A SEA OF DEATH

[faderifting]

WHO: Anyone/Everyone
WHAT: A trip to sunny Nevarra
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: Nevarra City
NOTES: Undead cw. OOC post. We highly encourage using the OOC post for plotting and especially for coordinating strategy among characters participating in Part III.

Following the successful defense of Perendale, the Nevarran crown has extended an invitation to the Inquisition to send representatives to Nevarra City to enjoy its hospitality and gratitude. Most signs point toward an uneventful, perhaps even pleasant, stay, one that could foster a closer relationship between the Inquisition and the Northeast's premier military power. Other signs, however, point toward trouble. The Inquisition has previously addressed early Venatori attempts to influence the king, but reports from agents embedded in Nevarra City indicate that these attempts have resumed. While no immediate danger is expected, everyone will be advised to be on their guard during the visit and keep an eye out for potential enemy activity.

I. TRAVEL & TAVERN

The swiftest route to Nevarra City is to first travel by sea to Cumberland, an uneventful voyage followed by half a day to rest and eat before heading up the Imperial Highway toward the capital. It isn't a large group, consisting only of staff from Kirkwall's outpost who volunteered or were ordered to make the journey, so once on land they're able to move swiftly with horses and carts and spend only one night sleeping aside the road in tents. If there are bandits along the highway, the sight of a uniformed, armed, and relatively organized force on the horizon makes them disappear long before they're reached, and the Inquisition is troubled by nothing but bad weather along the way. The paved highway makes for quick travel despite the rain, except for those who are tasked with detouring off the main road to collect a new party of rifters.

Still, the Inquisition reaches the Nevarra City well after nightfall on the second day, with no time to explore before heading straight to the tavern and inn where they'll be residing during the visit. The Crooked Bone is a large establishment near the center of the city and built for crowds, though it is clearly unprepared for quite this large a number of overnight guests, and the staff may be heard debating the wisdom of taking such a contract, having to cancel and refuse other guests to fit the whole Inquisition contingent, but apparently making a pretty penny and earning favor with some unnamed royal courtier in exchange. Even though the Inquisition has been granted exclusive use of the inn for its stay, it fills up the available rooms without anyone, no matter how high-ranking, permitted a room of their own.

But it isn't an altogether uncomfortable arrangement, and definitely preferable to sleeping in tents. There's hot food downstairs at nearly any hour, not to mention ale and wine, served at long tables in a large room with space at the center for dancing—when there's music, which there won't be now unless someone among the Inquisition wishes to provide it—and a cheery sort of atmosphere lingers despite the decor, which tends toward dark wood and skeleton motifs. It's warmed by the proliferation of lanterns of all shapes and sizes, and the fire burning merrily in every grate, which combined with the full house lends the place a surprisingly cozy feel. Plus, the Inquisition's takeover of the inn means it can maintain its own security and thus genuinely relax indoors, something that won't be so true upon venturing out into the city.

II. NEVARRA CITY

Nevarra's capital city sits on the banks of the Minanter, where the river winds down through the hills that mark the border between Nevarra and its rival Orlais. The city is tucked into a high valley, surrounded by sharp cliffs and studded with rocky spires. The few tributaries of the Minanter that once flowed through have been rerouted into a central channel that tumbles down a fake falls into a large reflecting pool in the city's main park, feeding a fountain in the shape of a trio of water-spewing dragons. The City is renowned for its art and culture, grand buildings and meticulously manicured landscaping, unusually clean cobbled streets and soaring halls carved with intricate adornment. Though no longer as large or as busy as Cumberland, it is a wealthy city, and the immaculately dressed majority will not hesitate to stare at the Inquisition interlopers in their midst. They are frank about their curiosity and also about their suspicions: Nevarra has no love for Orlais, and the Inquisition has far more close ties to the southern Empire than anyone here is comfortable with.

Originally a Tevinter stronghold, the oldest parts of the city are distinctly Imperial in style, all polished, seamless black marble, like the columns that line the boulevard leading from the heart of the city up to the Castrum Draconis, where King Markus holds court. The way to the royal fortress is lined with statues, the finest examples of the hundreds of figures that exist throughout the city, likenesses of every hero and dragon-slayer, kings and generals. At this time of year, each noble family honors its famous ancestors with processions, marching through the city to drape their family's statues in the house colors.

These parades take many forms, from the loud and gaudy to the solemn and torchlit, attended by thousands or just a handful. The richest houses hire troupes of actors to man the streets beside the statues of their predecessors, costumed and acting out the most famous triumphs of their subject's life. This year, as the king's health declines, the competing efforts of the Pentaghasts and Van Markhams and their respective supporters take on a new urgency. Every theater in Nevarra has been emptied and some further afield too, to fill the long, black marble boulevard before the castle with players staging elaborate recreations of dragon hunts and historic battles. Accusations of sabotage, petty turf wars, or players making impromptu cameos in their rivals' shows raise tempers ever higher and the unlucky or unwary may be caught in the midst of a street brawl as tensions threaten to spill over.

The situation in the court itself is no less fraught, though the simmering anxiety is more successfully kept behind closed doors. The King is old, and that he is failing is no longer a secret. His mind has not gone, but his strength has, and he is only capable of brief spates of sharp attention before the effort exhausts his resources and he begins to drift or doze. He is constantly attended by a rotating trio of Mortalitasi, his most trusted companions. He holds court for roughly an hour a day, perhaps two if he is feeling especially hale, and courtiers are in constant competition to be among the few blessed with the king's personal attention. All other business is handled by a handful of advisors, most of long standing. While the Inquisition's representatives are welcomed, and official gratitude expressed for the assistance at Perendale, they may find the reception rather cool overall. The nobility is particularly wary, of Orlesian influence, foreign or Chantry factions meddling in the succession, of the potential threat to Nevarra if the sleeping dragon of the Imperium is poked too hard. It will take careful and strategic mingling indeed to begin to truly win anyone here over.

