faderift | MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

Entry tags:

MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

WHO: Everyone (more or less)
WHAT: A trip to Rialto, in pursuit of convincing Antiva to give up its famed neutrality, just this once, pleaaaase.
WHEN: Cloudreach/Bloomingtide 9:48
WHERE: Rialto, Antiva
NOTES: OOC post here. Remember to use warnings in your subject lines for gore, sexual content, or anything else people might not expect to find while casually reading this log on a work computer.

YOUR DESTINATION

Rialto is Antiva's second city in importance and in population, but in many ways it is first in sheer Antivanness. When foreigners imagine Antiva, they often conjure images of graceful bridges arching over turquoise canals, lovers on a romantic gondola ride serenaded by a soprano's aria, fiery young men in vibrant leathers dueling for the honor of their houses in the piazza while down at the docks pirates share tales over bowls of seafood pasta. All of this is to be found in Rialto. While Antiva City is a teeming, bustling center of world commerce, with all the clamor and diversity that creates, Rialto is popular more with the city's uppermost classes than its vast mercantile middle, particularly the old aristocracy who prefer Rialto for its relative peace and its proximity to King Fulgeno's favorite residence. This is not to suggest that Rialto is a Hightown without any Low—like all major cities, for every palazzo-lined canal where the wealthy rest are ten more waterways packed with delivery boats and shops and taverns of every degree and description, from the broad spans edged with rows of fashionable tailors and jewelers to narrow, winding alleys of water overhung by leaning buildings of smoke-stained stucco. The docks, though neither as large nor as busy as the capital's or Kirkwall's, are still large and busy by any other measure, packed with merchants and sailors and fishermen, along with some who—uniquely common in Antiva, a kingdom founded by pirates—skirt the line between honest seamen and buccaneers.

Antivans will argue it's always a good time to visit their country, but everyone else agrees that spring is the ideal. The weather is consistently mild and pleasant, warmer than Kirkwall but without yet edging into the heat of summer the way it is in Tevinter to the north. In the city's parks and piazzas, flowers and shrubby add a few splashes of greenery and warm breezes send occasional showers of petals down from the cherry and citrus trees just finishing their blooms. Climbing flowers and arbors of grapevines are common adornments.

For the king's birthday celebration the city's elegant pale stone buildings are all decorated, with public buildings and bridges hung with bunting in the crown's favored purple and banners depicting the arms of Antiva and the royal house Campagna: a golden ship, sails unfurled, beneath a crown, the shield supported by a seahorse on one side and a stallion on the other. Along the grand canals every palazzo is bedecked in some combination of the occupant's colors and the kingdom's purple, and the theme continues throughout the city, every district finding some means to demonstrate its festive mood. The effect is only slightly diminished by the few areas where graffiti conflicts with the decorations, and Riftwatch, at least, will be pleased to see it mostly takes the form of anti-Tevinter sentiment, ranging from a scrawled FUCK THE VINTS to a few choice quotes from certain popular pamphlets and puppet plays, to a large and surprisingly skillful mural of a dragon and a caricatured merchant prince sitting together on a heap of gold playing with toy ships and dolls while behind them a fire rages.

The king's birthday is always an extravagant occasion, even more so when he hits any age ending in a 0 or a 5, as he is this year. A full week of revelry has been decreed, with each day marked by pageants and parades and games of all sorts, and every night new and fabulous parties in his honor hosted by various houses, guilds, and societies. Knowing the king's love of masquerades, many of these balls are masked, with themes ranging from House Campagna's most celebrated ancestors, to sea creatures, to all gold everything. (While fancy dress is of course always encouraged, many will simply attend in their best finery, with the intention of visiting multiple parties in the same night.) The city is lit with lanterns, torches, and even the occasional bonfire, as the bacchanal spills into the canals and piazzas each evening and continues long into the night.

YOUR MISSION

Riftwatch arrives on this scene by ship, which garners a few approval points from the merchants and pirate-descendants populating the city. The ship remains anchored in the harbor for the duration of their stay, reachable by tender and doubling as a temporary home for the selection of griffons who have accompanied them north.

