faderift | A SEA OF DEATH

A SEA OF DEATH

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.

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In contrast to some of the more begrudging attendants, Lady Vauquelin had been - somewhat uncharacteristically, perhaps, at least to what's commonly known of her - an enthusiastic and engaged attendee, asking interested questions when given the opportunity and discreetly taking notes otherwise, gold-rimmed spectacles resting upon her rather distinctive nose where she might look over them when looking up, ink on her fingers. She isn't a particular expert on Nevarra or the culture, but it's apparent enough that she's taken the time to learn enough to ask intelligent questions-

She experiences no relief, when the tour takes its turn. A true daughter of the most impractical minds, her first instinct is to protect her notebook; pen and ink lost underfoot with the carved wooden slope she'd been carrying to write upon, a finely made accoutrement that she will regret the loss of later but doesn't think of now while terror closes up her throat.

It isn't that she intends to seek Fingon's aid so much as something reaches for her and she makes a sound that she could never possibly hope to recreate on purpose, stumbles blindly backwards until she collides with him, her spectacles dislodged upon her nose and she doesn't need them for anything but reading, of course, but if she loses them to some dead thing in some underground misery she is going to be so- so-

Clutching her notes to her chest, panicked breaths straining corsetry, she flings her shardbearing hand out in front of her and raises a barrier.

It will not hold long.

“I’m a Dalish,” She responds, and gestures to the tattoos across her face. “Any elf wearing something like this is, or was, once.” She hesitates, giving another quick look around, to make sure no one can hear her. The last thing she needs is to be caught in the Nevarran Court, telling people how great the Dalish are.

“We live apart from the rest of society, without humans. Humans don’t—“ She stops, remembering she’s talking to a human. Maybe it’s because he’s a rifter, but she feels more comfortable talking to him about these things than she probably should. “—Well, we’re not always appreciated, for refusing to be integrated into their cultures.” A shadow passes over her face, hinting that there’s plenty of negative feelings on this topic.

“...Anyway, I’m not quite dead yet, so the point is moot.”

[ Nell's aware of the scrutiny but leaves it be, avoiding catching his eye during one of those looks, keeping her gaze from shifting back to him as he ramps himself up to speaking. She doesn't look at him during the moment it takes for her to answer, either, head bowed as she pours another shot and dawdles, unprepared to drink it. ]

I didn't. Not really. [ She knocks back the drink, irritation in the flip of her wrist and tilt of her head, at herself for hesitating, even as she swallows with a grimace and the liquor blazes a trail down an already-raw throat. ] I'd had the thought, 'we should tear down the circles themselves if we can' but I didn't really think about-- I didn't think we'd come back here. And then I didn't think there'd be a way, with the Inquisition.

[ She clasps hands around her beer mug, a rough bit of pottery, misshapen handle and cracks in the cheap glaze. ] And then we were about to leave and I just...thought I had better.

Elros frowns.

"I had heard something of that. You are a conquered peoples, as I understand it. But this is foolisness - they do nothing but breed hatred between both kindred."

They are here in Nevarra looking up dragons because, well, Nevarra. If he wanted to look up wine or cheese, he would have gone to Orlais. If he wanted to look up death by accidentally stabbing oneself in the back twenty-six times, he would have gone to Antiva. But dragons it is, so Nevarra it is.

Nathaniel flips through a different book. Ordinarily, Alistair's little quips don't cause a hitch for him. This one does. Because he saw how big that dragon was. The mental image of it stirring and taking flight over a city is disturbing. His eyes widen slightly.

"If they exist and any are alive, I expect they'd have a hard time keeping themselves secret."

"Integration has been resisted on both ends, though you're not entirely wrong. There are numerous problems that stem from being isolated, namely that the services other city folk take for granted a often absent in an alienage. If there is unrest, it's easy for the guards -who answer to the human nobles and no one else- to seal an alienage away rather than resolve the actual problems within."

Inessa's lips form a thin line for a moment, shaking her head. "Halamshiral, for all that it is elven-dominated, is not immune to troubles. The elven populace rebelled against mistreatment a few years ago, only for Empress Celene to put much of the city to the torch. Safety in numbers can only go so far against her chevaliers. The only sign of progress is that Briala, the 'elven ambassador' in Orlais has been elevated to the title of Marquise of the Dales, following the civil war. It is the first time an elf has held a title since the fall of the Dales; hopefully it will be more than just window-dressing."

