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

It isn't exactly indiscreet, coming to find Thranduil's room - Coupe's, as well, because the Maker is cold and dead inside and hates her, she can only assume - when it isn't as if there's some secret of their having a connection. He lived in her home, still keeps a room there; she visits his offices in the Gallows. He gifted her with a dog. It is perfectly usual that she should seek out his company, and if she happens to be in a particularly good mood-

well, the sight of Galadriel crumpled to nothing on his bed, in what certainly look like his clothes, bloody fabric she presumes to have been what they replaced beside her, that will put paid to it.

Gwenaëlle stands in the doorway for a few moments, bewildered. Galadriel's been gone for months. She's not been paying nearly enough attention to rifters, apparently. What the fuck is going on.

After a moment, she leaves.

-and returns, an armful of fabric and her sewing basket under her arm. It's only fair, she reasons, because there are a few items of Galadriel's clothes repurposed in her own wardrobe of necessity. She's repaying the favor the elven woman wasn't aware she'd done her, that's all. Presumably, at some point, some of this will begin to make sense, but until then she occupies one of the chairs allotted to this shared room and squints an estimate of Galadriel's measurements. It'll be easier when she wakes up, but taking apart the dress in the first place

(thank the Maker for Orlesian fashion, else so little a thing as she is would never have enough fabric to repurpose for so tall a one as Galadriel)

will take a bit of time, anyway.

For as long as there has been a dawn, Galadriel has always been a creature in tune with it; she walks with it and it resides, in part, within her. That she does not awaken until well past noon, halfway to dusk, is a testament to how thoroughly she had exhausted herself. When her eyes open, her vision drifts before her for a moment, the world blurry and indistinct until it rights itself. She doesn't lift her head at the sight of someone in the room, not until she is fully roused and her vision cleared.

A woman sits across from her and Galadriel recognizes her, though she cannot name her just yet. (Truly, she would have trouble placing her own name after the last few days.) Her brow dips and, with the stiffness of recent injury, she pushes herself to sitting. Thranduil's clothes fall awkwardly on her and she is nearly tangled in the mess of his robes and trousers, but she finds the way.

"What are you doing?" she asks, sounding not at all like the refined elf she is; her voice is a harsh rumble just this side of a croak. It is the voice of someone who is terribly hung-over and, frankly, she nearly looks the part.

Gwenaëlle doesn't actually look up from what she's doing - it's somewhat precise work, trying not to damage anything she's taking apart in order to creatively put back together, gold-rimmed spectacles resting on the end of her nose to bring detail into focus - but answers, “Sewing,” which seems somewhat obvious.

Of all the things currently happening, she is of the opinion it actually makes some sense.

“You can't wear that out,” she says, squinting down at her hands, “you only look like you're attempting a bad Thranduil costume. I think there's enough skirt in this to become a dress that won't fit you indecently, but it'll be easier to tell if you can stand.”

The question is implied. Galadriel looks appalling; Gwenaëlle is not making any assumptions about what she can or cannot do.

In truth, Galadriel was uncertain of that, herself. Unfortunately the only way to know was to attempt it and so she did. With a hand at her side, bracing it gently, Galadriel stood as she always did. The result was a sharp hiss and the quendi curling sharply to the side as she dug her hand into the pain there. Her feet stayed beneath her, but it took her some time to regain any semblance of composure.

When she drew herself to standing, well, she was very tall, even by the standards of the Eldar.

She shuffled across the room toward the woman in the chair--Gwen, she thought? No, it was longer. Her memory was rarely so poor and the pounding in her head did her few favors--and the sunlight spilling through the window highlighted a strangeness in her skin that caught Galadriel's full attention.

She was bruised, where the mark cut across her hand and where the Elessar had dug into her palm. It was strange, seeing blue in her skin.

"It is a lovely color; it seems these lands wish me to dress more colorfully so perhaps it is best I acquiesce."

