A SEA OF DEATH

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[arlathvhen]

Living in any place means abiding by rules, Beleth thinks, but doesn't say anything. She wonders what kind of rules Valenwood must have, if Bronach thinks that it isn't self-sustaining, doomed to failure. Which can also apply to any place, now that she thinks about it. Neither of these thoughts would be wise to voice.

She's not sure what would be wise to voice in response to that, so she simply nods. Sometimes, not saying anything is the best you can do.

"No, High dragons are fairly rare, luckily. They've only just started coming back, but hopefully their numbers won't grow too rapidly. The Inquisition has killed a few of them," Not including her, because she isn't stupid, and she is small and squishy and she's worked too hard to get to where she is now to throw it all away trying to kill a damn dragon. "And hopefully we'll be able to keep them from becoming too numerous."She hums thoughtfully. "Though not entirely wiped out, of course. It'd be a shame to have them go extinct."

[earthbones]

This is what the world is: to learn a painful lesson in the first of fables, and for it to be condemnation. Formlessness for violation. Her life is keeping it as much as those who died. Who were taken. Every soul with their teeth and bones given up to be returned to what they were again until finding herself here where there's a softness spreading out from pit to flesh.

"I lost count." Brónach doesn't know how to boast. Hers isn't a voice cut out for it but what is this place to think a few is even a drop in the bucket? Will they bend before her Thu'um? There's only one way to learn and it's to learn. "The dragons allied to the World-Eater came to crack the world between his teeth again and I was there. I learnt to stop it. His brother, an order, they taught me how to bring his end. If you can't speak with them you have no choice in what to do; the dragon takes flight, his wings spread out, hands reach up to touch in worship or to shield the eye as the world eats itself." She stops, takes a shuddering breath as if memory has hold of with cruel teeth in the back of her neck, a ragged cough before the words come out. "Do you like this world?"

[arlathvhen]

Bronach is dropping a lot of information on Beleth, and some of it is utterly bizarre. Dragons allying, like they can do that, and to a World-Eater--is that figurative or literal? How can anything eat a world? She tries to commit what Bronach says to memory, though, and despite her confusion, she's obviously intently listening to what the other elf is telling her.

And then she hits Beleth with a question that gives her pause. That is a...fair question, and one that takes a little mulling over. To preoccupy herself while she tries to think, Beleth scoots her tankard of ale over to Bronach--she looks like she could use it.

"No," Beleth says after she's had enough time to think on it. Her voice is soft, contemplative. "No, I don't. I've always known Thedas is a mess, but hearing about other worlds, where things are better--for elves, for everyone--" She falls silent for a moment, frowning at her hands. "--But this is my world. And I'm here with the Inquisition, because I'm willing to put my life on the line to save it, and make it better. I don't like Thedas how it is now, but I haven't given up yet."

Another short pause, and then she looks up to Bronach, a wry smile on her face. "Though I have to admit, a World-Eater sounds far more intimidating than Corypheus. Did you really stop him, on your own?"

[earthbones]

"Not that. It's against my ways." A careful slide with the back of her hand to move it away from her; that she intends to keep her practices written in the gesture more tha the words somehow. And even if somehow there were a mug of Jagga to be made manifest before her on the table for the first time in years, this is a thing she'd want to be sober for.

No I don't, this girl says, and it takes all that there is in her not to get up from the table to walk away, to keep walking, or to grab her maybe. Too much attention for any of that. Did she misjudge after talk of forests, being held down as one is? There isn't a better, she could tell her that because that's the truth when a god tricks the rest to steal the immortality from the rest tearing out his heart to live gripping the edges of the world he birthed. When there's a way to be an elf, when there's a soul slipped under your tongue, and beneath your ribs, and you are old and young forever and the shadow of the serpent is ever about you.

"You like the world or you don't," said with finality because to love the bones of the earth is to be beloved of them and by them, and she does love the world enough to have stretched herself out to stop it. An arrow fired to wedge the hands of time into shuddering to a halt. "If you don't then how is it yours? What if the only way to make it better is to let the next come that comes without you? You don't like this world, what is it to you if it goes?"

This is what comes when you speak with Paarthurnax high in a mountain on why you should learn to shake a world with only your voice, when you lost everything already, when you watch the world begin to shake apart around you with so few noticing because they don't have one foot planted firmly in it. "Few enough can do what I do to stop a dragon when dragons don't understand things the way that we do. A dragon is time, and the World-Eater the firstborn son of Akatosh.

"The World-Eater is time ending." She draws a small vertical line on the table with a finger. "Akatosh is time, and Auri-El who is linear time," and she draws another line, horizontal that strikes the vertical line neatly though if only it were so, if only, but the dragon had been broken before she'd ever been birthed so that had already been written with her in the margins of an Elder Scroll if Herma-Mora had come whispering at her with his black books and blind servants. "And there are words to murder a child when fate looks upon you to say that yes, you, you are summoned and you will do as I say because you like this world enough to keep it from breaking."