faderift | ( closed ) some say we're born into the grave

There are exactly two ways that this could have been worse.

First, Estoris might have blown directly through the door to his rooms without stopping outside to converse, loudly, with a friend, and then this would likely be a story about disposing of a possibly-innocent body.

Second, the wardrobe could have been smaller.

Everything else about it is precisely as bad as it could possibly be. Kostos has his face in Carver’s armpit at least once in the shuffle, and despite his best efforts to position himself between Nell and the wooden wall, the only way for them all to fit is in each of the wardrobe’s four corners, and there is literally no one he isn’t pressed against to some degree.

Outside the wardrobe doors, Estoris is moving around his quarters, humming—and here’s a third way it could be worse. He could have a single room, or insist on lingering in the room housing a wardrobe. But he doesn’t, and he doesn’t, and when his footsteps and humming have retreated to the sitting room, Kostos feels it’s safe enough to whisper, “Off my foot.”

He has no idea who’s standing on it.

Judging by the swiftness of motion, it was Benevenuta; unfortunately, doing it so suddenly results in her knee and backside respectively pressed against she can't actually tell who, when everyone is to some degree armored and no one can see a damned thing. Her thick braids are going to leave indents on someone's arm, trapped between her body and theirs.

So, this is going brilliantly.

Enjoy the smell of sweaty beefcake glory, Kostos. Though Carver finds his arm growing tired from being held up so he doesn't squish Kostos under it. And that backside Benevenuta just kneed would be Carver's, and he hisses out a noise when he feels her knee drive into. The armor and padding help a bit, but in such close quarters, it only does so much.

"Piss and shit, how did we wind up in this mess?"

It's mostly rhetorical, and Carver doing a bit of his old whining. "I think he left. Make a break for it?" Though a sound that comes from beyond the wardrobe walls makes him stiffen, and reconsider his suggestion.

Marisol Vivas is a patient woman. It is necessary to be, if one hopes to be anything beyond incompetent. Passion has a place that must never be set before practicality, as much as the two war within her, at times.

Over the past few days she has written countless letters, admired the extensive gardens of a Comte’s estate, been awed by the density of the hedges in the maze and their pleasant fragrance, complimented a Duchess’s ornate marble fountains and recommended a particular purveyor of marble for an upcoming project (another fountain, sure, why not), discussed the suitability of apples and pears and oranges to the Nevarran climate with a Lord. From one party she endured, in the name of aiding the Inquisition, social ineptitude to a standard that could only be allowed by absurd wealth. Speaking and charming and appealing to courtiers and the Mortalitasi has lead them here, finally, to the site where this mess appears to have begun.

She imagines they all know better, but a trail to what might have become before this phase might yet be uncovered.

“You are very kind to allow us access,” Marisol says, as they are welcomed (“welcomed”) through the gates of the Necropolis. “We are all very grateful.”

The Mortalitasi are not terribly verbose, apparently more concerned with watching the visitors than interacting with them. She may have been able to win enough approval to get them this opportunity; she could not move mountains.

Ugh. Carver's less than pleased at the moment. He's armorless, weaponless, and has to be on his best behavior. The travesties are mounting fast. But he knows it's necessary, no matter how much he dislikes it. So there he is, walking alongside Marisol and this other woman into the Necropolis. Hat off to Marisol for getting them in; he was half convinced for awhile they were going to play hard ball and bar them from entry. Somehow, she persuaded them otherwise. He keeps his arms at his sides, trying not to come across as annoyed or suspicious or anything that could get them kicked back out.

"Yes, thank you. This is a very generous gesture." Might as well keep stroking their ego. Of course, once he says his pleasantries, he's looking around, trying to take in whatever details he noticed.

It is both a relief and a source of great agitation to stand in the Necropolis now—Benevenuta moves through it with the ease of long-familiarity, a place she knows well, and does not need to feign her affront or the coolness of her gaze when it travels over the worst of the damage that they see. Caused by the Inquisition, they would have them believe, but a fool would know better after any time spent with the organisation.

Nevermind their sentiments, they lack the organisational cohesion to achieve something this ambitiously malicious if they wanted to. A few in the Inquisition might dream of insulting Nevarra so, but none of those would have the balls to do it and certainly not enough support.

It had been no question, in her mind. For now, she doesn't add to her compatriots pleasantries; zeroes in on the most familiar of those who've accompanied them, speaking quietly and in Nevarran, asking questions about the extent of the damage, where it's focused, which families were most greatly affected.