III. THE NECROPOLIS

Toward the end of the Inquisition's stay, a rare invitation will be extended to its members: an opportunity to tour the Grand Necropolis outside of Nevarra City, proffered out of awareness that its customs are seen as barbaric to outsiders and in hopes that a better understanding of Nevarra's customs will facilitate a better working relationship. The Inquisition will not require any particular person to attend the tour. It is a delicate subject, and one that may rightly make many people squeamish or afraid. But it would be rude not to send representatives, so those who are willing and curious enough to agree will be sent to meet Tivadar Nancollas, one of the Mortalitasi, at the entrance.

Within the walls, the Necropolis is nearly large enough to be a city of its own, were any of its population alive. It is divided into a warren of countless crypts, wound through with passageways. Those maintained by Nevarra's ancient families are enormous and ornate, paths as wide as real streets leading through a maze of oversized statuary and gilded rooms fit for living nobility. Others are smaller and simpler. Some belong to families that have since died out entirely and have fallen into disrepair, though the Mortalitasi see still to the remains within. There are vast public crypts as well, where the inexpertly mummified bodies of Nevarra's poor and nameless are housed en masse if delivered to the Necropolis from outlying communities. The one constant is the smell: the pervasive spicy-sweet aroma of the incense burned in censers throughout the Necropolis, heavy enough to cling to clothes and hair for hours afterwards, and give headaches to those unused to the scent.

As the group passes each crypt, Tivadar names its owner and perhaps some of the better-known figures residing within. The Pentaghast crypt is particularly enormous, and he guides the group inside, past the crowd of still and staring dead, for a brief glimpse at King Caspar still and silent on his throne, crown atop the wispy remains of his hair, finery conspicuously new yet crafted in the style of ages past, the blade of the sword laid across his lap still razor-sharp.

In contrast to the enraged corpses that may have climbed out of bogs or emerged from caves to attack Inquisition agents in their past travels, these possessed corpses are remarkably sedate. They do move: they may blink or turn their heads to watch someone pass, eyes (or eye sockets, depending on the age and wealth of the deceased) glowing with the presence of something otherworldly. But they seem content with watching, until—

(There's always an until.)

—deep in center of the Necropolis, where some of the oldest crypts are falling into ruin and even the Mortalitasi's careful work can't keep all the skin on the corpses' bones, Tivadar disappears—magic, perhaps, or a trick door, or some combination of the two—and the sealed door to a nearby crypt creaks open.

The corpses that lurch out of it are not sedate. They're rabid and grasping, red-eyed, and ready to claw and bite and pursue the Inquisition through the Necropolis' streets. These first enraged mummies count among the poor and poorly kept—they're numerous, but unarmed, brittle. As they push the Inquisition back through the streets, however, their presence seems to awaken the mummies that had previously sat or stood calmly elsewhere. Some of them retreat deeper into their crypts as if frightened. Others do not retreat, but join the swarm in attack. And the further the fighting progresses toward the doors, with the red-eyed corpses stirring each crypt they pass too close to to action, the better preserved and better armed the dead become, until they are wielding swords with names and clad in the dragon-scale armor of the royal houses themselves.

Comments

HERIAN AMSEL

[dashing]

Starters for each section incoming! I have a plotting comment for part III over here but feel free to use it to hit me up with ideas for other sections if you have ideas you want to discuss, or just wildcard me like a pro.

THRANDUIL

[rowancrowned]

I. [ CLOSED ]

Sometime during the past few hours, the beds had been pushed to the walls, the mattresses pulled onto the floor, the pillows arranged in mounds, and the blankets draped haphazardly where they best suited. Something was burning in an incense chalice, the smell blending nicely with whatever the Medicine Seller had packed his pipe with, passed freely.

Thranduil lolled on one such pile, stretched out luxuriantly, hair unbound, head propped up on a folded arm. Dressed for sleep in a grey brocade robe, he poured measures of a clear alcohol into small glasses, the good Nevarran wine finished earlier in the evening. He pushed the tray with the glasses into the center of their little circle, idly offering a picture of their layout to Myrobalan so he knows where to reach when his turn comes.

“The rules are simple,” Thranduil says. “We will start with the host—myself—who may ask any other person in the circle to choose between a truth or a task. That person will choose, the host will offer a question or a task. Refusal to answer the question or to complete the task to the group’s satisfaction means you must drink.”

He gestures to the little armada of glasses. “After finishing—either answering, doing the task, or drinking—that person may choose someone, and begin the cycle again. And—mm, nothing that would have Seeker Pentaghast upset with me.”

Thranduil turns his attention to Wren, hoping to root out resistance before it has a chance to bloom. He smiles at her, all feline slyness. “I choose truth. Coupe,” dismissing formalities. “—why become a Templar?”

II. [ CLOSED ]

He finds her in the market at midday, her back to the street at large. Only several inches taller than her rather than a foot and some change, he has, perhaps, a slightly softer face, and shorter hair to match his stature. He touches her shoulder to catch her attention, waiting until she turns to smile.

(Yva is ignored.)

“Lady,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

His accent is similar enough to the Lady Seeker’s, but perhaps it is his bearing that, among all the other things, he has not altered in the least. He still walks with the entitlement of a noble, but the serene grace has been stripped from him. There are wrinkles at the corners of his kohl-outlined eyes—the sun has darkened his arms, his shoulders. His teeth are not bone white.

“Dismiss your girl,” he says. “It is finally tomorrow, and I have much to show you and very little time.”

III. [ OPEN ]

WILDCARD.

Inessa Serra

[circleprodigy]

Tavern

Having spent most of her life in communal quarters, Inessa is not at all fazed by the necessity to share her room with whoever needs the crashspace. She's just relieved to get out of the rain and somewhere dry and warm for a change. Since the Inquisition has essentially taken over the inn, she feels comfortable changing out of her armor before heading downstairs. Dancing isn't something that's likely to happen unless Ciri or Kain request it, but she is reasonably social while enjoying her mulled wine and will make room for anyone deciding to join her.