Griffon riders will make the trip back and forth from the ship most often, as they'll be assigned to shifts that keep one or two of them in the air at all times, day or night. The outward justification for this is to entertain the Antivans below them; they're encouraged to fill some of the time with acrobatics over busy squares or particular parties, at times with banners and streamers to trail behind their mounts. Those with griffons who don't startle easily might be entrusted with a few fireworks to set off from the air. But the real purpose is surveillance, of course, and to serve as emergency back-up or ambulance for anyone who finds themselves caught in a tight spot and calls for help. Riders will be equipped with vials of antidotes to some common poisons, and particularly at night, anyone with healing magic or medical skills might be asked to ride along.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, a steady stream of influential merchants and socialites will want an interesting Riftwatcher or three at their dinners and private parties, each presenting an opportunity to impress upon influential people the importance of the war. These gatherings will range from stiff, formal affairs to wild bacchanals, depending on the host. Of note: a moonlit evening with a chamber quartet on Antonio Luppi's pleasure yacht, famously large enough to have a croquet pitch on the upper deck, a days-long Wicked Grace tournament with rising stakes where Marco "il Calabrone" Molinari defies anyone to beat him, and a race through the canals on gondalas owned by Antiva's who's-who. There are no rules, so finding ways–even magical or new-technological ways–to improve the odds of the more invested racers may win some favor, and a number of competitors are eager to see if Riftwatch has some arcane way to give them an edge.

Outside the city gates, on a grassy cliffside that overlooks the Amaranthine Ocean, there's a faire for the workers and peasantry. There's dancing, a series of field games (tug of war, footraces, horseshoes, wrestling, hammer throwing, blindfolded stick-dueling, mob football, and whatever the heck wallop is), a bonfire each evening, and young people goading one another into cliff diving and climbing back up, sopping wet, using stairs and handholds carved into the cliffside. While no single one of the participants is as influential as the better-heeled set hosting gathering elsewhere, it's still good politics to put in an appearance, play some games, and dispel any lingering perception of Riftwatch as a weird heretical sect or pack of wild demons.

They'll find similar opportunities scattered throughout the streets of Rialto: full tables at taverns who might listen raptly to their accounts of the war further south, minstrels and players who might be persuaded to change their tunes to whip up sympathy or anger for Corypheus' targets, and lower-level independent tradesman who might be persuaded to stop doing business with Tevinter or push for such an agreement within their guilds.

Riftwatchers who are especially active in outreach in these working-class quarters may find themselves approached quietly by representatives of I Figli Della Brace, an underground network of agitators that sprung up in the wake of Riftwatch's prior propaganda efforts and has been wreaking minor havoc by destroying Tevinter goods, carrying on the tradition of vandalism, and hassling those who do the most business with Tevinter and the Anderfels. They're loosely helmed by Vieri Fontana, who already trusts a few members of Riftwatch, and in exchange for Riftwatch's assistance with a few sneaky favors and quick but rowdy demonstrations of disobedience, they'll promise a strong showing of angry common folk outside the palace when it's most needed.

And through all of this, Riftwatch members will need to be looking over their shoulders, watching their drinks, avoiding dark alleys, keeping an eye out for snipers on rooftops, and staying wary of alluring strangers, because an untold number of Antivan Crows are out for their lives and/or anchors.

The purpose of all of this hobnobbing and sneaking around and dodging of murder attempts awaits at the end of Riftwatch's stay: King Fulgeno the Merry and all of the Merchant Princes have agreed to give a contingent of Riftwatch diplomats a moment, the day after the king's largest birthday feast, to plead their case against continuing to trade with Tevinter and the Anderfels. Winning them over would strike a significant blow to the enemy, already cut off from trade with much of the rest of Thedas, and bring Antiva that much closer to actively assisting with the war effort.

Should this meeting involve the support of a few more Merchant Princes, the dramatic unmasking of a traitor among the Princes and a conspiracy among the Crows, and shouts of support from people in the street echoing in through the windows, there's a good chance they'll pull it off.

