MOD PLOT ↠ AND THOSE WHO SLEPT (LOG)

[faderifting]

WHO: Nearly everyone
WHAT: A return to Nevarra City, where everything goes great
WHEN: Harvestmere 30 – Firstfall 1
WHERE: Nevarra City
NOTES: OOC and plotting post here! Consolidated crystal post here!

DAY.

They ride hard up the Imperial Highway, rising before dawn the last day and arriving in Nevarra City by mid-morning. There is no time wasted on settling in, barely enough to find their rooms at their assigned inns and change into whatever reasonably-practical costume they have chosen before getting to work. Most are sent out in pairs or trios to walk certain routes or neighborhoods, marking the locations of mummies and (subtly, ideally) observing them for any strange behavior.

Despite the looming threat of war the capital is packed with visitors for the Satinalia celebrations. The streets teem with those rushing about preparing for the evening's festivities, and plenty more spill out the front of every tavern, starting their revelry early. Masks are already a common accessory, and are recommended for those patrolling the streets. It won't be difficult to see why, since many Nevarrans still blame the Inquisition for the disaster at the Grand Necropolis. It's possible to run into groups discussing it, the mummies lining the streets a reminder for many of what was lost in that fire.

The Pentaghast mummies will be found stationed on all major street corners, outside government buildings, and in front of many notable monuments, especially those honoring Pentaghast heroes of the past. Some even guard their own statues, and pains have clearly been taken to make sure their arms and armor match those depicted right down to the mummified horse and the desiccated straw of its mane. But it isn't only the royal dead who've been trotted out for a day in the sun. Inspired by this gesture, families around the city have had their own mummies brought to stand sentry outside their homes, from the phalanx of knights outside the mansion of a noble house to the less-glittering but no less honored ancestors of the poorest communities wielding the tools of their trades.

Many such communities will be hosting parties for the whole neighborhood, and local leaders can be found out in the streets laying out tables or piling up firewood. A quiet word here and there about how they handle safety issues will find most have plans for drunken troublemakers, pickpockets, or gang fights, and a few will have considered how to hurry people home if, for instance, a Van Markham assault on the city were to begin. But on the whole people are preparing for a party, not for trouble, and there's little Riftwatch can do to change that now without risking a panic that could easily turn just as dangerous as a true attack, not to mention have disastrous consequences for Riftwatch's reputation if their suspicions prove wrong. For now they walk the streets and watch and wait for confirmation.

DUSK.

As the sun sets over the hills to the west, Satinalia begins in earnest. Bonfires are lit, musicians tune up, and people gather at tables and in courtyards or in taverns to feast and drink and exchange gifts. The last of the day's light and the first flickers of firelight limn the city in scarlet and gold, and reflect off the vacant eyes of the mummies standing sentry up and down the streets.

A cheer goes up when Satina is first spotted in the sky, the edges of the full moon sharpening as the sky darkens, Luna just a slender crescent above it. Parades begin to wind their way through the streets, growing in size all the while as masked revelers join their ranks, dancing and shouting, scattering flowers and sharing wine, bearing fools on thrones before them. At first it goes nearly unnoticed when the mummies, nearly in unison, turn their faces up toward the moon.

The silhouette of a dragon launching into flight across the face of that moon, on the other hand, draws plenty of eyes. The sight is greeted by as many cheers as screams, many clearly uncertain what's happening, expecting some sort of elaborate holiday prank. Then the creature wheels about, swoops low over the city, and bellows a cloud of toxic dust into a crowd. Its roar is a rattling, rasping cough nearly drowned out by the sounds of confusion, fear, and pain that rise in its wake. Again, the dead move as one, heads turned back toward the streets. For a moment they stare blankly at the crowds. And then they move.

Every mummy in the city lurches into action, raising their swords or pitchforks or knitting needles, their hammers or halberds. But instead of the defense that was promised, they attack whoever is nearest, at first methodical but then with a mounting frenzy. They are enough aware of their surroundings to parry a blow or chase a potential victim but without any regard for pain or fear or even whether they have defeated one opponent before they swing at the next. In the noble quarters, undead knights spur undead mounts forward, charging through panicking, scattering crowds of their own descendants.

As the dead begin to create more of their own kind, even the least magically-attuned will become aware of spirits flooding the air, a torrent of them rushing out of the Fade and clamoring to find new homes in the recently-vacated bodies. The newly dead then rise up to join the old, blood still wet and warm on their skin as they take up whatever weapons are to hand and turn on the living. Above the screams and cries—and in some homes and isolated streets the echoing of music and merriment not yet interrupted—rises a howling laugh.

At first he could be mistaken for Corypheus, the too-tall frame misshapen and crusted with stone and lyrium in similar ways. But Corypheus isn't really the laughing type, and this one can't seem to stop. Cloaked but unhooded, he rides the mummified dragon over the city before alighting on top of the Chantry cathedral, scampering across its roof with unnatural agility. Armed with a crooked staff of twisted wood, bone, and metal, he calls forth the dead—not just those already on display, but the contents of every necropolis and crypt in the city, even those long forgotten and built over. Mummies emerge from cellars and sewers and claw their way up between loose cobblestones, push out from walls and rise from the riverbed and set off around the city on violent parade, acting out some wild ancient celebration of Chaos.

NIGHT.

Night seems to fall with unusual speed. The dead hunt the living through the streets, and every fresh corpse joins them in moments, almost immediately possessed by one of the translucent, undifferentiated mass of spirits teeming about the city, clamoring for vessels of their own. Some shamble after their prey with heavy steps shuffling across the cobblestones, their own lethargy dragging the energy from the living around them, deadening legs and draining even the racing adrenaline of panic until their victims slow enough to be overrun. Others go mad with rage, throttling the life from their victims, or even tearing them limb from limb with slavering intensity. They come in all states of decay, from brittle bones that just about collapse into dust when struck to the well-preserved mummies with their tight, leathery skin, to those who've barely begun to go cold. The newly dead are the most dangerous, sometimes almost indistinguishable from the living until it's too late, holiday masks concealing their dead eyes.

As the mad magister capers about the city, rousting the dead wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of anger and confusion in his wake, the living suddenly driven to attack each other with mindless ferocity, and just as suddenly returning to themselves in time to witness the horror of their actions. Elsewhere, sections of the city are plunged abruptly into utter darkness, every lantern and torch for blocks extinguished simultaneously, leaving only moonlight by which to navigate the night's dangers, even that blocked out by the great bulk of the dragon when it dives to breath death into the crowds.

GRIFFON RIDERS

Ordered to retrieve the griffons at the first sign of trouble—or in some cases to stay behind and mind them—a team of riders makes it out of the city before the gates are closed and is soon in the air overhead, relaying information back to the teams on the ground.

Most of the griffons have never seen combat before. Their reactions vary, some personalities more daring or staid than others, but even the bravest griffon might take a moment to balk at the sight of the dragon they're sharing the skies with, and the most skittish might require coaxing not to ignore instructions and fly in the other direction.

From above, there's some order to the chaos. The black-marble Castrum Draconis lies at the center of the city, statue-lined boulevards sprawling out from it like spokes on a wheel. The city's structures grow shorter and less ornate the further from the palace they are, but even the smallest dwellings in the poorer areas are three stories high. The streets between them are rivers of light. But they're going dim where the living and their torches are pushed out or trampled by growing mobs of corpses. The darkness is pressing toward the eastern side of the city, where the undead seem to be organizing around a pair of dark, enormous forms visible even from above. Meanwhile, a steady glowing stream of spirits is pouring from a single building to the west of the palace, and a large crowd of the still-living, defended at its perimeter by soldiers and guardsmen, has gathered near the city's main gates.

Relaying that information back to the rest of Riftwatch is first priority. Second is the possessed undead dragon terrorizing the city—keeping it away from that growing crowd of civilians, at least, and destroying it if possible. Then, if there's time to spare, there are people trapped in the middle of the undead horde climbing onto roofs to escape them or in need of intervention from above as they're pursued by the streets.

DIPLOMACY

Members of the Diplomacy Division assemble at a small fortress near the city's main gates, typically an outpost for the city guard and tariff collectors. It's unusually empty now: everyone is in the streets. But captains and commanders still burst in and out of doors, exchanging information and orders that any enterprising Riftwatch eavesdroppers can pass along to the rest of the organization by crystal, dispatching members of Forces to assist a neighborhood no guards are near enough to help, or sending a griffon to rescue a family who have fled onto their rooftop and come to regret it, tracking sightings of the ancient magisters on one of the many maps lining the walls.

The crystal network of course allows for much faster gathering and distribution of information around the city, and before long the guard leaders can be won over by the assistance offered by their uninvited guests, and convinced to work with Riftwatch to coordinate strategy and pass messages to guardsmen and soldiers they meet.