Garahel, tired from all the traveling, is less of a social butterfly than usual. He's plopped down in front of the fireplace, not budging from that spot unless Inessa requests it. That said, he'll roll over for belly rubs if anyone approaches him.

Nevarra City

The parades certainly catch Inessa's interest when she's out and about, pausing with Garahel on the sidelines to observe recreations of battles and dragonslayings. She's never seen anything quite like it before, and lingers despite wanting to see as much of the city as possible in their short stay. As someone approaches, Inessa glances over with a distracted smile.

"Isn't it breathtaking? I wonder how they managed to get the dragon to--" Interrupted, Inessa turns to see two groups of rivals glaring daggers at each other while their leaders have a spirited shouting match regarding sabotage between them. Having no doubt that the situation will escalate and not wanting to be caught in the middle of it, the slight elven Warden begins to back up. "...we'd best depart."

Necropolis

Now, this is the area Inessa had most wanted to see. Everything else is an interesting diversion, to be sure, but she's wanted to see the legendary Grand Necropolis for some time now. The invitation is promptly accepted, of course, and Inessa plans to make the most of it. Nevarran customs are not her own, but her respectful curiosity is unlikely to ruffle any feathers. Garahel is at her side, naturally, the mabari alert but not tense.

Keeping pace with the group, Inessa is rather quieter than usual as she stares in awe at the walls and crypts, amazed at the sheer size of what surrounds them. The ornate areas are a feast for the eyes, but she's just as interested in the simpler crypts and the stories attached to those families long since died out. The incense doesn't seem to bother her, though Garahel sneezes loudly every now and then. As they enter the Pentaghast crypt, she peers intently at the animated corpses. If it's unnerving to see them follow her movement, she's not about to say so and risk offending their tour host.

...where is he, by the way? Inessa's about to ask, when Garahel lets out a low, tense growl and that immediately catches her attention. Moments later, that door creaks open and she spots the corpses that Garahel sensed. Automatically, she casts a Barrier spell over herself, her mabari and anyone else nearby.

[crowncitizen]

I. Tavern

Thank the Six, they're finally out of the rain. And in a cozy inn, no less. Prompto's glad, almost to the point of giddy, to be dry and warm. His wet clothes are hanging to dry in his room (which he shares with Kirk, Sam, Gareth and Saoirse - damn it do not blush about that again!!) and now he's sitting down in the tavern proper, scarfing down a hot meal and a pint of cider to go with it. It's the simple pleasures like this and being off his feet that make a difference, and he finds himself humming along to whatever song is being sung at the moment.

Looking around, he nods appreciatively at the decor. It reminds him a bit of Insomnia, with the darker themes. "This place certainly lives up to its name, no bones about it." Ahahahahaaaaa... feel free to shove him off of his chair for that pun.

II. Nevarra City

A. Photog

It's not easy taking pictures in stealth mode. In fact, it's really, really difficult. Often times he has to hide the camera under something, leaving just enough room for the lens and hope no one notices as he takes shots of the scenery and people. Needless to say, he doesn't take terribly many: film is limited, after all. But he's always willing to take pictures for people! ...for a price. Nothing unreasonable. In fact, perhaps you saw a flyer he put up in the tavern offering his services. For just a few silver, you get to have yourself immortalized forever in a still shot.

B. Parades

While Prompto does miss Kirkwall a bit - mostly the familiarity with it, and not to mention his cat - Nevarra City has plenty to entertain. Despite the tense undertone in the festivities going on - something about a dying king and successors - Prompto does his best to ignore it as he grins and watches the parades go by. At some point he winds up with a colored cloth draped around his shoulders. Colors of some house or other, he doesn't know. He's too busy soaking in the atmosphere and watching everything take place.

He leans over at one point during a play and whispers, "Uh, is that supposed to be a dragon?" Clearly someone in the props department did a rush job. It doesn't help that Prompto has little idea what the play is about or what it's supposed to be commemorating.

III. Necropolis

It sounded good in theory, seeing this underground crypt city. Creepy, maybe, but still interesting. It reminds him of the tombs of the kings Noctis had to visit to gain the royal arms. Just... much bigger. And apparently with mummies and zombies.

At least he came armed, per the recommendation of a few people. He's got a short sword strapped to his side and a dagger hidden away. Not his usual go-to weapons, but bringing a bow and arrows seemed a bit much. Hopefully they wouldn't be needed and his leather armor would just be for show.

So naturally, that didn't wind up being the case.

"Hey, where'd that Tivadar guy go? Did we miss a-" And that's when he sees it further down a ways: a pair of red eyes, followed by another, then another, all shambling towards the group. And boy do they look unhappy. Prompto draws his sword. "I think they forgot to mention the interactive portion in the program."

Carver Hawke

[unshadowing]

I. Tavern/Rooms

Well. At least he's not roomed with Anders. But he's stuck with Fenris and something tells him he's going to want to pull his hair out by the end of this trip.

Why did he volunteer to come, again?

Too late now. At least they have the tavern to themselves, more or less. Naturally, Carver's got himself nice and dry and now has an ale in hand, with two already in his stomach. In fact, it doesn't taste too bad, either. Then again, most things taste better than the Hanged Man's piss, but it still gets a decent grade in his book!

"Here's to making it here in one piece and in slightly better condition than a drowned rat." He raises his tankard before taking a swig.

II. City

For once, Carver's not in his armor. Oh he's still armed, don't get him wrong, just a lot less obviously so. It's nice to shed the Warden every now and then and just be Carver for a little bit. It's nice to be somewhere again where a lot of people don't recognize him on sight, so he can blend in and just go about his business. Most of which is just perusing the stalls for awhile, before he meanders off in the direction of the huge statues leading towards the fortress.

He admires them a bit, head canted as he studies their details and reads the little plaques that go with each one. He knows so little of Nevarran history. A lot of it is probably exaggerated and overblown, as so many stories and legends are, but he can still appreciate that somewhere in there is some truth.

