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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"It's fucking terrible," Myr says, cheerfully, as he ducks into the tent to join his cousin. "Five minutes for a complete cast and half of them fail because I get the fiddly bits in the middle wrong." It'd be easier if he could see them, he thinks--but knows better by now not to say that.

"Got somewhere I can set this?" His staff, which he taps by way of illustration. "--And something we can cast it on; anything palm-sized and flat will do. Forgot to find something on my way over," he adds, sheepishly.

"Yeah, let me--" He takes it, finds a place for it in the corner next to his own, and arranges himself comfortably back on the bedroll again. "So how does it work, then? I was assuming maybe you would cast it on a hood, or a cloak, or whatever you were already wearing..."

If it's as difficult and fiddly as Myr claims, Van isn't at all sure about his own ability to make it work, when glyphs have never been a strong suit of his at all--but that implication isn't lost on him, even if Myr doesn't say it aloud, and he's subdued as he casts around for a suitable object to use.

"I don't suppose a library book would be the best thing to use, given my track record. I shouldn't have it with me at all. Let me see--" His gaze falls on a book he's actually purchased, smaller and paperbacked and folded in quarto, leftover in his pack from when he'd purchased it a fortnight ago. Carmenum di Amatus, the shopkeeper had told him. You won't find it anywhere else. The Chantry's banned it.

"Here," he says, handing it over. "I can spare this one if the glyph doesn't work."

Hope you're in the mood for some cousinly company, Van, since there's only so many places to sit in this tent--and besides, Myr's got every reason to sit close when it involves demonstrating something as intricate as a glyph, so he is not shy about adding himself to the end of the bedroll. "No, but that's a good thought, if I could get it small and simple enough the ripples in the fabric wouldn't disturb it. Or something to temporarily oil a cloak that wasn't already--hm."

The expression on his face is one that'd have a thousand-mile stare to go with it in days past, as Myr gets lost briefly in thought. "--but that's for later. Uh--how it works, you said? It's a cut-down repulsion glyph that I retuned for things as small as snow and rain. That's where I fucked it up, I think--I tried to cover all the different sizes of rain rather'n having a general rule for them, because using the 'this big and larger' gating we have on the combat variety would've ended with the user repelling everything around her." Obviously non-optimal.

He breaks off at the mention of books--of library books--and quirks an incredulous brow in Van's direction. "You didn't," he says, amused. "--No, of course. What was it? And what's this?" He thumbs through the little book curiously, something a little antic and nervous about the gesture. As if he's afraid--

"--We don't have to take it out into the rain to test it, though, if you'd rather not lose it."

"You could just put grease on the cloak," Van deadpans, scooting companionably aside to make room for Myr on the bedroll. "It might be quicker to cast, if this is as complicated as you say. But I'd rather complicated than messy."

There's something comforting and gut-wrenching at the same time at how familiar and simultaneously unfamiliar that look on Myr's face is. Even with three years' distance, Van remembers so vividly well how Myr's hazel eyes would glaze over and go all faraway as he worked out a problem. The rest of his expression is unchanged, the same old cant of his head and set of his mouth, but Vandelin averts his eyes after a moment's uncertainty.

"Would it be easier if you had a few different ones for different degrees of storm? No, maybe not..." He considers, though he's distracted by the ghost of a smile as Myr chastises him about the books. "I only took the one. I wanted to study up on force magic. It's not Callistus; they'll never miss it."

He shouldn't miss the one he's offered up, either. He watches Myr page through it as if he could tell from the ink what it is, as if he knows--but of course he doesn't; he wouldn't.

"No, it's just poetry." He always had devoured what poetry the Circle libraries had contained, what little of it they were allowed, but never had they been permitted anything like the volume Myr's holding--still, what does it matter now? It's only a book. "And how are we going to test it if we don't expose it to rain? It's fine."

Edited 2017-11-23 04:04 (UTC)

"I could, but then I'd be soaked through with grease instead of--" He halts mid-word and gives Vandelin a Look, then shakes his head and laughs quietly as the joke catches up to him.

"--right. I'd thought about that, too, but the storms here aren't so much like home, where it'll rain one way all day in the winter. There's all the--squalls and gusts and starting and stopping. It's a nuisance--and I don't know it'd be any less complicated in the end."

He runs his thumb along the book's thin spine, corners of his mouth turning up once more at the mention of Callistus. "I think they've got all his stuff on lockdown now, so good luck sneaking it out," he retorts. "Force magic, though--you learn enough of that and you won't have to worry about climbing for your books, yeah?" No, he still hasn't let that go. He likely won't ever; it's too good a thing to pin Van on.

As is the poetry, honestly--Myr well remembers his cousin's appetite for the stuff, always a little more refined than the serials he'd been eager to get his hands on. (Not that he hadn't grown his own appreciation for some finer bits of secular verse, eventually, but it had always been the Chant he'd turned to first.) Though there had been a common linking theme to their respective tastes in literature-- "Love poetry?"