Unfortunately, the one thing they won't consider is opening the gates. It's the only clear order they've received from the palace: contain the threat, don't give the undead an escape route into Thedas, don't let this become a disaster Nevarra has inflicted on the rest of the world. It sounds noble. But there's a swelling crowd of living civilians trapped just inside those gates, protected at its edges by the guard and soldiers for as long as they can stay alive.

As the night wears on, word from the griffon riders above indicates that the undead have organized and are on their way through the streets toward the crowd. Someone needs to get the gate open—if not for humanitarian reasons, then for strategic ones. The crowd is large enough to increase the size of the existing undead army by a third.

FORCES

The city isn't defenseless, and at first, the most sensible thing for the Forces Division to do is to coordinate with the larger number of guards and soldiers already present to intervene on behalf of civilians and funneling them toward the city's main gates. They're grateful for any assistance from anyone who knows how to wield a weapon, and healers, magical or not, are in high demand as the injured are dragged to safety behind the line of soldiers—if they die behind the line, they'll quickly become a danger instead.

But they're outnumbered by the dead to begin with, and every time another life is lost, the body is quickly overtaken by one of the disembodied spirits ricocheting through the streets in search of somewhere to settle.

It isn't only a lack of manpower hindering efforts. Most of the soldiers and guard fight the undead with the same hesitance they might exhibit if forced to fight their own ailing grandfathers. When one of the less reverent suggests fire might be called for, she's quickly shut down. The soldiers concoct plans to block streets with toppled carts and close off intermediary gates throughout the city to contain the mummies without needing to destroy them, but the planning and the execution both take time when there isn't much of that to spare.

And the guard and the army receive conflicting orders, both large and small: the guard thinks that the army is handling the market, the army thinks that the guard is. Friction and resentment between the two groups from well before tonight doesn't help matters, and the small contingent of Van Markham loyalists present alongside the Pentaghast's forces make accusations that nearly cause a brawl before an advancing line of undead cuts it short.

In that chaos, word reaches Riftwatch from the griffons above that the dead are organizing around apparent leaders, east of the palace. Tall, corrupted leaders. Waiting for the guard and the military to organize and decide what to do about them may take all night—so go now.

RESEARCH

With eyes in the air, the source of the spirits is apparent: they're emerging from a building just west of the palace, in a steady glowing stream, before scattering wildly through the streets, searching for something to latch onto. A Mortalitasi apprentice named Portia meets Riftwatch at the entrance. She seems trustworthy, for all appearances—genuinely panicked, searching for assistance already before they arrive, trying to be helpful despite relative youth and inexperience, clutching the possessed ceremonial skull that serves as her instructor for dear life—and leads the team inside, down stairs and through a narrow tunnel that avoids the outpouring of spirits while leading to its source.

That source is a cavernous underground chamber. Its underlying architectural elements are ancient Tevene, and the remnants of crumbling inscriptions reference Zazikel. On top of them are generations' worth of Nevarran additions, dating back as far as the Glory Age and as recent as the last decade. One tiled wall is lined with stone etchings of each of Nevarra's rulers, another a map of Nevarra as it existed at the height of its expansion in the Blessed Age. A third is covered in mathematical symbols, and a fourth in flat panels that hum with the magical energy of bound wisps.

At the center is a twisting structure of stone and metal—a conduit, with beams running across the ceiling to each wall—and at its center, a glowing ball of energy from which the spirits are emerging and funneling up through the ceiling. It is essentially a magnet, the apprentice explains: not a hole in the Veil, but a concentration of summoning power, carefully situated at a nexus of the Fade's unseen rivers of magic, strong enough to pull spirits through it. It was built over the ages for the sake of knowledge and potential emergencies. It is a testament to Nevarran history and strength. And it is also a puzzle.

Each wall is a piece of it, designed to limit the device's operation to those with a thorough knowledge of Nevarran history and heroes. The kings must be pressed back flush with the wall in order—not the order they ruled, but numerically by the combined number of dragons slayed and children sired. Tiles on the map signifying the location of major battles in Nevarra's several wars must be pressed in chronological order, but any lost battles must be skipped altogether, or the whole thing will reset. The symbols on the third wall are famous proofs put forward by mathematician-philosophers at the Duchess's Games, each with several subtle errors that must be identified. And the spirits bound to the final wall will budge only for demonstrations of a number of subtle, otherwise-useless Mortalitasi ritual spells.

Their guide is of limited help: she knows King Caspar I killed fewer dragons than King Caspar II, and she's learned one of the rituals, but she's hopeless at math and military history, and the possessed skull she's carting around won't stop shrieking about how offensive it is to have so many foreigners in the room touching his work. But she does at least know the way to the royally-maintained library, which may have some undead shambling among its shelves but may also have some of the answers—and she knows that the device can only be destroyed (and here the skull shrieks its loudest) after it's been fully deactivated, if they don't want a repeat of 7:32, when a half-dozen mages who were concerned about the device's potential for misuse vanished and left behind only their robes and some black marks still visible on the floor.

And after the device has been fully dealt with and the flow of spirits stopped, there is then the matter of escaping the city, still teeming with undead.

SCOUTING

As the Diplomacy team is able to relay, the crown has issued frankly terrible orders: to keep the gates closed, to send the population home. The city guard has been told that the military is handling the darkspawn leading the attack. The military has been told to leave it to the guard. Perhaps King Markus is officially addled beyond competence, or perhaps someone either very stupid or very terrible is speaking on his behalf. It is, altogether, some real nonsense, and people—more people than normal, in a standard attack of frenzied undead—are going to die.

The assembled Scouting team is tasked with infiltrating the palace, to appeal to the king or cut off bad advice at the source—whatever it takes. With nearby noble families and their servants retreating into it for safety, it's a somewhat easier prospect than usual. Split into small groups to attempt multiple entrances and tactics, whether talking their way through the servants' entrances or climbing through upper windows, they'll find the place in disarray. Pentaghast cousins and advisors are engaged in fierce, terrified arguments in half the rooms. In others, some servants have broken down crying, convinced they will die at work without seeing their families again, while others are determined to clean and cook as if nothing is wrong, and a handful roam the halls trying in vain to rouse the rest into organizing and escaping.

The throne room has scattered pockets of people engaged in whispered conversations and one old man wandering with an untouched glass of wine and a haunted stare, apparently overwhelmed. But the throne is empty. King Markus is abed, and the room's main doors blocked by a growing crowd of officials and relatives trying to get in to see him while six guards and three grey-robed mages attempt to explain that he is strategizing with his advisors and cannot be disturbed. Aurelia—self-proclaimed regent and perhaps the only person capable of commanding admission or countermanding the orders—is miles away, encamped on the road to Hunter Fell with the Pentaghast army in anticipation of a Van Markham attack.

Fortunately, there's a secret entrance. Two, actually: one royal escape route with a staircase down to the lower levels, one corridor connecting to a room that was once occupied by some king or another's secret lover and is now stocked with herbs, incense, and various Mortalitasi accoutrements. And once the king has been secured, he'll need to be ferried out of the palace and through the chaos to the fortress where Diplomacy is trying to coordinate information with the guard and military leaders.

DAWN.

By dawn, the gates are open, and Riftwatch and the remaining Nevarran guards and soldiers have retreated from the city with as many refugees as could be saved. Not all have chosen this route, but many have nowhere else to go, and so make their weary way back down the Imperial Highway, battered and blinking in the morning sun. The dragon is defeated, the magical chamber's spell ended, and one ancient magister slain, but the dead have overrun the capital. Research's success has stoppered the flow of new spirits, but those already possessing the dead remain in the bodies they've taken, hungry, angry. The gates are shut again once all that can be rescued have been, trapping the army of the dead inside, a problem for Nevarra to solve another day.

Without tents or supplies, and with mounts and carts in short supply, most are forced to walk, and all to sleep on the ground beneath the stars in just their clothes, and to eat whatever they can buy or the soldiers can commandeer from villages as they pass. Unlike the shocked, traumatized refugees they escort, Riftwatch's members will be expected to help the guards and soldiers keep watch, distribute food, gather firewood, tend injuries, dig latrines, and whatever else might need doing. Perhaps they should take it as a compliment.

On reaching Cumberland, the refugees are escorted into the city, which has been alerted by earlier arrivals and seems to already have gears turning to deal with this stage of the crisis. Riftwatch will get a hot breakfast, some handshakes, even a few words of thanks from the Nevarrans, but otherwise will be expected to fend for themselves from there. Thankfully, Salvio has arranged their passage, and it's a short sail back to Kirkwall.

Comments

SCOUTING.

[faderifting]

The King is dead, is the thing.

It isn't immediately noticeable, upon entering his bedchamber from whichever secret entrance is ultimately chosen. The two other figures in the room—grey-robed and masked—are probably of more immediate concern, especially since their immediate response to the intrusion is to attack. Fortunately, they're not as good at magical combat as they are at magically preserving and puppeting the corpse of a man who's been dead and mummified for several months, at minimum.