“If it makes you feel better,” a little dryly, “it's downright conservative by Orlesian standards.” In colour, at least. The bodice is a little racier than anything she'd imagine seeing Galadriel in, but then, they are very different women.

On her feet, she doesn't look much better - and Gwenaëlle does do her the courtesy of looking up and taking her in, then, and not only so she can get a better notion of what she needs to sew. She puts the partially deconstructed gown aside to stand, herself; a quick and dirty bit of measurement, imprecise, she can be generous in her cut and drape and it can always be refined, later.

Galadriel doesn't look as if she should be wearing anything particularly constricting, regardless.

“I don't know if you remember me. Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin.”

"Ah, that is right, my grasp of the past and, admittedly, the present is...strained, at the moment," Galadriel admitted, as politely as she was able. "You have my apologies, Gwenaëlle."

She looked over the dress and the pieces she had already undone as the shorter woman rose to gauge her height. She knew not how human women were wont to dress, in Thedas or in Arda, but it did not seem terribly unlike what she favored. The neckline was definitely a departure, but not so dramatic that it was less decent than her previous garments.

"I recall we spoke on occasion, of varied things, and that you had an obedient dog. Why are you here?"

There were multiple beds in this room. It was possible one was hers, though she'd been passing certain she'd taken Thranduil's the night before.

"Surely I did not claim your bed?"

In a manner of speaking.

-is absolutely not what comes out of her mouth, but there is a fleeting moment where something interesting happens to her expression and she looks fixedly past Galadriel's shoulder.

“I was looking for Thranduil,” she says, instead of - whatever that was - and shrugs, elegant, the embroidery in her skirts that flirts with being visible when she moves mirroring his favoured style in ways that many, probably, will overlook. “I found you. He gave me some things of yours, months ago now - more of his son's, honestly - when I needed something to alter for...”

Her nose wrinkles. The less said about what her altered trousers are for, the better.

“It doesn't matter. You obviously haven't got any luggage and you look a fright, it's a fair trade. Your clothes then for mine now.”

"I see," Galadriel agreed and glanced at the gown Gwenaëlle wore now. It was hard to say if any part of it had been hers once, she did not often dye her clothing, but there was a familiar quality to what the younger woman had on. Galadriel could not place it, not at the moment, so she let it pass without comment.

"Then I shall assist as I can, though I fear my stitching will not be nearly so deft as it usually is."

Haldir had been doing what most would consider eavesdropping for several minutes, but at this point he was sure of one thing. This woman needed to watch her tone.

He sat hunched on the roof, brooding next to a smallish window meant to bring in light from the sky above. He used one of his smaller knives to lift the pane open in an effort to discretely relay his observations of the surrounding city to the Lady, but he stopped to listen when the woman clamored into the room.

With a wicked grin, he moved through the window, and silently tip-toed along the rafters until he was just above the woman who clucked like a hen.

With smirk, he stepped off the rafter and dropped with a great thud right behind her.

Edited 2017-12-02 03:08 (UTC)

When the dust settles, Gwenaëlle will-

probably not apologise, frankly. Certainly, she won't be particularly sorry; violently startle a perfect stranger whose situation you don't know, contend with the consequences as they fall. Nevertheless, she doesn't intend what happens next - the shock is too sudden, and she's too on edge, her usual protectors out of earshot, running on too little sleep even after Thranduil had let her rest in the grove, carried her back to the tavern. It's pure instinct that has her spinning on her heel, the pleated skirts of her gown flaring around her legs, the shard-bearing hand coming up to protect herself, and

Well, one might call what comes out of her hand a pain laser, but it isn't to close a rift - it's a sharp, sudden bolt of energy, and if he doesn't move fast enough it's going to slam him into the wall.

Edited 2017-12-02 03:32 (UTC)

Haldir was suddenly very appreciative of the extensive training that honed his reflexes. They kicked in immediately after she raised her hand, and they were the only reason he was lying on the floor smoldering in a pile of pain. Instead, he was left with singed armor, a slight burning in his left shoulder, and a very odd tingling sensation down his fingertips.

