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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Please excuse my grabby hands." Elros snags her hand and uses his own height to clear the path behind Garahel with her.

He drops it the minute they are clear.

"Sorry. That was rude of me."

There's a surprised noise from Inessa, who automatically stiffens a little when her personal space is invaded by someone she doesn't know well. Still, there are exceptional circumstances, so when they're clear, she manages a small smile and shake of her head.

"It's quite alright. I'm glad to be clear of that brewing mess, sooner than later. It would hardly reflect well on the Inquisition if we were involved anyway, whoever is to blame." Garahel barks, wagging his tail at Elros. Good job, buddy.

Elros offers a hand to Garahel to sniff and will scratch behind his ears, if so allowed.

"True enough! And thank you for not punching me for doing so." He grins at her wryly in a way that suggests he's had exactly that happen.

Inessa chuckles and shakes her head. "Even if I punched you, you would hardly feel it." Given her size and lack of muscles, she's quite certain that there's little she could do to physically hurt him. That isn't to say she doesn't know magic to incapacitate an enemy, but he's hardly that. Garahel pants happily at the scratching, then wags his tail as he looks to the both of them.

"Right, let us see where this side-street takes us."

"It's the thought that counts!" He laughs. "And how hard you punch I am quite happy to leave untested."

He nods and gestures for her to lead the way.

"I suppose there are more than one of these plays around. Hopefully not more than one brawl! Have you been to this city before?"

Inessa starts them off, though her lack of knowledge means they're on even footing while exploring the city together. "No, I haven't. I have been to Nevarra before, but only to Cumberland in the south. It's larger, a sprawling port city that is nearly three times the size of Denerim. There were tensions of a different sort at the time, as it was also the seat of the Grand Enchanter of the College of Magi, before the rebellion. However that is truly resolved, I expect it will be the center of mage leadership in the south once more."

Edited 2017-11-27 00:34 (UTC)

"I must confess, I am very confused as to the political state of this world - particularly in regards to this enmity towards mages, although to be fair, tis nothing like them in my world, so I could not say how we would react either. I heard that the Inquisition is also aiming to build something of a naval presence?"

"Indeed, though as the Naval Presence project is not one of mine, I can only assume that they are capitalizing on ties with Llomerryn, as well as Rivain, Antiva and the rest of the Free Marches. I would recommend speaking to Araceli Bonaventura, to learn more." There's a lot of diplomatic work involved, which Inessa is just as glad to leave in other hands as her focus is on research. "I can attempt to clarify matters, though I think it fair to warn that I was not personally involved in the mage rebellion. When the Circles fell, I joined the Grey Wardens. So, my knowledge of what came after is largely second-hand, if some through trusted sources."

Away from the spreading tension, Inessa relaxes as they pass through the side-street to another wide boulevard. This one doesn't sport a parade, yet, but many vendors line the sides, with dragon/dragonslayer-centric trinkets and the like. Garahel lives his head to sniff the air, turning in the direction of a food cart.

"Thank you, I will have to see if I can speak to them, in that case." He nods.

"If your sources are trusted, then I must assume the story is about as free from bias as such things ever are." He agrees. "But this whole world seems unusually vicious about differences between peoples, and the attitude towards elves in particular..." deep breaths, deep breaths.

He looks up and chuckles at Garahel's actions.

"Methinks someone is hungry."

"Bias is always inherent to some degree, which is why I find it helpful to seek as many sources as possible. Speaking to just one or two members of a group only reveals a very limited view, whatever their opinions. The more context you have, the more you can see the bigger picture.

"It's true that there are deep divisions in Thedas, many of which have a long history and are not easily resolved. The matter of the elves is more of the same, really. I cannot speak of the Dalish as they are not my native culture, but I was originally from an alienage in Ferelden. The time I spent there before living in a Circle was short -I came into my magic young- but I remember enough to have that perspective as well."

Inessa shrugs and gestures for Garahel to approach the food cart alongside them. "He has behaved, I suppose there's no reason to deny him a treat." She rubs his head, and Garahel practically wiggles with excitement.

"You speak wisdom - tis a pity more do not bother to do so!" He nods, following along with her.

"An alienage? Forgive me, but the terms here are still somewhat odd to my ears. Would you tell me of those times, or is that too rude to ask?"

He grins.

"He is very well behaved indeed!"

"Thank you for asking, but I don't consider it impolite. And I will, afterward." Inessa purchases some grilled chicken for Garahel and roasted cashews for herself, not really wanting such details to be revealed in front of a random food vendor. She'll wait for Elros should he want to purchase anything, as well. Only when all snacks have been received, will she step away. Lowering a piece of chicken for Garahel, she smirks as he practically inhales it. Bottomless pit, indeed. After a handful of her own snack, she

"An alienage is an elven community within a larger city, walled off from the rest. They were established by Divine Renata I following the Exalted March upon the Dales, as a space within a human settlement set aside for those of the elven people who submitted to human rule. Those refused became the nomadic Dalish. Every city has an alienage, with the exception of Halamshiral, which was the capital of the Dales. It's remains largely elven in population; the humans that form the privileged minority live separately in the High Quarter."