But once they're handled, and the inner doors barred to prevent the guards and Mortalitasi on the other side from entering to find the mess within, there's the king. Who is dead. In fairly good shape, for a dead man, with eyes whose clouded, glassy lack of focus would be easy to mistake for very old age, at a distance, rather than being literally made of glass, and skin that's still arguably very-old-man leathery instead of dead-old-man leathery, and inhabited by a spirit that's clever enough to force his body to take a rattly approximation of a breath and quietly moan not now, I'm tired when approached—but still. Pulseless. Sewn up in places no one living ought to be sewn. Super dead.

They'll have to do something about that.

[hassaran]

"We haven't time to remove the spirit here," Yseult says, looking down at the very very late King Markus as she wipes blood from a dagger on the inside of her coat. Her costume for the occasion isn't much of anything, a man's dark clothing, arguably on the border between prosperous merchant or minor noble, and clearly chosen with work in mind more than anything--this is not an occasion to be bothering with skirts. Her mask is tucked in a pocket, hat lost during the climb up the tower but hair neatly queued. She disappears the weapon back up a sleeve, finally turning her gaze from the protesting corpse to the assembled members of Scouting.

"We can't leave him here for someone else to take up the puppetry. We remove him from the City so the spirit can be dispelled and the body returned to safe hands. But if we're seen, Riftwatch may blamed for his death, so we do it without leaving any trace that we were ever here." She gestures at the two dead Mortalitasi on the floor, looking for a volunteer or at whoever is nearest. "Strip those robes, we may need them. Then the bodies will need disposing of. Can we make it look as if they killed each other?"

RESEARCH. (or, Venerate! Those! Ancestors!)

[faderifting]

It's rare for academic research to be quite such an urgent race against time, but this has been a night of sprints through libraries, frantic rifling through card catalogs and dusty tomes, shouting about regnal names and mathematical symbols. But it's drawing to a close. They're chasing down those final elusive pieces of information, checking and rechecking the lists, and finally solving the puzzles and shutting down the river of souls flooding into the world.

Wrong answers could prove fatal not just for those in the city above, but for them as well: each wrong answer, the Mortalitasi skull warns with a certain note of glee in his voice, will open a spillway from the river a little bit wider, ultimately submerging the chamber and either drowning those in it as they attempt to complete the puzzle, or forcing them to flee and wait half a day for the room to drain before they can try again—or to solve it underwater, if they can manage it in the gloomy light of an underwater magic energy ball and hold their breath long enough to swim to and from the entrance.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil—soaking wet, sleeveless, possibly slightly deaf in one ear—stares down at the gathering of equally harassed Riftwatch members, opened and scattered books, apprentice-and-skull duo, and then turns slowly back to the puzzle when the previous entry doesn’t cause the whole puzzle to reset or cause the puddle at their feet to earn being called a ‘small flood’.

“Does anyone,” he says, “want to volunteer to step on the last tile? The Battle of Hasmal is next.”

This he asks while standing on his own tile.

FORCES.

[faderifting]

From the ground it's difficult to discern a pattern to the movement of the dead. But it's visible from the air, and not completely invisible on the ground. Though masked by detours to attack anyone they come across, they're moving toward a shared point east of the palace. The paths the mummified dead take are more direct than those of the freshly-possessed corpses, whose inhabiting spirits are new to the world, confused, and less directly bound to anyone's control.

Their destination, if they can make it through the streets to get there, is the expansive garden near the Castrum Draconis. Once the site of the stronghold where Hector sheltered Andraste prior to her betrayal, the fortress's foundation and destroyed walls have been transformed into a garden and historical monument, circled by an elaborate labyrinth of hedges, said to represent the faithful's laborious journey to the Maker's side. But at its center tonight is a different kind of would-be god—the mad priest of Zazikel sits atop the statue of Hector and Andraste, astride their shoulders, twirling his staff in his hands as he surveys the dead filling the space, circling the grounds, tracing out patterns only he can see. At the statue's base is the second grotesquely outsized darkspawn, confirming reports of another magister in the city, this one silent and draped all in voluminous black robes.

The only way to reach them is to fight their way through the maze to its center, dealing with the dead in their path and the attacks of the two ancient darkspawn that command them. Whoever thinks first of just burning a path through the hedges will discover that the second magister's power extends beyond snuffing out torches and candles, as any flame will be quickly sucked out of existence, forcing the party to proceed in near-total darkness lessened only by the light of Satina above. Once their eyes begin to adjust he'll blind them another way: with flares of brilliant firelight calculated to leave them dazed and vulnerable, dark vision ruined for minutes at a time. The madman favors sowing confusion and fear, and there is no shortage of blood to draw from to turn friends and allies against each other, like puppets with the mad priest at the strings until he grows bored and tosses them aside to toy with others instead.

They are easily the most formidable foes Riftwatch has ever faced in person, with extraordinary magical power in their grasp, each greater than any half-dozen mages put together, and impossible to predict, wielding spells that have been forgotten for millenia. The Watchman of Night is the weaker of the two and it will take all they have to defeat him—and when they do they'll find the Madman has made the surprisingly sane choice to flee during the distraction.

[thereneverwas]

Never especially one for heroics, Barrow busies himself with providing a bulwark against the dead, holding fast against the tide with his heavy shield while slashing with his sword, attempting to create openings for the allied combatants around him. His stamina is incredible, and it's clear from whence came all his upper-body strength, but even he has a limit and, after a while, begins to falter.

Occasionally, amidst the chaos, one might notice a sudden disruption of magic in his presence; usually it occurs after a trick of light, however useless it may be, but invariably it silences any allied mages as well.
Old habits die hard.

DIPLOMACY.

[faderifting]

The guard isn't going to open the gate.

It's a lot of things, besides stupid: an unwillingness to defy orders, misplaced aspirations of martyring themselves and their people to protect both Thedas and their reputation as a city that doesn't let mad possessed corpses loose in the countryside, terror freezing them in place. But it's also stupid. In the street before the gate, the crowd presses forward in a tight-packed panic, and any scream or shriek in the distance threatens to cause a stampede that would certainly result in casualties and fresh hosts for the still-roaming spirits, this time in the middle of the protected perimeter.

If they'd like to prevent that, the Riftwatch diplomats (or "diplomats") gathered near the gates find themselves with few options:

1. Convince the guardsmen manning the gate controls to ignore their orders and open the gates anyway.
2. Rile the crowd up to overwhelm them.
3. Knock them aside and handle it themselves

Or any combination of the three. However they're going to do it, they need to decide soon.

[saam]

[Rough plan outlined here but really just have fun & make friends 😉]

Eshal climbs the gates until she can see bowmen with arrows trained on her. She goes no further. If she's shot, it'll just add to her point, and she's hoping they're smart enough to know that when she starts bellowing:

"Why are they trapping good Nevarrans!" The fact that she says this in trade may be something of an impediment, but you work with what you have. "Do they think you can fight a dragon?"

The crowd gasps and shouts, maybe a bit more than before.

GRIFFON RIDERS.

[faderifting]

It is, perhaps, not immediately apparent that the dragon is also undead. Getting close enough to see the stitches or discern exactly how unnatural the sunkenness of her form is would require—you know. Getting close. But perhaps someone recognizes her as the Curse of the Cumber, famously killed by Phoebe Van Markham in the Storm Age, from a distance. Or there are other clues, like her unnatural clumsiness in flight, abnormal lack of canniness for a dragon, her apparent immunity to pain when she's hit, or the way one of her wings has tattered in a way dragonskin rarely does.

It is still dragonskin, however old. Without fully working organs, she's breathing clouds of toxic smoke instead of fire, but any flaming arrows or spells that catch her only scorch for a moment before snuffing out into nothing. She's stupid and clumsy, but she's also determined, fixated on harassing the city below unless she can be distracted and drawn away by close-swooping irritants. And she's light, for lack of organs—light and unlimited in energy. She'll never have to land, unless they can force her down.

[doneisdone]

For someone who used to hate the idea of getting on one of these great unwieldy cat things, Teren has taken unexpectedly well to it (though befriending the stable's inhabitants out of a sense of Warden duty didn't hurt). She and Blanche are like an arrow against the clouds, together mimicking Teren's ruthless, harrying quality of combat previously seen only on the ground.

She is one such close-swooping irritant, her longest sword out and scoring at whatever part of the dragon she can reach, trying to keep its attention long enough to distract it from its current target, but not so long that it can take a proper deep breath.

sidony venaras | ota

[indissection]

DAY

Sidony's arrival into her homeland is a more nervous one than anyone might have anticipated for her; she has not been home in nearly a year and her last interaction with her family had not been pleasant to say the least. She had a mask settled on her face almost an hour before they even arrive close to where she might be recognised and has made sure to stay as close to her husband as might be physically possible for her - both because she enjoys the concept of showing him her home and because he is more than suitable protection for a wife who might yet be kidnapped by her erstwhile family.

