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

"Nords have tales of werewolves. I've seen them." Was one. Cured it. "We have werevultures. The men and women hunting them never bothered with dogs but a werewolf could split them in two. We're there really werewolves here or is it just a story?" What signs were there, Brónach remembers it beneath her skin but unless a person saw then there wasn't a damned thing.

But that's what happens. Stare long enough you find a thing worth peeling back flesh to examine.

"Time, Y'ffre's green-knotted bones what d'you think happens when people split our and move, live different long enough? Altmer have pedigrees over who breeds to make sure they look most like the old elves, Dunmer were cursed to look that way, my people went off to the forest, the Falmer were twisted, and the Dwemer got lost to us all." Let's not drag in the orcs today. "Dunmer it's all down to Azura's wrath upon them."

So now Brónach listens same as with Arngeir or to Delphine before Delphine asked her to murder the one dragon interested in speaking sense with her. Her lip curls though she's eating so that hides it until there's just the bones left in her lap, words to turn over as she licks her fingers.

"Humans were the slaves to dragons more or less. This...we lost immortality because one god tricked the rest so that's how it went for us mer who should be immortal. You're elves, how did it come to that?" If she's bristling it's from remembering an invasion. Remembering what it's like to live when others wabt to shape you in service. Bile in her mouth and stomach sent churning, not one word of this something she wants to hear but it's inevitable that she sat through without interrupting.

A snort at the Dales, the Dalish. "Tattooing your face means they know who they're looking for every time they come. The Dunmer lost Morrowind to Azura's wrath, something must be punishing them if they lost two homes. This religion thing. One god and one whatever she is - no one does that. No one. The Dalish won't have a third home and you from the cities would be better carving your respect than tossing your lot with them."

"...werevultures." Inessa echoes that with a bit of revulsion and fascination all in one. "Oh, werewolves are quite real. The Hero of Ferelden encountered a pack of them during the Fifth Blight, in the Brecilian Forest. They are cursed with a bestial, unthinking fury and greatly feared as a result. Fortunately, they are far from common." She has never seen them herself, but given all that she has been told, Inessa is perfectly fine with that. Even Garahel rumbles uneasily at mention of them.

She raises an eyebrow at all the rest, especially Bronach's judgment on the Dalish. It's surprising to her since plenty of rifters -at least the other elves- seem to sympathize with them. Bronach's perspective certainly gives her a different outlook, indeed. "I personally have no intention of joining the Dalish, if they would even have me. Since I'm a 'flat-ear' and not a true inheritor of elven culture in the eyes of most of them, they would likely reject me, anyway. Why would I go where I'm not wanted?" Sure, like many she had idly wondered what it would have been like to live away from humans, but it remained an idle thought. There was no true interest in doing so when the Creators meant nothing to her and so many scorned their city brethren.

"As for how it came to that; from what I know, once the elf realized the effect the shemlen -humans- had on them, they turned insular to protect their people, but that did not save them. Tevinter magisters used their great destructive power to force the very ground to swallow Arlathan -the ancient capital- whole. Elves were enslaved, and human contact quickened their veins until every captured elf turned mortal. The Dales' insularity did not save them, either. It's a pattern which never ends well, not that the fault lies solely with the elves involved."

She stares off, mulling over what has been said on both ends. "It seems elven existence is always one of hardship, whatever the world." Not an encouraging thought, but it seems true enough. "What happened, that an entire branch of elves was lost another twisted?"

What did she remember from being a wolf? Running. All the smell of the world about her when the beast blood went howling through her veins but that some part of her had still been herself every time after coming back. "What did they do to them? It's still a person in there, under the skin, under all that. Get a bite, get it in you and that's-- you're living in a skin that's not yours." Kodlak, Vilkas, Farkas, her all cured, Skjor dead by the Silver Hand but Aela still as wild as she'd ever been with totems of Hircine to pray by in the dark of the Underforge.

It's hard to think of werewolves easily when you were one. When you've worn the skin of another. When it's your dearest shield-sister who runs on the hunt with you.

"Elven culture. And what culture is that when they don't have a homeland since they lost it?" If she is cruel, if she is cutting, if the scorn drips from her mouth it's because her whole life was spent in the treetops with her bow in hand as family members slipped away before the Thalmor but she was still there and alive that whole time with her sharp arrows aimed and ready. Bosmer. Green Pact. "We still leave and keep our ways wherever we go, the ones who go about deciding who gets to be a certain sort of elf are the ones not even their own like. The ones who start wars."

The ones who might be here. Too tall, too fair to look upon.

She has a bow, she has a dagger, she's never not been ready for it.

More unfamiliar words to trip her up, her hand held up to halt Inessa. "Magister? What's that?" (Why does it creep along her spine same as Dragon Priests behind their masks. Lydia never liked her bringing those back to Breezehome but where else was she going to put them all?)

