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

HERIAN AMSEL

[dashing]

Starters for each section incoming! I have a plotting comment for part III over here but feel free to use it to hit me up with ideas for other sections if you have ideas you want to discuss, or just wildcard me like a pro.

part I - OTA

[dashing]

PART I.
WALKING.
As in, “walking, because your horse has thrown a shoe, and cannot be ridden until re-shod.”
Herian’s normally brisk march is moderated to go at a pace better suited for a horse being mindful of where it steps, and her patience doesn’t waver when it starts raining, though it does occur to her that she can’t immediately think of any particularly uplifting verses from the Chant of Light that feature rain.

BROODING.
Which is to say, sitting in a dark corner and idly playing with a knife, rolling the handle against her palm as the point of it lightly presses against callused fingertips. She never allows herself to bleed, but plays with the pressure and the pattern the knife travels in, as she moodily fails to drink the jug of wine before her, her cup waiting but as yet unfilled. Perhaps she is distracted, perhaps its some strange, Starkhaven ritual.

DANCING.
She does not dance. However, if music is playing and she is invited to, manners or friendship might just demand she oblige.

WILDCARD.

THRANDUIL

[rowancrowned]

I. [ CLOSED ]

Sometime during the past few hours, the beds had been pushed to the walls, the mattresses pulled onto the floor, the pillows arranged in mounds, and the blankets draped haphazardly where they best suited. Something was burning in an incense chalice, the smell blending nicely with whatever the Medicine Seller had packed his pipe with, passed freely.

Thranduil lolled on one such pile, stretched out luxuriantly, hair unbound, head propped up on a folded arm. Dressed for sleep in a grey brocade robe, he poured measures of a clear alcohol into small glasses, the good Nevarran wine finished earlier in the evening. He pushed the tray with the glasses into the center of their little circle, idly offering a picture of their layout to Myrobalan so he knows where to reach when his turn comes.

“The rules are simple,” Thranduil says. “We will start with the host—myself—who may ask any other person in the circle to choose between a truth or a task. That person will choose, the host will offer a question or a task. Refusal to answer the question or to complete the task to the group’s satisfaction means you must drink.”

He gestures to the little armada of glasses. “After finishing—either answering, doing the task, or drinking—that person may choose someone, and begin the cycle again. And—mm, nothing that would have Seeker Pentaghast upset with me.”

Thranduil turns his attention to Wren, hoping to root out resistance before it has a chance to bloom. He smiles at her, all feline slyness. “I choose truth. Coupe,” dismissing formalities. “—why become a Templar?”

II. [ CLOSED ]

He finds her in the market at midday, her back to the street at large. Only several inches taller than her rather than a foot and some change, he has, perhaps, a slightly softer face, and shorter hair to match his stature. He touches her shoulder to catch her attention, waiting until she turns to smile.

(Yva is ignored.)

“Lady,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

His accent is similar enough to the Lady Seeker’s, but perhaps it is his bearing that, among all the other things, he has not altered in the least. He still walks with the entitlement of a noble, but the serene grace has been stripped from him. There are wrinkles at the corners of his kohl-outlined eyes—the sun has darkened his arms, his shoulders. His teeth are not bone white.

“Dismiss your girl,” he says. “It is finally tomorrow, and I have much to show you and very little time.”

III. [ OPEN ]

WILDCARD.

Inessa Serra

[circleprodigy]

Tavern

Having spent most of her life in communal quarters, Inessa is not at all fazed by the necessity to share her room with whoever needs the crashspace. She's just relieved to get out of the rain and somewhere dry and warm for a change. Since the Inquisition has essentially taken over the inn, she feels comfortable changing out of her armor before heading downstairs. Dancing isn't something that's likely to happen unless Ciri or Kain request it, but she is reasonably social while enjoying her mulled wine and will make room for anyone deciding to join her.

Garahel, tired from all the traveling, is less of a social butterfly than usual. He's plopped down in front of the fireplace, not budging from that spot unless Inessa requests it. That said, he'll roll over for belly rubs if anyone approaches him.

Nevarra City

The parades certainly catch Inessa's interest when she's out and about, pausing with Garahel on the sidelines to observe recreations of battles and dragonslayings. She's never seen anything quite like it before, and lingers despite wanting to see as much of the city as possible in their short stay. As someone approaches, Inessa glances over with a distracted smile.