Elros buys some dried fruit and he's sharing with Garahel as much as he's eating himself as he follows her to a more private location.

He frowns as he listens.

"But why wall you away? And I take it there was a war, if the elves are considered subjected people."

Between Inessa and Elros -literally- Garahel is one happy mabari. He quickly gobbles whatever is faster to drop and goes back for the rest, contently chomping away. "There was, in the form of the Exalted March I mentioned. The Chantry's forces saw to the end of the Dales as a sovereign nation; since then, it has been under the governance of the empire of Orlais. It was not the first homeland of the elven people; that was Arlathan, long since destroyed. But, back to alienages--"

She glances around the foreign city, her gaze lingering on the statues of dragonslayers. "The walls keep out more than they keep in. While there are rarely laws preventing integration, an elf or elven family who moves into a human area can be subjected to harassment and violence. The saying 'safety in numbers' applies in some sense to alienages, where they can preserve their culture and are less of a target." She says all this in a calm, matter-of-fact manner. This is the way it's been for several ages, and she is no immortal elf; for her, this has been the status quo all her life.

The frown deepens.

"That seems very foolish on everyone's part - surely, it would be better for a subjugated nation to either be properly integrated, or... well. Left alone, subject to ... taxes, or whatever. As it stands, it sounds like all that has happened is that resentment and isolationism has been allowed to build."

"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."

Elros's lips thin alongside hers, and he sighs.

"Well, but that is a mess all around, it sounds like. Is there a reason they insisted on you staying behind walls? And what of those who refused?"

Garahel nudges her -gently- for more chicken, and he is promptly appeased as Inessa falls silent for a moment, taking more roasted cashews. "Those who refused became the Dalish, nomadic clans who worship the elven gods; the Creators. They were vallaslin, facial tattoos depicting their devotion to a particular god, and tend to believe themselves the true keepers of elven heritage...even though it is but one aspect." Inessa shrugs, not really having time for condescending opinions like that.

"It was the Divine's decree, and the Chantry has great power of most of Thedas. Where it doesn't hold sway, the Imperial Chantry in Tevinter does. The true motive might well have been condescending benevolence, or a desire to put us in our place. Most likely, both. Regardless of the motive, it is what you see in the present."

"If you can't beat them, run?" Elros smiles wryly. "Smart, if also risky, as some of my ancestors could attest. But it sounds as if they've also fallen into their own trap of isolation, and to reject their own kin is foolish, it seems to me, for elves are elves, after all, and where one is born ought not matter."

His lips twist.

"Of course, I have a particular bias in that regard which makes me rather vehemently opposed to the alternative."

Since the alternative is what produced Elrond and Elros and why he ended choosing mortality in the first place.

"Oh? I would be interested in hearing what shapes your perspective." Inessa raises an eyebrow, realizing that she knows fairly little about him. If he's willing to share, why not learn what she can? Spotting a bench, she'll head for that since it seems a fitting place to finish their snack.

"The full tale is a very long one, and I am not the best to tell it, as the worst of it occurred long before I was born." Elros follows her over and sits down with a sigh.

"It involves several people including two who would become very dear to me, making some incredibly stupid decisions in the heat of the moment, which ... well. While it might be normal here for the Dalish to stand aside from the other elves, in mine, it is unthinkable, the worst of sins. Or well. It was. Until Feanor and his sons, in grief and rage, swore an oath that would eventually set them against their own people, leading to no less than three slayings of elf by elf. The first time, as I understand it, was as much an accident as deliberate, but it resulted in the kinsmen of the Teleri, the sea-elves of Aman, to refuse alliance with the Noldor, the deep-elves, when they arrived in Middle-earth, despite that they were all fighting a common Enemy. All for the sake of their slain kin on the other side of the Sea."

He rubs his eyes.

"I am, on my mothers side, descended from those elves, the Sindar of Middle-earth. But on my father's side I am Noldor, and I was raised so, for in the third, and what many consider the worst of the kinslayings, the remaining sons of Feanor came down upon the refuge haven of Sirion, because the Queen of the Sindar held the weregild that they were sworn at all costs to retrieve and refused to yield it. She ...was my mother. And rather than give them the jewel for which her family had bled and died by their brother's hands, she... threw herself into the sea with it, and left my brother and I behind. I must assume she thought us as good as dead, for I cannot forgive her leaving, otherwise. We were six."

He sits hunched, eyes far away in the distance.