YOUR ACCOMMODATIONS

The canal-side palazzo where Riftwatch is residing during its visit is the summer property of Merchant Prince Amancio Vivas. Unlike some questionable accommodations provided to Riftwatch in the past, Palazzo Vivas is roomy and lavish, brimming with expensive decor and labelled artifacts and comfortable seating. Anyone needing space to work or plan will find multiple nooks and tables in the library, and Riftwatch has collectively commandeered a secondary dining room (there are several) for meetings.

For those needing a break from work, actually, Palazzo Vivas is well-stocked with books and all of the necessary equipment for parlor games, plus an echoing ballroom equipped with a pianoforte. There's a cabinet of decent wine and spirits available, or a locked cellar full of the very good stuff for the particularly enterprising. The palazzo encircles a central courtyard garden with enough tall hedges and trees that someone might disappear into it. Currently it's in full bloom, including some rare night-bloomers, and at all hours bustling with some combination of insects, birds, and bats. Also featured: two small fountains and a canal-fed wading pool.

The beds, unlike most of the Gallows', involve feathers rather than straw. The sheets are soft. Everything smells like lavender. Everyone can have a bed if they're willing to share with at least one other person; those who are unwilling will find themselves on the floor or a settee.

Everyone will be asked to take on some additional tasks in the palazzo. Most important is guard duty, including some overnight patrols to make sure there are no intruders or disturbances. But as only a skeleton staff is present in the palace, idle Riftwatchers might be sent out to Rialto's bustling markets for food and supplies and/or pressed into making vats of porridge, pasta, or seafood stew to keep everyone else fed while the single cook is attending festivities elsewhere.

YOUR LEISURE

Between assignments, Riftwatch members may find moments–or even several consecutive hours!--to enjoy Rialto. Cautiously, on account of the assassins. But still. In addition to partaking in the merriment, entertainment, and games purely for fun, there are street performances to watch, gondolas to hire for leisurely floats, markets and shops stuffed with goods from throughout Thedas, bath houses, and, only a short hike or shorter griffon ride away from the city, a pristine white sand beach on a calm cove, littered with sea shells, without a single decomposing shipwreck in sight. It's not something they're going to find in Kirkwall, so no one can be blamed for wanting a peek.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Because I trust her, shh," is the murmured response to Benedict. Like. Loki likes Benedict but he has hangups about Loki not being the Loki he knows and he doesn't think being slightly inebriated and rather poisoned is the best time to sort all of that out.

"Trust her to what? Hold your hair back?"

There is clearly information missing from this scenario, and Benedict is sleepy and perhaps a bit high and he did not sign up for this.

"If you're going to vomit, at least put your head out the window."

(From the crystal–)

Clearly the sounds of somebody shuffling around. Abby, pulling a shirt on over her head. She was almost asleep.

She says, "What," and when it isn't answered, repeats it, louder, "What, where are you? I'm on the-" Why is this place so fucking big?? "Second floor, I think? Are you okay?"

"To hold my hair back, yes," is hissed at full volume before he realizes that Abby is talking back which means she's awake, which means he has to figure out what floor they're on.

"What floor are we on?" He can't remember. Not a good sign.

"I've been poisoned, Abby, and I need you here so if I can't throw up you can call someone or something."

Oh what the fuck. She is getting ready even faster, jamming feet into boots and already half-way out the door.

Wait. She stalls outside her room because she has no idea where the fuck she's going. Barked into the crystal, "Who are you talking to? Who's there with you??"

Put them on!

"You've WHAT?"

The second word is half a gasp, and Benedict is immediately out of bed, slipping down to get a better look at Loki.

"Shit! You never drink the wine!" He glances around for anything useful, then realizes: "--second floor, yes."

"Poisoned," Loki says, slowly, and shuts his eyes because his head hurts now? His everything hurts. He's sitting on the floor. Fuck this whole evening with something blunted and not at all sexy, thanks. "'m not sure I can throw up. Should. Probably. Sorry," this is directed toward both Benedict and the crystal he's holding up toward the other man.