"Isn't it breathtaking? I wonder how they managed to get the dragon to--" Interrupted, Inessa turns to see two groups of rivals glaring daggers at each other while their leaders have a spirited shouting match regarding sabotage between them. Having no doubt that the situation will escalate and not wanting to be caught in the middle of it, the slight elven Warden begins to back up. "...we'd best depart."

Necropolis

Now, this is the area Inessa had most wanted to see. Everything else is an interesting diversion, to be sure, but she's wanted to see the legendary Grand Necropolis for some time now. The invitation is promptly accepted, of course, and Inessa plans to make the most of it. Nevarran customs are not her own, but her respectful curiosity is unlikely to ruffle any feathers. Garahel is at her side, naturally, the mabari alert but not tense.

Keeping pace with the group, Inessa is rather quieter than usual as she stares in awe at the walls and crypts, amazed at the sheer size of what surrounds them. The ornate areas are a feast for the eyes, but she's just as interested in the simpler crypts and the stories attached to those families long since died out. The incense doesn't seem to bother her, though Garahel sneezes loudly every now and then. As they enter the Pentaghast crypt, she peers intently at the animated corpses. If it's unnerving to see them follow her movement, she's not about to say so and risk offending their tour host.

...where is he, by the way? Inessa's about to ask, when Garahel lets out a low, tense growl and that immediately catches her attention. Moments later, that door creaks open and she spots the corpses that Garahel sensed. Automatically, she casts a Barrier spell over herself, her mabari and anyone else nearby.

Re: THRANDUIL

[limier]

Is a Seeker ever not,

"I was under the impression I'd the chance to choose a task,"

She lifts a hand from her eyes to squint about the lot of them, gaze lingering suspicious upon Thranduil. She isn't drunk enough for this. She's enough so not to see the purpose in lying:

"My brother was seventeen when he died." She can't have said Logen's name aloud in -- well, she's not about to start again now. That's one sure way to kill the mood. Whether his particular age will mean anything to the others here? Peasants die for so many reasons. "Someone needed to do something."

Propped on her elbows, she leans over enough to raise her glass, and down it in a shot. She points to Myr, realizes after a moment he won't have caught the gesture.

"If we are all to speak truths, then Shivana." She reaches next for the pipe. That's quite enough of her own honesty, thank you. "Who among the Inquistion would you least like to have been roomed with?"

She could prod for information, but better something light first, to set everyone at ease again. It has nothing to do with the faint fuzz about her head. Totally.

III { nevarra city }

[serannas]

Ellana is nearly overwhelmed by the beauty to be found in the city; unlike any other culture she's yet seen in Thedas. The polished columns, black marble, dragon statues, and more give the place such a sense of grandeur as well as solemnity. It's all a little too clean for her, but she appreciates it for its differences nonetheless. And she isn't afraid to walk openly among the Nevarrans, confident in her mage spells that will keep her safe from any who take exception to an elf.

Today she's out walking among the avenue towards the royal fortress, examining the impressive statues and the parades and acting troupes that go with it. When she spots a familiar face, she heads over to stand beside him.

"Hello, mellon nin," she says, using the phrase Galadriel had taught her so long ago. "It's a lot of fuss here, isn't it? But entertaining to watch."

[faithlikeaseed]

He's been imbibing as little as he can--getting embarrassingly drunk once is enough for this month, or his entire life, thanks--but there's only so much that one can avoid without looking like it's the company he's shunning. (And there's precious little to be done about the smoke; on the other hand he's comfortably warm inside and out for the first time in months and things matter so much less. That's nice. That's very nice.)

Only Ser Coupe's got any frame of reference for how foreign all this is, how little an opportunity a Circle mage had to experience a drug-fueled slumber party-- And when she calls his name he jerks his head in her direction with shoulders rounded over a guilty conscience; all of this simply isn't done, reason for discipline or transfer or worse. Liking templars enough to befriend them doesn't mean there aren't instincts about why they'd speak to him-- But it's for an easy question and he's quick to relax back into his puddle of cushions. "Anders," once he's had time to process through the layer of wool wrapped around his thoughts, "since I'd get no sleep for his constant haranguing."

Among many other things; Maker be praised he's not so far along to feel like airing any of those is a necessity. He leans forward to pick up a glass without fumbling--thank you, Thranduil--expression flickering briefly puzzled as he reviews the rules of the game in his head. ...Oh, he doesn't drink this yet. That's for when he runs into something he'd not answer.