"I don't remember much of that time - we were hustled away by servants early, hidden away, although we heard the screaming, of course. But we were found by an elf with sad eyes and a golden voice, and although his armor and sword ran red with blood he was so gentle and patient with us. We should have died there, by rights, my brother and I. But he took us with him, and he and his brother raised us as if we were his own. To this day, my brother identifies as Noldor, not Sindar, a fact which must irritate that side of the family no end! And I, when the choice was put before me, I saw the deep divisions that had resulted in so many deaths, and I rejected my elven heritage entirely to cleave to my mortal grandfather's road instead. I am Elros Earendillion of the House of Hador, and I will walk out into the adventure of death, rather than linger."

Inessa nods, taking into account his announced limitations in terms of the tale. As he speaks, she listens intently and even Garahel, appetite sated for the time being, is peering at Elros with that usual mabari intelligence. Her demeanor quickly shifts from curiosity to grave sympathy at mention of his mother, and Garahel lets out a soft whine as well. When it seems he has finished, or at least paused, she lets out a sigh.

"That is much to put on a young child's shoulders. As one who effectively lost my parents at a young age, though not to such traumatic circumstances, I sympathize. To lose them so young...it changes you.

If it helps you see Thedas elves in a better light, the divisions I speak of have never led to war. The Dalish and city elves may not see eye to eye on many things, but we are not at odds to the point of violence. Sometimes, city elves leave to go live with a Dalish clan, or sometimes a Dalish will grow weary of wandering and leave their clan to settle. At times there has even been assistance between each other, from Dalish who do not simply dismiss us as flat-ears. Our cultures are very different, and I am willing to admit I do not approve of the idea of being seen as a monolith. Elven culture ceased to exist as a unified construct likely since the end of Arlathan, let alone the end of the Dales. We cannot go back to once was, only move forward."

She then pauses and tilts her head, curious about what his wording implies. "You...chose mortality? You can choose? I did not know such a thing was possible, even for those of your world."

"That is good to hear, and it does ease my mind." Elros smiles at her wryly.

"Don't be overly sorry - it was a poor start, but Maglor and Maedhros did their best for us, their hostage-sons. They were always brutally honest about how we came into their care, but we were safe with them - safer than many places, probably, considering how dangerous they were to the Enemy. Safe, and well loved.

It never came to war with us either, though - the kinslaysings... you can't call those wars. Massacres, maybe. Tragedies, definitely. When I think of what might have been if we had not been divided!"

He breaks off and shakes his head.

"No point in dwelling on the past. And no - the choice is something rather unique to our family. A... prize, if you like, for all the deeds we have to our account. Fate, quite literally, owes us."

He sighs.

"I did say it was a long story. A complicated one, too. But to the line of Luthien, who challenged Death for her beloved and won, to the line of Earendil, who sailed West to plead for aid for Men and Elves and Dwarves alike, to the line of Tuor, the Sea's chosen messenger - to my brother and I, and all my brother's children, the choice lies before us, as it did before Earendil and Elwing our parents - to chose whose fate to cleave to. For we are the peredhel, the halfelven, those who belong to both worlds, and neither, blood of the ainur themselves in our veins so that the hand of destiny follows us always. Elrond was stronger than I - he decided to stay. But I chose to go."

"A...prize of choice, between immortality and mortality. It seems incredible." Inessa shakes her head, amazed at the notion of literally being able to choose such a thing. No Thedosian elf or elf-blooded has such an option.

"Peredhel...in Thedas, those with one elven parent are called elf-blooded. They are not half-elven, as that implies an equal melding; the children of an elf and human are always human, as it would be for an elf and a dwarf, and so on. There is something about our nature that only carries on in a purely elven pairing. Thus, there is even more concern at the notion of integration. Many fear that if elves live among humans, it will not be long before the race will die out."

"Everyone else seems to think so too." Elros says dryly. "They never stop to wonder what happens to the families." He sighs. "They tell us my father wanted to choose mortality too, but for love of his wife, he did not. My brother, his heart has always lain with our elven kin, but when I worked with Men during the War, I knew that my restlessness had found a home. But it means we will be parted, Elrond and I, until the World's End. And he might have to face that choice again from his own children, one day, where mine will be like me, mortal. For that reason alone, I regret my choice, for the wound this will leave in my twin's soul when I die."

He hums. "I cannot say what other pairings would be like in my world - our family is somewhat unique, in that respect. And there's the fact that Great-grandmother Luthien wasn't halfelven in the "half mortal" sense at all, for her mother was ainur, one of the lesser Powers of the world, and goodness knows how that affects things. But from my own experience - in our childhood we grew swifter to our adult stature than Elves, but once there we aged more like the Elves, which is to say, mostly not at all. Our emotional development, though, I have been told, is somewhat halfway in between but closer to that of elves - I am, by the count of my elven kin, not even of age, yet - which is why you might notice them hovering, a bit. But by the count of Men I am an elder!

But if, as you say, in your world, something of the elven nature is lost in the children, I can see why there would be concern there."

A SEA OF DEATH

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