There's a quiet, amused snort from behind the changing screen, as Inessa carefully sets her armor aside. "An interesting idea, though not one I would suggest for a relaxing evening downstairs." No, she'd just want that to herself. But they're sharing a room with others, so that should best wait, anyway.

"No, I...Anders has joined the Inquisition's trek here. You two haven't really spoken since the Blackmarsh, have you? That's a state of affairs that ought to change, especially since he has been named a Senior Warden." She knows how unsettled Kain was after encountering the Queen of the Blackmarsh, but it's been a while. Surely it's time to move on from that, and show Anders that he has, as well.

"Excellent. That spot by the fireplace looks perfect, and I want to claim it before someone else does." Checking for her belt pouch to be sure no one's made off with it, Skadi straightens and gestures for him to lead them onward.

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

Edited 2017-11-27 16:46 (UTC)

Historically, being recognized by strangers has resulted in one of two outcomes for Loghain: he's either been in for an attempt at a fist fight, or a naming of names of those left dead in the fields of Ostagar because of his decision. Occasionally someone forces him to relive other travesties from his past, such as the purging of the Denerim alienage, but thus far he's yet to have an assassin go through the trouble of introducing himself before attempting murder. Kostos would be the first--and, truthfully, he strikes him as the type.

It takes him a moment to realize that the young man's intentions are somewhat different.

“I have heard that Grey Wardens are lonely. I have also heard that they cannot walk through a village without being propositioned twice. Both can be true.”

Slowly, cautiously, Loghain responds with, "I'm not sure I understand," and meets Kostos' dark eyes, studying him in silence. It's a lie, of course; he understands quite well, but understanding doesn't constitute belief, and Loghain can't believe that anyone, much less a handsome young man, would seek out his company for... those purposes.

(It's entirely possible--likely, even--that Loghain is unaware of how his eyes followed and lingered on Kostos during their journey today, or how fixedly his gaze remains on him now.)

They are twins. It is not difficult to see Elrond in his face, though twisted and weakened by time. Thranduil is loath to witness it, but needs must—and Elros, now Tar-Minyatur, is Sindarin by blood and closer to his heart for both that and his relation to the Lord of Rivendell makes him than any of the Sons of Fëanor could ever hope to be.

He had never met Elros. Elwing, yes—he had seen her presented to the court after her birth. But by the time the twins had been born, his father had already split with his house and his people to find a new home. Nor had Amon Lanc ever made overtures to Armenelos, far too busy with establishing Greenwood and making it safe.

So Thranduil watches—observes carefully, disapproves of the carrying-on, the feckless way this aging peredhel throws about information kept so carefully guarded, and waits until his friends leave, and a seat opens at his table before joining him. He is dressed discretely—tunic, leggings, no ornamentation in his hair, no jewels but for the black band on one finger, looping silver branches on another, and speaks in Trade rather than Sindarin.

“Well-met, Tar-Minyatur.” The natives are unlikely to understand—he uses the title without fear that it will give away Elros’ past. Discretion is paramount.

When Gwenaëlle stirs, the wolf-dog--Primrose--does as well. She lifts her narrow chin from her paws and turns her head to peer back at Gwen through the dim light of the room. It's the movement of her shoulders that has Loghain glancing down, pensive and distracted, and then backward--

Gwenaëlle more closely resembles a Grey Warden, in that moment, than she may care to realize.

Loghain's eyes don't linger on her. Instead he looks to the fire again, clears his throat, and notes quietly, "I've a kettle of hot water here, if you'd care for tea." It's an offer, one easily dismissed if she so chooses; he doesn't pry.

“Not propositioned twice per village, then.”

Perhaps if Kostos were animated and smiling and spoke with flourish, this would count as doing the Antivan half of his ancestors proud. But his delivery is all Nevarran—or all him, anyway, a little dark and a little quiet, only a few steps above reflectively talking to himself, looking evenly at Loghain over the cup’s rim. He wears his age well, and likely his armor, though it wouldn’t matter much if he didn’t. The firelight likely does them both favors.

“But tonight you are halfway there,” he adds, while the fingers of his free hand fan out at his side to indicate, generally, himself, standing here and propositioning. “If you send me away now there may be time for second offer.”