"Beleth--one unvarnished opinion on," he gestures grandly around them, "necromancy. Just what do the Creators think about all of this?"

[arlathvhen]

Beleth is no stranger to drunkenness, nor smoking various substances, and she takes to both of these cheerfully. Everything going on has just been So Much as of late, and it's nice to unwind with a room of people that she trusts. And Wren. She's much more limber like this, stretched out across a mattress, occasionally rolling around to view everyone upside down. She feels like a still towel that had been poorly air dried, slowly being warmed up from her core, wrinkles smoothing out.

It's upside down that she calmly watches her roommates ask their questions, and give their answers. It's only when Myr addresses her that she rolls again to face up, and gives a quiet little huff of a laugh. It takes some serious thought, to work through that pleasant fog, but eventually she gives a casual shrug.

"It's never mentioned expressly, least not as I've heard. If I had to guess...We bury our dead, you know." She leans against Thranduil's shoulder now, suddenly feeling a great deal of affection for everyone in the room. Except Wren. "We plant a sapling over the body. That's why the Emerald Graves is a forest. They're all burial trees." That's a sobering thought, and Beleth quickly moves past it.

"The body gives nutrients to the tree, and it's...a cycle, you know?" She moves her hand in a circle, oblivious to the fact that Myr wouldn't see it. "We are given life, and in death, give life in return. But if you, ah. Do the whole Nevarran thing...there's no new life that you're replenishing. The body just. Lays there. So, I think the safest assumption would be...Sounds like some shem bullshit."

At that, she presses her face into Thranduil's shoulder, to muffle the sudden fit of giggles she's overcome with. Ha ha, shems. What crazy shit will they think of, next.

Once she's done being entirely too pleased by her own little joke, she finally pulls away long enough to glance around the room. Then, her eyes rest on the Medicine Seller, and she leans forward. "Glaewron. Why do you only have a job title, and not a name? Surely, even if you weren't given one, or didn't like the one you had, you could just choose a new name. So why go by your title?"

ii.

[elegiaque]

When she turns toward his voice, she looks upon instinct to where she expects to find him - several inches above where she does, and it's disorienting to find she must look down a bit. She knows him for himself, naturally; who else would it be, who else would speak to her so? The features are the same, set in a more...socially acceptable frame, and no matter how he shapes his words she'd know his voice, just-

She doesn't mean to greet him with a frown, it's only that it's jarring not looking so far up and immediately, she doesn't like it.

“Spend your afternoon how you please, Yva,” she says, still studying him. “I'll find you at the inn.” Tonight; whenever.

(If Yva has any reservations, she has the sense the Maker gave a turnip not to voice them, murmuring assent and excusing herself.)

[rowancrowned]

"Do I displease you?" he asks, and offers her his arm. This is as buoyant as she's ever seen him, glancing down at her. "Did I interrupt?"

(He spares a thought for the long-suffering Yva, reminds himself again to somehow finagle her a bonus of some sort.)

He is enjoying her hand on his arm, the hems of her skirts brushing his boots as they walk- that is how close this allows them to be, for once. The sort of courting they ought to have been able to do months, weeks ago.

"I do not suppose you brought the tea with you," he says, conversationally.

[elegiaque]

A little shake of her head, a noncommittal hum; no, there was no interruption, and no, he doesn't displease her...it's disconcerting, though, to see his human glamour and realise she wouldn't prefer it. By a significant margin, she wouldn't prefer it. His hair is too short and all of him too close to the ground and it's just not right. She'd have felt badly, if she'd looked at him and liked it better this way, but she isn't quite sure how to feel at her own certainty in the opposite direction.

'Unnecessarily tall' has always been a euphemistic sort of a phrase.

In any case: that question is a telling one. She briefly entertains what his expression might do if she were to answer no, but-

“I've already had it for the month, but I brought it in case this doesn't all conclude in as timely a fashion as planned.” Her sidelong glance, one eyebrow raised, isn't quite a question that doesn't exactly need an answer.

[crowncitizen]

I. Tavern

Thank the Six, they're finally out of the rain. And in a cozy inn, no less. Prompto's glad, almost to the point of giddy, to be dry and warm. His wet clothes are hanging to dry in his room (which he shares with Kirk, Sam, Gareth and Saoirse - damn it do not blush about that again!!) and now he's sitting down in the tavern proper, scarfing down a hot meal and a pint of cider to go with it. It's the simple pleasures like this and being off his feet that make a difference, and he finds himself humming along to whatever song is being sung at the moment.

