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

You thought you had better, [ Kostos repeats back to her, voice briefly raw in a way he doesn't like and wouldn't allow if he were slightly less drunk. Despite that, he uses the same pause he's using to rein it in to reach across the table for the bottle. When he continues his voice is lower. ] You didn't think you ought to get a second opinion?

I already knew what it would be. [ When he's done with the bottle she reaches across to take it back, pouring herself another three fingers' worth with the careful attention of someone drunk or attempting to avoid eye contact, or, as in this case, both. She drinks half of it in a go, head turned briefly against the sting. ] And you know you wouldn't have stopped me.

Edited 2017-11-30 06:51 (UTC)

[ Both of those things are probably, almost definitely, true. Kostos glares at her anyway. He glares for several seconds, in fact, while his brain sludges through and discards three ineffectual arguments and a blurry fantasy of reaching out and smacking the bottom of her mug so the liquor pours down her face. ]

It wasn’t yours, [ he settles on, and if he’s only half-coherent, that’s frequently his average when sober, too. ] It’s ours. All of ours. The next time you decide to have a temper tantrum, maybe you should—

[ He has no idea what she should do. He pulls his ale closer to his chest but doesn’t drink it. ]

—you shouldn’t.

It's not ours. It was never ours, nothing in there was ever ours, we weren't ours, it was a fucking prison, Kostos.

[ She sets her mug down but keeps her hands wrapped around it, knuckles white. ]

It's a fucking prison but people are going to look at it and say see, it wasn't so bad, look at this place, it's beautiful, who wouldn't be happy here, what are they whining about, and people are tempted and they compromise and that's how we lose. That's why I had to.

[ She's not at her most eloquent, emotion tangling thoughts in ways drink rarely does. She shakes her head, reaching up to scrape one hand through her hair. ]

Stop looking at me like I tore down your home. That place wasn't home.

You don't get to decide that for me.

[ Maybe they're drawing some eavesdroppers' attention. Definitely he doesn't think to care. He's leaning forward over his drink—if not for the table he'd be getting into her face, but there's the table, and the chairs, and he isn't angry enough to stand up and cause a blatant scene—and his accent is thickening, or was up until now, when he skips ahead in that process and switches to Nevarran entirely. ]

You don't get to tell me how to feel. That is mine. I was happy there.

[ Whether or not that's true is debatable. Time does funny things to memory. But it was, at least, the last place he thought he was happy. ]

No you weren't. [ It was debatable and here is Nell to debate it, doubling down and matching him lean for lean, palms braced flat on the table. She switches to Nevarran when he does, and if it's not likely to prevent people from listening in here, perhaps the rapid-fire retorts will. ]

You thought you were, because you were young and stupid and wanted to believe things were good and they were smart enough not to beat us every day and turn people Tranquil on a whim like other places but tolerable and oblivious aren't happy. We were not happy. And you know what?

[ She leans a little further, jaw tightening further, a hard, stubborn line he is certainly familiar with by now. ]

You believing you were happy is exactly why I had to do it. Having it just sit there feeling like home in the back of your head--that place where they just gave you three whole meals every day and your own bed and they taught you every single thing you know--knowing that place you loved once is out there waiting for you? I can't have that. Now there's no going back, no matter what.

Edited 2017-12-03 17:51 (UTC)

You can't have—? [ Kostos begins, prepared to continue being furious about Nell telling him how to feel, before he realizes that she isn't. Not really. You, you, you. That probably makes it easier.

Understanding (or thinking he does) only makes him slightly less angry. Maybe later, when he's had time to cool off and sober up, he'll—not have anything comforting to say, he's no good at that anyway, but maybe he'll wish he were better at it. But right now, he doesn't back off physically, doesn't stop glaring, doesn't stop sort of wishing that they weren't in public. The only change at all is that he takes a breath and regains the presence of mind necessary to lower his voice. ]

There was never any going back. Not for us. When they have the power to send us back, they'll have the power to hang us. And bullshit like that is not going to make anyone wonder if they're right to.

It's not about us. [ Nell lowers her volume to match his, which means continuing to lean over the table on her forearms. Confusingly, she means this; it would not have been true a minute ago, but it is now. ] You and I-- you're right, we either win or we die. Or both. But look at everyone else around us.

[ Not here in this tavern, obviously, and she lifts a hand to flap dismissively at their fellow patrons, who hopefully are no longer paying attention. Good thing they didn't bring staves with them tonight. ] Not these people, I mean. In the Inquisition. They all want to go back. Even the ones who claim to be rebels, they miss it. They want it back, they just want it to be nicer. Fewer Templars, or only the Templars they like, or whatever it doesn't matter, the point is: when the time comes? They can't be counted on. Not with places like this around to tempt them. We can't give them the opportunity to compromise, because they will. They'll compromise us all right back to where we started.

