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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Part I - Tavern

i:

The problem with being as tall as Klaus was that medieval society was not built for someone quite so large. He wasn't brushing his head on the rafters or anything quite so ludicrous, but the lower door frames and twisting, narrow stairwells proved a bit of a challenge to navigate without the occasional bump or bruise. Despite circumstances being what they were, he'd taken time to marvel at the lustrous woodwork, despite the rather morbid nature of the carvings.

Unfortunately, he was also in the way.

ii:

Klaus was never a heavy drinker, nor did he usually gamble, but he wasn't entirely without a competitive streak. Three inquisition agents had wanted a contest - that he take them on each in turn and the triumphant side wins. It was a modest wager - he didn't have much in ways of proper currency on him aside from what he'd earned from odd jobs with the caravan after all - so the betting pool was a little more than a small purse of coppers. But it seemed a good way to pass the time and get his thoughts off his worries.

About an hour later, the three challengers were either face down on the counter, or on the floor, and Klaus was rubbing his temples. He could hold his liquor but he was clearly at his limit. Still, at least his mind was off his troubles, and completely on getting upstairs and sleeping off this bad life choice.

He paid his tab, and stood groggily, stumbling towards the stairs. He'd completely forgot the pouch of his winnings, leaving it behind on the counter top.

There's a meat wall blocking the stairway.

That's not something Myr had anticipated being an obstacle on his way to an early bed. He checks himself just shy of the sound of breathing--the absence of occluded echoes--and wrinkles up his nose for puzzlement at the fact someone's just stopped here.

"Excuse me, serah--is there something the matter?"

Klaus was so engulfed in examining the artistry that he didn't notice he was blocking the way until someone had walked into him.

"Ah -! I beg your pardon. I was engrossed in the carvings on the woodwork. Have you seen-"

As he spoke he shifted himself so Myr could get by, finally seeing why the elf had bumped into him so suddenly.

"...My apologies. Have you had the chance to feel them yet? The craftsmanship is exquisite."

"No trouble," Myr replies with a smile--a tired smile, but a smile all the same. It's nice to have people not act strange about it, especially when he hasn't got much in the way of filters. "Sorry for running into you in turn. --I've had occasion to," he's in the habit of following walls with his fingertips, "and they are quite fine, but the motif's not quite to my tastes."

His tone is dry for the understatement.

"There's no need to apologize - I was the one in the way," Klaus said, obligingly stepping aside so that Myr could pass as he pleased.

"It's interesting to see Totentanz as a universal concept that spans actual worlds."

He was, now and forever, a dweeb.

And a dweeb attracts a dweeb, however far from home.

Myr catches on the unfamiliar word, lifting his head and turning his face toward Klaus in evident curiosity. "You're a rifter, then?" ...That's right, hadn't he heard this fellow's voice over the crystals at one point? "And what's a Totentanz?"

"You're quite right, I am, as you say, a Rifter." It wasn't his favourite word ever, but it did the job well enough and rather concisely.

The very nature of Klaus's work meant he was more scholar than warrior most of the time and his head was a big eclectic mess of trivia.

"The Danse Macabre," he says in what is passable French (or Orlesian to Myr), "Or Dance of Death. It's an old allegory; that whatever station we hold in life, whatever our age or material wealth, we are all equals in the eyes of Death."

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"A pity that is what it takes."

He's reminded of a sudden of Petrana and his first conversation with her; her phrasing hadn't been so dissimilar and reflected a misliking of the term. But asking for alternatives had availed him nothing then--and seemed ridiculous on reflection, since it was up to Thedas what to call the unintentional invaders, anyhow.

The Orlesian's at least comprehensible, even given his purely written knowledge of it. He slots the word and its translations away, reaching out to the wall to impress the feeling of those merry skeletons along with it. This is that. "It isn't even sufficient here," he murmurs, mindful of their hosts. "Death brings down kings and peasants alike to stand judgment before the Maker--but they'll keep a Pentaghast around in all his finery for eternity, while the poor don't even merit interment in their necropolis."

A shudder goes down his spine; he draws his hand back from the wall. Softer still: "It isn't right."

"Ho Sir!" A voice hails him from behind.

"I am thinking you'd be wanting these!"

The man at the counter calling to him is almost of height with Klaus but lean, rather than solid, dark haired and grey eyed with an open, friendly face.

Klaus looked at the proffered pouch with bleary-eyed bewilderment. He'd been about to say no, that he he had his wallet right in his pocket. He'd even checked, before he remembered why he was in such a state.