He bit back a snarl, but he continued passed her on the right. He was quick to get out of the way of another attack. However, instead of any retaliation, he decided to ignore her completely. A few long, confident strides brought him to Galadriel, and he knelt at her feet.

“Alla, Melda heri.” he said in greeting. He didn’t even try to hide the satisfied smirk on his face as he looked up at her.

Edited 2017-12-02 06:46 (UTC)

Galadriel watches the antics with a neutral expression and only a mild flash of surprise as Gwenaëlle fired a bolt of green at Haldir and summarily destroyed the chair in the corner of the room. Haldir, still smoldering, knelt before her and cast a smirk up at her. Her expression shifted from blank to a bit flat and, while she did not scold him aloud, she did not leave it unsaid.

She is assisting me so that I might not dress as Thranduil does. Was that necessary?

It was a gentle question, she trusted his judgement, but Haldir was often mercurial, despite his stoicism.

"Haldir."

If he'd responded to her, she'd have had a target to lash out at - a focus to narrow that rush of terror into rage and shout at - but he bypasses her entirely as if she's nothing and instead she's left looking at the wreckage of the chair that had taken the worst of the blow in Haldir's place, humiliated and afraid, shaking with adrenaline that has no where to go.

She doesn't turn to see what they do; snatches up with trembling hands the dress she'd undone and begun, blindly shoving things back into her sewing basket to be sorted when she's returned to her own room, pressing a hand underneath her spectacles

it's fine it's fine it's fine just breathe out nothing's happening it's fine it's fine it's fine

- hopefully she remembers, later, that she was trying to make Galadriel a dress. She gathers it up to her and - she walks. She walks steadily, without looking at either of them, and closes the door very gently behind her.

She makes herself walk, and not run.

His face fell at her criticism, no matter how softly given. He instantly retreated, both physically and mentally as he bowed his head.

”Her voice dripped with distain, Lady. Each word held a carefully crafted barb. Her venom grated against my ears. I could not let her continue. You deserve respect, and she gave you none. “ he stopped, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. He couldn’t help but think of the same type of barbs he’d endured himself.

”I sought to teach her a lesson. Throw her off her guard a little. I didn’t expect her to react... in such a way.”

She is no threat, not to the likes of you, nor I, and you can be a terrifying presence when the mood takes you.

Galadriel's admonishment was soft and neutral, and not entirely because she was exhausted. She bid him rise with a motion of her hand--even with his head down, she had no doubt he would heed her command.

"You need not apologize now," she croaked, sounding as dreadful as she felt. "I expect she would not tolerate it."

Thank you, Haldir, your regard is appreciated, if somewhat unconventional.

He stood, nodding slowly. He kept his head down, unwilling to let his gaze reach hers. “I apologize, Lady. I will attempt to remedy the situation if the opportunity is presented. I did not wish to cause you trouble. Especially now.”

He moved back again. “Is there anything I can do for you, Lady? I…” he felt his throat tighten, and he tried to swallow it down. “I am sorry I failed you.”

"Nothing now, Haldir, but put yourself out," Galadriel replied, already breathing heavier than she had been. His armor smoldered still and the flames from the chair were growing gradually. "And perhaps that."

She gestured to the chair with one hand as she turned toward the doorway.

I feel safer with you on guard, once you have extinguished that, patrol as you may.

It took effort for her to find the door and opening it was something of an ordeal, but momentum carried her forward. She would have to find Gwenaëlle and explain...and perhaps locate water to sate her thirst and the demanding headache blooming behind her eyes.

He waited until she was out of the room before he let out a small keen and wrapped his arms about himself, his knuckles went white as he clenched against hard armor. He took a few ragged breaths, and then went to work cleaning the mess he was ultimately responsible for, all the while cursing himself for letting his temper get the better of him again. He left as he came, climbing up the wall, and out through the window rather than come risk letting anyone see him in the state he was in.

