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

"We do." That's an interesting question. "Runes primarily, to be used in enhancing weaponry, but clothing, jewelry, household implements, other things. Is there something you're needing enchanted? I'm not the most skilled with it, but I can give it a try. Depending on what it is and what you want it to do."

Clothing is easiest for him, weaving magic in with the thread as it's sewn, not dealing with raw lyrium, but it is also one of the weaker enchantments since it doesn't require that component.

The smear on her arm requires some interest as well, though, and he's fishing through a belt pouch as he talks before bringing out a clean cloth and offering it over. "If you're not ready to heal or be healed, at the least we can make certain the wounds stay clean. Infection's a nasty business."

Now Purrelden pays attention, looking at the woman at the table and taking a few steps closer, sniffing at the air.

She lets out a huff of a laugh that is instantly accompanied by a mild grimace. Her temperament is too light to suffer being wounded long, it seems.

"No, I need nothing enchanted," she replies idly and takes the cloth from him. It is dry and unstained. She wipes off her hands and what has accrued in the crooks of her arms as she clutched her sides while traveling.

"I had wished to warn you, but now I cannot think of how to explain it," she admits and looks back up at him. Unfortunately, whatever she is about to add, her attention is drawn, immediately, to the cat that approaches. Why it begins investigating her, she cannot not say, but she watches it as she continues.

"Perhaps I am more gravely wounded than I assumed, else I am burning too much power now. Does this land have Houses of Healing?"

A little amusement grows in his expression as Anders holds his hands up and waggles his fingers.

"My lady, any house that has me in it is a house of healing. The only reason I lived to reach adulthood was because of my skill with healing. I'm not called a spirit healer because I carry alcohol. ...Which I do, on occasion. But it's unrelated." There's a confidence in his voice that wasn't present so much the last time they'd spoken; while not free of conflict or setbacks or hardships, he's come some way in feeling more in control of his life.

"You can try to explain while I close up the wounds? It's not difficult work and I don't mind doing it in the least."

Not difficult? It is strange to hear a healer proclaim it such but, she is not a healer, herself. It seems a much more daunting task to her. After a pause, she relents and inclines her head. The cloak is pushed back, over her shoulders over the back of the chair and the remaining white sleeve of her dress revealed in full. The stain that spreads from the bandaged slices into her side is so dramatic and utter that her gown has all but changed color.

"With some assistance I have sealed the wounds for travel, but I am no healer," she admits and while she doesn't gesture its hard to miss the claw lines that cut around her side from back to front.

"I have lost something, you see," she starts, gradually. "Something dear to me."

...Maker, why do people walk around with serious injuries acting like they're fine? Galadriel fits in to Thedas very well in this regard. Anders shakes his head as he stands and brings his chair close before sitting back down and casting, the green of creation surrounding his hands and extending in to her.

"It's a good thing you walked into this tavern, then," he murmurs as he starts at the deepest of the damage, weaving flesh back together. She's not entirely like any species he's healed before, but there are enough similarities he can tell what he's doing. Interesting, sometimes, that humans seem to be humans no matter the world, but elves can be different from elves.

"You're still wearing your cloak, at least." He remembers the way it burned him, what feels like a lifetime ago. Maybe if he does find a cure... but that's such a small thing on the grand scale of matters. "Is it another enchanted thing that Wardens should be wary of touching?"

The sound she makes is not a laugh but it is macabre, somewhere between a hum and an exhale, and it explains the darkness of the thought quite well. His healing is a boon and, despite herself, she finds it hard to recall the corruption in his blood. She is so weak that hearing it is difficult.

"Even I cannot imagine what would befall a Warden should they touch it," she admits in deference to his guess. "At the very least, I expect it would cost them a hand. At worst...

"I cannot speak to you of what it is, but know that if you see some small thing wreathed in starlight, you should avoid it as though the price of touching it might be your life. For truly, it might be."

"Something small, wreathed in starlight," he echoes. "I'll pass the word along that we need to not touch it, as well. I've a few friends I don't want losing a hand or more."

And the good news is that her life isn't going to be in danger here tonight. He may have misspoken about it not being difficult, based entirely on how she'd seemed to be holding herself together. Talking will help with healing, though. He wouldn't be able to explain how or why to save his life, but chatter makes it easier.

"You may be glad to know that I've been putting a lot of time trying to research a cure for the taint. I've the start of an idea of the shape it would have to take, though it's slow going."

"A worthy goal," Galadriel compliments, for perhaps the first time in their acquaintanceship. "I would offer to drive it from you, to burn it from your blood, but I am hardly in a state to manage such things.

"Tell me, has the poison in this world spread far in my absence?"

Burning it from his blood. That only sounds slightly lethal. Maker is he glad she's not offering.

"I don't think it's spread much," he says slowly, continuing to heal. "It's always a danger, certainly, and..."

Anders trails off, frowning. "Or it may have opportunity to, actually. The Grey Wardens in the Anderfels are busy with matters that aren't fighting Darkspawn right now, which means no one's in the Deep Roads keeping an eye on matters there. It could be getting worse up north." Up home.

It's only mostly lethal; the resilience of humans often surprises even the very Wise.

"A shame," she says, of either their failure to uphold their duty or the spread of the Blight, it is hard to say, but she notes the north as a point of interest in her mind. "I shall look afar when I can, though there is little to be done of it now.

"Should you need to test your cure, come to me. None who are corrupted may don my cloak nor hold my belongings. It will tell you if you have succeeded and, indeed, I would pray you do."

A SEA OF DEATH

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