Player Plot | From Tevinter, With Love

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Alexandrie, Benedict, Byerly, Fifi, Hanzo, Isaac, Loki, Merrill, Romain, Thor
WHAT: A diplomatic dinner and mysterious murder most foul
WHEN: Mid-Harvestmere
WHERE: the Asgard estate in Hightown
NOTES: OOC Poast, CW: rich people being garbage, elf related racism, other updates to come as they apply!

In the wake of the events in Minrathous, there has been a great deal of reshuffling of power and alliances both within the Imperium and between those within it and the surrounding powers. A particularly well-off Laetan merchant by the name of Flavius Aurelius is one such alliance shuffler. He has holdings in the south along the border and a number of cross-country trading caravans and has made overtures of aid in getting Inquisition personnel into (and around) the country in exchange for protection against having his lands occupied and used to do the precise opposite of what he's offering.

This is a rather good deal for the Inquisition, especially since it involves more risk on his part than theirs, and so all attempts are to be made to convince him that he'll be a valued member of the cause. By his countrymen in particular, who may enjoy particular success in doing so for a variety of reasons. Thus, the Tevene contingent of the Inquisition—as well as diplomatic representatives from Ferelden, Orlais, and a wayward Dalish elf—find themselves in the position of doing this due diligence, in the hopes that this will make things go smoothly—better than smoothly if possible—at the meeting established for the next day to discuss terms.

What better way than a small dinner party?


[ ooc: toplevels will be added beneath as they happen! ]

Comments

Isaac

[untiltheyarent]

The room is turning, and there are no longer any guests in it save for Isaac-- it’s possible he was unconscious for a time, but either way, as he looks at the table he’ll find that it is lengthening before his eyes. The room stretches impossibly, the ceiling swimming above him, disrupted only by the appearance of an elven servant who runs in and claps her hands to her mouth in alarm. She remains at a steady distance despite the fluctuating of the table’s length, her wide eyes turning to meet Isaac’s as though hoping for an explanation.

[wythersake]

Isaac grips the edge of the table with sweaty palms, lifts his head from its steady bob toward the soup. The others are gone by now — pupils blown, couldn’t say where they went — and his neck itches like a fire. It’s just him and,

Calliope?

No, that’s stupid. Too young (wrong country). Too poisoned (the others).

"I need your help," If she’s in on this, getting himself quietly strangled is a quick way to find out, but that doesn't strip the alarm from his voice. If she isn’t there, "Please."

It’s always in the fucking wine, so what was it? Perhaps he’ll remember later, the unwelcome clasp of skin-to-skin. Presently he’s a bit preoccupied. Isaac shifts up, and reels. Okay. Standing now. You can do that, you know how to stand. You're good at standing.

Whatever this is, it’s not as fun as wyvern venom.

[untiltheyarent]

The servant says something as she comes toward him, but the words sift in and out of Isaac's mind like sand in an hourglass, never sticking long enough to be comprehensible-- he may understand them one moment, but he forgets them the next.
Vanishing for a moment only to reappear behind him, the girl grips his arm, her fingers like talons, a malevolent glow in her eyes as she raises them to his face.

[wythersake]

"No," He shakes his head. She’s not talking any sense. Have they gotten the servants, too? Poor Calliope, "Listen."

By then she's gone. Gone (was she even there?), and then present once again (pay attention), and his arm in a vise. It's tighter than logic insists a slight frame manage.

He fumbles for words, instead finds her gaze; finds his mouth's gone dry. The malice in such a graceful creature... ought to be expected, but it takes focus to control the heat in his hands. Isaac can't say how long he'll be able to spare it; isn't certain he should. Take the opportunity while you have it, before,

"Poison," He tries again, doesn't realize he's shifted to Orlesian. Pulls back, stumbling for a wall. "Seeing things. Mage,"

What a terribly coherent warning.

[untiltheyarent]

Whatever is spoken back, it's also in Orlesian, but the same problem persists: though Isaac can recognize the language, the words are a meaningless jumble.
The grip leaves his arm and he is floating free, time moving so slowly he may actually be dead; the next time he looks down, he'll see a glass of (probably) water that appeared while he was looking at something else. It seems like late evening, or is it early morning?

A shriek resonates from another room, piercing and female, miles away.

[wythersake]

The scream's all that tears his stare away from the cup. A moment to realize (belated) that it's steaming; Isaac discards it with a horrified start. Glass shatters — somewhere —

You can make your way out of any maze by only taking your left. Or was it the right? Hardly matters; the direction isn’t so important as consistency, as keeping a system in mind. Keeping anything in mind is a bit difficult just now, but he presses along the dining room's dizzying canvas after the source of alarm.

(Better to avoid it. If he can find a door, make it out into the street... they'll only think he's done it again. Might well have planned it to look like that. The Fontaine girl never did come along, and why else invite an aging, unblooded,)

Fingers splay, inch, stretch again. Bit by bit, he creeps away from the table and toward the hall. It requires a great deal of concentration. Enough so that he doesn't notice the long, scorched trail that blackens the wall behind him. A tongue of flame licks free to eat the tassels of something undoubtedly expensive.