"Nevarra makes grand statues of its heroes and generals. Kirkwall has - or had - slave statues. And Ferelden has statues of dogs." He chuckles a bit at the thought. "A country's taste in statues says a lot about it."

III. Necropolis - Closed to Bethany and Aleron

Let's take the tour, they said. It'll be fascinating, they said. Live a little, they said.

Well now look at how that's bloody turned out.

At least this time Carver brought the armor and sword along. He swings his sword off his back, slowly backing up as the undead shamble towards the group. He glances at Bethany, and being the little shit he is says, "Do I even need to say it?" Yeah, Bethany, if you think you're gonna live this down anytime soon, think again.

SAOIRSE CEALLACH

[sulena]

— ｔａｖｅｒｎ．

The idea of sharing a small space is not unusual for Saoirse. They always bunked within the Circles and, at times, living in the Gallows meant sharing far smaller spaces with her fellows. This room is almost far too spacious with its three beds and lovely windows allowing sunlight to seep into the space just perfectly. There is a part of her that wonders if the boys would be uncomfortable sharing a space with her since she was the only girl but ultimately figures they would speak on it if it did become uncomfortable. For now, she is pleased to have two familiar faces here as well even though the other two are rather unfamiliar... they seemed nice.

Later in the evening, once all five of them are in the room and luggage has been arranged does Saoirse sit on the one of the beds with a happy smile. "How about a game? We could use it to get to know one another better since we'll be sharing this space together while we're here."

— ｓｏｎｇ ＆ ｄａｎｃｅ．

Did someone say they needed music? Well then: look no further because Saoirse is happy to take it by the head, jump onto the stage with lute in hand (did she always have it with her??) and begin to play. She is no stranger to the sort of tavern melodies popular throughout the lands from her many months now singing around the taverns in Kirkwall. She sings happily, dancing around as she does and urges patrons to get up and dance or to come sing with her. At times she'll wander through the crowd, exhausted but grinning and eager to ask: "Anything I can play for you?"

Later on when another has taken the stage, she seeks out friends and familiar faces to take their hands. "Come on, we have to dance at least once!"

She might not take no for an answer at this rate.

— ｐａｒａｄｅ．

Saoirse has seen many parades throughout her life but this is all something else simply due to the sheer amount of people present for these parades through the streets. Every corner she takes there is another flash of color, another family and another story to tell. It's incredible and, more often than not, she stops to watch the procession from the back of a crowd while standing upon her tiptoes with wide eyes. If there is unrest starting to build in the crowd, she does not notice and is far too taken in by the sights playing out before her.

"Isn't it incredible?" She asks the person nearest her yet never glancing away from the parades of colors.

— ｎｅｃｒｏｐｏｌｉｓ．

It was certainly an... interesting sight. She had heard about the Necropolis, read about it many times but never imagined actually visiting the famed location or touring its inner workings. Saoirse still cannot believe it and so she stands to the back, arms wrapped around her chest and looking upwards with unsure curiosity. She isn't scared... per say but she certainly does not make a move to move any closer. Instead, she lets her hands brush down the front of her robes and take in a deep breath as the tour guide begins to round them up.

"Shall we?" She isn't nervous, no... not at all!

— ｗｉｌｄｃａｒｄ．

For anything not listed above! Feel free to hit me up if you'd like a specific starter.

ALISTAIR

[byblow]

— OPEN/WILDCARD

He’s been to Nevarra before, technically. Technically he’s been nearly everywhere. But the thing about traveling as a Warden is that you’re always going toward something unpleasant and meeting people who are more alarmed than pleased to see you, or else you’re underground the entire time anyway. Maybe someone will point up at the stone ceiling while cleaning darkspawn entrails off her sword and say look, it’s Nevarra City, and then it’s all necromancy jokes for the next five miles—but he’s never really been to Nevarra.

He makes the most of it now. There is practically nothing in the city Alistair can’t be found looking at, eyes narrowed in skeptical but keen interest. He’s out of uniform himself, so long as the business is unofficial—all the better to avoid making the locals nervous—but if he spots anyone in Inquisition colors, he’s quick to wave or do an eyebrow thing. Come talk to him about how weird these people are.

— THE CROOKED BONE, FOR THRANDUIL

At some point, surely, Thranduil is alone in the tavern.

And at that point, he is suddenly not alone anymore, because a large—by normal Thedosian human standards—ginger Warden is sitting across from him and giving him an appraising look that wouldn’t be misplaced if Thranduil had asked him for a job.

“You know,” he says, “I knew a man once who was a head taller than me, and his parents were normal heights, even sort of short. He said, anyway. And his brothers and sisters were normal too. Something just made him shoot up like a weed in a garden. I assumed you were a weed.”

— A DRAGON-FOCUSED BOOKSTAND, FOR NATHANIEL

The bookseller might be able to help them, if they ask, but giving away information, even information like two Wardens were asking about extra-enormous dragons, is always a risk. Best not do it unnecessarily.

Which means Alistair is now flipping through his ninth book, with five of those nine in a stack meant for books they might need to buy to read in depth.

“If these bloody things exist,” he says, as if it’s in doubt, “and you wind up making one angry and setting it loose on a city, I’m telling everyone you went rogue.”

— SOME TAVERN, FOR LOGHAIN

This feels like the sort of meeting that ought to occur somewhere dark and dingy, but it turns out there aren’t many dark and dingy taverns in Nevarra City. The best this contact of Loghain’s could manage was apparently dark and very clean.

The contact isn’t here yet. Only Alistair and Loghain. Alistair sits across from him—he’s damn well not sitting beside him—and frowns at the table for a solid thirty seconds before deigning to speak.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

Nobody die of shock, please. Plenty of other things are definitely Loghain’s fault, and Alistair doesn’t look up from the table.

“I remember how long you looked for him.” Because he was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—two years standing next to a pyre where he’d placed every hope of having a father, all the murmurs about possibly bringing him to Denerim, waiting for any news that might mean he didn’t have to burn them after all. If didn’t come. “Everyone was sure he was dead.”