[ Kostos inclines his head to give Nell a look and a slow exhale through his nose, as she speaks, because he wants it back, but nicer, with fewer Templars and only well-behaved ones—even if he doesn't act like it, even if everything he does seems designed to oppose the idea, shut up, it's still what he wants—and she knows that. But he can't actually feel insulted over it, not really, when they've presumably already had that fight a few times, and now they get to have a brand new one. ]

So—what? [ He drops his voice even further. ] We wreck them all? Maybe we can set fire to the College of Magi when we pass back through Cumberland— [ Needless to say, this is not a legitimate suggestion, and not solely because destroying the massive golden-domed building in the middle of the city would attract a lot of attention. ] —and I'm certain no one will notice if something happens to the White Spire.

[ She knows, even if it seems she forgets sometimes, even if she does forget, sometimes, that his actions are such a poor measure of his true beliefs. But she also knows, that unlike the rest of them who remain unknown quantities, he can be relied upon to fight for this end he does not want. He won't compromise at the wrong moment. (Probably. She hopes.)

His suggestion draws a wince, expression twisting uncomfortably. No, they can't do that. ]

We take down as many of them as we can. As many as we can without burning all bridges with the Inquisition. We won't get them all, but we should at least take the chances we're given. But no, not our top priority. Our phylacteries are next. Yes? [ Surely he can't take issue with that. ]

[ He could.

But he doesn't. It's a process that requires some visible working-through: he breaks eye contact to do a sort of reluctant and aggrieved wobbly nod, and loosens his grip on his drink so he can tip it toward her when he looks back up. ]

Yours.

[ It's almost a line. He pauses to consider letting it be a line. What would a Loyalist do. But he sighs and steps over it. ]

Mine is in the Marches. Orlais, maybe, if they were behind on their paperwork. I'll see what I can find out.

Right, of course. [ Nell gives her head a little shake, and leans her forehead into her hands, fingertips digging in just above her eyes. ]

We could go check Ansburg first, if you want. It's not so much further than going after mine, if we're leaving from Kirkwall anyway.

[ She rubs at her face, just those fingers first, attempting to force tension out of her brow and temples, then her whole hand, a rough scrub before she straightens up to flop back against the rickety wooden upright of the booth. She just stays that way for a long moment, sipping at her drink, once again looking out the window. She doesn't turn to look at him as she asks, ]

Why do you have a stone hand in your bag?

[ Kostos shakes his head, at check Ansburg first, albeit in a noncommittal way that means maybe and it depends and I'm a bit drunk rather than no.

Despite this, he continues drinking. He has his mouth full when she asks her question, which gives him the time it takes to swallow and lower his mug to come up with a totally clever and believable lie—although it's delivered with a sort of over-the-top defiant lack of shame that isn't quite his standard. ]

It's a sex thing.

Really?

[ Nell replies, taking another swig from her glass and propping her cheek on her fist in a way that he may recognize does not bode well for serious conversation. ]

You don't feel inadequate, bringing that to bed with you?

That's hurtful, Voss.

[ He's not hurt. ]

See if I let you borrow it now.

It's sort of a compliment, you know, there's no way that hand is life-sized.

[ But more importantly: ]

I'll get my own statue hand, thank you, I've no idea who yours has been in. Or whose it is. Is it a Pentaghast hand? I've always wanted to fuck royalty.

[ Kostos smiles, briefly, as much as he ever does in non-exceptional situations, and finishes off what's in his mug before reaching across to steal the liquor bottle. He thinks, one more, which means two to three more. ]

It's an Averesch. My Great-Great... [ He pauses, counts generations on the fingers around the bottle neck, and seems satisfied with the two greats. ] ...Uncle Isidore. He killed some wyverns. [ And Kostos has progressed to shots-straight-from-the-bottle. ] I'd have taken his head, but the hand was already cracked.

Edited 2017-12-07 07:11 (UTC)

[ Nell lets him steal the bottle, fingers peeling off as he reaches. She isn't quite finished with her current drink, and in any event is probably a bit ahead of him at this point. But still just joking when she makes a face. ]

You're having sex with your great great uncle's hand?

Your Ander is showing, [ Kostos says around the mouth of the bottle. ]

Please, a true Ander would be beating you about the head with a copy of the Chant just for having such dreadfully impure thoughts.

[ She gives him just about long enough to swallow before she's reaching over to take the bottle back and drink from it herself. ]

[ He makes her really pull on it before he lets it go, but he does let it go, looking thoughtfully beyond her. ]

Are there any true Anders you could introduce me to?

No, but there's The Anders. Though I heard he's married.

He mentioned that.

[ It sounds a bit—well. Kostos feels the same way about that as he would feel about a utopian mage commune in the middle of an Orlesian city. Good luck. Hope no one declares it illegitimate and wrecks it. In the meantime he'll be somewhere else, doing something that is not that. ]

Even if he weren't, I doubt he would beat anyone with anything. [ A pause, then the that very serious and thoughtful drunk tone: ] Maybe if I wore Chantry robes.

[ Nell snorts. ]

Maybe. I doubt it, unless you were also threatening a mage child or something. He seems very focused on children. When I heard he was here this is not what I expected.

Why do you hate children, Nell?

[ He starts to drink what’s left in his mug, then changes his mind. He’s had plenty. ]

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

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)