For the final touch, I had everyone join hands around the elven stone and pray, and the mage (no names!) cast a spell that made us dance like puppets on strings and sing "The Little Bluebird of Summer."
It's been an age since I've written, but I simply had to thank you! Your advice was perfect. Just a few gossips bought with gold and everyone in Minrathous thought Quirinus and I were the most dreadful rivals. It let us indulge our little love affair without his wretched family interfering, if only for a little while.
Quirinus himself sadly turned out to be less ideal. I caught him carrying on behind my back, with a soporati of all things. Can you imagine? There was nothing for it. During the quarrel, I threw boiling water at his face. Let his soporati kiss the scars better.
He's cowering in his mansion now, pretending he was hurt in a duel. No doubt he'll want revenge. Don't worry, dear sister. I took precautions. Don't tell anyone, but my master taught me a few secrets that should keep me safe. The ritual cost me the mansion's kitchen slave. Lenna, I think she was called? But I've enough power now to keep Quirinus from trying anything foolish. Kitchen slaves can be bought by the dozen at the market, so there's no harm in it.
In Tevinter, a slave is invisible, even though the entire empire rests on our backs. Our hands built the walls of Minrathous and carry its wealth along the crumbling roads. Scribes like myself take dictation and write letters that shift the balance of power. My daughter, Leonora, a kitchen slave, works night and day so Magister Delphine isn't troubled by a torn robe or a cold supper.
I can't help but think of the old stories that cross the slave markets like lightning, how, centuries ago, the ancients built their cities with blood magic, raising the very towers and walls with terrible rituals using our lives as fuel. Thousands of slaves were sacrificed as we were forced onto the altars of the Old Gods. Magister Delphine's perfect, marble-faced mansion likely stands on the back of a hundred voiceless elves.
But that was a different time. Andraste's words against blood magic made the practice all but forbidden and shunned. Though we may be punished, few slaves are dragged to the altar or milked of blood without at least some reprimand.
Yet Leonora is missing, and Magister Delphine seems different. She carries an aura she never had before. And rumors fly that a bitter rival has been publicly humiliated in a duel of magic. Through my grief I fear, I know, that my Leonora's life was the price.
Several months after Clemence II died, rumors that she had been a man in disguise began circulating in Val Royeaux. The gossip was eventually traced back to one Sister Constance, who was present when the Divine's body was cleaned and dressed for her funeral. Constance had a weakness for barley wine, and spoke of Clemence II's sensitive matter to a local tavern-keep after having imbibed large quantities of the beverage.
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