LOGHAIN MAC TIR

[mactears]

KOSTOS AVERESCH

[exequy]

— TRAVELLING, OPEN

Kostos was never technically, personally exiled. There wasn’t any point in it back then, when there was no legal way for him to leave whatever faraway Circle he was assigned to and come back to Nevarra on his own. Maybe the oversight would be rectified now if it were brought to anyone’s attention, but he has no plans of doing that. He can keep his head down. He can refrain from giving out his family name. It will be fine.

The only risk he takes, he takes the first day, slipping a few streets away from the party during the few hours they have to spare in Cumberland. That’s where his family was from, when his family was more than two aging exiles and their heirless disastrous sons, and that’s where the handful of statues of his notable ancestors are, dotting a street in a portion of the city that, several ages ago, they owned.

It takes more than eleven years for a statue to fall apart, but they’re old already and lack of attention has them well on their way. The marble head’s been knocked off one of them, the limbs off several others, likely intentional victims of teenagers aware no one powerful will care, and the rest are streaked with dirt and dusted with crumbling fallen leaves.

Cleaning them would be a bad move, probably. Draping them with anything, and especially family colors, would be outright idiotic. But he stands there for a little while, contemplating the possibility, and eventually picks up a stone to break the already-cracked left hand off of his great-great uncle Isidore.

— THE CROOKED BONE, FOR ROOMMATES

“My shirts are missing,” Kostos announces to the room and anyone presently in it.

This isn’t uniformly true—the shirt he’s been wearing and is currently holding over one forearm clearly isn’t missing—and despite being a candidate for a new opening line in the erotic plays that surely occur in certain Orlesian taverns, the line is delivered flatly. Accusingly. Someone here is at fault, probably.

With his free hand he lifts up his bag and shakes it. It makes a clothy shifting noise—plus a marble-on-metal knows where a stolen stone hand hits a belt—but not nearly as much of one as it would if it contained any shirts.

Teren von Skraedder

[doneisdone]

Gareth

[foundmyselfagain]

II: Open

Nevarra City is utterly alien, cold, the oddest place Gareth has ever been, and absolutely beautiful. Everywhere he turns, he sees something new and interesting. He spends his free time exploring--sometimes he can be found poking around various shops for oddities to bring back with him, other times he can be found hanging around the boulevard that leads to the palace, admiring the statues, and trying to read their placards.

His favorites are the parades. He sticks to the cheerful ones, with swelling crowds. Ones where a particularly bedraggled man with long sleeves and gloves firmly tied down can fit in. He sticks to the back, not wanting to be jostled around, and while he tries to play it casual, his giddy smile is not unlike the ones on the children in the crowd.

II: Myr

Sometimes, he went shopping with friends. Especially friends that need a hand. Or a pair of eyes, as it were. When Myr suggested that they go browsing for Nevarran books, he immediately accepted. And it had been fun. There was so much about this strange and fascinating city that gripped him, that made him absurdly curious, and finding books that promised to shed some light on the questions was incredibly fulfilling.

And it was nice doing something so...normal. With another person, no less. Shopping together like normal friends doing normal things.

And it stays like that, pleasant and fun, up until they start to head back to the tavern. With the parades going, and crowds filling up the street, Gareth and Myr keep getting jostled, nearly losing each other once or twice, before Gareth has enough and grabs the other mage, steering him down a side alley that is blissfully empty. "C'mon, this should lead out to another street. Hopefully we won't get stampeded--"

There are two other figures heading towards them. It could be nothing, it's probably nothing, but paranoia has gotten Gareth through a great deal of trouble, and he's learned that it's always better to assume that anything that looks like trouble, is. "Get behind me." It's hissed, low and tense, and then, in a tone that is too cheerful to be sincere, "Gentlemen! Good evening. Lovely day, isn't it?"

III: Open

Before The Bullshit:

The Necropolis, like the rest of Nevarra, is utterly strange, and incredibly fascinating, in even greater quantities than the City proper. It's hard for Gareth to decide where he lies in opinion on it--There is something horrible wrong about the way that the dead serenely watch them, but it is just as intriguing. The smell, though, he's definitely not a fan of. Even as he wanders around, gazing in wonder at the crypts, occasionally asking questions (whether or not he's ignored by their guide), occasionally he takes a moment to shake his head, and give a little huff. But the smell sticks, anyway.

He's still pretty excited, creepy dead people and terrible smells or not. Whenever he sees anyone looking even slightly as interested as he is, he sidles up to them, eyes alight. "Do you think they get bored, just hanging out here all day, every day, for basically forever? I'd get bored. Maybe the Mortalitasi should start reading books to them."

The Bullshit:

It was inevitable, really. Gareth can't even be properly surprised by this turn of events, just incredibly disappointed. And, you know, a bit terrified, by the dead people suddenly chasing them. Running seems like the best option, up until Gareth realizes that they might be surrounded and he might kick the bucket in this place, deep in the catacombs of a strange city, far from home. Killed by, of all the fucking things, damn corpses.

No. He hasn't gotten this far to die here.

Gareth may seem like an easy-going, flippant kind of guy, but even with that lazy smile on his face, there's something far too intense in his eyes as he lights up the Necropolis with an inferno of fire. His magic is loud and conspicuous, and a bit slapdash in the way it does not take pains to avoid friendly fire. Rebellious and angry and lashing out at everything around it.

There's a period of time, as the group continues to move back, where Gareth is clearly far too into this fight, wholly focused on wrecking havoc on his enemy. You can try to approach him here and try to get him to regain his shit. For those who don't want to try messing with a man who is clearly having some Issues, you can wait a little bit, upon which Gareth finally steps aside for a break, eyes closed, and hand on his forehead.

Maybe it's fortunate their enemies are the undead--It saves him from being able to have any accidents.

Kain

[in_death_sacrifice]

Tavern

“So much for some private time,” Kain grumbles when they’re told about the living arrangements. But even so, it seems it should turn out very well overall, as they can still easily arrange themselves so that he needn’t be separated from Inessa and Garahel.