He patrolled, as requested, made sure the area was safe before settling down on the rooftop again. He watched the city below him, thousands of people brimming with life and purpose. And he'd never felt so alone.

Edited 2017-12-02 09:50 (UTC)

The instinct to immediately - and ideally more effectively than last time - seek out Thranduil had been quashed. More than frightened, she's bewildered by what just happened; the thought of being asked to explain it to anyone closes up her throat, some terrible thing with her own voice whispering urgently don't make a mess, don't fuss, you're being very stupid right now. What an overreaction. Someone jumped, and she-

she-

is sitting. She's sitting at the end of the hallway that connects all of the rooms, as far from the stairs as its possible to be, cross-legged on the floor with her basket and her fabrics in her lap, her spectacles in her hand. It isn't immediately obvious to her who it is that's stepped out because she doesn't look, but it's apparent that she's noticed someone did by the way her spine straightens, instinctively.

Don't fuss. Everything's fine. She's just- sitting, here, on the floor. Which is perfectly reasonable behaviour, because Gwenaëlle is doing it, and Gwenaëlle would never be unreasonable*.

* [ CITATION NEEDED ]

Gwenaëlle is seated at the end of the hall. It is a fortunate turn, given how limited Galadriel's knowledge of this tavern is, and how little she is able to search. She moves calmly, hand trailing along the wall to brace herself, and arrives at the woman's side in time. When she stops alongside Gwenaëlle she debates remaining upright but, eventually, decides to sit.

It is a very questionable decision considering her side and the state of it. All too soon Thranduil's tunic has a touch of blood along the side. Overall, she feels it is an improvement on the garment.

She doesn't speak for a moment, but when she does it is with apology in her tone.

"Haldir is zealous, a tendency I admit I do not attempt to curb in him. He will apologize when you deem it fit."

A long silence follows that, broken only by a resigned, unsteady exhale.

“Overzealous,” she observes, at length, “is I think the word you were looking for. To go with my overreaction. I'll have someone replace the chair, but you'll have to pardon me for not being interested in being further resented for his being forced to apologise to me. I'll pass.”

The possibility it might actually be remotely sincere for any reason other than pleasing Galadriel doesn't enter her head for an instant. It'll be a stupid bit of play-acting at her expense, for someone else's benefit, so everyone can pat themselves on the back and say aren't we fucking civilized, isn't everything all right now.

He can fuck off.

"So, not now, then," Galadriel replies.

She has no vested interest in when Haldir apologizes or if this woman accepts it, but she will not be impolite, herself, on either of their behalves.

"To your credit, that was a very good shot. But perhaps we should avoid further combat. I do not think I can withstand it."

“When his apology has nothing to do with you,” she says, very neatly, “he can give it to me.”

(She won't hold her breath.)

“But you're in luck. You've just seen the entire extent of my combat ability. I'd have been fucked if he'd done anything else.”

And she was very aware of it; if she'd been thinking at all, she'd never have struck, all too aware of her own vulnerability.

There was a Silvan on the roof, in the raiment of the Galadhrim, and somehow that did not raise his confidence. Wearing his own face, carrying a small basket from market, he hopes no one else has spotted the elf on the roof and are instead conducting business as usual.

Thranduil stops at the top of the stairs to the second floor, hand still on the rail, and looks at the scene at the other end of the hall.

“Ladies,” he says, somewhat gallantly but the rest of him is suspicion. There’s something warm and buttery under the cloth in his basket, and there’s no reason in it getting cold. He walks down the hallway to them, and shuns the trend of sitting on the floor, instead placing the basket down, eyes on the blood blooming out on Galadriel’s side.

“Fish pie,” he says. “I hope it does not offend. Why is one of your Silvans on the roof?”

gwenaëlle vauquelin

closed; galadriel, haldir. (thranduil?)

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