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

Medseller: 02, Nosy Natives: 00. Wren groans —

— And promptly recalls her attention to the room, to Beleth's question and her... whatever the girl's trying to do now. Concern briefly wrinkles her brow, sending her bracing to stand, to intervene. But by then they've already fallen, and thank the Maker (thank Thranduil) for the cushion beneath.

"You've not seen me angry," She replies, at last, like a perfectly pleasant person who doesn't say gratuitously edgy things at truth or dare sleepovers. "But if you like,"

Her lips curl. It's really only a smile in the technical sense. Certainly, it shows teeth.

"Thranduil," She's still doing it. That thing with her mouth. Nine out of ten dentists agree, it's pretty weird. "What do you dream of?"

Thranduil, amused, watches Beleth and Myr tumble about, and, for once, act their ages.

(Though that statement may well be up for debate by the other members of the room.)

He pours Beleth’s shots with a gentle hand, though not a generous one—if Glaweron challenges him, he can make sure to top them off, but Beleth is just this side of pleasantly adorable, and the smell of vomit so hard to clean from cloth. They are representing the Inquisition, after all.

“My wife,” he says, and that is more or less true. He needn’t name which one. It is Wren’s fault for asking. “My home in my wood—the Fade can only mimic, but it mimics well the underground halls we all lived in, the carven wood and stone. The paths spill out and around as I dream, and the spirits seem eager enough to mimic what I know well, so I never wander far. There is also a, ah—I think it a Pride Demon. It oft takes the form of a stag, but it is ever out of reach.”

He dreams of the Outsider, too, but he will keep that to himself. He is not sure what wears his old friend’s skin, but it has not yet come close enough to him to ask after it.

To Myr, then. He cannot torture him again, sadly. "I understand mages are not normally allowed outside. How, then, did you get bees inside your Circle?"

How lucky Myr hasn't got eyes to see what Wren's doing, else he could be thoroughly scandalized in two senses. (Not that he hasn't already committed the ditty to memory.) Instead he lies precisely where Beleth's dropped him, lolled on his back and laughing helplessly with her. "You almost did it," he manages through the giggling. "Almost. Next time."

He throws an arm over her fondly, in no hurry to sit back up even when he's asked a question. ...Even when he realizes he's been asked a question, as the only Circle mage and beekeeper in the room. He rolls his head toward Thranduil in an echo of an upside-down regard, one corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.

"Enchanter Belén would be let out to catch swarms, sometimes. Take 'em out of the city, even, if somebody was having trouble with one." A pause; he chews at his lower lip, considering. Then continues (not for him the short and simple answer): "We'd get foragers from wild hives now and again--if we'd had to, I bet we could've lured 'em in with their new queens in the spring. S'fun stuff, creation magic." A wiggle of his fingers goes with the words for emphasis.

And now it's his turn to ask a question--his turn to be tempted by the façade presented by their painted companion. Just because no one else has had any luck-- "Serah Medicine Seller--hardest truth you've ever told someone." It's like a twofer, he thinks fuzzily. A truth and a context.

There was a long silence from the Medicine Seller. For a moment, he considered telling the tale.

"I have never known truth to be easy. But the hardest to have told is not a story for such a gathering."

He poured a glass and downed the contents easily, seeming none the worse for wear.

"I do not mind telling it another time - but not here or now."

Ochou deserves better than that, he thought wryly and turned his gaze to Beleth.

"Miss Beleth, you failed your prior task. But perhaps a chance to redeem your honour and a chance for us to embark on an adventure - can you guide us safely to something good to eat?"

Beleth has been untangling herself from Myr just enough to start on her shots, and was shotgunning the second one when the Medicine Seller calls on her. Slowly, she turns to look at him, blinks, and the gears turn...oh! Food. Yes. That's a great idea.

"Yes! Yes, I'm gonna be so damn honorable, you don't even know." She finishes off the third, and decides the other two can be saved for later. He didn't say that she had to drink all of them at once. That matter settled, she hops up decisively--And with the sudden rush of alcohol to her head, promptly falls back down, just managing to avoid crashing onto Myr with all her weight. This is, apparently, hilarious, from her fit of giggling.

But she is determined, if nothing else, and rises again, this time managing to stay solidly upright. "I know this food stall. I went there with Anders. I can take you guys there." And with that, she whirls--nearly falls again--and starts off for the door, throwing it open with a grand gesture.

"An adventure. For food! Foodventure." Having made this declaration, and not bothering to see if anyone else was following her, she takes off down the hall.

Edited 2017-12-10 06:39 (UTC)

Thranduil decides that this is the point where he ought to step in before Beleth does something—he forgets, perhaps, that elven drinking (Mirkwood drinking, the Lothlorians do not carry on in this nature) might be—

Harmful.

He unwinds himself from his nest, and stands, a meaningful glance to Coupe and the Medicine Seller both as he daintily steps through the mess on the floor and makes it to the door.

“I shall be back shortly.” Beleth in tow, unshamed and unrecognized, the two going hand-in-hand, and maybe even with food. “Glaewron—I would beg your indulgence for any tea you had worth sharing.”

And hopefully be able to pour it into both the little elves and Coupe as well. They all have varying degrees of work, come the morning.

Beleth is happy enough to take Thranduil's offer of support, though her focus on it is more of an act of fondness, rather than an attempt to keep her from hurtling down the stairs headfirst. Full of quiet laughter, she rests her head against his shoulder with a squeeze of his hand.

"This is fun," It's a quiet murmur, as she leads him off to the (probably) right stall of honor and food. She knows the general area. She'll figure out which one when they get there. "Going out to bring back food, together. Like a dinner with family. That's so cute."

It's the quiet ramblings of an intoxicated person, but the emotions are genuine, at least, as she gives a quiet laugh. "Like a papa--no." A sudden frown, and she shakes her head. "That's not right. You're different. You're here, and you like me." A few moments are taken to rummage through her memories.

"Ada." That sounds better. More appropriate for Thranduil. Then she looks up, with a worried expression. "You do like me, right?"

A SEA OF DEATH

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