Looking around, he nods appreciatively at the decor. It reminds him a bit of Insomnia, with the darker themes. "This place certainly lives up to its name, no bones about it." Ahahahahaaaaa... feel free to shove him off of his chair for that pun.

II. Nevarra City

A. Photog

It's not easy taking pictures in stealth mode. In fact, it's really, really difficult. Often times he has to hide the camera under something, leaving just enough room for the lens and hope no one notices as he takes shots of the scenery and people. Needless to say, he doesn't take terribly many: film is limited, after all. But he's always willing to take pictures for people! ...for a price. Nothing unreasonable. In fact, perhaps you saw a flyer he put up in the tavern offering his services. For just a few silver, you get to have yourself immortalized forever in a still shot.

B. Parades

While Prompto does miss Kirkwall a bit - mostly the familiarity with it, and not to mention his cat - Nevarra City has plenty to entertain. Despite the tense undertone in the festivities going on - something about a dying king and successors - Prompto does his best to ignore it as he grins and watches the parades go by. At some point he winds up with a colored cloth draped around his shoulders. Colors of some house or other, he doesn't know. He's too busy soaking in the atmosphere and watching everything take place.

He leans over at one point during a play and whispers, "Uh, is that supposed to be a dragon?" Clearly someone in the props department did a rush job. It doesn't help that Prompto has little idea what the play is about or what it's supposed to be commemorating.

III. Necropolis

It sounded good in theory, seeing this underground crypt city. Creepy, maybe, but still interesting. It reminds him of the tombs of the kings Noctis had to visit to gain the royal arms. Just... much bigger. And apparently with mummies and zombies.

At least he came armed, per the recommendation of a few people. He's got a short sword strapped to his side and a dagger hidden away. Not his usual go-to weapons, but bringing a bow and arrows seemed a bit much. Hopefully they wouldn't be needed and his leather armor would just be for show.

So naturally, that didn't wind up being the case.

"Hey, where'd that Tivadar guy go? Did we miss a-" And that's when he sees it further down a ways: a pair of red eyes, followed by another, then another, all shambling towards the group. And boy do they look unhappy. Prompto draws his sword. "I think they forgot to mention the interactive portion in the program."

[rowancrowned]

"Good," he says, pleased, and in-between steps, he leans down and kisses the top of her head. "I arranged for us to go riding. Shall we stop at the inn to allow you to change into something more suitable?"

He has a whole day planned- this is, by his own estimation, far better an idea than the previous 'hide in the Gallows' for a day plan. Here, his absence would not be noted, no meetings until the day following, enough time allotted to allow everyone to get tourism out of their thoughts-

- and, he knew, for the Inquisition to spend their coin freely, to charm as much as they were able to manage.

"I have found somewhere no more than an hour away," he says. "Just far enough to get us past the stink of the city."

[elegiaque]

“You would dismiss my maid before asking me to change my clothes,” she says, glancing up (-and slightly down again, it's like finding air where she expects to step) with some exasperated amusement. The dress she has in mind might not be quite what he does, where riding is concerned, but

probably he'll understand the gesture when she makes it.

Assuming she can get the damn thing on with Yva having already disappeared into the market crowd. It is simpler than much of what she wears, so there's that.

“Are you surprising me, is that what this is?”

Some surprises are all right. This one is promising, and she's more than inclined to follow his lead.

Carver Hawke

[unshadowing]

I. Tavern/Rooms

Well. At least he's not roomed with Anders. But he's stuck with Fenris and something tells him he's going to want to pull his hair out by the end of this trip.

Why did he volunteer to come, again?

Too late now. At least they have the tavern to themselves, more or less. Naturally, Carver's got himself nice and dry and now has an ale in hand, with two already in his stomach. In fact, it doesn't taste too bad, either. Then again, most things taste better than the Hanged Man's piss, but it still gets a decent grade in his book!

"Here's to making it here in one piece and in slightly better condition than a drowned rat." He raises his tankard before taking a swig.

II. City

For once, Carver's not in his armor. Oh he's still armed, don't get him wrong, just a lot less obviously so. It's nice to shed the Warden every now and then and just be Carver for a little bit. It's nice to be somewhere again where a lot of people don't recognize him on sight, so he can blend in and just go about his business. Most of which is just perusing the stalls for awhile, before he meanders off in the direction of the huge statues leading towards the fortress.

