MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[doggish]

Swift, but not swift enough. And you did admirably.

[Not flowery praise, but the truth. The most fundamental part of fending off an assassination attempt is, you know, surviving, and you don't get points for how fancily you do it. So: they both of them did admirably, and now there's a corpse lying before them.

He glances back over at the other man, his eyes flicking over him in the same swift evaluation (and he does note that curious jolt of . . . what, energy? Renewal? Hm). Fenris himself isn't much injured; more tired than anything, for this is not the first fight he's been thrown into unexpectedly this trip. A few scratches here and there, bleeding lightly; he ignores them.]

Is it that you are used to a one-handed sword, or you have not needed to pick one up recently?

[arkitect]

It has been quite some time since I swung one regularly. I've made a practice of training recently, but clearly not enough of one, now that I've a proper blade.

[There's something to be said for the muscle memory of it, especially with recent drilling, but it doesn't compare to just... using one in actuality. The practice weapons didn't fully replicate its weight and balance, and he has relied far more often upon other means of combat.

His gaze drops to the body before them, for a moment.]

But speaking of hefting weight. What are we to do with this one?

[doggish]

Well . . .

[To start with: he kneels down, patting the body down briskly to see if he can find anything worthwhile on him. No identifying information, which is what he expected; no money, either. A few vials of what Fenris assumes are either poison or something like it, and he offers one up.]

I would not smell it, if I were you. Nor taste it, [WHICH OUGHT TO BE OBVIOUS, but you never know.] But if you have knowledge in such matters, it may be good to identify. As for the corpse itself . . .

We could simply leave it. Move swiftly enough and no one will associate us with it— or if they do, we can correctly assert we were defending ourselves. Unless you have a better idea.

[arkitect]

I shall see to it, then.

[He takes the vial in a gloved hand, checking it over, ensuring it's thoroughly sealed before he tucks it safely away.

The corpse is regarded in silence for a few moments, golden eyes looking the body over, contemplative... before he exhales a sigh, waving one hand.]

'Tis best to leave it, then, unpleasant a business as it is. I do not relish the idea of having to explain what we are doing with it, should aught go awry in the process of disposal.

[Not his preference, really, but in this case-- the simplest option is probably the best.]

[doggish]

Have you had to before?

[It isn't an amusing process, exactly— certainly not now, when being an elf around a corpse is a very dangerous thing indeed, no matter whose fault it was. But it was, once, when he had Hawke's protection to rely upon.]

A— [hm] — companion of mine had a tendency to find corpses wherever she went. I do not mean that as an oblique reference to her murderous capacities; sometimes they were not her fault. But the excuses she would come up with were . . . inventive, after a time. He tripped. He fell. He had a sheer heart attack. He looked upon the hopelessness of life and simply dropped dead from despair. He had been having an affair with a demon, who subsequently grew jealous, possessed him, and murdered him.

My favorite, however, [and he's making his way towards the alley's mouth, peering out, trying to see if anyone is watching them,] may have been when she did not try to deny it at all, but simply offered up the opinion that, given the man was trying to mug her, she actually did the city a service and they ought to reward her.

Her audaciousness was . . . admirable, if not stressful at times. Come—

[The coast is relatively clear, and the sooner they get away from this, the better.]

I assume this is not your first corpse, regardless.

[arkitect]

[Well-- he can't help the little huff of a laugh, humorless, at that last comment.]

It is not, no. I would say it is regretful, but in times like these, the capability certainly finds its uses.

[Being targeted by assassins is a great time to be formerly murderous, it works out, it's fine. He sets off casually enough, taking a route he's fairly certain will lead them back to their base of operations in a relatively roundabout manner. Just in case.]

I've known someone quite similar myself, however, as it so happens-- although the penchant for ending up with bodies was only made manifest much later on. When I first knew them it was merely a tendency to make the most ridiculous excuses for the trouble they would get into, and of course it then fell to me to ensure they were not censured for their recklessness. That headstrong fool once got the idea into their head to cease the imminent eruption of a volcano, and do you know what they gave as their reason?

The grapes on that island grew nowhere else, and they were quite fond of them. The grapes, of all things.

[doggish]

[Oh, that he laughs at: a startled thing, quiet but amused at the story and the exasperation in the other man's voice both.]

How did they imagine they would stop an eruption? It does not seem as though such an endeavor would end in anything but their death.

. . . though I assume it did not. How?

[arkitect]

Oh, of course not. They are far too stubborn for that.

[As for how-- well. He's quite aware what many here think of magic, especially powerful magic, so he debates his words for a few moments.]

But-- suffice it to say that such things are not at all out of the question, in my own home, nor would the capability be uncommon.

[doggish]

So with magic, then.

[He dislikes it, but he is not ignorant of it— nor what it might theoretically accomplish. Though magic on that scale . . .]

They must be a mage of incredible prowess.

[arkitect]

We all were, by the standards of this place. 'Tis strange to have known a world where not everyone makes use of magic to some extent.

[That's accompanied with a little wave of his hand, brushing it off. He has, at least, acclimated by now.]

But even among our kind, Azem did always stand apart.

[doggish]

Strange to hear of a world in which everyone is mage-blooded.

[And it is, objectively, strange. Strange to imagine; strange to hear of it in the context of something that isn't abject misery or gilded horror. He's as intrigued as he is discomfited, but oh, who can resist learning of other worlds?]

I would hear more of it. Or them. How did they stand apart? And how did you know them?