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

"Let me put it this way - where I come from? Corpses don't move. Period. And if they do move, it means we have a much more serious problem to worry about," he said firmly to Anders, sticking close to someone he knew down in the chill catacombs. He looked hard back at the corpses, wondering what they felt, if they felt anything. It seemed cruel to him, more than anything, and he had to question if this was honoring or punishing.

"Where I'm from they don't move either," he said with some amusement as Kirk stared back at one. "That particular corpse was a unique set of circumstances. Though it's... not absolutely dissimilar."

There's a definite bit of spirit magic and the Fade to this, but none of the corpses have anything like a spark of intelligence. Justice had been different. He exhales as he meets the gaze of another.

"I'll be honest. I don't see the point of this. They can't talk so there's no wisdom being passed down, they just... ugh."

“Can they feel anything?” He asked, watching the corpses and his stomach curdling. He looked away, ashamed of himself for it, and looked back.

“If they can feel something, this is nothing short of torture, cruel and unusual punishment,” he growled, clenching his fist, ignoring the tingle of the jewel on the back of his hand.

"No," he said quickly. "No, they're not... the person is gone. What's left is more like, mm."

Not knowing the full magic behind it means he's not really sure how to explain it. But after a few moments he holds up a hand and summons a wisp.

"It's like this. Something small, magic, sustained in ways I don't really understand there because wisps don't last on this side of the Veil all that long. There isn't any suffering. They're just... bodies that are moving because there's magic locked inside them. And I'm pretty sure it's consensual. That this is something they wanted to happen with their corpses."

He continued to frown, still not liking it. He did believe in people having bodily rights and having done with their bodies what they wished after they died, but he had to wonder if they truly understood what was happening. Or even what purpose this served? What good it do to watch these rotting thing jerk and moan in a sick symphony?

"I wonder why something like this even began," he said. "What purpose does it even serve, if all they do is flop around like dead fish?"

"That would be a question for a Nevarran. Though perhaps not phrased like that. They... might take offense." He's grinning, though. He's not Nevarran. There's no offense in it for him.

"Maybe it makes it seem like they're not fully gone. Loss is hard. Or... I don't know. That's the only idea that comes to mind. What do they do with the dead where you're from?"

"Hmm, it rather depends on the people, but most people I know cremate - that is, to burn the bodies to ash," he explained. "It's healthier for the land and reduces possible toxins. If we're out in space, we do the same and depending on the last will of the person we either send the ashes back to the family, or we scatter them into the stars. Some races and cultures have different and stricter customs, and we make arrangements for that as we can. But I've never heard of anything like this."

He frowned as one of the bodies turned its head to look at him, and he resisted the urge to violently shudder.

"Much of Thedas practices cremation as well, in honor of Andraste." There's a dryness to his tone that may give away how he feels about that. "I'd definitely prefer that out of all of the options, but that may have something to do with how my body might be treated if it isn't quickly turned to ash."

Anders waves at the corpse and gets stared at instead of a wave back. He probably should have expected that.

"To the Nevarrans, this seems like the right thing to do. And unless someone comes back to life and complains, I can't see that changing. We can't really judge this, I don't think. It's unfamiliar, but it's theirs and it's not hurting anyone."

"They can't know if they are or not, if no one is able to complain," Kirk reasoned out, but Anders was right. Just because it weirded him out, didn't mean that he should completely dismiss it or look down his nose at it. He just wasn't sure he could say it was a good thing or a bad thing without understanding if what was inside the bodies, or the bodies themselves, were suffering.

"Why did I come down here again?" he asked, half to himself and half to Anders.

Anders chuckles.

"Because you could? I came to see if I could learn anything of the magic used here. Not for this purpose, but because there's no telling what might have practical applications elsewhere. Or perhaps you were simply curious. Or perhaps you doubted what stories you've heard? Many Thedosian authors have habits of... exaggerating."

He loves you, Varric, but come on. "Or possibly you were bored. The tavern's nice, but it's a tavern, and it's not the Hanged Man or the Pearl. Not to say that the Pearl is still as good as it was; I'm quite certain it's not."

"The question was rhetorical, but thank you for the exploration of the answer," he huffed, tucking his hands beneath his arm pits, feeling chill. He licked his lips. "Honestly it's probably a combo of most of those," he admitted. He had been here almost two years now and there was still so much to learn and see. It at least kept Thedas fresh, if nothing else.

"When did you come here before?" he asked him. "Not this place, I mean the Navarre."

A SEA OF DEATH

crypt, because why not?

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