He admires them a bit, head canted as he studies their details and reads the little plaques that go with each one. He knows so little of Nevarran history. A lot of it is probably exaggerated and overblown, as so many stories and legends are, but he can still appreciate that somewhere in there is some truth.

"Nevarra makes grand statues of its heroes and generals. Kirkwall has - or had - slave statues. And Ferelden has statues of dogs." He chuckles a bit at the thought. "A country's taste in statues says a lot about it."

III. Necropolis - Closed to Bethany and Aleron

Let's take the tour, they said. It'll be fascinating, they said. Live a little, they said.

Well now look at how that's bloody turned out.

At least this time Carver brought the armor and sword along. He swings his sword off his back, slowly backing up as the undead shamble towards the group. He glances at Bethany, and being the little shit he is says, "Do I even need to say it?" Yeah, Bethany, if you think you're gonna live this down anytime soon, think again.

[meds4sale]

The mixture was something he'd concocted from elfroot, tobacco, cloves and dried apple peels and a few other ingredients he didn't know the English names for. It was sweet and pleasant - the perfect thing for a party on a chilly late autumn evening while the drinks flowed and the party-goers amused themselves with parlour games of the variety intended to tease and intoxicate.

He was - more-so than usual as he'd sprawled out among the cushions like some particularly spoiled tomcat that thought he was king of the neighborhood.

Beleth's question was received with a monotone chuckle.

"Because," said the Medicine Seller, taking a long hit of the pipe as it was passed to him, "I do not particularly want or need one."

He passed the pipe on to Thranduil, not commenting on the way the Nevarran's interred their dead. His sword and scales had been mighty twitchy since setting foot in the city, unable to make up their minds on whether or not his services were required, and it had, in turn, left him irritable all the way to the tavern.

"For our esteemed leader... A task, perhaps. Or a question?" He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder. I wonder."

He was, of course, stalling as he thought of something suitably personal without bringing down the mood of the party.

"Perhaps an embarrassing anecdote from your younger days?"

SAOIRSE CEALLACH

[sulena]

— ｔａｖｅｒｎ．

The idea of sharing a small space is not unusual for Saoirse. They always bunked within the Circles and, at times, living in the Gallows meant sharing far smaller spaces with her fellows. This room is almost far too spacious with its three beds and lovely windows allowing sunlight to seep into the space just perfectly. There is a part of her that wonders if the boys would be uncomfortable sharing a space with her since she was the only girl but ultimately figures they would speak on it if it did become uncomfortable. For now, she is pleased to have two familiar faces here as well even though the other two are rather unfamiliar... they seemed nice.

Later in the evening, once all five of them are in the room and luggage has been arranged does Saoirse sit on the one of the beds with a happy smile. "How about a game? We could use it to get to know one another better since we'll be sharing this space together while we're here."

— ｓｏｎｇ ＆ ｄａｎｃｅ．

Did someone say they needed music? Well then: look no further because Saoirse is happy to take it by the head, jump onto the stage with lute in hand (did she always have it with her??) and begin to play. She is no stranger to the sort of tavern melodies popular throughout the lands from her many months now singing around the taverns in Kirkwall. She sings happily, dancing around as she does and urges patrons to get up and dance or to come sing with her. At times she'll wander through the crowd, exhausted but grinning and eager to ask: "Anything I can play for you?"

Later on when another has taken the stage, she seeks out friends and familiar faces to take their hands. "Come on, we have to dance at least once!"

She might not take no for an answer at this rate.

— ｐａｒａｄｅ．

Saoirse has seen many parades throughout her life but this is all something else simply due to the sheer amount of people present for these parades through the streets. Every corner she takes there is another flash of color, another family and another story to tell. It's incredible and, more often than not, she stops to watch the procession from the back of a crowd while standing upon her tiptoes with wide eyes. If there is unrest starting to build in the crowd, she does not notice and is far too taken in by the sights playing out before her.

"Isn't it incredible?" She asks the person nearest her yet never glancing away from the parades of colors.

— ｎｅｃｒｏｐｏｌｉｓ．

It was certainly an... interesting sight. She had heard about the Necropolis, read about it many times but never imagined actually visiting the famed location or touring its inner workings. Saoirse still cannot believe it and so she stands to the back, arms wrapped around her chest and looking upwards with unsure curiosity. She isn't scared... per say but she certainly does not make a move to move any closer. Instead, she lets her hands brush down the front of her robes and take in a deep breath as the tour guide begins to round them up.

