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

His vision seemed a little fuzzy around the edges as stared in fascination at the wood grain on the table. He continued to hum, and then looked up for a moment to see a pair of deep, old eyes staring back at him. Their intensity surprised him and he pitched backward, only just managing to catching himself from falling by grabbing onto the tabletop.

Across the room Fingon stiffened slightly in surprise. That had not been a reaction he expected, or would have pretended to provoke.

Deliberately casually, he let his eyes move elsewhere while he waits for his drink. But not long afterward he made his way for Haldir's table.

"Are you well?" He asked softly, in the Sindarin of Mithrim. "Forgive me if I startled you; I was merely surprised at another of the Quendi among our number."

"Worry not. I am well, I think." His silvan accent was coming through far more than he desired and his speech was a little slurred. He continued to looked up at the figure above him, eyes fixed.

"My lips tingle a bit." He brought his hand up to touch his lips lightly. "And I think this bench is uneven.... wobbly."

Edited 2017-12-05 08:06 (UTC)

And that... did not seem entirely normal, though admittedly so little about life in Thedas was.

"It is possible," Fingon agrees. "The craftsmen here seem to save their best work for other things than tavern benches. Still, would you mind a bit of company on these uneven chairs?"

Haldir gave him a nod and moved over for him, this time having a better time keeping his balance.

"It is strange, the urge to eat. I never remembered food tasting so good in Arda, but I'm sure it must have." He took another tentative bite of pie, and another small sip of ale.

He reached out his hand for the other elf, "I am Haldir of--recently of Lorien. Well met, friend."

"Isn't it?" Fingon laughed, taking the offered seat. "I've felt something like it in Arda, a few times, but the feeling was never so acute as this."

Lorien earned another quirked eyebrow, but Fingon had to assume that was another place in Middle Earth, not the gardens the name brought to mind for him. He took the hand easily. "Fingon, late of Hithlum. Well met."

Haldir stopped sipping his ale the moment his name worked through the fog in his mind. He slowly put down his pint, and looked toward him with reverence and wonder in his eyes. He remembered that in the brief conversation with Maedhros, he mentioned that Fingon was among them. But he never imagined he would actually meet him.

"My-My Lord," He stuttered and then stood, on rather wobbly legs, and bowed deeply. "I-I'm most honored to meet you."

"You needn't- Haldir, sit down, please." Hurriedly, Fingon waved him back into the chair.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that he might have expected something like this; but then, his own people knew him well enough to keep obeisance only to the places where it was impossible to avoid it. And if such a reaction would have been a bit much at home, it seemed very strange in the midst of a human tavern in a land where no one had ever heard of Noldor or Sindar or Nandor.

"You are no Noldo nor sworn to me, and even if you were I an not in the habit of making those who are get up from their meals to greet me. Please, enjoy your meal."

Edited 2017-12-25 05:59 (UTC)

He did as he was bid, more than a little flustered by the thought of acting so causally with Fingon the Valient. But, he did not wish to cause him ire. So, he sat again, red as a tomato, trying very hard not to stare.

"I appologize, lord. I am sworn to Lady Galadriel, and was until recently in command if the Galadhrim. I would not want her to think me rude to her kin, especially you."

How many times had he pretended to be him while playing with his brothers as children? He remembered it like it was but last year. Running though the trees with swords carved of wood-his thoughts slammed to a halt as one fear crossed his mind. Could Fingon also see into his mind?

Edited 2017-12-26 02:14 (UTC)

Haldir could rest easy on that front; while none of Indis' descendants were weak in osanwe, the arts of the mind ran stronger in the line of Finarfin than in Fingolfin's children. Just as a tool less easily wielded was one more rarely reached for, Fingon had never made a practice of probing strangers' thoughts.

"The loyalty you show your mistress is a credit to both you and her, Haldir of Lorien. And you've done naught to apologize for- look, even the tavern is too crowded for anyone to notice the confusion. Only respect was intended, and no harm has been done."

He fleetingly considered asking Haldir to call him Fingon, at least in public- but the poor elf's face was quite red enough already. It seemed unfair, under the circumstances.

With a puff of a sigh, he relaxed a fraction, letting out a small hick-up in the process.

"I would never mean anything but respect, Lord." He looked down at his ale again, running a finger over the lip of the mug ideally. Small talk had never been one of his strengths, and that had never been more clear than this exact moment. He cleared his throat again before opening his mouth several times only to close it again.

"What exactly brings you...here...my Lord?" He hoped that it was an appropriate question.

"To Nevarra? The Inquisition was coming here, of course, and Kirkwall is a city best appreciated in as small doses as one can arrange."

Not the question Haldir was really asking, of course, which Fingon acknowledges with a slight shrug before he answers. "There are many native elves among the Inquisition's company, but few of the Quendi. We would have run across each other eventually, I suppose, but I thought it best to introduce myself and settle the matter now."

He's genuinely curious as he follows it up: "Would you have preferred to handle the matter in a different fashion?"

There was another panicked moment where Haldir worried he had insulted Fingon. Had he been rude? He put up his hands, hoping to correct the mistake.

"No, no, my Lord. I did not mean to offer any criticism, I just-I did not expect any attention at all." He swallowed hard, trying to think about how to phrase this next sentence. "I am honored you sought me out. I have heard much about you from Lady Galadriel, and also from our histories. I admit I am a little overwhelmed meeting you in person, but I am not in any way unhappy."

He had come to idolize him after he read about him. But he couldn't let him know. That would be far too embarrassing.

A SEA OF DEATH

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Sorry this took so long!!! Ah!

As you can see, I have no room to comment

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