"Benedict," spoken with infinite patience, "Open the door to the room." Cuz if they're both on the second floor that'll be easier to find them by than banging on all the identical fucking doors, "Loki– is there a bathroom? Or an open window. Go stick your fingers down your throat."

... Though if there was anybody unbothered by the existence of their gag reflex it would be Loki, wouldn't it. Abby guesses they'll cross that bridge when they get to it. "Go."

Stop sitting, she can hear you sitting.

"Shit," Benedict wheezes, "shit. Shit." He sits on the floor, taking the crystal and encouraging Loki to use him to sit up. "Stay awake," he says, wracking his brain for anything else even half-useful that he can do-- and then, blessedly, Abby chimes in.

Perhaps a bit too quickly, Benedict stands and hurries to the door, which he wrenches open to poke his head out and glance up and down the hallway, finding it best to avoid calling for help in the event that an assassin is still about.
Just in case, he casts a barrier over the doorway before turning back to Loki.

"Will do," Loki promises halfheartedly and when Benedict moves (suddenly!) causing Loki to nearly topple over, he then does his level best to get entirely off the floor and head towards the window.

He manages to about his knees before the pain stops him.

"'m awake! 've had. Bigger things than my fingers down my throat and haven't thrown up in centuries, don't think that'll work well," he slurs a little unhappily. It was nice when Benedict was sitting next to him but now he's way over there, and Loki kind of hates it.

"Gross," is the automatic reply, said solely to keep herself from really shouting at him, "Do it anyway! Think about throwing up!"

Abby remembers that drinking lots of warm water can help with throwing up, but it doesn't feel like there's time for that to happen, and then she notices Benedict's head sticking out from a doorway down the end of the hall and she races to meet him.

It's probably obvious she's on the knife's edge of really freaking out about this– and suddenly slamming into some kind of invisible force and getting knocked flat on her back with a confused wheeze really doesn't help matters.

Edited (magic sucks) 2022-04-25 22:57 (UTC)

Benedict has scrambled back to help Loki to the window when a loud wham resounds behind them, and he turns just in time to see Abby absolutely eat shit against the barrier he put up mere seconds ago.

If only it worked that well in combat, he can't help but think, but instead calls "sorry!" and waves his hand to dispel it.

"I've got charcoal," he suggests, gripping Loki's arm, "you could eat it?" That's a thing, right?

Edited (thought of a better sound) 2022-04-25 23:00 (UTC)

The sound of Abby hitting the barrier startles Loki into a slightly more coherent state at the window Benedict has led him to. His eyes follow Benedict's gesture of dismissing the barrier but he doesn't realize that Abby is at the door and inside the room until she's at his side too.

"Heyyy," he drawls and then immediately grimaces. The poison is causing a lot of stomach cramping and raising of his body temperature, which is some unique kind of hell. "Charcoal?" It sounds familiar, as some way of inducing vomiting, but he's not sure.

He's not sure of much of anything other than how much pain and discomfort he's in right now.

She sits up cringing, confused, and lashes out one leg toward where the barrier used to be. The leg passes through. Okay. Then what the fuck was that–

Loki's voice cutting over the top of her dark muttering makes her get slowly back up on her feet, and come into the room proper. Slower this time too, so as not to smack into anything invisible...

"Hi." She sounds tense and worried, her mouth curling downward at both corners, "Why are you–"

Leaning on the window, when she told you to stick your head out and puke– she huffs, and her hands only shake minutely when she goes to support him there. "Never mind. C'mon, we gotta get that shit out of you." One way or another. She's assuming the fingers were a no-go, then. "Benedict, help me."

Go get your charcoal, or whatever.

Edited (in my jared 19 era) 2022-04-27 21:57 (UTC)

Benedict, who without specific direction can only conclude that the most helpful thing he can do is hold Loki's hair back, collects it into a fistful that he grips in a makeshift ponytail.
He doesn't know that charcoal will work, and assumes Abby knows what she's doing, so he's more than happy to defer to her.