Perhaps he is doing his Antivan half half proud.

This is definitely the most attractive (and most eloquent) proposition Loghain has received in the last decade. It's also, more than likely, the only proposition he has received in the last decade.

He stays put on his seat in front of the fireplace for another few seconds, so stunned into silence and immobility that he could probably pass for a very lifelike statue of himself. Then he clears his throat and looks away from Kostos, chafes a hand over his unkempt, day-old stubble, and starts up to his feet. He's old; there's no hiding it, or his weathered skin, and self-consciousness over one's appearance is a young man's insecurity. It would be helpful, it would be extremely useful, to know where this sudden feeling of--something--stems from--

"Well," he starts, almost laughing. Almost. Then he meets Kostos' eyes in considering silence, presses his lips into a thin line, and takes a measured step in his general direction. "This would be a first, for me." Several firsts, to be frank.

It's almost baffling, just how fast Beleth goes from a pleasant smile, to nearly trembling with anger as she rounds to Elros. He's got over a foot on her, but that doesn't stop her from sticking her finger in his face and glowering.

"We are not a conquered people!" It's just below a shout, and catches the attention of some of the nearby nobles, who glance over with curious whispers. Beleth knows that she's fucked up, but the anger of centuries weighs too heavy for her to care. The one acknowledgement that they're in the middle of court is that she lowers her voice to a hissing whisper, losing none of her vitriol.

"How dare you, human, to look at me and say that your race conquered mine. You know what breeds hatred? Genocide! Genocide breeds hatred! The Dalish escaped enslavement once, and we swore: never again. The humans have tried to wipe us out, break us, torture us--but we are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit. They can kill us, down to the last child, and we will not be conquered."

SIt's not entirely Elros' fault, really. He just managed to stomp right on one of Beleth--and the Dalish's--biggest sore points.

"... to be fair, these have all been Inquisition parties." James stated with a wry expression, before he sighed softly. He looked back to the parade once more. "Perhaps I just do not understand why people do what people do. I fought a dragon - it was not something I would ... in fact, celebrate. Horribly dying."

Again there's a flash of black robes where there aren't any. It's the air of him that would make her take a step back if she was less than she was but forge yourself in dragon's breath and it comes out looking different.

"Mortality is the thing they fixed in everyone else," tree-sap young not even halfway through her first century yet Lorkhan Trickster lurks in the heart of men. "A nail in the throat. Necromancy is forbidden, legal for some but not to us." Meaning her people specifically who treat the dead with the respect the dead are due, not this crass barbarism, this public desecration.

He looks Altmer still. Holds an Altmer rank. Not enough to relax her after Valenwood raised her but her greeting is at least polite if stilted. "Brónach. Bosmer, means wood elf. Well, a few other things when you translate it but that's how the men got to recording it most."

Sounds daedric. Sounds too like a dragon priest too for her comfort that there's not much she can say to that really, only a look she can give him.

Here's the moment where she'll be believed or not, where it could tip into ugliness. The laugh cracks in her throat, dry leather, brittle grass scorched from frost, wings overhead. "Shouts. Thu'um. Power. Some of us can- your dragons would be children to Alduin, he wouldn't know them; I asked how long they live, the dragons I know don't have an understanding of mortality can you understand that?

"They look like they breathe frost or flame but it's words calling things into being. A debate." These are the words to murder a child: mortal finite temporary with her arrow through the eye of Alduin son of Akatosh who is Auri-El in Sovngarde. Here, tree-sap young her voice rings with echoes of who she is, who she was, souls who have been devoured when met by her now carried in her throat.

"Something the size of him should be doing his own hunting if not yours too." What a soft people is what slips out of her mouth unsaid with that because life's made her a master of speaking twice at once when opening her mouth if she needs to. Was that the dragon or did that always sit hidden in her from her earliest days?

Examining one rabbit, Brónach lifts it from the fire where it's roasting in an arrow that's seen better days, taking a bite. A muffled curse follows; the juices near to scalding on her chin but this was her kill with her bow. "There's a seat if you want it, no skin off my nose - you hungry? Fresh, didn't have anything but salt for seasoning."