When she is not deliberately at Byerly's side she is wandering the streets, dressed in her finery, newly stitched and form-fitting as she has ever chosen to be. She feels like a princess drawn from gold itself, like the stars plucked from the sky, and she hopes to draw envy even as she hides behind the mask and the curls her hair has been forced into. As long as she can continue to enjoy the city and not be drawn into any more daring attempts by the Venaras family she will be happy - that is what she tells herself.

She does not think of Octavian. That would be foolishness.

Anyone she knows and recognises is greeted gently, either with a pair of held hands or a very Orleasian cheek kiss - and those she likes the most might have a gift pressed into their hands, a coy smile on her mouth.

DUSK/NIGHT

Satinalia is an enjoyable experience, while it lasts. Sidony does not enjoy the merriment too much - she is too self-aware, too prickled by the danger that might be lurking to truly give in - but she does allow herself to drift, to be tugged into dances, to laugh. She enjoys herself until the dragon comes and stops it all.

It's as though she has travelled back in time to Ghislain, save this time she is wearing her good heels.

Sidony knows what the mummies turning and attacking means. She has been wrapped up with Mortalitasi to know enough of Nevarran society, of what was promised and what has been taken, and she grits her teeth as she stumbles, dropping to one knee to try and fumble for the dagger strapped to the inside of her thigh. It is not much - nowhere near enough - but she does what she can, almost tripping over herself to push back to her feet and grip the hilt. She is clearly unprepared, clearly untrained, clearly a useless fighter, but she does what she can, lashing out at anyone she sees that is clearly attempting to dismember any person that belongs to Riftwatch.

Throwing her hairpiece at the nearest mummy does not seem to be entirely successful either.

Eventually, she is forced to turn and run, attempting to find someplace to hide and make herself useful before she is ripped apart by the undead coming for them, eyes wild as she searches for someone - anyone - who might be able to help her.

DAWN

Dawn comes and Sidony, with her dress ripped, dirty and bloodied, a scar across her lip and a sour look on her face, her retrieved her smaller set of surgeon's tools.

One of her heels has been torn off, leaving her walking with what looks like a rather awkward limp, her dress is in tatters, there is dirt covering her, but she sets her face into one of grim determination all the same. While the dress might have cost her money, while she might have been forced into running for her life - again - she knows that she has a job to do now. Useless in a fight but valuable after, Sidony settles down with a blanket on the floor, ignoring the settling of straw and campfire and whatever else can be made into makeshift bedding, kneeling and breathing out.

She waits. People know her, now. People recognise her. With Anders away - and she wishes he was here, desperately so, deep in her heart - there is a touch more pressure on her shoulders; she doesn't know enough about the other magical healers to put any kind of faith in them. Instead, she reaches into the pouch of tools and begins to use the blanket to make bandages, water from a skin to clean them, settling into a routine she knows far too well now.

People will come and she will heal them and she will not cry, because she is Sidony Venaras Rutyer and she does not cry, even when an undead fucking dragon threatens her life and limb.

dusk/night.

[charmoffensive]

With the lunging, clawing, bone-clattering undead in hot pursuit, Sidony rounds a likely looking corner into a skinny street, and she will see a flash of strange green fire.

Ahead, a man. A qunari or something like it, anyway, with skin a dark, dust-grey colour and curling ram-like horns protruding from his brow, which means he must be a qunari in spite of that he only has the stature of a tall and lean human. Currently, he has what looks to be a rapier buried in the gut of a mummy, and he raises a boot to plan it square in the groin of the monster, twisting his sword.

The effect is a slightly wet sounding snap of bones splintering, the maneuver separating leg from hip.

Loxley turns, then, sighting movement, and sees Sidony running, and the shadows behind her. "This way!" he calls out, with only a fleeting second of acknowledgment, and he sprints on closer, coat tails at full flap, rapier raised and strange green flame once again beginning to dance from hilt to narrow, pointed tip.

derrica | ota.

[tender]

( i. | "i need healing" )

Admittedly, Derrica's first instinct hadn't been to hang back to heal as needed. But it becomes very clear, very quickly, where her particular skills are needed.

She's small. That's an advantage now, as she darts through the crowd. People go down, she gets them back onto their feet. Her mouth is dry, and her fingers are going numb, but she slams bodily into a toppling Riftwatch member, knocking them out from under the tearing fingers of a mummy, grappling with the Veil as she casts.

"You're okay," she reassures, repeating yet again what she's been telling one person and another since the moment the dead turned on them. "Deep breath, look at me. Anything else hurting?"

There's going to be a point where she exhausts herself, but she's on her feet. If it keeps a few others upright too, that's something.

( ii. | damage dealing )

"Get the fuck—" Her voice breaks as she whips her staff around, clubbing an encroaching mummy in the chest and sending it staggering back, toppling a cluster of it's fellows. "Away!"

Do they hear her? She doesn't know. Maybe she could have asked Leander, but she hadn't really expected any of this. She had always felt spirits as something far beyond them, not anchored to bodies like this. But still, she feels some measure of guilt as she surveys the damage they're doing. How do they put anything back together after all of this?

Her eyes light on another Riftwatch member, and she shoves towards them. A few wayward soldiers trail in her wake as she grabs them by the arm.

"Come with me. The market—I don't think anyone's defending it."

Which means a mad dash towards more mummies, but what's the alternative? Leave it and hope for the best?

( iii. | aftermath )

"Here, let me," comes Derrica's voice, followed by soft footsteps and the scrape of her staff as she leans it against the side of the bed. Her fingers are clumsy, knuckles torn open. Casting is beyond her right now, but bandaging wounds isn't. She edges onto the edge of the bed, reaching for the length of linen. "It'll need to be cleaned first, if you'll let me."

Without the rapid pulse of adrenaline, she's become aware of her own injuries. But she isn't quite ready to sleep yet. This all feels like a defeat to her. Helping in some small way is the best way to process the night's events she has.

( iv. | wildcard )

[ do whatever, i'll roll with it. stuff during the day, stuff during the fighting, or miserable aftermath things, get at me. ]

i

[okayimin]

Sawbones is even smaller, but that only goes so far when you're jumping into frays to haul Dusters out. Her first instinct is to pull away and hide when something tackles her, but then there's the magic. Always strange and nothing she'll ever get used to in a hurry, even when it's stitching her back together.

She follows the mage's instructions and looks up at her, gaze focusing sharply. When she speaks her voice is clear and grim, "We're going to need to find you lyrium."

sister sara sawbones | ota

[okayimin]

DAY (of the dead)

Nevarra feels almost right. Almost like it could be wrapped up in the Stone, bodies laid to rest where they belong, even if their souls have flown off thru the Fade. The mummified remains, lined up almost like dolls, destroy the illusion of rightness quickly.

"They didn't let you rest for very long, did they," Sawbones murmurs over a fresh mummy, a woman by her shape, the linen of her bandages still brilliantly white and the sickly smell of the embalming fluids still sharp enough to catch. Unlike most of RiftWatch, Sawbones is unmasked, the beautiful embroidery of the formal Chantry regalia more than enough to distract the eye of a casual passerby. People see the brilliant reds and golds before the notice the woman wearing them is a tiny branded dwarf. Sawbones move with a stately grace that is entierly learned, gaze steady as she moves through crowds, pausing to speak to worshipers or pay her respects to the dead.

When she thinks no one is looking, she slips a small polished stone out of the sleeves of her regalia, ducking to set it at the mummy's feet. "Atrast tunsha, sister."

NIGHT (of the dead, but with more screaming and running)

She's back at the bridge, back at the end of the world. Smoke in the lungs and the stink of death and the roar of Darkspawn. Except she's not. Because the air is sharp and clear and she's still fucking wet from going underground with the Research division, strangers she barely knows enough of to put name to face. The Chantry regalia is barely more than rags and her dark hair is a flyaway mess of barely pinned curls and she is at the edge of the end of the world.

Sawbones isn't a combatant, but that doesn't fucking matter when you're trying to survive the end of the world. She kicks cobblestones loose from the streets and hurls them with sharp accuracy, grabbing the hand of whoever's stumbled against her. "Cut and run, salrocka!" she shouts, hauling them with her as she makes a break for the city gates, strong despite her tiny size, "We ain't dying here tonight!"

Dawn (of the unexpectedly alive)

For a minute, she thinks the city is burning. That has to be the glow in the distance, but... No. Because she's on the surface. She's entierly distracted for a long moment, staring at the sunrise with a look of profound loss. It's gone when she turns back away. She claps her hands to get the attention of those around her.