"Good heavens - thank you. I'd completely forgotten the wager," he said, his accent a bit thicker than usual.

"I'm afraid I've had a bit too much to drink," he added conspiratorially, as if it wasn't completely obvious.

Elros chuckles, coming over to hand it to him.

"I was watching, sir, and although very impressed, I must say you probably cut things quite fine, there."

"Ah, thank you," Klaus said, taking the pouch and still unsteady on his feet. Rooms really shouldn't spin like this.

"It was a rather spur of the moment thing - the last time I'd been in a drinking contest was nearly four years ago and was quite bested."

There are some foolhardy things Klaus had done in his life. Attempting to out-drink Chain was certainly among the most regrettable.

"Do you need a hand getting up the stairs?" He offers low enough to keep it private, before raising his voice again with a laugh.

"Drinking contests do tend to be rather spontaneous, I've found. But you've quite redeemed yourself on this occasion, I think!"

Part II - Nevarra City

i. Parade

The festivities did a far better job of taking Klaus's mind off his worries for Libra than a drinking contest. The streets were lined with people bedecked in colourful attire and Klaus was doing his best to navigate the throng of spectators without knocking anyone over. Eventually he made it to a spot that was less congested to observe the parades out of the way.

ii. Market

Klaus's inhuman strength and stamina had proven a boon. Odd jobs that required heavy lifting had earned him some a quick, albeit modest, sum. It wasn't much but it could probably afford him some attire that at least fit him comfortably. The scratchy, too-small tunic and trousers were starting to chafe on both his skin and his nerves. So the afternoon found him perusing the stalls for new clothes - the sort suitable for travel as he was under the impression they'd be returning to (was it Kirk's Wall they had said...?) their home base.

His attention was quickly side-lined, however, at a display of potted plants - fat pink and white blooms he didn't recognize but was instantly captivated by.

iii. Brawls

He'd been enjoying all the plays and japes and songs put on for the benefit of families gaining the public's favour - he doubted any of them were anything aside frome wild exaggerations if there was truth to them at all - but it still gave him a taste of Nevarran culture and a little more context to the world of Thedas.

Of course, nobility could not raise themselves up without putting someone else down, and one of the puppet shows proved to be particularly venomous without even naming names. However, it had clearly pinched a nerve of one young noble who was utterly livid at the display. He prowled towards the laughing audience, brandishing a blade, his face red with anger and humiliation.

Klaus did not hesitate, catching the man's wrist from behind as he raised the saber and halting him in his tracks. The small audience and players realized what was happening and scattered, a few wooden puppets and props clattering onto the cobbles of the square.

"What are you doing? Unhand me at once you brute! Guards! Guards!"

Klaus looked around as a few heads turned at the sudden fuss. A few of the nobleman's compatriots were already decrying Klaus an obvious assassin from a rival family. And a few members of said rival family were approaching as well, denying what was clearly slander.

He'd not been looking for trouble today, but goodness it did have a nasty habit of finding him. Oh dear.

Part III - Necropolis

i. Tour

Necromancy was no strange thing to a man whose daily life consisted of the oddities of Jerusalem's Lot, so the moving corpses were not particularly unsettling to him. He seemed more intrigued by the artistry in the architecture than the horror of the living dead and hung onto Tivader's every word of the history. When he gave them a few moments to look around freely.

"What splendid moulding on the pilasters," Klaus remarked aloud, adjusting his spectacles and peering more closely at the elaborate stone carving.

ii. Battle

It had seemed inevitable - things were far too peaceful for far too long without chaos erupting. There were, he reflected, worse things than heavily armed walking corpses going on the offensive. Quite a few things, in fact. If there was one lesson he'd learned in his life, it was that things could always be profoundly worse.

Using his blood arts was out of the question - not in front of so many people who had very negative opinions on blood magic - so it was his martial skills he needed to rely on. The cavernous catacombs were, fortunately, roomy which gave him plenty of space to move - and move he did, with much more speed and agility than his size and build would denote. He was quick and efficient, tearing fragile skulls from shoulders, and flinging bodies into the swarms of undead to send them stumbling. He did this with practiced ease, and a sort of eerie serenity. There was no bellowing war cry or barking of orders - he was utterly focused on helping to clear a path through the throng of zombies.

Edited 2017-11-26 08:14 (UTC)

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A SEA OF DEATH

Klaus Von Reinherz

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