Paarthurnax's words come back to her again as dragons flew above her head, acknowledging all that had been done. "It wasn't hardship. It's life." Don't lump me in with this struggle even as she claws at things that can't be changed from a life she can't get back, kalpas and dragons and if she made a mistake with what she did sometimes-- "The dwemer were gone. The falmer were twisted. I'm not a historian that way, I know about the things we talk about now; Dunmer talk about what was done to them, the Altmer want to see us all restored, and my people are tree-sap young. I just know killing falmer and the things the dwemer left behind."

Inessa strokes a yawning Garahel as she listens, nodding. "If an elf is tainted by a darkspawn and that corruption goes unchecked, they will devolve into ghouls in time, given purely over to feral instincts. I suppose that is the nearest equivalent to falmer that we have.

"A magister is a member of the Magisterium, the upper house of the Tevinter Imperial Senate. It's effectively shorthand for the elite mages who rule the Imperium. Outside it, they are universally despised and with good reason. Slavery is illegal everywhere else, and blood magic anywhere else would see one hunted down by templars. They are also despised for what they have done in the past, as it was a group of magisters who exacted a massive blood sacrifice to enter the Fade physically. The result were the coming of the darkspawn and Blights, which we still suffer. Everything related to magic in the south is a backlash to their excess." So yeah, fuck Tevinter and its magisters.

"As for what came of the werewolves, none were seen after his party left the Brecilian Forest. Either he killed the werewolves within or managed to lift their curse; I suspect the latter, honestly." Given how he saved her Circle tower, and went out of his way to save Redcliffe and the Guerrin family, it would certainly be in character for him.

"Got warned about them but it's not the same," and with her mouth lifting up too suddenly for it to be good to a stranger (a few people would know that look, Hail Sithis and a soft murmur of lass for all they were of age) she leans in. "Can't show you here, don't know why it was in my pocket not my pack but got an ear from one. Might learn something, see the differences but our alchemists use them. I've used them." That's not why she has the ear. She just has it. She killed a lot of a falmer she was bound to end up with bits of them lodged in pockets, and somewhere her stuff was just spat out elsewhere.

Holding in her horror is an old thing. It's-- no. It's not easy. It shouldn't be easy, it won't be easy but habits are habits, drilled into her same as aim, draw, release, how to fiddle a lock to find the right spot without jamming it hopelessly, how deep to sink a knife without spoiling pelt or meat. Nothing changes, only that Brónach can't look at someone that isn't one of her own for it. What's a stranger going to see in her eyes? Too much? Not enough? Stupid to take the risk. "I've met that kind," she manages around a raw throat and she can't give more. She won't. That there's a thing like the Thalmor here when she already glimpsed something else of it, a rot in the heart that makes her sick.

"Werewolves belong to the daedra Hircine if you don't kill the wolf spirit too." It's an offering, a way to not have to talk about the fucking Magisters or the fucking Thalmor anymore. "You can cure it with a witch's head but getting that isn't easy, the witches are attached," ha ha she doesn't tell jokes often, "and then there's fighting the wolf spirit. Otherwise you spend your afterlife in Hircine's Hunting Grounds and not wherever you're meant to go."

(The fit to be pitched carving up Brónach's leavings-- well. She'll maybe see if there's a Wild Hunt and just go for that first.)

So much of what Bronach says is fascinating, even the parts that unnerve her...and Falmer ears certainly qualify for the latter category. She nods slowly at it having alchemical use, seeing the practicality involved and unable to fault that, but it brings to mind other issues. "I'm somewhat curious to see what purpose Falmer ears have in alchemy, but I ought to warn you against showing that to others at large, especially native elves. Some humans have made sport of cutting off elven ears, and though you are obviously not human yourself, it will provoke nothing but ill-will."

The reaction to her description of magisters is well-noted and Inessa gives a sympathetic nod, not prodding for more when it's obviously a sore subject. She only elaborated to provide context, and now that it's given, Tevinter and its Skyrim equivalent need not be further discussed. That Bronach is familiar with such actions tells her all she needs to know, anyway.

Garahel makes a questioning noise at mention of wolf spirits and witches heads, and Inessa reaches over to stroke him. "...so werewolves are not only cursed in this life, but the next? And these witches are responsible? That's why you need a head to undo the curse? But why curse them to begin with?" Her polite but interested demeanor slips a little bit, unable to hide revulsion at the thought of simply cutting off someone's head as a cure for anything.

"That's their own problem, not mine." If they're going to let themselves start with histrionics over an ear that's nothing to do with them, just an ear that came from a thing that's dead now with one of Brónach's arrows punctured through a thigh then the throat then that's on them. It never came down to that when they re-educated her family. When they disappeared them off. "It's just meat."

How very Bosmer of her. Inessa won't get the joke. Wouldn't have gotten it even if she were from Tamriel anyway, not looking that young or as if she should be tucked into the Mages College or what's left of it now hanging perilously to Winterhold. Has a bookishness to her. The old orc librarian would've liked her as much as he seemed to like anyone but a damn sight more than some Bosmer who shouted her way in because she needed to be there, asking answers and directions then slipping back out before the draft got in behind her.