"All right, lets get started. Anybody who's bleeding heavily or feeling faint, sit down now. If you know how to bind a wound or sew a straight line and keep your wits about you, go find the surgeon. If you know anything about potion alchemy, come see me. I've a few supplies, but we'll need more before we can get moving. Anybody got a head count on how many injured we got so far?" Her voice is calm and clear, ringing with a steady authority as she starts to move, beginning examinations of the people around her immediately. Anyone in the immediate vicinity is subjected to this, any particularly blood covered individuals who try to sneak off will get a sharp "Sit your ass down before I plant it, Duster."

WILDCARD
[ open to anything, sawbones is gonna be full Repressing Own Personal Trauma and Emotions to Tend To Others for like a While. it's cool she's cool it's fine. pick ya preferred format and i'll follow.]

day.

[whatthefuckami]

Anne's always looking, even--or perhaps especially--when it seems like she might not be. (From under the cloth she's shrouded herself with, her hair hanging in her face, it can be hard to tell.) And she's paying especial attention to the corpses. Creepy things, likely festering with disease, ought to be burnt like the Maker meant them to be. And someone in Riftwatch has a pebble for one.

"What's that," she asks, gruff as always but not inclined toward unkindness at that moment. It means something, whatever it is, that much is clear. Without knowing the dwarf--or anything about dwarves, as a general rule--it's hard to say if it's something she needs to care about, but while they're out looking for strange shit, "does this matter" becomes something she needs to know.

eshal fazon | ota.

[saam]

a. DUSK | ota.

Eshal is dressed... well, which for her, is costume enough. Bright red shirt, embroidered with bright yellow, a crown on her head and decorative face-paint to complete it. She's eye-catching, ribbons braided in her hair, and the spear holstered over her shoulder is surely just for show. You couldn't even recognize it as the same one that hangs in a place of prominent display in the Diplomacy office, holstered as it is.

She's having fun, drinking and dancing, and she'll grab the hand of whoever's nearest for a dance. "C'mon," she says, grinning wide. "Don't waste it."

b. NIGHT | ota.

And then the fighting starts, of course it does.

A spear makes an ideal weapon if you don't want to tarnish the corpses overmuch, and Eshal's heard that's a diplomatic advantage. She aims for joints, toppling heads and arms off, making the attacking dead as powerless as possible. A few swift kicks give their decrepit legs nothing to walk on.

It's fine, really. Fights can spook her, after Seheron, but this is nothing like Seheron. These people aren't really dying, they're already dead. She's fine, she's really fine--

Until a grasping arm takes hold of her ankle, and it's just like Seheron, the dead piled atop the living, creaking groans and fire and--

All pretense of doing as little harm to corpses as possible is gone. She stabs that pile of decaying bodies repeatedly, until they're dust, unless someone stops her.

FOR JOHN SILVER.

[saam]

The aftermath is... it is.

Eshal Fazon can be found outside the medical tents. She'll get her stitches and her poultices eventually; she's a good soldier. But for the moment, she needs to heal the sickness in her soul, and not even the Qun knows how to do that.

There's a large tree growing in darkness, big enough to hide the shadow of the large woman sitting at its base. She's curled up tightly, arms around her knees, hands gripping her spear tightly. She repeats the same few words in Qunlat over and over, and those who know the language will recognize it as the Body Canto.

Alone, the emptiness is made real.
Together, we are the bones of the world.
Solitude is illusion.

But otherwise it's just nonsense, about seven words total, repeated over and over in a hushed whisper.

jack rackham | ota.

[calicoy]

a. DUSK | ota.

The trail here was a fucking trial, as you will have heard if you spent any time in Jack's presence at all during it. He loathes travel overland. This is not what he's trained for-- over years and honed by battles! You get the picture.

The party's nice, though. He's not really dressed up as anything in particular, he just grabbed whatever second hand fancy dress he could manage at a low price. He's new here, and the prospect of buying clothing to only wear once a year seems utterly pointless. But he's hardly going to let himself look bad.

And, again, the party's nice. If you ignore the corpses everywhere, it's very nice. But why ignore them?

He holds a mug up to drink, before looking over at the mummy staring down with empty sockets. "Seems a little rude," he says, "to drink and not give Nevarra's esteemed guests any."

Then he takes another drink.

b. NIGHT | ota.

Yes, yes, he's in Forces, congratulations for fucking figuring that one out.

He's in Forces because he is a sea captain. He is willing to work with Riftwatch's naval operations. He is not a soldier.

He tries, anyway. A swing and a miss, only for a skeleton to grab his back and try to strangle him with arms that should not be nearly so strong for how they lack any discernable muscles. Doing the rational thing, he drops his sword and pulls the thing's head off.

As the creature is already dead, this does not have the immediate effect Jack was hoping for. He gets a bitten finger for his efforts. "Fuck!"

c. NIGHT | ota.

After the third time his sword gets stuck in something's ribcage and the corpse turns around to stab him with it, Jack gives up.

No, not like that. Jack has many flaws, but cowardice isn't one of them. At least, not now. Cowardice just isn't advantageous to his current position.

But neither is carousing in the mele like a damn fool. He knows his skills. He turns tail, to... begin climbing the side of a house. He's climbed rigging. This is... well, it takes longer than he'd like, but he manages.

Because he is a manager. He is a captain. He's not on the vanguard, he's a commander of men. So he commands. From on high. Obviously.

Standing atop the drooping awning of an inn, he holds a torch (a festivity stolen from the rooftop) and waves it about while shouting orders. "You! Longsword, watch your flank! Axe, recoup with the one with the rapier! Mage! Push those back, don't focus on just one!"

b

[okayimin]

"You nug fucked stone-blind dumbass!" And Sawbones is just there beside Jack, grabbing the desiccated skull in two hands, "Stop fucking wiggling!"

Which is maybe not the best instruction when they're currently surrounded by walking corpses who really want to kill the lot of them, but... It takes Sawbones only a moment to break the jaw off the head and then scaling Jack like a cliff face to do the same to the arms of the dead thing strangling him.

She uses on of the arms to beat the corpse back, hanging half over his shoulder and snarling Duster curses the whole time.

Sorry, Jack.

mhavos dalat | ota.

[murderbaby]

a. DAY | ota.

Why is the clerk here? Any questions will be met with a shrug. He has a sneaking suspicion of what is coming. Something in the air. The wind tastes different.

Or perhaps he's being dramatic, and what he smells is the Nevarran dead.

He is wearing black; a change from his normal unremarkable clothing, in easily forgettable colors. Black rags over form-fitting black clothing, further obscured by more black rags. He's a shapeless creature, short and easily ignored behind more eye-catching costumes. He does not talk to anyone, and avoids celebration, existing on the edge of the social bubble expanding slowly as the day draws toward night.

One may actually find him on rooftops. He watches impassively, and if one comes by, he will look up to meet eyes, and dryly reply, "all elves know how to climb onto rooves." Is he joking or not? Does it matter?

b. DUSK | ota.

He avoids the Pentaghast corpses. He knows what they look like. He finds himself drawn to the mummies of... the others. The rest. A young girl, holding skeletal hands with her skeletal mother. The mother holds a mummified infant.

He stands there just long enough to be conspicuous. He feels eyes on him, and makes the practiced motions of respect, stiff and formal and clearly learned from a book.

c. NIGHT | ota.

He disappears when the dragon doesn't.

If you manage to find yourself inside the city, on its rooves, you may see a figure in the darkness. There are no black rags on it. Form-fitting rogue's armor instead, dyed to match the darkness of night. The hood is pulled up so only eyes can be seen.

The fact that the creature is little is the only indication it's an elf. It walks quickly on parapets and rooves, heading toward the castle.

FOR ILIAS FABRIA.

[murderbaby]

Night has not quite settled yet. His voice is just loud enough to hear above the festivities.

"Near death inflicts this lethargy... and this I murmur in my sleep..."

He is standing before mummies that have been set up around a house no one watches, so he may have his time watching them. He does not have to remember the Nevarran forms of respect, though he has done them already. But he's sure it's not respectful to just stand there, staring, thinking.

"This idle talk, to that I go... for dying men talk often so."

They are clearly servants. At least, Mhavos things they are. One holds a broom. Is that a fate one is destined to in the afterlife?

He hears footsteps in the darkness, and turns his head to greet them. "I fear you've caught me being morbid." And he looks back upon the mummies. "A bad habit, but if there is ever a time for it... I hope it is now."

alistair.

[byblow]

day | ota

[byblow]

”I’ve seen so much worse,” Alistair says from behind his mask, eyeing a whole family of mummified corpses currently standing idle on a street corner. He assumes they’re a family, anyway. Hard to tell if they share the same nose when the noses are shriveling to nothing.

His head is tilted. It’s a little out of idle consideration. A little because it’s the best way to get a clear view through the mask’s eye holes. He was meant to be a bear. But the mask—mostly carved wood, minimal detail—is ambiguous around the ears, and his accent is Fereldan as they come, and by the fifth some a Nevarran says, Ah, a Fereldan mabari! he’d given up. He’s a mabari now.

