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

Minding her own which is to say being in a dark corner with a good view of things where she might whittle something useful from the bones of her few kills on the road and think about what to do with the pelts she's not keen on getting rid of (so soft this Inquisition lot that someone gave her a little travel pack), the noise draws her gaze.

Eventually the hair would have too no doubt but the knife goes down, the bones set in a neat line and--

"I walked across a bridge made of whalebones. It had a guardian that was the largest man I'd ever seen." It was also in the Nord afterlife but the detail is minor.

Well uh, that's certainly an interesting response. Prompto blinks a moment before he puts a smile on.

"Wow. That's not the first thing I'd think of to use to construct a bridge, but hey, gotta work with what you have I guess." And because it's Prompto and he just can't help himself. "Guessing he didn't want you to cross. Did you have... a bone to pick with him?" Seriously, just knock him off of his seat, he deserves it for the second pun.

What's with all this smiling? It's like watching a bard - is he one? Did he neglect to pack his instrument or did someone break it over his head? Actually the second one might explain the whole thing if it was a decently made lute swung just the right way by the right person. They can do damage in a pinch.

"I wished to kill a dragon who would devour the world," the pun slips past her - look she's spent a long time in the wilds, this the most interaction she's had save bandits or thugs come to go after her. "I had to defeat him to continue the rest of the way to the Hall of Valor. Neither him nor Shor would think much of this place but sometimes we have to pass tests to go on," and with her bow she has the extra reach to nudge his seat; will he stay upright or not, she might just want a show.

While it passes over her head, Prompto can't tell if that's why or if she's just deliberately ignoring him. Either way, he'll just drop the puns for now (unless an opportunity comes along for a really good one).

"He was stopping you from taking down a dragon that would destroy the world?" Or at least impeding her to going to the place to do so, he assumes. "Someone doesn't have his priorities in order."

Luckily, he's leaning his weight on the surface in front of him, so when she nudges his seat with her bow, it doesn't topple him. Though he does sway a bit until he rights himself. "What was that for?"

Look she's really trying to get used to people again there were mostly mudcrabs for company the last place she was or some undead. Her last sleeping arrangments right before a rift decided to swallow her? A dragon's ribs with tanned hides stretched around them to keep out a wind promising frost as she huddle inside, safe and warm. This is a lot.

"It was a test, there's always a test if you want to get something done. Especially with men." Consider the points of her ears; she means the whole race rather than just males here. "If it hasn't happened here, it will, at least with this-" She doesn't raise her left hand, drums her fingers instead to make the point of it before she smirks.

Or tries. Maybe that's gas most of her rations are cheese why do people put vegetables in all the food? "You kept yourself upright, wanted to see if you would. The jokes deserved it - they were jokes?"

The ears don't go unnoticed, though Prompto refrains from automatically assuming she's an elf. If she weren't a rifter, then of course he would. But as he opens his mouth to argue about there always being tests, he finds himself reconsidering. Finding each of the tombs back home had been a test. Every god Noctis came to made him undergo something to gain their powers (so far, anyway). There's truth to her words he can't deny. "Yeah, I hear you there. The bigger the thing you want, the harder the test."

Well, hey, she guessed right about the jokes at least! Prompto laughs and nods. "Might not necessarily be to everyone's tastes, but yeah. Definitely jokes. Puns, to be exact."

Once the Blades had asked her to do something for them, she who had denied them so little (the Falinesti Incident, it carried weight, and if there were men with weight and purpose behind them that she'd been prepared to throw her lot in with then it was them) until they'd asked too much. To kill a dragon too close. Paarthurnax atop the mountain with air so chill it stung to breathe it. What is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort. She thinks that when he speaks. That had been a test. The Blades. Her. Paarthurnax. Who won, she doesn't know, doesn't know if there was even a victor only that all of them are alive with others are dead. "It's not always about wanting it. It's about doing it. Having to do it because you can, because you're the only one who will," and that-- that catches unexpectedly in her throat enough that his jokes are safer ground.

Will is a strange and dangerous thing when it comes to a dragon's soul.

"I know a jester." Correction: she knows a mad assassin who wears the motley, one who tried killing her but family is family and she wasn't ever open about that anyway. "He told terrible jokes, he had this silly hat," she tries sketching it in the air (what's the world coming to when she thinks of Cicero with something you could squint at and mistake for fondness?) since it's easier than attempting to describe the walking disaster that happens to be Cicero (her brother, the way one of her families measures such things). "There was more singing? Rhyming. There was a lot of it."

"Or the only one who can." From his experience of such things, anyway. But he gets where she's coming from, in a sad, tired kind of way. It's not a happy subject, and honestly, he's glad to move on from it.

"Now see, I can respect someone who can drop a rhyme on the fly. That's my kind of guy." Heeeeeey he rhymed! And that's probably the best he'll manage. He knows it, too, judging by his laugh that follows. "Not sure about that hat, though. Was it at least colorful?"

"One was about snapping a bard's lute. Fight and alight." No prizes for guessing the tone of the rhyme but listen to the Dragonborn Comes or Ragnar the Red every time you stop to look for work, find yourself sorely tempted to nudge Cicero in the direction of the bard to put a stop to it once and for all. No one misses out on any entertainment that way. "Red and black striped. The toes of his boots curled up. You're one to talk - I could spy you halfway across the plains and put an arrow through your eye with hair like that catching the sun."

Assuming there aren't mudcrabs or skeevers or giants or mammoths or whatever else roams the plains feeling feisty that day.

A SEA OF DEATH

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