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

Teren casts her a sidelong glance-- she hates when people look at her like that, but she knows better than to be rude to Morrigan, who could turn into a spider and bite her arm off or something. Mage rubbish.
"Well enough," she carefully replies, "enough to both appreciate and dread their directness."
A pause. "...granted, I have not been among them for many years. Perhaps things have changed now, gone more Orlesian. I would find that unsurprising, considering Orlais' inability to keep its dirty fingers from reaching everywhere they can."

Honestly Teren if you knew how bad people taste then you wouldn't go biting them that way, besides, there's the tainted Warden's blood to take into consideration since she would really rather not have a mouthful of that if she can avoid it.

Morrigan almost-smiles, that particular way her mouth lifts up at one corner (if more knew her mother they'd see the resemblance better past the eyes, those things that come from all the years of just one another for companionship) at the answer. "To see a thing for what it is rather than having to step around the boundaries all pretend not to see unless crossed is a tedious thing," she points out since how long did she do that in Orlais; for all that she swept through them, bent them, broke them, she had to know where they were. "There comes a time when you grow tired of playing their games."

Speaking of-- "They would not bite them off? So many grinning skulls after all."

"One would hope," Teren snorts, but Orlais is persistent. If greater Nevarra ever learned a lesson from past experience, no one shows it." Another stoke of the fire, this one a bit more violent. But as quickly as Teren's temper flared, if that is what just happened, it calms again.
"I've long been tired of their games," she mutters, "why else would I be in the middle of the woods with this lot of feckless idiots." She nods toward the tents of the sleeping Wardens, and even in the darkness is unable to conceal the subtle glint of affection in her glance.

Edited 2017-12-01 07:48 (UTC)

"Lessons are never learned," and perhaps it's the smoke that catches in her throat then that turns her voice to an older shredded thing that someone from parts of Orlais would call a glassmaker's voice, but that she (and very few others) would call Flemeth's. "It all gets crushed. Torn up. Burnt. Written over when a person mislikes a thing. The history of the elves has been laid before the mages yet still so many insist on baring their throats for the wolves."

Discussing it with Myr in the library is what brings the phrasing that way until she coughs it away, and her voice is hers again though her eyes are stinging.

"One of those feckless idiots is the only one of you I'd trust when it comes down to it," she says with a fondness that creeps in same as a cold wind in the dead of winter. He might wake. He might come striding out. "Living through a Blight is not a thing done lightly." (Which is the only measure of Wardens: were you there, did you do it? No? Well be quiet and take a seat, she does not have the breath to listen to your petty squabbling and handwringing over the messes laid bare these past two years.)

Teren watches her curiously, perhaps a little surprised by Morrigan's candor, but not offended by it. "That it isn't," she agrees, "and trust is all too freely given by many." Wardens included. Glancing back toward the tents, she smirks mildly. "...but perhaps... some deserve it in the end. He oversaw my Joining, and helped me to find my feet." Rarely open with anyone, Morrigan nonetheless strikes Teren as someone who appreciates honesty and isn't as likely to play games as so many others do.
"I'd be dead, if not for the Wardens. If not for him."

A hazard of living alone again after becoming accustomed to company. All those thoughts rattling around the head might come out of the mouth but aren't they all lying to themselves and the world by some degree? Aren't they overdue these truths?

"Tell a person you were there at some terrible moment, out their life spills in your hands. No rush to chase after it as it all unspools." Wardens, heroes, those who travel with them afflicted in the same way by the being there when fate dealt her hand.

Morrigan arches a brow but- but she hadn't asked overmuch of what he'd done. Where he'd been. They thing they step around, salvation in the shape of a boy who wears the shadow of his face more comfortably the more he sprouts in southern sun. "I was unaware he made his way this far, imagining him where I haven't seen him personally is... difficult even now. A new life though, that is the deal? Wardens will take you, call you brother or sister if you shoulder the duty well."

If you have a mouth made for the keeping of secrets.

"Forgive me, the Winter Palace 'ere the separation you were a capable figure." A lot of them she can see in cells. Stocks. Gutters. Teren...a little harder to stretch the mind.