Being in the thick of it means Anders' witty comments have disappeared. The work now is hard, keeping his spells precise enough to only hit corpses, healing allies, not getting stabbed in the back as another corpse comes through a wall somehow, and his expression is grim as he tries to pay attention to everything at once. Everything is noisy chaos... and there's a grunt off to the side, around the corner of this small building. Just one, muted, but it might as well have been yelled because Anders knows that voice.

Anders mindblasts everything nearby him as he breaks into a run, holding on to just enough focus to remember to not spray fire as the things try to close the gap. The sight drives that from him - Nate collapsed, pale, helpless, as this thing threatens to take him away.

"No!" It's command and plea both as a 'small' fireball slams into the thing's chest, heating the area somewhat uncomfortably but only setting the now-shrieking corpse on fire. For now. Wrappings and oils are very flammable, but he's running on fear as he steps over his husband so that he's physically in the way of anything coming for Nate.

"Talk to me, if you can, please." The fear colors his voice because there's no safety right now. He can't simply kneel down and actively heal while he's surrounded; all he can do is summon a healing mist around his beloved while he prays for help defending Nate.

James lets out a sigh, before he straightens a little. Looks over at Jim, his green eyes serious. "I have a problem, Jim, and I do not know how to .... make my conscience meet my duty, and my morals meet my training. Have you met the Venatori mages?"

"I would hope not. I have no plans for such things," no gown packed, what a terrible shame she will be unable to attend any functions at all. "And given the talk of new rifters 'twould be foolish to take such a risk. Our first foray to Nevarra and one of them has us all thrown out?" Morrigan sighs, considering it before inclining her head just so since this isn't for the rabble listening in - how little she trusts folk these days - and extends a hand to Inessa, to the situation at hand. "We all of us know far more of Orlais than we do of Nevarra. There was a war there. An alienage burnt to ash and ruin. Allies we were sorely in need of in those days. For the most this seems stable so long as the old man has breath in his body."

How much of Thedas is still built upon old men and how much will change once they finally shuffle off?

Morrigan laughs at that, enough to turn a head or two their way. "The Reaver? I imagine he will likely be more a boy around such a thing than mine own. Though with what Corypheus has at his side and with the archdemons locked away still 'tis fitting enough. I had hoped I might find books myself. Rarer volumes." Close to Tevinter as they are compared to everywhere else, do you catch her drift Inessa? "Shall we?"

"In Orlais there was the Game. I do know enough to know that for however Nevarra professes their rivalry loudly, they cannot be without some pageantry of their own." And since the dead are on her mind more often than not in one fashion or another: "Imagine the Blight creeping in through even one part of a necropolis."

With nothing to stir from she hadn't, really; it's only the same flat, exhausted tension that she's sat in all night since most everyone else had fallen asleep and she'd laid aside the book she hadn't really been reading, giving up on the pretense. The small turn of her head to observe Primrose had served mostly to make her aware of the low ache in her head and the tightness of her shoulders, and when she looks up at Loghain it's with frank dislike.

Declining the tea doesn't hurt him, though, and she's tired and sore and something warm would not go amiss. She doesn't bother to answer him directly, just casts about until she finds the robe to match her nightgown draped at the headboard of her bed -

she is not sharing a bed with anyone, thank you

- and can wrap it around herself, bare feet quiet on the floor when she goes to sit in the other chair by the fire. Fine. Tea.

Inessa shrugs, knowing perfectly well what her mabari companion is capable of doing. "At times, he does just that. But I do not require much, and Garahel is forever hungry, no matter how much he might have hunted." Garahel wags his tail at that, forever shameless. He's big, it takes a lot of food to power those muscles!

She has a seat when it's offered, her curiosity bidding her remain. Garahel plops down right next to her, perking up. "Thank you--and a little, I suppose. Trail rations suffice when need be, but after several days of them, variety is not unwelcome." Tilting her head, she looks Bronach over. "These past few arrivals have seen several other elves arrive, but...you do not share an origin in common, do you? You seem different." The tall elves with long, silken hair and regal demeanors, who make Inessa feel even shorter than her already unimpressive height...no, this woman is not at all like them. There's a feral aspect to her that she hasn't seen in even the Dalish, not that her experience with them is vast.

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Page 12 of 40

A SEA OF DEATH

necropolis. as good a way as any to meet!

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Nathaniel Howe

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III

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