“So you've not entirely gone native,”

is an undertone remark she hears, behind her, but doesn't acknowledge.

It is a brief matter of internal debate - leap to Benevenuta's defence, or let the matter slide. Defend an Inquisition member and the Inquisition, or allow the remark to slide, and avoid worsening their precarious position. When to take what tack is so hard to gauge, in some circumstances. Is it to abandon her colleagues, failing to bite back? Is it following their lead?

She opts, given their current vulnerability, to follow Benevenuta's example.

"Carver, I believe this was the path the guide lead the party down early in the tour, yes?" She has tried to work it out on maps, memorise, but there is only so much a map can tell you.

Carver has no idea what all is going on, but he knows a passive aggressive dig when he hears one. Neither lady says anything, and he's certainly not foolish enough to speak up about something he knows nothing of. Thankfully, Marisol pushes on.

At her question, he nods, looking around. "Yeah. He gave us a brief historical overview of the Necropolis while we walked down this path. We kept going straight for quite awhile, through the door up ahead and then some."

He's met with a few looks, ranging from cold to indifferent. As a Fereldan, most care little about him, more concerned with his connection to the Inquisition and having been in the Necropolis during the attack. Besides, he's not saying anything terribly controversial. Not yet, anyway.

Estoris; lover, fighter, appreciator of fine mothballs and fine art.

She’s not sure he is actually any of these things, particularly the latter. The information from the investigation at Estoris’ residence, however, indicated he was an enthusiast, and that he was meeting someone here today. Perhaps a Venatori, perhaps a contact of Tividar’s, perhaps someone else. She had some hesitations about what connections a soporati might have to the Venatori, what benefits there might be, but she knew all too well how varied motivators could be. It was, however, possible the Inquisition had another enemy interested in sabotaging them.

That is why they find themselves here, in an extensive gallery, staring down some truly— detailed anatomical studies of dragons.

“Do you think your imprisonment in the closet was worth this?” She asks Kostos, in a low voice, as she uses her fan for its traditional purpose of being ladylike and having an emergency measure for covering any accidental smirks (with the side benefit of fanning).

It's been Morrigan's second or perhaps third circuit of the room in her own skin. Less useful than what she might've accomplished for the reasons Marisol approached her as she tries spotting her, again, but the mission is far from over so she's loathe to overextend herself.

Shapeshifting is taxing, and even as one who learnt without a steady supply of lyrium on hand, it doesn't mean she intends to slide towards bad habits. (Gowns are intended for the hiding of a great many things, especially so upon request, but making careful secret of glass vials no one should wear too close to the skin? Not that, she thinks. At least not so far from Tevinter.)

So Morrigan appears as she has however many times before so far when it hasn't been with wingbeats (how many years has she shaved off the collective lives of the entire party by simply appearing as required?) with a sneering smile affixed as if that's the fashion where she comes from. It possibly is. Who here knows anything of value of the Korcari Wilds.

"Would it be a great compliment to know that this is at least more bearable on the eyes than the Orlesian court and all the trappings?" All those soft pale colours, the lace, the taffeta. A nightmare. "Though I've recognised a face or two here more than I thought I might across the border."

Marisol does not need to look to the source of the voice to recognise it; if anything, Morrigan's voice is all the more distinct, here. She smiles into her glass of wine.

"While I am very glad to know that you consider this better than an Orlesian party, amongst some social circles that would be the bare minimum standard for a gathering to be acceptable, not a guarantee of it being great." A quiet observation, as Marisol continues people watching. She would look to Morrigan, but it is not a sharp look of surprise - even in these surrounds, potentially more casual, one does not want to give away too much with ones looks, ones voice.

"Anyone worthy of conversation, or are you warning me so I can avoid particular bores?"

All these parties, honestly. After departing from Orlais Morrigan had hoped to put those behind her but at the very least the Inquisition isn't the one footing the bill for this one.

"Fewer bards, the courtesies less cloying. They have teeth here." In the tone of someone who would rather be knee-deep in mud than this, who would rather be halfway across Thedas in the dark with the fetid stench of the Deep Roads pressing in on her but she can suffer this.

"Several men of some account in the army in their younger years have eyes that curiosly cannot look in any upward direction talking to any woman younger than their wives." Hard swerve on them Marisol. "The woman with the wine clutched in her hand? Next to the man with the spade beard? Both in Gaspard's retinue once though their loyalties changed as the winds blew smoke through the Winter Palace. 'Tis a surprise to find them here."