He heads in to the room, to claim a bed and set down his pack, for the time being. He starts going through his bag then, to assess his supplies and ensure he doesn’t have to restock anything. “I still prefer to camp, but… I suppose we won’t be regretting this if it starts to rain or anything like that.”

After all, there’s nothing worse than a soaking, sodden campground, or below freezing weather, as can also happen this time of year.

Nevarra City

Kain takes in the sights of the city curiously, staring up at the statues that he passes, particularly fascinated by their grandeur. He tries not to look too obviously like a tourist, though, and also is making sure to avoid having to talk to random strangers. To all appearances, he’s just another Grey Warden, but the moment he opens his mouth, his Orlesian accent will be all too evident. He knows better than to provoke anyone unintentionally.

He pauses in front of an area where one of the plays is ongoing, depicting one of the ancient dragon hunts, a tale which Kain realizes he’s heard before, given the names of the hunters. The brave heroic hunters move around the stage, seeking their prey. As the play unfolds, they run into plenty of monsters along their way, and some dragon cultists, who are all too easily defeated. Soon, they’re moving on into the dragon’s lair, and the villainous dragon rises above them. It’s an impressive costume, Kain can admit that much. But the plot is severely lacking in his opinion.

“I heard a different account of this story…” he mutters under his breath.


Necropolis

The history of the place is fascinating, but Kain has to admit, he… sort of wishes he hadn’t come along on this tour. Possessed corpses? Yeah… thanks, but no thanks. He’s repressing the shivers every time he looks at one of them, highly disturbed by the sight. They should all just be put out of their misery. It’s not right. He has a feeling the corpses’ stares will be haunting his regularly-occurring nightmares now.

Then it gets even better when those more animated undead storm in.

Kain turns quickly at the sound of the creaking door, eyes widening at the sight. “Look out!!” He shouts a warning to whoever’s not paying attention, drawing his sword and preparing for battle.

Fenris

[lyriumcarved]

Tavern

Fenris approaches the room, having come along later than some of the others, and thus, having no idea who he’s been shoved in with. However, he has one very firm rule about bunking with other people, and he makes this clear as he steps into the room that he's been assigned to. He’ll check with whoever is there, needing to confirm either way, before he can get close to settling in.

“If Anders is staying in this room, I’m leaving.”

He’d rather sleep outside. Or better yet, they ideally ought to make Anders sleep outside...

Nevarra City

Why is he here? Seriously, why?

Well. Fenris understands well why he’s been sent along on this trip. He’s one of those with considerable knowledge of the north, Tevinter in particular, which means he can be of some use here. Not that he’s entirely thrilled with the whole situation, though. Being up here, surrounded by the clearly Tevinter-influenced decor and statues, has him… uneasy. He’s feeling a lot of old feelings, the pent up energy and aggression that never quite goes away entirely for him… it just gets buried deep down, only to resurface again later. As it’s doing now.

As he walks along, he’s very obviously looking over his shoulder, looking all around, as if he’s paranoid about being followed. He’s back to old habits, taking side streets, doubling back around, moving in a way that someone would who’s trying not to be tracked. Old habits really do die hard.

He’s so lost in this tense feeling that he almost bumps into an oncoming parade as he leaves a random alley way. He gasps in surprise, jumping back and taking up a defensive stance, as if under attack or expecting to be…

The colorful, festive parade just keeps on moving by, everyone too wrapped up in their celebrations to care much about the strange elf on the side of the street. Fortunately.

Necropolis

The tour goes almost boringly well until it doesn’t. Fenris has been uneasy this whole trip, and has felt extremely out of sorts about everything. He didn’t think it would end so easily, but he certainly didn’t expect this.

When the first round of undead charges out, he gets right out there, sword cutting expertly through the brittle bones of the shambling corpses. But there are plenty more where those came from, and more behind those as well… “Why is this happening?”

He doesn’t necessarily expect an answer. The truth may be too unpleasant to contemplate, anyway.

Morrigan

[arcaneadvisor]

Travel;
When Morrigan came to Kirkwall with Kieran, she took the long route. Neither her nor Kieran were strangers to long treks, among the last to depart Skyhold for a journey through the Dales, into Orlais, and then into Kirkwall stopping wherever they would to rest as far from the beaten track as they needed. Not this short crossing by sea that makes her more uneasy than people are likely to have seen Morrigan before. Her temper more likely to fray, to snap. Not seasick but restless.

Where does one go on a ship even if she might fly away from all that troubles her? A ship is a small thing compared to the world.

Once they're able to be on the road she makes her own little camp, shifts her skin to catch her dinner or to prowl since there's only Sundermount and this is different again. Some nights there's the soft chatter when it's late but not too late of her talking to Kieran, his excited hushed voice over the sending crystal or the scratch of her quill when she sits sheltered by the fire, grimoire on her lap still ploughing through her work.

Shopping;
Large as Nevarra is, close to Orlais as it is, her travels never took her here before. To many places, certainly, not all of them entirely of this world but Nevarra is something else, and she's quite delighted by it. Maybe it can be written off as being away from Kirkwall (doesn't everyone know she hates it there) or how much she hated the sailing but Morrigan's smiling a small little smile as she stops at some of the stalls in the market, lifting this thing and that.

"'Tis a far cry from Orlais," she says to one woman with an array of rings with various decorated skulls on them. "I do like it."

Sometimes though she isn't buying for herself but for Kieran; weighing up a book on dragons or a dark tunic to decide how long before he's going to grow out of them. (There's an archery glove, she isn't unaware of Alistair's latest gift to him, but she knows so little of archery that she'll need someone to actually give advice on that.)

City;
Having time away from Kirkwall and Sundermount means time to just wander around without being so much of an oddity; does a witch stand out in a city of Mortalitasi with people enacting plays in the streets? Hardly. It means getting to slip off to where the Tevinter influence is strongest, again with her grimoire in hand as she's done in so many ruins in the past or through forests on her travels.