“But I don’t think I’ve seen worse in daylight,” he goes on, to whoever had the good or bad luck to be paired up with him to evaluate this particular street. It’s sparsely populated. The parties are elsewhere. Probably no Nevarrans are close enough to hear him. “The gross things are always in the dark—do you think they know they’re ugly?”

ellis | ota.

[heorte]

( i. | recon. )

The city makes Ellis uneasy. Too many people, too much potential danger. His own usefulness won't come into play unless something presents itself to be battered into submission. And because of all these people, Ellis would rather it not come to that. The sheer amount of casualties—

He forcibly turns his attention from that train of thought. As he clears his throat, his gaze sweeps quickly across the bustling marketplace to identify his walking partner. Abandoning his scrutiny of a set of mummies, he passes through the crowd to fall into step with them again.

"Have you noticed anything strange yet?" A beat. "Besides the obvious."

The mummies in and of themselves qualify as strange in Ellis' opinion. He's politely refrained from saying so outright, but seriously.

( ii. | monster mash. )

The crush of the dead is endless. They're everywhere, and they're endless. He's never been so grateful to have worn even few pieces of plate, even if it had made for a poor costume. There's some lurking sense of fear waiting to blossom into outright panic, but for now it's contained. The tide of this battle anchors him to the moment, and the awareness of the people alongside him.

If he falters, he dies. They die. It's a powerful motivator.

"Get behind me," He says, out of breath. "I can make a hole, and we can make a run towards that entryway at the end of the road."

And likely directly into yet another swarm of the dead, but closer to a choke point. Half-considered plans spin into his mind, but getting out of this winding set of streets is the only priority now.

( iii. | wildcard )

[ do whatever your heart desires, i'm down. miserable aftermath stuff is 👍👍 so lmk if you want a particular starter or just wing it and i'll roll with it. ]

ii.

[justashotaway]

If she could use her claws, she might protest the suggestion. She does not require a hole, only the ability to cut at the dead with every step. This is something she knows how to do.

But tonight, she has a sword--and however well she wields it, it is only one blade. Her options are not so flexible, and her abilities are rather more untested. (After they made her kill her fencing instructor, she hadn't done as much fencing. After they gave her claws, she'd learned to rely on them. Her muscle memory is still there, but it is not so wide-ranging as the claws would be.)

She nods, lifting her weapon in preparation, tensed to spring into action. "I will cover you."

anne bonny / ota

[whatthefuckami]

DAY

The specter of death stalks through Nevarra City long before anything strange occurs--in the form of all those damned mummies, yes, but also by way of Anne Bonny. She's wrapped herself up in a burial shroud, forgoing a hat in favor of letting the fabric hood her face, currently painted the ashy grey-white of a skull.

It's a mostly quiet walk, if you're patroling the area with her; Anne sees much and says little, as a general rule. But at one point, staring at a mummified woman standing sentry in front of a well-appointed home, she mutters, "Fuck kind of strange behavior are we looking for, anyway."

The implication; they're corpses. All of this is strange.

DUSK

The whole thing starts to seem like it won't come to anything, enough so that Anne finds a bottle of wine and a building to lean against, near to a bonfire. At the risk of saying come bother her, she's eminently botherable--

--right up until the mummies next door start shambling up toward this particular knot of people. Setting the bottle on the ground, she wipes her mouth on a sleeve and pulls out her daggers, advancing on the corpses.

Are they supposed to be cutting these fuckers into pieces? Too late, it's happening, with a brusque precision that says she's done a lot of this in her life.

WILDCARD

[Anne Bonny: great at fighting, less great at talking. She'll be stabbing the bejesus out of corpses, probably crushing more than a few skulls in the process, and generally failing to show cultural sensitivity. As you do. On the way down to Cumberland, she's one more member of Forces falling into line--the long trudge sucks compared to sea travel, but unlike Some People, she's not about to bitch about it.]

day.

[hornswoggle]

"As far as I can tell, if it moves, we should bludgeon it."

Maybe. John's taking his cues from the warning one of the Averesch had dourly delivered over the crystal. Something's amiss. It's just not immediately visible what.

"Or if someone looks to be trying to raise the dead, bludegon them," John amends, though he doubts anyone who'd orchestrated such an event would be conveniently standing on the street to be dealt with.

laura kint / ota

[justashotaway]

NIGHT

She has spent the day as a cat without clows, having decided that, as long as none of the Nevarrans see what she can do, they will not know she is a fugitive. But she is starting to miss them--while she is capable with a sword, it is difficult to stop herself from kicking out a clawed foot when instinct tells her it would be easiest.

Quick as she is, she's not especially thoughtful towards bystanders. Dead people menacing you? Good news--she's shoved you out of the way, so she can start cutting them apart. Hope you didn't fall into more corpses.

DAWN

Nevarra City is receding into the distance when Laura first hears the name Cumberland and stops in her tracks so abruptly that someone walks into her back, swears, and moves around her.

It should be obvious, in retrospect, that they would go there. Cumberland is a large city, better able to take in the Nevarrans seeking refuge than the villages in the surrounding area, and it is not so far from the Marches. They might have gone back this way regardless of the way Satinalia ended. But the idea puts lead in her muscles, the color rushing away from her cheeks.

"We should go someplace else," she says, certain of this fact and aware that she is unlikely to change anyone's mind. "We could travel east."

WILDCARD

[Laura will spend the day watching everything Very Seriously (and tentatively thinking about enjoying herself) and the night getting increasingly covered in viscera. The closer they get to Cumberland, the more anxious she'll be--albeit in a quiet way. Dragging her heels at the back of the group, sticking closer to people she knows, failing to respond to direct questions and comments like she hasn't heard them, generally backsliding into old habits.]

dawn

[heirring]

And just as abruptly, there is an arm sliding in to link elbows with Laura in an attempt to bring her along rather than simply dodging past her as the last passerby had done. Overly familiar? Absolutely. But Wysteria is in a shockingly good mood, all things considered. Most of her clothes have even dried out (with the exception of her stockings, which are currently hanging off her neck in an attempt to let the air dry them, and her underclothes which simply demand suffering through) and she has a blanket thrown about her shoulders like a cloak to keep the morning chill at bay.

"Are you familiar with it? I've read extensively about the College of Magi there and would very much like to discuss the place with someone who might have personal opinions."

Try not to stab her for the sudden physical interaction, Laura. It would make for an unpleasant conversation for everyone involved.

sabine.

[glandival]

DAY; OTA.

There's a thoroughfare that is filled with more than just mummies. There is also music, and specifically, there is dancing.

It's a colourful spectacle, and all so strangely macabre with the dead looking on with staring eyes as life teems in hand-held circles, and bright skirts, and bejeweled masks. The costumes themselves range from the beautiful through to the demented, but almost always quite glorious to the point of obscenity. With her patrol partner, Sabine points to one man in particular wearing a silken tunic entirely decorated in peacock feathers, and a codpiece decorated with a curving phallus designed to emulate the peacock's head and neck.

For herself, Sabine is dressed in a fine dress of genuine Orlesian finery, with gauzy sleeves, a frilled and upright collar, a bodice that laces up at the front, a cinched waist, and overflowing skirts that look heavier than they are. Her hair has been swept up behind her head and pinned in such a way that wild curls have been tamed to sit flat on her skull, and disguise her elven ears.

Around her neck, she's painted bruising and rope marks, and she wears a rough looking noose of her own fashion, the end of which she holds in one hand and twirls idly. She watches the circle of dancing disperse and then reform as a new song begins, this one even faster paced.

"Perhaps, just for a minute?" Sabine suggests. "One dance."

NIGHT; CLOSED TO RICHARD.

As chaos grips the streets of Nevarra City, a figure climbs her way up off them.

Fluffy skirts are bundled up above her knees but are still very cumbersome as Sabine climbs up the side of a building, hand over hand, boots -- of more practical make than the rest of her outfit -- set against brick and windowsills and architectural trim. With her red hair up-swept and pinned in place, her face half-covered in a finely elegant mask, and her arms sheathed in tiered bell-sleeves of gauzy fabric, she makes for a cognitively bizarre picture of a frilly noblewoman scaling a building.

Once there, however, kneeling in the shadows, she starts undressing, tugging at the lacing at the front of her bodice as she darts a look around. Behind her mask, her eyes have been painted in shadowy black -- ostensibly a part of her costume, as her long throat is decorated in makeup bruising and rope marks.

Below, costumed citizens dart this way and that, rising chaos breaking to panic like a fever as not only the mummified corpses of generations of Nevarrans attack those they were promised to protect, but so to do the freshly dead.

DAWN; OTA.

It's time to move on. This section of Riftwatch and refugees had stopped to rest for a blessed hour or so, to tend to the wounded and eat, and Sabine has taken the opportunity to sleep.