She doesn't know what she's doing at all so it's all down to Loki on this one, really. Surely it will be fine.

"Just– think of really gross shit," she cajoles. Sometimes it helps?? "Maggots. Maggots in dead bodies. Rotting food. When milk gets that skin on it." Anything? She's gonna keep going, "What Edgard smells like-"

At that, Benedict gags.

Rotting food starts the rolling in Loki's stomach, actually, because he thinks about dead bodies with maggots and carrion birds, and then he thinks of the dead bodies of people he knows and all of that fun stuff, but there's something to be said for the sound of someone else gagging that actually sets him off; thinking about things that smell bad (sorry, Edgard) contributes as well.

He leans forward sharply, which causes Benedict to pull his hair which is a totally different sensation parameter, thanks, but he's already vomiting up mostly wine that smells horrid out the window.

It smells horrid because it's been mixing with poison and very little food, to be honest.

Edited 2022-04-27 23:03 (UTC)

He would have been fine, could have resisted, if not for the smell.

The unpoisoned Benedict rapidly follows suit, somehow still managing to hold onto Loki's hair while bending out the window himself, his own pampered tresses not so lucky (that's what he gets for keeping it long enough to drape but too short to properly pull back).

Maker help anyone walking below them.

Abby grimaces at the combined sound and closes her eyes briefly, breathing sharply in– god, mistake. The smell is revolting... but she's smelled worse things in smaller spaces. For his efforts, Loki gets a warm back rub between the shoulder blades, the heel of her hand going in slow circles.

Benedict can have an awkward, sympathetic pat. Just one.

"Good job."

To all involved. They got there in the end.

He doesn't instantaneously feel... better. He does feel a little more clear-headed, however, once the vile stuff is out of him, and he recognizes that he would be hungry if his mouth didn't taste several kinds of unpleasant right now.

Loki grimaces, pulling out a handkerchief in order to wipe at his mouth once he's done. His head and his stomach both still hurt but it's not increasing so he'll take that as a good sign.

"Thanks, Abby," is coupled with a wry not quite smile. Gods, the things she puts up with in the name of their friendship.

Then he glances in the other direction. "Oh, hells," is directed at Benedict and his vomit-streaked hair. He takes the handkerchief already in his hand and carefully wipes the dirty strands clean. "I'll help you wash it, if you want."

Distantly, "No problem," her hand dropping from his back. The shock of the poisoning is hitting her like a slow wave; he could have been badly hurt. She could have lost him, just like that.

Jesus. She feels numb.

"Sit." So much easier to hold it together by bossing other people around, "There's water in my room, I'll–" Go and get it, alone, because she needs a moment out of the room. She crosses it quickly. If either of them ask about it she can pretend she's just escaping the smell.

Benedict continues to lean out the window after Loki and Abby have both moved on, his only indication of life being a pitiful sound rather like a sob. His hair, his beautiful hair.

At Loki's offer, he nods tremulously. Clearly he's the victim in this scenario.

He sits, and he watches Abby leave in silence, and he feels bad to have put her in this situation in the first place (he believes it's the smell that's chasing her out, sure, but he also knows numbing shock when he sees it, along with the blank sort of fear in her face). But it would have been worse for her to find out after the fact. As it stands, he's sure that Sylvie and Alexandrie aren't going to be pleased with him either.

Shit, for that matter, neither is Astarion. When did he end up with such a collection of people who gave so many cares about him?

He pushes his hair out of his face with one hand and with the other tugs gently at the edge of Benedict's shirt. "Come sit with me." He doesn't want to be the only one on the floor.

How could the night have gone so wrong, he was just innocently sketching in his room and now this--

Benedict looks like he's grieving a loved one as he sits down by Loki, his expression wan and vulnerable. But after he's had a moment of silence to collect himself, he mumbles:

"I'm glad you didn't die."

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cw: emeto

more emeto

same amount of emeto no more no less

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