Thinking mostly of what the shaman said to her, she's looking for anything that stands out about dragons or constellations in them but she stops at columns, at anything that catches her and settles for as long as she needs to sketch them out with notes to be chased up after unless someone happens upon her who knows what she's looking at. For once it's refreshing to not be the expert on matters.

Closed to room;
No one she knows in the room, and hardly her preference to be sharing but they're adults. (One she knows of. Chevalier, that they're good only for lighting on fire same as baronesses are only good for being frozen in blocks of ice.) But well, she can deal with this.

There's a spiderweb on the bed she's claimed, her strange-looking staff propped against it.

"What division and projects are you part of, if I might ask?" She doesn't know much about any of them and well, she was ever curious.

Brónach

[earthbones]

Travel;
Bow in hand, as soon as there's a chance to slope off to catch her dinner, that's exactly what Brónach does. Hunger is a constant companion for a bosmer, something she might not need to live with these days given the abundance of game in Skyrim but it never hurts to keep up certain practices so she'd been fasting before the rift spat her out. The mammoth cheese won't last forever.

A few rabbits in her lap, she skins them efficiently, more than she can eat but she might be willing to share, roasting them by a little fire.

At night she's restless. Either it's the newness of Thedas, the discomfort the shard causes, or something else that drives her to wander the camp in the dark where her head snaps at any noise, hand always creeping towards her bow.

Parades;
"This is embarrassing," Brónach says aloud because she honestly can't hold it in. Nevarra as a whole from what she's heard so far sounds like her idea of some sort of punishment but it made sense to just tag along with everyone instead of heading back to another place, to put that inevitability off.

Watching this parade about their idea of a dragon-slayer with a headache pounding from her temples into her teeth from where she's been grinding them she's starting to have second thoughts about all of this. One of the players overhears her, sniffs accusingly then gets back to the dramatics as she stares. I killed the World-Eater and all I got was a terrible song in every tavern I stop to get work in, she thinks.

"Dragon-slayers who did a piss-poor job of it," she adds. Because they did. Like the Nords of old. Leaving other people to clear up their damned mess thanks past dragon-slayers you did a great job she's so proud.

Closed to room;
The idea of sharing a room shouldn't pose this much of a difficulty but it sets Brónach's stomach to churning when she finally creeps in through the door, near-silent as most of her people are and her especially with long years of practice. She'd come in earlier, scoped it out to find out what bed hadn't been claimed before getting on with the better things (namely avoiding having to be here) but it's the whole bed thing.

Or her staring at it as if it's going to bite for a solid five minutes before she even attempts getting on the damn thing. Then the huffing. The wriggling. The lying down as if she's been laid out for burial.

Which is why Brónach ends up on the floor next to the bed. Probably sharpening her blade with a whetstone she 'bought' today since this is all absolutely horrifying to be the odd duck in the room when at least Lydia, personal unasked for walking talking suit of armour, was a whole room away and not this close at all times.

Myrobalan Shivana

[faithlikeaseed]

aaaaaaa

James

[judgemewhole]

I. Travel and Tavern

For most of the journey there, James is strangely quiet. It's not the same sort of sarcastic, baleful silence he's mastered over the years. More like a sad, and pensive one. It would be easy to find him - sitting on the deck of their ship, one hand on his mabari as he looked to the skies. Or in the tavern proper, nursing a glass of wine and thinking very, very hard about something.

II. Nevarra City

James doesn't head into court unless invited -- instead he heads to the local Chantry and offers his service to those there as needed. He is not looking for a grand adventure, but a way to cleanse his soul of the unease he feels in this place.

You can find him standing outside one of the parades, watching it with some interest and a little ... awe. That look is quickly squashed away again behind his pensive attitude.

SIMON ASHLOCK

[paladingus]

Beleth Ashara

[arlathvhen]

A.

With all of the various tasks ahead of her, as well as her own personal desire to see more of Nevarra, Beleth doesn't spend a great deal of time in the Tavern. But there's paperwork to be done, reports from the Gallows to look over, and even some personal reading to do. When she's down in the common area, she has a seat on one of the long tables, bent over whatever it is that she's decided to do down there. Sometimes, she can be caught humming, either tunes of her own invention, old Dalish songs,

However immersed she seems to be, she'll glance up at the sound of someone approaching, and give them a quick smile and greeting.

B.

Ah, the royal palace. This is the second one that Beleth has been invited to, and by her estimation, that's two more invitations than most Dalish (or people, really) receive. Not bad progress. Though she's not sure how many courtiers were aware of the whole Dalish thing, judging from the looks that she occasionally gets as she moves along through the nobles.

When court is being held, Beleth stays in the back, away from the fray of nobles jockeying to be heard, but her eyes are alert and she's clearly paying attention to whatever is happening. When it's not court, she moves amongst the courtiers. Some of them she gives sweet smiles and sweeter compliments, and some she whispers of gossip and what news she can pry from them. The Nevarrans are different than Orlesians, but she's a quick learner.

...It's still exhausting, though, and eventually she steps to the side with a glass of whatever refreshments are given at court, leaning towards one of the other Inquisition attendees--whether a fellow leader, or one of their companions. Her voice is a low whisper, lips pulled in a coy smile.

"I feel like I'm about to join their Necropolis in a rather permanent manner. Do you suppose they accept Dalish?"

Anders

[justice_is_blond]

[1. Tavern, closed to room people]

He's optimistic when he sees the list. A mage he knows and likes, his husband, another Warden he's rather fond of, and someone he's yet to meet. Anders is the first in the room... or rather the first person. Purrelden has dropped off his shoulder to go in the room first and start sniffing around as Anders plops his bag on one of the beds.

By the time people come in he's got a woodless fire going in the fireplace and a couple of bottles of cheap wine brought up from downstairs in a bucket of summoned ice.

[2. Tavern, open]

There's a black-and-white cat daintily taking bites from his plate as he sits in a corner, relaxing. The nice thing about the Inquisition taking over the whole place is that he doesn't actually need to watch his back for once in a tavern.