"And the dead have teeth," she adds under her breath, though audible enough for Morrigan. She respects the dead, and respects Nevarran practice - she has family here, they matter, and what matters to them matters to her. There are still times when imagining the dead seemingly alive is very strange. Mostly, admittedly, after hearing about them attacking people.

A not of acknowledgement, and then of surprise. As a server pauses to refresh her glass, she takes an additional glass and sends him on his way, extending the wine to Morrigan in offering. She will not be offended if she does not take it, but it is an excuse to turn to face her more fully.

"They could have reason to be here that serves or undermines Celene's interests." Really just depending on the circumstances. "What does your gut tell you?"

"Most do that I have seen, 'tis only that they might keep them here." Especially any made of gold. If pressed Morrigan might admit to some interest in the practices of the Mortalitasi but the pomp about it all is off to her, the sort of thing that rubs her the wrong way that much about the civilised world does. The revered dead. Better to take from them what might be taken and leave them. Death when dealt seldom had a way of sticking.

Taking the glass along with the tiniest of sips, too aware of her lack of staff once again, she smirks and huffs out a quiet laugh.

"Or they cling to wherever they might go if they lost all or found Celene's plans for Orlais to be distasteful." The snub at her last engagement were news after all, even Morrigan still keeps track of those things. "Are there any you wish me to look for next time I feel the need to stretch my legs?" (They both know she's not talking about her legs.) "Or even a message, two ladies excusing themselves for a moment hardly causes the ruckus damage to furniture would."

(You can't take some people anywhere can you?)

"I think it might be worth finding out why such esteemed members of the court are here. Which master are they serving? To what end?"

It could be that they are linked to the attempt to bring down the Inquisition in the eyes of Nevarra, or it could be something else completely. They just don't know, which is the infuriating thing. As with all things, it was simply a matter of determining the problem, and breaking the solution down into steps. With each step seen to came progress, no matter how small the step.

Marisol smiles, charmed by Morrigan's... Morrigan-ness. "I can cause a ruckus when it is to my advantage. I have perfected the art of a well-timed swoon, but it is not a card to be overplayed."

Edited (icon icon icon) 2018-03-08 11:03 (UTC)

"Freemen of the Dales entered the Winter Palace alongside Red Templars," an undertone from behind her glass, a muted private horror from someone remembering being there when there had been fire, and screaming, smoke thick in the air. Racing through a hall with Alan and a wounded noble. The loss of her hearing when one of the beasts had burst through then Alan digging it out of his hand--

(This is the first party since, that's what she'll recall later, the first time to put on a gown again since that night.)

"Red Templars and Freemen both within the Winter Palace at the same time as the Inquisition was there to help secure some sort of stability and leadership, and Red Templars and Venatori at the side of our enemy...perhaps you are right. I know them well enough to make introductions if you wish it." That or flying past, listening carefully from a dark corner where a raven won't be out of place.

Potentially a headache, but something probably best dealt with if they've any involvement in any of the current mess they're here to fix or likely to know anything relevant. Pausing on her next sip, Morrigan almost laughs. Marisol's company isn't unwelcome, especially for this sort of thing, and perhaps that's what prompts her next words. "Rest assured, this corset is less restrictive than 'twould seem, should it come to that I can catch you lest you dash your head upon the floor."

Marisol listens seriously, intently, though her manner continues to be the easily feigned lightness befitting such a gathering as this. Her gaze lingers on Morrigan as she speaks, hoping for further insight into her personal feelings on it, if she can glean such.

"An introduction could make them be more careful in their conversation. I doubt they'll say much in front of me, if they think I'm taking an interest." It is not an outright dismissal of the idea, but she's thinking it over. "Is there a way to listen to them speak? Would you be willing to eavesdrop with one of your forms?"

And then, a breath of laughter. "That would certainly make quite a sight. We could cause plenty of gossip in our own rights."

Morrigan considers the question, or request rather. It wouldn't be the first time but the stakes are certainly higher here than they've been in a while. Still, the rest of the evening has been interminable, present company excluded so the chance to do something that might yield a little more intrigue? It has her setting down the wine.

"As a raven, yes. I would have to leave to accomplish it to take some air or whatever excuse ladies have to leave parties since no one is allowed to speak it plainly. I shall return."

And she's off, don't get into trouble and check out this gown it's fabulous.

( closed ) some say we're born into the grave

first things first.

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necropolis - marisol, benny, carve

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gallery

party

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