"The witches are just for ending it. Some of them were into Hircine worship and they're witches, fingers hooked and bent like claws. Started to stop looking like people." There's a truth she isn't telling but as little as Harbinger really means, it's what the Companions mean, the idea of it, reading the old man's diary in the old man's seat in the quiet of the mead hall when the rest were still mourning in their loud Nord way. "Not everyone sees it as a curse but eternity is a long time to spend on the hunt."

It's just meat. Inessa merely lifts her eyebrows at that, but she drops the subject for the time being. She gave her warning and if it's not followed, then it's out of her hands. The division heads can deal with it, as they please.

She straightens as Garahel yawns and stretches out, getting comfortable again, though he continues to observe Bronach with those curious, intelligent eyes. "...they almost sound like abominations. When a demon possesses a mage, you know it's at the point of no return when they're no longer recognizable. Any semblance of who they were is gone, and they crave only death and destruction." She stares off, jaw tense as she forces back the memories that are always lurking within. That's not something she wants to relive, if at all possible. So she clears her throat and changes the subject. "As for witches of Thedas, it is simply a term for apostate mages, especially the Witches of the Wilds. I cannot speak to their practices, but I have met at least one, and she is recognizably human." As to her opinion of Skyrim's witches, Inessa certainly isn't going to ask.

"Where do the souls of your dead go, if not to Hircine's hunting grounds? For us, we have no confirmed answers, only many differing beliefs. The typical Andrastian version is that the souls of the dead pass over to the Fade, to reach the Maker's side. The Dalish have their own version, the dwarves believe they return to the Stone and the Qunari...I have no idea." It's not as though they kept such lore in Circle towers, and she has yet to befriend one of the horned people well enough to ask.

Well someone's had a bad experience then though who hasn't when it comes to the destruction that some mages can wreak when they put their minds to it? Too many times delving into something or somewhere or someone and then there it is, magic, a ritual, a spell, a cult, and all it means is bad news. If it means the tightening of a jaw here she'll be on her guard for those. "Plenty of things can walk around looking human or mer until they're not." Werewolves, vampires, briar-hearts if you don't catch the chest, cultists who stopped being anything but what they became when they signed up.

Then Inessa asks that and a thing cracks inside of Brónach.
Her jaw works. She sees faces almost forgotten, the features already blurring out of necessity because sometimes the mind is kind, tucks a thing away until the moments come when you want to lie down to scrape open every old hurt, peering right down to the bone. "Nords go to Sovngarde and their ancestors. Daedra have their planes in Oblivion so a soul promised to them goes there in the afterlife. I don't know about everyone, I'm not a scholar but," she pauses, chews her lip until there's blood in her mouth, her heart heavy with it somehow.

The space between one breath and the next holds echoes. Their names would be scrubbed from the story Y'ffre is telling and replaced with silence. Her childhood returns to her again, the first tale ever told, the most important above all others.

When she continues, her gaze is distant. "The Dreamsleeve to return again, but we - Bosmer - we saw Y'ffre first of the Ehlnofey die and become part of the earth, become the Earth Bones. I think...I think that. But I'm not a priest or a shaman or anything like that. I have a long time before I go and now I'm a long way from anyone who could tell me."

Observing Bronach's reaction, Inessa's expression becomes apologetic. She asked as a point of curiosity, not to tread upon a sore spot. Still, as Bronach continues, she listens and tries to keep those names and terms in mind. Even if it's not at all relevant to Thedas, it's still interesting and helps her understand the newcomer better. Even Garahel peers at her as though following every word.

When Bronach finishes, Inessa nods slowly. "I wish I could confirm, one way or another. I knew -passingly- some rifters that were killed in battle, but what came of their souls, I can't be certain. I like to think there is a place for them in the Beyond, but I don't have the breadth of experience to say."

She is pensive for a moment, wondering about the fates of that other Kain and Martel. What kind of afterlife would await them, without the shard they had in life? It's a question she'll never be able to answer.

This is a girl. This is a girl telling her this and Brónach should be better at doing this but spend too much time away from everyone then you forget how to shape your face like everyone else, and you can howl out when the terrible things come because no one's there to hear it but the wolves howling back, as feral as you are.

"You can't escape the Dreamsleeve, the Altmer want to try but they haven't managed it yet. My soul is promised elsewhere and I don't doubt that when that time comes, no matter where I am they'll reach out for it." They is good. Daedric Princes plural but even if it's Nocturnal she can still call her they and get away with it if pushed.

Inessa looks thoughtful at that, reaching over to stroke Garahel's head. "'They'? How many of them lay claim on it? What happens to conflicting claims?" And why would anyone want to do such a thing? She wants to ask, but thinks better of it. That's where curiosity would cross the line into passing judgment. Another rifter recently met judged Inessa's own situation with barely any context, and she has no desire to do the same to another. If it's as Bronach says, her own thoughts on the matter would have no bearing, anyway.

Laughing turns to a ragged sound that's been dragged from her throat, Brónach shaking her head, shaking it away as she laughs as mad as Sheogorath. "The day I die, come see what happens."

It's a thought. All of them circling her as wolves on the hunt. The dreamsleeve; is this how you escape it, with violence?

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