"Shall we?" She isn't nervous, no... not at all!

— ｗｉｌｄｃａｒｄ．

For anything not listed above! Feel free to hit me up if you'd like a specific starter.

[rowancrowned]

"Surely I'm capable of serving as a lady's maid for one day, Gwenaëlle." A smile- it sits far more genuinely on a moral face, one that wrinkles. "Besides, Yva does not deserve to be made to watch us play at this."

She's clever enough, and while he could play a secret foreign lover, he's-- impatient, despite himself, even when made to wait mere weeks.

That the truth of what he could be digs at him like a thorn buried in flesh could also explain away the energy under his skin is ignored.

They reach the inn fast enough, and he climbs the stairs behind her, following her to her room, waiting for her to unlock it before he glides in beside her, guessing which bed is hers from the trunks surrounding it.

I

[iceblade]

Skadi, feet propped up and enjoying the warmth cast by the nearby fireplace, laughs and raises her tankard in kind. "Aye, isn't that the truth. At least we got the place to ourselves, eh? We can do as we please, as long as the walls still hold." She takes a swig, then raises an eyebrow at him. "Ever been this far north?"

Tavern

[el_tybs]

He's been spoiled for the past few years with having his own space and only having to share it with one, maybe two people, of his choosing, but sharing a room with others doesn't seem to bother Sam in the least - and, hey, the room was actually spacious. Even when he finds out there is a woman sharing with them. Obviously it wasn't ideal for a sleeping arrangement, but he's had to room with plenty other women in tents for missions so as long as everyone found a place to sleep it was fine.

Sam is actually in the middle of figuring out which bed to take, already in a linen top and pants so that he didn't catch cold from wet clothes, when Saoirse speaks up, to which he tilts his head. "What kind of game are you suggesting?"

[elegiaque]

With enough to do in Nevarra that the room is empty, Gwenaëlle nevertheless wastes no time once the door is closed behind them in digging through her luggage - with remarkable purpose - because just as they've returned to the inn on an errand, so might anyone else, even before one considers the limited window of opportunity. Both more and less time than she imagined.

Nevarra's autumn is warmer than what she's accustomed to, and velvet is hardly ideal to take out into a surprise venture into the outdoors, but nevermind that: she decided weeks ago to save it for this, and she's not going to be put off by mere unsuitability. Undressing herself has always been a bit easier than getting laced back up, and she's already got her bodice half-undone, a hitherto unworn gown spread out on the bed in a shade of chocolate brown velvet that looks plain, upon first glance.

Less so, when the pleats spread as she finds her way into it and the silk embroidered panels - gold thread over green silk - flare, making immediately apparent why it was Gwenaëlle had been so ready with the design for the tapestry. She'd already spent weeks working on these, presumably, when the thought entered her head: different enough for plausible deniability, or simply the entitlement of Orlesian nobility to take whatever they see for their own, but a clear mimicry of his finest clothes from home. Even the silhouette is more Mirkwood than Orlais, the skirt heavier than elven-make but the line of the gown slimmer to her body, not puffed out like an Orlesian pastry, the cuffs coming in points to her knuckles.

“What do you think? I can ride in it.”

[rowancrowned]

As Beleth makes use of him as a particularly long pillow, he turns, no longer laying on his side, but on his back, a throne of pillows keeping his back at an angle enough to see the rest of the room. He pets her hair as she laughs, and is careful not to dislodge her as he takes the pipe.

He lets it rest between his fingers, watching the smoke drift thick and then dissolve the higher it goes, the mouthpiece balanced against his lip for a moment. Thranduil searches for a suitable story, takes a drag of the pipe, then offers it to Coupe so his hands will be free.

“When I was young, my cousin Celeborn and I were close companions. We were of an age, and both of us with younger siblings we wished to escape. It came to pass one day that relatives from the West were visiting, and among them was a beautiful lady, with golden hair like star- and moonlight entwined. We were both young, barely of majority, but when we saw her being presented to our king, even at the back of his halls, Celeborn told me he would wed her, or else he would surely fade from existence.”

He pauses for a drink of wine from a cup somewhere by his pillows.

“I agreed to help him. He was ever the dramatic sort.”

