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

"Why waste your breath cursing?" These dragons don't speak, she remembers from the not-a-Nord that's too like a Nord still for her comfort and these dragons don't organise. It's still no excuse. No excuse for parades to past glories when they're back. The Nords had their prophecy well-remembered, and even when vanquished there it sat in the dark, there they remembered that; a wall, a prophecy, deeds that stretched back centuries upon centuries. Finite. Temporary. Mortal. A shout that rested heavily in her mouth; knowledge comes with a price. "Your dragons don't speak mine...mine organise.

"Mine came back with a leader. Alduin the World-Eater who was called firstborn son of Akatosh god of time - man's god of time. How long does a dragon live?" If he can put anything to it then-- then why bother telling him? It won't matter. She looks at the gold-tinted banner of a fallen hero to see black on red fluttering in the cold winds of Solitude, the seat of the High King where his widow never sat easily.

Organized dragons. Now that's a thought he'd like to never have again.

"We've one that talks. Though she's more woman than dragon. Most of the time." Flemeth is definitely an exception to the norm. "And I don't know, I find that a good swear when a fireball nearly hits you helps relieve the stress of the moment. But I'm still interested in hearing what's useful to shout."

Maybe it's some sort of insult. If her dragons talk, then it stands to reason that they'd understand someone yelling at them.

Sounds daedric. Sounds too like a dragon priest too for her comfort that there's not much she can say to that really, only a look she can give him.

Here's the moment where she'll be believed or not, where it could tip into ugliness. The laugh cracks in her throat, dry leather, brittle grass scorched from frost, wings overhead. "Shouts. Thu'um. Power. Some of us can- your dragons would be children to Alduin, he wouldn't know them; I asked how long they live, the dragons I know don't have an understanding of mortality can you understand that?

"They look like they breathe frost or flame but it's words calling things into being. A debate." These are the words to murder a child: mortal finite temporary with her arrow through the eye of Alduin son of Akatosh who is Auri-El in Sovngarde. Here, tree-sap young her voice rings with echoes of who she is, who she was, souls who have been devoured when met by her now carried in her throat.

It's an odd look and an odd laugh. And an odd answer on top of it. What do shouts have to do with children of Alduin? Unraveling what she means is like sitting down and having a chat with Sandal.

"I don't understand. I'm sorry. Some of you can talk with dragons? Ask them questions? And then you debate them with the elements?" It's the most sense he can make out of that. How confusing must their world be to her if hers is this foreign?

"Next to none, either you can or you spend years learning how and even then the person that can comes along and beats you at it. Most of them wouldn't say much, but, a mage casts a fire spell but for a dragon to do it they have to shout words that call the fire into being. D'you understand?"

Stood before Paarthurnax who gave her understanding of flame in her mouth, so many bones she's used to craft or as makeshift shelters when all they ever knew filled up her mind instead.

So her world's dragons have to shout to breathe fire, rather than simply breathe it. That's something he's not heard of before and it's intriguing. Thedas' dragons, the older ones, the old gods, had to be able to talk if once they'd tricked Tevinter. Now they sing, but what could they do before? Could regular dragons, given enough time and exposure to language, learn? They're not stupid animals, he knows that much.

"I think I do. We've dragons that can breathe lightning and fire and ice, but in your world they have to cast spells to do it, and cast them with specific words." It's a rewording of what she's said to make sure he's grasped it. "And that's the magic of your world, the words? Some have it inborn, and some can learn."

"Just dragon shouts. Other magic is just," she squints at her hand since usually that'd be how a spell is cast but never someone who bothered with it there's nothing there now, "something that gets cast. No shouting it just takes magicka from you to do it.

"The dragon shouts are special because dragons are special. A mage could learn but it's not there for them the same way a new spell is. And the teachers are... selective." And one is a dragon. The other three are old bearded men with one of their last students the head of a civil war faction who shouted the High King to death so prospective students might be well and truly fucked now.

She'd quite like some skooma, why did her bag get left behind?

It's starting to get clear and he raises an eyebrow, interested. So her world has two forms of magic, then? Magic that takes... magicka, which must be energy, and then dragon shouts which are separate. Dragon magic. It sounds fascinating.

"Can you do the shouting?" It's almost certain he can't learn even if she can. He couldn't learn Hermione's magic, after all, and the thought makes him sad. All of this potential exchange of information will never come to be.

"Did a dragon teach you?" Because that would be even more impressive than dragon magic in his opinion.

"Yes," an admission that rattles out of her but the least of them to a stranger, and how strange for her to be admitting it rather than confirming. Yes, I'm the Dragonborn and yes I can shout as loud as them to shake the heavens. Not that she'll demonstrate; if a guard in Skyrim got testy, what would a guard here do when the shape of her ears offends enough if she takes down her hood (and they don't seem to like her scuttling around hooded).

How to answer him though. Her face twists which isn't really anything to do with that, her face is the sort of face given to these types of uncomfortable expressions when something in the parade gets too loud - the bards in Skyrim were quiet, shut up if you paid, the college a sad little afterthought in Solitude - but she turns from it, gestures to walk. She likes walking. She doesn't need to think about the words in her mouth if she's paying attention to unfamiliar streets that way either. "Yes and no. A dragon knows them, I learn when I kill them but I went up the mountain after I killed my first dragon and it burned away before me, and the Greybeards called my name," if this sounds like a story but one that's been stripped back to the bone then that's because she hasn't any other way to lay bare the truths of her life; this is a thing that happened to her, she can't explain some of it, how fate and prophecy slid under her tongue and twisted about her the way they did. The notion uncomfortable in the telling. Rolling her shoulder until it pops to punctuate the silence, she carries on. "I went up the mountain and they told me what I was, what I could do. I-- I know the words when I see them, when I kill the dragons it's there in me but the Greybeards have a master, and the master is a dragon with wings of ash and snow falling that they keep safe, he fought his nature to be who he is."

The shadow of reverence in her voice, in the slant of her smile as a dagger catches the moonlight before it strikes true but still there, still very much there.

A SEA OF DEATH

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