His focus is more on the book he's paging through than the surroundings, but as someone approaches he waves for them to join without looking. If they're here, they know who he is, and if they've approached knowing, then they want to be near him.

[3. Parade, open]

There's a small, solemn group marching past and Anders watches them with no little curiosity. The whole notion of family histories and remembering one's ancestors both hurts and intrigues him, but it's the quiet ones he really wants to know more about. Anyone can yell and holler and throw around torn paper. There's more intention to the torches and seriousness.

"Why the differences, do you think?" He asks it to the air, in case anyone around him is feeling chatty.

[4. Crypt, open]

Anders is unusually quiet as they head in. There's a part of him that is absolutely, deeply jealous of the clear history every family here has. The crypts get quietly considered, and after a few minutes of walking his hands start to glow a faint white as he takes in the feel of the magic around them. It's amazing and rather unfamiliar... and he's feeling like a few more of the corpses are staring at him than should be.

"Do corpses that stare at you ever get easier to deal with, I wonder. I knew one for months and I still jumped when he moved suddenly, sometimes." The comment is quiet so as not to risk offending their guide.

[5. Chaos in the Crypt, open]

The door breaks and Anders' first reaction is to just sigh and scoop up his cat, tucking her into his cat-ready pack where she's more than content to stay. This trip had been meant to give Purrelden one more chance at being the warrior cat Pounce had been, but it's clear that she's not. She won't be coming along again.

"I don't know what I expected," he says as he pulls his staff off his back, "But I should have expected this. When don't they attack, really?"

Snarking and fighting corpses. It's just another day ending in y.

[6. Wildcard!]
[Hit me up! He'll be all over the place, and if you're not sure of an idea you have poke me on plurk (Nadat) or Discord (Nadat#4647). I'm up for just about anything.]

Nell Voss

[galvanising]

Fingon

[utulien_aure]

Tavern

The Crooked Bone is a pleasant inn, and the newcomers to Thedas among his kin haven't been attacked by acid, so as far as Fingon is concerned the trip has begun well. He's happy to pester his roommates (mostly Maedhros and Maglor, really; the brothers are probably more than enough for Elros to deal with) but soon he's headed downstairs to see whether anything interesting is going on.

He'll try the inn's drinks and play music; maybe even dance if asked. But otherwise he's content just to people-watch.

Nevarra City

Fingon does take advice, thank you very much. He explores the city cheerfully, happy to complement the art and architecture that surround him and ask after their significance, and never once does he mention the tern Orlais.

The parades he finds strange: colorful, and yet a little too morbid for his tastes. The actors' performances are interesting, though, and make as good a window into Nevarra's world view as anything. The street fights which accompany some of the plays are an inconvenience, of course. But frankly, he's been in more trouble at family parties; a few dozen actors and their posses are hardly much of an inconvenience.

Necropolis

Fingon had tagged along with the tour out of curiosity, and he usually liked to think he had an open mind about other people's customs. But keeping his disquiet to himself has been difficult, surrounded as they are by spirits. He keeps a courtier's smile on as they descend and reminds himself firmly that he'd been warned about this.

Still, it's almost a relief when the corpses rise up to murder them. Fingon's hand is at the hilt of his blade the moment the Mortalitasi disappears, and a song is on his lips as the dead close in.

It was meant to be a song of banishment, of course. But why not sing, when the day just became that much more pleasant?

Wildcard

Fingon will be wandering though the city, so feel free to meet him anywhere.

Klaus Von Reinherz

[purered]

Nathaniel Howe

[pinprick]

II.

Nathaniel loves this sort of thing. He never had the chance to go to many festivals as a child, so they allow him to feel youthful when he experiences them now. His coin is spent primarily on the experience itself--booze and food. But his slightly tipsy time is spent watching the staged shows, particularly those of dragonslayings. He nibbles on a hot pastry filled with potatoes, bacon, and sheep cheese as he watches this one, making mental notes. Primarily it's names he takes in, things he can look up later for himself, since street shows are dubious sources of historically accurate information.

III. - one thread, limit of 2 responders

Nathaniel is finding the Grand Necropolis an unsuitable environment for combat--something he never had any idea he would find out. Naturally, he did not bring any weapons to the tour besides a couple of concealed daggers, and very few aristocracy choose to be buried with their trusty bow, so he must make do with weapons he is less comfortable with. Weapons with a fairly short range.

It is the short range that nearly does him in. A corpse, wielding a sword and shield, advances on him rapidly, taking advantage of the fact that its range is the greater. Nathaniel ducks inside its range and gives it a stab to the ribs that would fell a living opponent, but it does not bother the corpse over-much. The dagger is stuck between the corpse's ribs when the corpse wedges its shield between it and Nathaniel and lunges forward, pinning Nathaniel hard to a wall with massive force. Several dull cracks can be heard, and Nathaniel grunts in pain. If all his air hadn't been squeezed out, he would likely have screamed. The corpse backs up to lift its sword and finish the job as Nathaniel slumps to the floor.

Wildcard

I. Tavern - OTA

[hallabackdir]

It appeared that the darker, lonelier corners of the tavern had been spoken for, much to Haldir’s disappointment. But, he found a table that seemed quiet and sat. Ideally, he would have just snuck in under his cloak, none the wiser. But, he’d given it to Lady Galadriel after her injury, and had refused to take it back.

He was more than a little uncomfortable in this setting, but the alternative was wandering around the packed city, which happened to be another setting that made him even more uncomfortable. So, here he was, inside the tavern.

A woman approached him, asked him what he’d like to eat, and set down a flagon of ale. He ordered the second option she gave, and hoped for the best. The new concept of eating out of necessity took some getting used to. He drank the flagon while waiting on the food. It was some sort of goopy meat and vegetables inside a thick pie crust. He ate a few bites, and drank a little more.

After a few more flagons and half a pie, Haldir felt that he didn’t much mind the tavern now. The din of the small space faded slightly, and then lapped at his ears like waves. He felt warm finally, and his fingers tingled as he hummed to himself.