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

[arcaneadvisor]

"What were the words the dwarf put in the mouth of my mother? That there is always a catch? That life is a catch?" Something to that effect, and that's something she can hear in Flemeth's voice so annoyingly enough she can't doubt that he was there to hear her say it to whichever one heard it, and how misguided. To leap from the Circle to the Wardens. She wonders how old the girl might have been then. Young. Very young. The Wardens still saviours and heroes, nothing to tarnish them at all, nothing from the Circles to teach her better.

When she had told Myr that none of them were born of ewes or rams, she'd meant it though there are times she's sorely tested.

"When you are given your life even by another, I would suggest that you take it, however much of it that you have. Should the opportunity arise in the future." The words of someone who was half-gifted hers, who tore the rest free without looking back more than she had to then never stopped even with the bits missing that people don't think about until they're raw, jagged, the edge of a scar. "There are things that happen when the demons come," and there are always demons of a kind, are there not, "and one is taught fear."

Continuing to walk down a side street with less footfall than before to prevent an audience, she turns Inessa's way, a question on her lips. "And how, exactly, did she justify this? Wardens must do a great many things to defeat a Blight but what allows for abominations?"

[circleprodigy]

At twenty-one years old, Inessa is still quite young...and yet thanks to all she's endured and experienced, there's no youthful merriment or impulsiveness to her. She's all focus, which has certainly been of aid at times, but it's cost her something as well. Whether or not she realizes it herself is another matter. As they walk, Garahel adopts a quieter tread, surprisingly quiet for one of his bulk. Though he usually prefers to draw attention, the mabari takes his cue from the ladies this time.

Her lips form a thin line, still furious that Clarel lives while so many other good Wardens do not. "Oh, it was 'sacrifice' this and 'duty' that. She truly seemed to believe that even the loss of the Warden mages' will was an acceptable loss, as long as it meant fulfilling the order's purpose before the Calling took us all. After all, a demon army doesn't have the needs of a mortal one. I knew a great many rules were bent or broken in service to the cause, but those words rang hollow the moment I saw the results myself. I saw a friend who had joined alongside me, from a different Circle. He had the same goals I did, he would have served them well...but the last time I saw him, he was but a shell on himself. Worse than Tranquil. He died at Adamant, I am told."

[arcaneadvisor]

Cousland had a hound.

Morrigan never asked what happened to it, if the mabari ended up dead before his master, and why that even matters to her now but there are so many Wardens with a dog at their side same as Inessa's, those bred for intelligence, for strength, for bloody-minded loyalty to take them into the Deep Roads, fetid, festering darkness.

Dead, most likely. She can't even remember what he called the thing that had been so overjoyed to see her once upon a time, and she it.

Making note of where a shop with bolts of fabric in the window is, most of the brightest being dark reds or gold for later when she plans for what to work on over the winter back in Kirkwall, her attention is given to Inessa. To a conversation more than half the year ago over wine with Gwenaëlle before they all departed Skyhold for good. For Inessa to tell her this much is...well, surprising enough that it's a struggle to keep both eyebrows where they should be. "So certain she was that there would be complete control over these demons? Even for those moments, demons are demons after all, there is a thing that they want." The Wardens and their reputation. The Wardens and the Inquisition's reputation. A fine balance that tips so easily for allies not swallowed into the whole. "Did no one try to learn why all heard the Calling all at once? Was knowledge such a crime?"

(Is she answering her own questions here, most likely but she would rather know.)

[circleprodigy]

Inessa has a lot of feelings tangled up in the clusterfuck that Warden-Commander Clarel unleashed, which time and distance have barely eased. It's not helped by the ongoing mess in the Anderfels, either. Her order seems to be doing all it can to destroy any goodwill it has left, and that's a hard thing for swallow for someone who joined out of idealism.

"Since I was newly-joined and not of any significant rank, there was much I was not told. That didn't stop me from asking; in fact, I asked that very question. And yet, what I got in response was stonewalling. Follow orders, trust your superiors. Don't question. If there was an attempt made, it's not to my knowledge, but it obviously didn't go far enough, given how events unfolded. A true pity." Morrigan isn't a Warden, it's true, but she traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, was a Blight veteran. That made Inessa a little more open than she otherwise might be, mulled wine temporarily forgotten as her own gaze stares to the bolts of dark blues and other cool tones.

[arcaneadvisor]

Gwenaelle gifted Morrigan such a beautiful cloak, as well as all that she's given to Kieran, cloth or something of Morrigan's own making wouldn't go amiss; if there's one good thing to be said for this sort of travel it's that her luggage isn't entirely her own problem. The last of her wine downed, she keeps hold of the cup. (Boys like souvenirs.)

"And you did your duty by remaining." What a curious thing, duty. But a small simple word until one picks it up to wield it with justification in the other hand, bends and folds it how they might. "One wonders what duty is now to any, the world torn asunder." Where do the Wardens lie when push comes to shove. Where do Wardens lie now when she's seen the lengths a Blight drives them to. Too many are easy with their presence, coasting on the reputation alone forgetting how few there were in Ferelden, how but two were Wardens the entirety of that Blight.