He continues, “She was a fine lady, much our elder, a guest, and an introduction by our king may have been arranged, but Celeborn was terribly shy. He wished to meet her as himself—no introduction. ‘Celeborn’, I said to him, ‘you are an idiot’.” Thranduil smiles fondly. “He devised a scheme by which he would meet her. He would pretend to lose one of the jewels from his hair, and come upon her whilst ‘looking’ for it, and beg her help, and so get to know her while they looked. Meanwhile, the jewel would be hidden in his sleeve, and he could drop it whenever he had felt secure that she would call upon him for a second meeting.

“Now, remember: Celeborn is an idiot when in love. The Lady saw through his plan immediately as he came upon her and her attendants, hair askew, robe tied sloppily. She feigned pity, asking him where he had been that day, but oh—a glimmer in the fold of his robes, and she plucked out the jewel as neatly as picking a ripe berry. ‘Oh,” the Lady said, ‘here is your lost ornament, found in no time. How fortunate!’ And Celeborn watched her go, and despaired, and decided he was in need of a new plan.

“Celeborn thought it would be best to ramp up the stakes. That a lost bead was one thing, but perhaps she needed a display of heroism to win her over. I suggested perhaps we ought to save her from an orc attack. He agreed, but said that perhaps it would be too difficult to find orcs for the purpose. I said that perhaps he needed to think smaller. He paused, and thought for a time, and an idea dawned on his face.

“‘Thranduil,’ he said. ‘We have younger siblings, and what do little elfings do if not wander off and get lost?’ I agreed that this was much less stupid than the plan involving orcs, and I bribed my sister and he his brother with sweets, and they agreed to hide behind a small waterfall in the King’s halls, and not to come out until Celeborn could play hero and fetch them.

“What we had overlooked was twofold: first, that this lady was a noble one, and seasoned in combat. She heard his plea for help to find missing elflings, and wished to raise the alarm. In those days, a lost elf was one that had been taken by orcs, and would not be seen again, unless you met them twisted and broken in combat. And so the Lady assumed, and was summoning the soldiers sworn to her father’s House. Celeborn fell on his knees before her and confessed the truth, and offered to lead her to the waterfall where we had instructed our siblings to hide.

“And the second thing—that an elfling bribed with sweets is an excitable elfling. They were not there. All the color dropped from all three of our faces, for we feared them lost, but we dared not summon guards for concern that the whole sorry story would come to light and embarrass us all. So we ran about the Halls, trying to look without appearing to look, unable to call their names. At the end of the day, we returned to our homes, dejected, fearing that we would need to confess, and the Lady worst of all of us in mood. But when we walked home, to tell our mothers, there were our siblings by the front stoop, playing.

“’Brother,’ my sister told me. ‘Where were you? We got bored of waiting, and left.’ I began laughing, falling to my knees, a mixture of relief and hysteria. Celeborn and his Lady soon followed. His brother and my sister thought all three of us idiots and wanted nothing to do with us for months.

He reaches for the pipe back from Wren, takes a long draw, face wry. “As it turned out, each had seen the other that first day, and the Lady was toying with him, trying to get the measure of this foreigner before she proclaimed her love—all up until his genuine distress at the actual missing elflings. They wed later that month.”

Disgustingly saccharine. His lip curls, and he finishes the glass of wine, tucking it back behind his pillow.

“Myrobalan,” he starts, and tosses professionalism away. “What is that game—bed, marry, kill? Mm—Andraste, our dear Ser Coupe, and—Cassandra Pentaghast.”

[unshadowing]

"Probably didn't go over well with the locals and other travelers, but I'm sure the Inquisition's made up for it with the money we'll be spending in the city." Not just in the tavern, but in the shops in the city proper. If nothing else, the Inquisition's presence certainly gives the local economy a boost.

"I have, though not often. Was near the Anderfels once, but just briefly."

[rowancrowned]

It strikes him how little he has seen of Thedas. Nevarra is a world apart from Kirkwall, Orlais, Ferelden. He will need to seize every chance he has to see everything while yet under the banner of the Inquisition.

When Ellana comes to stand beside him, he turns his head to look at her, smiles.

"I find it charming," he says. "It will be quite the spectacle once they sort themselves out for the festival. I am glad to have the chance to see it."

But enough of that. "Do you have plans for the week, Ellana?"

I

[serannas]

Ellana takes a seat at the table across from him, wearing a small smile. She toasts back and takes a drink before adding, "Here I thought we should be envying the drowned rats. But you're right. At least we're here and indoors. You're Carver, right? Someone said you were. I'm Ellana. We've been put in the same room, so I thought I'd introduce myself before we head there."