Which she is still doing even as people are standing. A coat that didn't belong to her when this evening began but belongs to her now has been bundled up to form a pillow, and this alone she uses as comfort, save to have selected a patch of high ground away from the road, where the grass is growing thick. She looks smaller like this, having loosely braided All Of Her Hair, wearing the dark fitted clothes she'd been prancing around the rooftops in, and curled up into a defensive ball.

Most of the makeup is gone, included the mock-injuries and her deep eyeshadow, smeared to grey. If any real bruises are forming, they're disguised beneath her clothing, and she's more or less avoided any kind of deeper injury. Save to that of her circadian rhythm, which smothers down her awareness of the latest call for the caravan of people to keep moving.

WILDCARD; OTA.

[ ooc; feel free as usual to switch to action tag formatting, and also feel free to run a random encounter throughout the evening. sabine will not be in the Thick of the fighting so much as deploying some stabs from the edges, and then basically all over the place in that palace. ]

dawn.

[whatthefuckami]

Anne doesn't end up near the elf with any purpose, doesn't notice it until they're getting up to go. (She'd been shoveling porridge into her mouth with a familiar kind of weariness, then waiting outside in the weak sunlight, away from the blood and poultices.) They aren't even really near, just within sight of each other. But the group's starting to move, and Sabine isn't.

Problem with waking people up is knowing whether you're wandering into a fight. Without any idea how much shit someone's seen, she's not about to get in their face and find out if they're the type to pull a knife half-asleep. So instead, giving Jack a nod that means go on, I'll catch up, she walks up the little knoll Sabine's curled herself on and gives one of her legs a nudge with the toe of her boot. Out of range of grabbing, mostly, and of stabbing. "Hey. Get up."

athessa | ota

[sulahnan]

I. Day

The problem with scale mail is that it’s just so fucking heavy.

The real problem, of course, is that Athessa had the bright idea to put together a dragon-inspired costume for this trip, because she found a deeply cool dragon mask that not only has horns, but it disguises her entire face and does a pretty good job of hiding her ears. What isn’t masked by the...well, the mask, is hidden beneath her mane of dark curls. Her shoulders are emblazoned with scale mail pauldrons, attached to a chainmail collar that creeps up her throat and down her decolletage. Loose fabric drapes over her slight frame beneath the mail, a tunic that blends seamlessly with the wrap worn over her harem pants. It’s a clever illusion, making her look as though wearing yards of skirt when really, the wrap can fall away and leave her legs free to, say, straddle a griffon.

“I’m definitely not sneaking up on anyone in this,” she says, each step marked by the jingling of metal. And, to her supreme discomfort, the sound of boots hitting the street. It wouldn’t make sense to hide the fact that you have elf ears if you’re just gonna run around barefoot.

II. Dawn

In the light of the morning, the wounds and weariness that was masked by the night is thrown into harsh focus. Athessa did not sleep, the adrenaline from fighting a fucking dragon keeping her going through the night, through the transition from flight to foot, aerials to escape, but now that things have calmed down, the exhaustion begins to sink in.

She’ll still be moving among the refugees, soldiers, and fellow members of Riftwatch, administering healing salves and ferrying potions hither and yon, offering a hand to carry someone from here to there, just generally trying to be as useful and helpful as possible. But she’ll also be flagging a bit, with dark rings under her eyes and her hair tied back in a messy approximation of a bun just to keep it out of the way.

If there’s a moment of peace on the way to Cumberland, she might wind up falling asleep for all of five minutes before someone else calls for help.

III. Wildcard

[you know the drill]

Dawn

[okayimin]

Sawbones is still moving. Her Chantry regalia looks more like the rags she used to wear in Dust Town, but it doesn't really make much difference. She was Sawbones before the Chantry and she'll be Sawbones when she dies. The thing she's never had as Sawbones though is this... The surgeons and the mages and the Dusters who can stitch and straight line or apply a salve and wrap a bandage. Strange thing to have colleagues, but it only means she doesn't have to watch them as close as patients.

She recognizes Athessa's face as one that's a colleague more than patient, looking like she'll fall over.

"You need sleep, salrocka," Sawbones says, voice only a little hoarse from talking to patients and calling out instructions. She slings her a saddle blanket she'd purloined from somewhere (definitely not the city guard and definitely not because they're a bunch of Stone deaf bronto shits who think keeping the gates closed during a full scale invasion is a good idea), "Here. Can't afford to have anybody taking ill on top of all this."

flint | ota

[katabasis]

i. day (ota)

There are sixty-one stairs leading to the largest of Nevarra City's administrative buildings. That seems to be just large enough of a number to discourage the district's Satinalia preparations from climbing to the broad courtyard at the top of the stairs before sunset, and so reserves the place to play the role of semi-respectable vantage point.

The view of the city from up here is as good as one's likely to get⁠—a suitable replacement for the wildly inaccurate map in a now very distant book⁠—, and there is man dressed in dark clothing picked with darker embroidery wearing a red mask paused here in the shadow of one of the courtyard's great painted stone columns penciling out a diagram on a folded piece of paper. He cuts the capitol out into a patchwork of unofficial territories and landmarks. These buildings are made of that material and they sit due East of that pillar where one of the main thoroughfares begins, which leads North through the city to⁠—

And so on. Memorize this, his hand says.

The mummy in its fine regalia posted in the opposite patch of shade in the courtyard has, up until this point, done a fine job of drawing any attention which might otherwise fall to his own place here. But here are a pair of city guards coming up the stairs now, bitching about having to fetch some official from his office and escort him home for the evening. They seem like the type to prefer a more lively distraction from their work.

ii. dusk (closed to silver)

The highest point of the Chantry cathredal's roof is just visible over the high wall of the small private courtyard. There are no Satinalia bonfires here, no dancers and no drinking to be had, though the sounds of the evening's revelry are loud in both the adjacent street and from through the low doorway leading into the fine house to which this little garden is attached. The only trace of the festivities in this place are the masks which all three of them are still wearing.

Their informant is a slight woman, as thin and narrow under the heavy fall of her short cloak as the feather flocked bird mask that covers the entirety of her face would imply. A moment ago she was a shadow slipping out from under the eaves, and now she is removing her her dark talon-ended gloves and tucking them into her belt alongside a light crossbow and a gleaming silver hilted knife. This isn't the cheap brand of intelligence to be gleaned for a pittance from the side bar of some grimy public house. This is the bespoke sort of spy work which demands clandestine, moonlit meetings.

He has little patience for the drama this evening. They have, Flint thinks, a half hour before they must meet with another pair of Riftwatch agents at a crossroads four streets over from this one, and very little time to manage what seems likely to be the brokering of new terms. From behind the flat red of his mask, Flint turns his face by a degree to give Silver a look of pure exasperation as their spy takes her sweet time producing a narrow folded folio tied with a cord from inside her cloak.

Which is more or less the exact instant a great shape rises to be framed against the full moon hanging above them.

iii. night (ota)

To say that they are moving against the tide of the city suggests that the street is moving in any given direction. Instead, the confused flight of the foot traffic seems to alter at every crossroads, coursing after only the general concept of away and all but designed to divide any group attempting to retain a sense of organization. Fighting against the frantic swell of humanity and finding himself still in the company of a handful of Riftwatch agents as they reach a broad square featuring a towering central column is a kind of a miracle.

What is less promising is the rapidly collapsing line of city guardsmen at the far side of the square attempting to shore up a barricade against a veritable wave of undead threatening to flood into the common area. The buildings about the square are evidently residential; even now, a man is all but tossing a second child into the back of a cart harnessed to a wild-eyed donkey barely restrained by a third child hanging from its headstall.

"Get them out of that fucking cart and bring it around to reinforce the barricade," Flint snaps to whoever happens to be closest.

iv. wildcard (ota)

[you know the drill; alternatively, hit me up if none of these ~speak to you~ and you'd prefer I cobble together a designer™ starter.]

night.

[elegiaque]

By the time Gwenaëlle is bumping shoulder to probably bicep with Flint, the enormous hoop skirt of earlier has gone; its sheer fabric in evidence where she's torn it from her waist, and the largest of the hoops creatively used after shimmying up a stable-post to hook bewildered new dead in a confused circle that she'd then fade-blasted across a street. She's not sure how many of them will be salvageable, so hopefully none of the Nevarran Riftwatch contigent saw her do it. The hoop certainly wasn't.

Her bow left behind in Kirkwall as regrettably indiscreet, it's an impressive number of places on her person that she's managed to secret knives, probably because while lacing Sabine into a dress it began to get competitive. She is carrying the slim one that Silver had given her, produced from what on another woman might be referred to as 'between her breasts', when she takes firm grip of not cart or child but donkey with the hand glowing with the authority of a woman who recently used it to split a door from its hinges to add to that barricade—

“They can still be on it if you want them to,” she says, which is the sort of threat she shouldn't make if she doesn't mean when she doesn't know he won't dig his heels in, “but it is going to the barricade.”