The question's out of his mouth before he can call it back, one brow already arched supercilious and teasing by the time he realizes just what he's done. "--I--I mean if--it doesn't matter. Yeah. We can chuck it out there in the rain once we're done."

No wonder Van wouldn't want to keep it. No fucking wonder. Myr drops the book in his lap and averts his face, breathing out heavily. "And--I'm sorry," he adds, more softly. "I'd heard." Not what he'd heard or who he heard from, only that he'd heard.

He laughs, good-spiritedly, at the (admittedly not-inaccurate) crack about force magic and why he needs it--and laughs still, even if it trails into something far quieter and less imbued with humor, at the jab that follows. At any other time, it would be an eminently reasonable thing to tease him about. Myr's never hesitated to do so before, nor has Van in turn, and if he doesn't know, then--

The suddenly ashen look on Myr's face tells Van even before he says anything that this is not the case, but the ache in his chest isn't the accusatory one it might have been. Maybe he had hoped that Kit's reticence to talk about anything would finally work to Van's advantage for once, but Myr means kindly, and that means everything. The best Vandelin can ask for is a lack of blame. He can't entirely hope for a lack of questioning.

"You wouldn't approve anyway," he says, shifting the subject gently back to the book. "The Chantry banned it for being pornographic. And Tevene."

Something tugs at the corner of Myr's mouth at that description. "If that's a good enough reason to ban something, they ought to excommunicate me on the same grounds." Half-Tevene was still plenty for Uncle Vardren. As for pornographic--

He picks the book up again, turning it round and round in his hands. "I'd meant to ask before now," he begins, halts. Flips the book once more and begins tracing the glyph on its front cover. "--I'd meant to ask if you were all right. And what happened, but that second one doesn't matter so much as the first."

He'd done himself an unintentional favor there, he realizes; ordinarily he'd not have waited to hasten to his cousin's side and no doubt would have only made it worse. But given the space of a couple of weeks--it's easier to recognize what's important, and what's not.

"Are you? Truly, I mean."

He files that away for when he can be amused by the unintentional accuracy of the description. It's past the point now when he can bring himself to keep laughing, and a smile would be lost on his cousin anyway. (He couldn't have gotten away with trying even when Myr did still have eyes. Myr would have recognized a forced, false smile on him from a mile away.)

He's prepared himself for the 'what happened' question, in a sense--he'd expected it sooner, maybe, and winched his facade of fineness securely into place so that he could answer it with a completely convincing 'nothing,' but not even Vandelin can maintain that level of control for weeks on end, as if holding a heavy thing on a pulley and never being able to let it drop. His defenses are never as impenetrable as he would have them, and by now, after two weeks of misery ricocheting around inside his head, they've eroded to the point where he doesn't remember the answer he'd prepared and he couldn't make it sound right if he tried.

"Why shouldn't I be?" he asks, voice just the faintest bit too thick for his own comfort. "It went just as I meant for it to."

So.

Myr brushes the beginnings of the glyph from the book in a shower of verdant sparks before laying it aside. "A man doesn't do something like that to himself without meaning to, Vandelin," he says quietly. "Same way a fennec won't chew off a limb but that it's caught in a trap."

It's an oblique answer, laying out his reasoning on exactly how he'd known his cousin wasn't all right; the catch in Van's voice only confirms it. Myr takes a breath--makes a decision--and leans over the little ways that's required to loop an arm around Van's shoulders. Not quite the embrace he wants to pull his cousin into, but he's been afraid from the moment he'd set foot in the tent he'd fuck something up again, he'd break something again.

(The timing was too neat.)

"Whatever you reason was, it's not--it doesn't matter why; but you ought to know you're not alone."

It isn't a lack of wanting it that makes him flinch just a little at the hug. It's one more thing he isn't quite prepared for, and doesn't understand--

--but he can't stop himself from dwelling on that phrasing, from getting caught on it like a nail, the notion that this is something he did to harm himself. It isn't framed as breaking Kit's heart, or doing him wrong, or even as throwing away the mutually good thing it had been. Myr knows him too well for that, knows how to work out his reasoning and describe it in a way that cuts swift and deep. Leave it to his knight-enchanter cousin to step right inside him somehow and blow his carefully-curated shell to pieces.

It doesn't matter why. You're not alone.

He leans his head against Myr's, and draws in a very, very carefully steady breath.

He holds his breath as Van flinches, keeps holding it until he feels his cousin lean in. Only then can he relax enough to wrap his other arm around him in a mute offer of comfort, of safety. Maybe there's something else he could say, some other words he could offer--

--but better to let Van speak first, if at all. Better to hold on in silence, making good on his own promise. Whatever else happens, Van's not alone, so long as Myr's around.

It starts to rain again outside, in the dark, pattering down against the fabric of the tent.

Edited (comes back three weeks later, puts right icon on it) 2017-12-11 04:17 (UTC)

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A SEA OF DEATH

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