faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The sea voyage was far too short, but long enough for Elros to make friends with the sailors there. So, Thranduil. How well do you remember your kinsman, who is currently teaching his new friends a Falathrim Drinking Song.

"Now the storms, they would leave, and the sailors would thrive,
For the will of these strangers would keep all of them safe.
But they guessed not this strength new from Aman arrived,
And to Osse, a fierce storm is the finest of play.
'Uinen,' they implored, 'keep a rein on your lord,
For your temper is mild, yet his would wreck our shores.'
And e'er since then, fair Uinen, she has e'er been our queen;
We hold her, o'er Osse, 'neath Manwe supreme."

((ooc: song stolen from Marta))

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.

It's only been 30 years - not long enough for obvious changes, except to those who know how to look. Laugh lines around his eyes, the sun-burnt brown of a sailor. Not more than the faintest touch of silver in hair. The eyes that look up to Thranduil's are still the silver-grey of Luthien's line, sharp and keen as ever.

"Well met." He tips his head and looks at him curiously. "I don't think we've actually met, unless it was when I was a baby, but... you remind me a little of Oropher, although I don't really know him well either. That must make you Thranduil, yes?"

Elros lounges, rather than Elrond's neat precision. He's wearing travel clothes, having put aside the obvious colors of his house in a world where they don't mean much, as well as the winged crown of Numenor. There's something about him even so, that harks to that royal heritage.

"No," Thranduil says, steady. "My father's house left two decades before you were born, when the Fëanorians butchered what was left of Doriath. I knew your uncles and mother. I served your grandfather."

Before it all had been washed away in blood. They speak of unpleasant things, but such is Middle-earth, and Thranduil is accustomed to it. Straight-backed in his chair, he nods, and makes an elegant little gestures. "My father," he agrees, assuming he knows the rest of the family tree, the connections, the ties.

"You seem comfortable." And why not? Unless one knew what to look for, what to expect, Elros looked utterly mundane. "You have settled in, I assume."

"Well met then, Thranduil Oropherion. Although from what the Noldor side of the family has told me, should I be addressing you as Elvenking, cousin?"

Elros's history is one of tragedy, he knows. He doesn't like to dwell on it much - the twists of his family give him a headache. He's a little wary - he doesn't know Thranduil. Barely knows Oropher, more as an image on the family tree than a person - Celeborn is more familiar to him, but even so he knew him best when he was a young man sent to a strange place far from the only family he'd known for years, even as twisted as that family had been. He's feeling Thranduil out, even as much as Thranduil is undoubtedly doing the same to him.

"It's easier for me than it is for the rest of you." Elros shrugs. "And it's better, this way. I'd rather people underestimate me, than otherwise. But I get to know people, this way. It's a good way to learn what people think. And a sailor's friendship is surprisingly useful."

"No." Simply, offering no room for disagreement. "I would prefer that none here know of that. It is unbelievable enough to look at us and know we carry ourselves without stooped shoulders, without fear of the whip or the swords of Men. That we ruled, that I had crown and kingdom... I would appear a madman. And beyond that, what king is a king without subjects? A treasury?"

He gestures, something short and sharp to indicate an absence, a dismissal. Nothing and no one.

"You will find it far easier, but the Dalish will take time to warm to you, if at all." A warning. "The Peredhel here favor the Mannish parent, always. There is no choice. They could render the elvhen extinct if they had a mind to it. The truth of your bloodline will anger them."

"It will not be the first time I have been hated for things I cannot help."

Elros shrugs.

"But you speak wisdom, and I will make attempts to be discreet. But I will not pretend to be anything other than I am - I chose and I do not regret that choice, and I will not be ashamed of it."

Elrond understood, and in the end, for as many other people as matter to him, the only opinion that truly matters for Elros has always been his brother's.

His smile is a little sharp.

"And I think you underestimate yourself, cousin. A king you remain, even without a kingdom. No one could look at you and doubt it."

Maedhros was the same, although Elros doubts Thranduil would like that comparison.

A SEA OF DEATH

III HEY COUSIN

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