faderift | 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

There's no response out of Marcus—not verbally, anyway. His hand moves, curls around Julius' elbow, silent assurance of some kind, and oblivious to the silent mustering happening behind him.

Flying this fast and this high is cold, the wind rush of it tearing at Petrana's skirts in brutally distinct and memorable fashion. In spite of the stillness of cool evening air, Monster works at gaining her altitude so she can then glide the last leg of the journey. Smoother, now, a soaring descent towards the courtyard of the Palazzo Vivas.

The landing is graceful, the griffon well trained to absorb the shock of it in her powerful legs. Marcus loosens the tether so Petrana can disembark, slipping down after her and insisting one of Julius' arms over his shoulders.

For a moment when they land Petrana dithers, wanting to assist and aware that the various height discrepancies will likely make any efforts on her part more trouble than they're worth— finally she sets herself instead to the task of leading them through the unfamiliar corridors to the room they've been given, sending Marcus and Julius the last stretch as she promises to be only a moment, for a healer.

She's only a moment; so is their healer, concluding that there's not much to do for Julius now that the antidote hasn't done already, besides give him water and be ready with a large bowl if his stomach should turn. That it's good if it does, but not to encourage it if it isn't happening naturally.

Her fingers itch to take notes, but it isn't as if she really needs to. Writing it down has no purpose except pretending that she's in control of it.

“Poison is a coward's weapon,” she grumbles, hitching her skirts in her fists and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"If someone had just tried to stab you, you could have dealt with it yourself and then no one else would have had the chance to look heroic at all," he says, a bit faintly but less shaken than he was before the healer looked him over. (He has had the private thought that if he'd only known it would be helpful to empty his stomach, he could have obliged in the air.)

For now, he's resting as comfortably as can be expected. It will be a bad few hours, almost certainly, but he can manage that.

"Instead," he adds, "you get yet another chance to hover over my recovery bed, something I know both of you actively enjoy." He catches Petrana's hand, but his glance slides over to Marcus, both to make sure he's near and to express unspoken gratitude. Less shaken isn't unshaken.

"I don't hover," is dryly delivered, because if he's to keep up with either of them, he must occasionally banter back.

Marcus seats himself, presently, near the end of Julius' bed, which is to his credit less hovery than the last time this configuration was endured. More relaxed by some measure for virtue of their being in some private quarters, now, and their better third present. Still, worry still strung through his posture, but it is mostly kept on lock, private, quiet. There's really nothing else to do for it.

"Perhaps the next time, you might get into trouble where I can act a little faster."

Deciding upon it being probably unhelpful for anyone to debate how successfully she might have fended off a blade—probably, Julius would still have had to step in, only with significantly less subtlety—Petrana instead tangled her fingers with Julius's and suggested, “The downside of being so obliged to divide and conquer.”

Or build alliances, or at least encourage against the wrong ones, but she is so prone to the language of conquest when her guard is down.

Probably not anything to worry about.

“Perhaps we might see about a bath.”

"Yes, alright," is truly more because he sympathizes with Petrana's need for something to do than because he feels enthusiastic about the prospect one way or another. (It probably won't be unpleasant, but it will require getting up, so he's rather breaking even.) Still, he gently squeezes her hand where she's caught his.

"If I call it something other than hovering, will it not scare you off?" he adds, to Marcus. "I didn't meant to criticize, I'm only. It feels a bit." He hesitates, unsure whether or not to voice the thought, and finally landing in favor. "It feels a bit as if I'm making bad decisions, that I end up laid out so much more. And I know it's not that, exactly, it just." He feels embarrassed, is the thing he can't quite get at; that he didn't think of a neater solution than lightly poisoning himself this time, that he didn't get the shield up quickly enough last time. That he hadn't handled things in a way that didn't put his lovers to any trouble or worry.

It's cosy, here on the bed, but rather than divest Julius the use of both his hands, he places his comfortably on his thigh, a thing Marcus does as the other man speaks, a subtle sigh leaving him. "There isn't any scaring me off," he says, "whatever you call it."

The rest is a little trickier. Julius is far too clever to be soothed by simple platitude, even if Marcus was any good at platitude, and he glances to Petrana. She has a good thought, in a change of scenery and activity, but the conversation feels as though it needs to be put to bed before they leave this one.

"You're alive," he says, settling on it. "And the risk is worthy."

Petrana softens, the shape of the expression agreement with Marcus before she even speaks, and they can both feel the slight shift of the mattress where she had been about to rise and then doesn't, immediately,

“It was exceptionally well done, Julius, I won't have you say otherwise. It is vexatious that you should be obliged to act, not that you act when you must. You would not be yourself if you did not, and I love you. For the fact that you will and do, as much as any other thing about you. If you were not handsome, you would still be clever and brave,”

a pause follows, and it is a determined effort to lighten what she thinks might otherwise embarrass him: “which is not to say that I don't appreciate, very much, that you are handsome. You both.”

The reassurance on both fronts eases him, some, for all he'll later feel a bit embarrassed that he needed it. "You like us framing you," he says, quiet and fond.

"I suppose there's no use apologizing when it wasn't really even a choice. I saw you were in danger and I intervened, just as you," Marcus, "came the moment we needed you. It's only that I'd like to land on my feet a little more often after being clever and courageous, I suppose."

If Marcus can somehow intuit that Julius might potentially feel embarrassed for seeking assurance, comfort, some form of recognition—

Well, it is only because he might know that impulse himself, or at least be resigned to it. There is a slight softening in his expression, which is only tense and alert by default more so than anything else, at that little joke between them, and he nods once at Julius' claim. And the thing he'd like to do. Wouldn't they all?

"I suppose you can have that," he says, careful to make sure that his tone reads as 'dry' and not deadly serious. They two and Tsenka are likely the only people suited to divining when he is joking, but even then. "So long as you continue the other thing."

He squeezes Julius' leg, rising.

“When we make a tale of your heroism,” Petrana proposes, offering Julius her hands to help him sit up before she makes him stand, “we will tell it with all the dignity you would have wished, on the dismount.”

MOD PLOT ↠ Wings of Death

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