He lets her help him take the children down.

ilias / the grand necropolis ota

[libratus]

the grand necropolis, dawn; (OTA as a setting for whoever would make a detour to it, ilias optional)

It stands a beacon in the middle distance. Across a breath of open land from the city, torchlight catches under the cheekbones of colossal effigies, under-lighting a shimmering crown of high columns and magnificent sandstone walls. As the capital's gates open to release its flood of bodies both living and dead, the Grand Necropolis waits, dimming on the horizon against a sun just beginning to wick red up the sky.

The movement at the statues' feet seems inconsequential at a remove, ants scurrying on the foothills of a mountain, but with proximity, resolve: long robes whipping against the wind in silhouette; the glimmer of a crested helm atilt on the head of a bent-backed figure; the line of a staff planted resignedly in the dirt. Flanked by a few seasoned guardsman, a handful of Mortalitasi gather in dusty armor before the gate.

Just beyond, the panic is nearer to the surface. Men and women in plainclothes and robes alike herd and pull each other toward the road, their eyes flashing bright toward the sprawl of refugees and undead inevitable in the brightening distance. One robed woman pleads wet-cheeked with another, a satchel of gently glowing lyrium potions tugged to and fro between them. A youth with armfuls of scrolls overflowing argues with a man who's struggling to haul the top half of a leaf-skinned, fussing mummy into a cart already heavy with ornament; There isn't time— There isn't room—

Somewhere, a cry; elsewhere, a song, the words shaped differently in Nevarran but the rhythm familiar to any Chantry-going child:

For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.

isaac & leander;

[libratus]

Ilias hasn't stopped since the gates opened. Grabbed hold of a forearm in the fray, yes; anchored himself stubbornly to one fellow diplomat for that final push out from the crowd. Slowed, too, to let relief wash over his brows at the sight of Leander, whole and hale, coming up over the ridge ahead. Of course he'd survive this. Of course he'd come. The streaks of red down his own cheek, neck, and forearms are shallow, fingernail scratches amongst bruises whose cause he's already forgotten; the red-darkened core of his robes is already healed; his legs feel like lead, but his steps don't falter until his feet find the stone path they'd spent a decade wearing smooth, and stop there. Breathing in the incense. Letting the scope of this sink in.

Some burning thing in his chest threatens to flicker out.

One of the Speakers before the gate, a stocky woman with close-cropped white hair, warms at the sight of him. Dips her chin. The stone in her hand continues its steady scrape along a staff blade. The walls aren't crumbling; the dead aren't tearing into the living here yet, but,

"They'll be overrun," is breathed against the wind. "Do you think— minutes? An hour?"

Does it matter? He isn't sure what does, now.

kostos.

[exequy]

night | otgriffon team

[exequy]

It'd have been nice if felling a demented unstoppable undead dragon was the end of the night, but it isn't. The city is still a swarming hive of horrible sounds—screams, thuds, crashes, wails—and horrible sights, when there's enough proximity and firelight to make them out. Families stranded on rooftops while the undead clumsily but pertinaciously search for a path up to them. A man tries to make his way through the streets with releasing a struggling body clawing at his face. Far from the protective ring of soldiers at the main gates, a half-dozen civilians are cornered by fresh corpses not beholden to whatever force is organizing the red lyrium-infected mummies.

Landing to pull people out of trouble has worked a couple of times already. But this time one of those screams, thuds, crashes, or wails is too loud and too close, and Mouse twists off-path at the last moment with an acrobatic roll that Kostos might have admired, if not enjoyed, if only he'd been ready and braced for it. But he wasn't, and he's slung right off the griffon's back.

He'd had the reins wrapped around one wrist. The wrenching dislocation of his shoulder, before he comes loose, helpfully demonstrates why people don't usually hold reins that way.

But it's otherwise a short drop and a skidding roll of a landing that will hurt more in a few hours than it does now—now, when Mouse is swooping in distressed circles overhead, too frightened to come lower without someone to insist he suck it up, and the approaching undead are of more immediate concern than whether there's gravel stuck in a scrape.

Welcome to Riftwatch Amal!

[wrecca]

OOC: Finally intros my side character?! Ping me on discord if you want to plot anything else! I am at itsabee#1072 and I am down for whatever.

---

NIGHT -- SAVE ME FROM ZOMBIES -- Only one thread for simplicity, but happy to have multiple people in and out of it

Her husband’s blood is still staining her clothes when she stumbles out into the street. She doesn’t look nearly as finely composed as the family she’s chasing after. All in clean black, embroidered with gold. There is not a scratch on them as they make their way to a waiting carriage.

A pair of teenagers blocks her way, a younger brother with beautiful features and a slender sister with waist length hair. Amal slaps the sister without even pausing for breath. For a moment there’s just heavy, venomous silence, and then the boy and girl both shove her off her feet, hissing at her lowly, leaving her with a sharp kick.

Mother and father alight into a carriage behind them, and the siblings follow without looking back again. It’s pulling away before Amal has even picked herself up out of the mud. She tries to run after it, but her emotions overtake her quickly. She’s back on her knees before long, wailing.

“Santi!” is the name that she’s screaming inconsolably. “You fucking bitch! Bring him back! Santi!”

She’s screaming in the street, darkness settling around her fully with the carriage lanterns pulling away.

DAWN -- A RELUCTANT REFUGEE -- OTA

”She stole my son,” she’s pleading with literally anyone who will listen to her. “Please, I need help to get him back.”

It doesn’t take long before she’s crying again, furious and helpless, “Please. She took my son, I have to get him back! I have to find Santi.”

A RECRUIT -- OTA

She had not wanted to stay with the others in Cumberland, and that was all she really knew about the matter. That if she’d stayed there she’d… simply die of heartbreak. She doesn’t know what skills she is going to offer to the Riftwatch, but it is something. Something to take her away from the city that she should never have come back to.

She’s draped against the railing of the deck, tears streaming down her face because she hasn’t stopped crying in what feels like years. She’s thinking about curses and muttering them under her breath. She’s thiking that maybe she’s cursed, or maybe it was the city, or maybe she wishes she could curse her mother and her father and her siblings to some kind of eternal fucking torment for ripping Santi from her arms. That’s what she whispers the most under her breath.

Her fist closes and she beats it on the wood a few times before she lays her head down in her arms, and waits to arrive in Kirkwall.

a recruit;

[libratus]

Ilias feels a little like he's walking the Fade. The sort of nights that leave your limbs heavy, worn from the miles and miles your sleeping form has walked without moving an inch. But the ship to Kirkwall, the final leg of what feels a far longer journey than the leagues from Ghislain, puts a limit on how much walking he can do in the waking world.

(Pacing, is what he isn't calling it. Keeping busy. It's better than losing his breakfast over the side.)

"There is water, if you'll have it." A skin of it, offered as he crouches down beside the woman he's not yet had the chance to meet.

Dick | dawn loxley + very vague ota

[nonvenomous]

Loxley:

“Stitches wouldn’t hurt.”

Richard puckers the sides of a wound closed with his thumbs by the light of a small fire, bare-handed beneath a second skin of dried blood and grime. Liquor still streaks and dribbles (and burns) where he’s poured to douse the worst of the detritus out.

He tips his head, measuring the length and width of the wound against the natural pull of grey hide from where it’s split.

“I could try without them but it might scar.”

Where is this wound, where are his hands. This is a choose your own adventure.

OTA:

Find him peering resentfully up at unfamiliar stars while meatier lads with meatier hands are digging trenches, or thumbing through purloined scraps of religious text by the firelight. Richard is bearded and lean and streaked with the same sort of filth as everyone else; his armor is dark leather, a little sinister by local standards.

Someone might have overheard someone else say that he’s a healer, or a medic, or bogarting a bottle of looted grain liquor.

Discretion is a challenge, in a procession this dense and this diverse.

[ OOC: Late but just in casies. I’m down for whatever; Richard has heals if you need them, and patience for days if you’d like to bother him for anything else. ]

dawn loxley.

[charmoffensive]

Loxley says, voice strained; "Counterargument: stitches would hurt."

That's just a fact.

Nearby, some of his things are laid out. His sword, cleaned down of zombie muck and back to a shine, rests atop his armored coat along with the wide belt from which knives rest in their sheaths. Atop that is a shirt deemed temporarily useless until it can be washed of the blood that's dried dark and stiff into fabric, and sewn to repair. Out of stiff leathers and steel studded defense, Loxley is halfway lounging as Richard does uncomfortable things to the gash striped across his abdomen.

Likewise mostly covered in grime and dried blood, hair plastered to brow from the night's exertions, the site of the injury itself is the cleanest part of him if still oozing warm blood at a continual rate.

He brings his head up from where he'd let it fall back lax at the last pinch to torn skin. "But. I wouldn't like to have a permanent momento of this particular evening."