"Aye," Teren intones, "that's the deal." This conversation veers dangerously close to load-bearing secrets, but Teren is practiced at being inscrutable and seems content to discuss Alistair's virtues rather than the typical stories of Wardens.

She raises her eyes to the woman at her last comment, and gives a small nod of acknowledgment. "I like to think so," she remarks.

Best to leave that prodding for another day then, after all she does know the woman so little and this the longest they've talked without an audience but it's how she holds herself. Guards her tongue. Few Wardens have any practice at that. Few at all have reason to know it.

"You will forgive me if I find it hard to picture you the waif or urchin." Please consider most of the feckless idiots and their Tragic Backstories (TM).

A snort. "Don't bother," she mutters, "perhaps I was a waif once, and an urchin. But in another life. Before you were even a twinkle in your mother's eye, I expect." She looks back to the fire, thoughtful. "Hanging onto such things-- to who you were before, you might as well just admit you're dead already."

Things Morrigan learnt from her mother that she hasn't passed on to others but might to a favoured Orlesian: you never attempt to guess the age of a Warden because inevitably you'll do it wrong. If Teren says that, she'll have to go with it.

"There is a danger in nostalgia," she agrees, not that nostalgia's the right word but a voyage by sea is never the one she'd choose if she had a hand in the choosing and it gnaws at her still. "Sooner than you realise you find yourself mired in a bog, sinking up to your neck. My mother's eye is the eye of a crow following men off to war, that twinkle you speak of is the one that would tear strips from you should you not take them first."

Teren has never met Flemeth, and likely never will, which means she can find Morrigan's response funny. She barks a laugh that she quickly quiets, for fear of waking anyone, and replies, "you must've been quite the babe, if that's the case."

"I am told I came out with teeth not unlike needles and feathers between the shoulders," she'll play the game, it feels easier to play it as this hour than any other when she could just as easily slip her skin again. "A child who knew a game of luring Templars who came seeking dangerous apostates to their doom, shrieking and laughing all the while into the Wilds."

This gives Teren some pause, and she eyes Morrigan for a few long moments, unsure of whether to laugh or take her seriously. Ultimately, she decides to call her bluff and do neither. "Youth is wasted on the young," she murmurs, perhaps trying to be funny, or simply because the topic makes her uncomfortable.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Some of them here and I wonder what they hope to accomplish with all that they do save great embarrassment." Not solely for themselves either, she could be content were it just them. "Others do more.

"But have a child, watch them-- watch them with all you did not have? 'Tis not wasted then." Softer. Fond. Your move Teren.

An old hurt rallies, a little pinprick of bitterness thrusts into Teren's mind: have a child. Just have a child, that's what women do.
A small tension forms in her neck and jaw, though she's hardly the temperamental sort. Instead, as always, it makes more sense to play it off, to be prickly on the whole and hope it's general enough to thwart anyone looking for specific weakness.
"I prefer them as adults," she says, something in her tone a little off, not quite as blase as she hoped to make it.

"I thought them ghastly beasts once. Snot, tears, screaming. Plenty of that to tell the truth though most thought me the kind to steal them away for the cooking pot."

Why is it so easy for a parent to leave their fingerprints? To press them so deep?

"How long do you spend with any of yours?" A gesture to the tents, to the feckless idiots perhaps sleeping, probably not given what Morrigan knows of Wardens. "Mine has a bedtime. Stories of Wardens instead of being one. That I can give, not a bog, to live entirely alone."

(Nevarra isn't a bog, perhaps she wasn't alone entirely but there's a path to make a Warden: hurt and hurting, and how few of them had a parent there that did any of them some damned good?)

"As long as I can abide them," Teren grunts, already losing patience for the conversation. Talking about the Wardens as her actual children is strange, especially with an outsider; it's a joke, isn't it? No one really thinks of them that way, surely, least of all herself...?
"They're men and women grown, and any stories I'd tell are hardly the type to soothe nightmares." Irritably, she bends to toss another log on the fire and steps away from it, growing antsy. "I'm no one's mother, and I'll thank you to stay out of it."
Morrigan has struck a nerve, somewhere.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A SEA OF DEATH

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject