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

[coquettish_trees]

It's not too long before there's a second scream, slightly off from where there are figures by the stairs, but it is close enough that it could belong to them. One of them slender and bent over a body laid out on the ground, headless and staining the marble with a dark and spreading pool. For a brief cold moment it is her and the letter crinkles in your hand, the writing too beautiful a script for the short missive, as rote as written for the death of a common soldier. It is with regret that we write to inform you that Apprentice Cecile de Coucy has failed her Harrowing...

But no. There is a third. Her hair is briefly the wrong color, but it is so quickly replaced, and there she is. Alive. Safe. Looking as you imagined she might as the years stretched on after she'd gone to the Circle, her hands clasped over her mouth. She looks up and you can almost, almost see her face.

She says 'my lord' as she approaches quickly, but the mind so wants to hear 'father' that the real words are lost in it.

[toujoursdroit]

Loss is a strange thing. With Calanthe, with Annegret, he'd had the chance to see the body, traced the thread of their lives as far as its end. Cecile had gone from them, a bright and confident girl, not yet ten; there had been, of course, concessions made for the duke, so they'd been allowed the occasional letter, little luxuries to send to make her comfortable. But she'd stayed that ambitious, bright flash of a thing in his mind's eye, golden hair and deep blue eyes.

When he'd had the letter, he couldn't help picturing her a young woman, that same gold hair matted with blood. (Had she been wearing the ring her mother sent her, for luck? He'd never let himself picture that level of detail.)

But this he had never permitted himself. Cecile, a woman in her prime, perhaps a little older than even her older sister had lived to be. He'd locked his middle child away in a small corner of his heart and lost the key to that particular room. He had never let himself imagine.

Even as he hears "father," he's saying, "How are you here?" This house. Kirkwall. Alive.

[coquettish_trees]

She looks worried. Confused. The hair is wrong again, too red by far (perhaps the light?) but the eyes—the eyes are right. Blue, and wide, and darkened with concern.

"Whatever do you mean?" she asks, looks back at the other woman—an elf. Another mage? Are you at the Circle tower? The world flickers around you, banners where there had been other wall hangings (or had they always been there?). She has reached for your hands, is searching your face. "Are you well? What has happened?"

[toujoursdroit]

He lets her take his hands, though his mask (heavy or otherwise) reveals little of his expression.

"Something's amiss. I think there's been..." He stops, takes a breath, trying to steady himself. He's never actually been inside a Circle tower, himself, it makes no sense that he'd been in one now; he fights to backtrack. What was the last thing he was sure of?

"I heard a scream. I think there's been foul play. Beyond the obvious," he says, looking the other woman. "I'm not well; I've been losing time." It's difficult to focus on anything other than the woman before him at length, but there's too much that's not right about the scene.