MOD PLOT: The Earth Trembled in Holy Terror

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone!
WHAT: Riftwatch returns to Nevarra to look into Curious Happenings and gets a little more Curious Happening than they bargained for.
WHEN: Guardian 9:51
WHERE: Nevarra City, the Necropolis, and beyond.
NOTES: If you have any questions, ask on the OOC post!

I. THE SURFACE

It's taken years for the Mortalitasi to cleanse Nevarra City of red lyrium-maddened undead, clear the streets of corpses old and new, and restore the dead to their necropoli, Grand and less so. But finally, citizens are beginning to return to the city. Wagons and carts are gradually filling the streets, the sounds of construction are everywhere, and a few enterprising traders have rushed ahead to set up shop—in makeshift stalls and tents, or in storefronts that may or may not have been theirs before—to corner the returning market. It's given this grand old city a strangely frontier edge, at least for the moment. Riftwatch isn't staying in the city proper, just passing through on their way to the Necropolis, but in the few hours they might spend there, they might get a general sense of how things stand in the city:

• The dragon damage to the royal palace (ironically, the Castrum Draconis) is mostly repaired, and Pentaghast soldiers and servants are making a show of preparing it for Queen Aurelia's return, ensuring it and the area around it is decked out in Pentaghast banners.
  
• The many ornate statues of royals, generals, and various heroic ancestors around the city are being restored not just by the servants of nobility in the wealthiest districts but by groups of returning locals hoisting their neighborhood's namesake princess or dragon hunter back onto their plinth.
  
• As the banners on the walls and the palace make clear, the Pentaghasts consider Nevarra City theirs. Van Markham statues are mostly being left in whatever state they're found in, but the long history between the families means it's not always clear cut—more than one statue's re-raising leads to a heated argument about whether its subject had more Pentaghast or Van Markham blood, or whether marrying into House Pentaghast counts if the marriage was short-lived, etc.
  
• In a few cases, this conflict seems less superficial: here and there but particularly in the noble districts, someone attempting to move back in will be met by angry accusations that they are actually Van Markham supporters, clandestinely or changing sides now to get their property back. It's hard to tell how many of these are fair accusations vs. opportunities to get an upper hand in old grudges between neighbors or rivals, but at least a few end in arrest by city guards or Pentaghast soldiers.
  
• Because while signs of community are everywhere—tearful greetings between long-separated neighbors, sharing supplies and sturdy roofs—so is opportunism. Squatters gleefully occupying a mansion, shopkeepers returning to find someone has already taken over their storefront. The mostly makeshift city guard seems to be operating at a constant jog trying to keep things reasonably orderly.
  
• Every so often clearing construction or opening a basement reveals a few straggling undead, calling Mortalitasi out to collect them for cleansing and restoration.

II. THE NECROPOLIS

Just outside the city lies the Grand Necropolis, a mausoleum that's stately but reasonably-sized surface structures have nothing on the layered maze of cavernous underground chambers that house ages of Nevarran dead. As invited guests, Riftwatchers will be housed in an assortment of chambers, most decorated with skeletal imagery, a few shared with occupied burial vaults. But the majority of the dead are on display, mummified and dressed as they were in life, possessed by spirits who shamble through the motions of life in tableaux within elaborate facades mimicking homes.

In the half-day they have to kill before the expedition that brought them here, there are a few things to do besides wander around gawking:

• Lend a hand with rewrapping and costuming the mummified undead who are still being restored after their misuse in the attack on the city.
  
• Step in to provide an objective outside perspective on disagreements between the Mourn Watch and mortalitasi loyalists from both the Pentaghast and Van Markham camps, each endeavoring to have their dead out-honor the other side's via more prominent and heroic placement in various tableaux.
  
• Meet with the Mourn Watch to discuss what precautions they're taking to prevent future problems with unhoused spirits, such as those previously funneled into cities by the Venatori during attacks, and press them to prioritize the matter.
  
• Tag along to assist with the routine outbreaks of unruly spirits — or wander into one inadvertently and deal with it alone.

The true purpose of Riftwatch's visit, however, is to aid in the investigation of the mysterious corridors discovered and cleared of a fade rift last time they dropped by. While there's no particular expectation of violence, the Necropolis' overseers have decided what they've found there might in fact be out of their wheelhouse — or at least of benefit to Riftwatch, whom they owe a few favors. There's no expectation of violence, so there's no need for anyone to remain behind. Along the long walk — more of a hike, really, up hills of sand and down winding cliffside paths to reach the most convenient entrance to the corridor in question — their guides describe what they've found so far in enough detail that those listening in and familiar with Riftwatch's other work may guess that the Old God temple structure they're talking about, which they're pleased to report they've batted several groups of Venatori interlopers away from in the meantime, is actually a gate,

Their hosts will lead the way deep into the Necropolis, along the same route they traveled before. This time they continue down the elf-made hall, through which they will find that the doors along the hall previously glimpsed past the rift have now been forced open. Most lead to partial rooms ending in rough stone walls, but one overlaps with half an ornate doorway. This leads into a much larger, but partially collapsed elvhen space. Among the ruins, Riftwatchers will spot the crumbling remains of mosaics and large statues that might once have been some sort of bird.

A passage through the rubble (cleared by the Mortalitasi, they'll explain) leads upwards, the Old God structure apparently layered on top of the elvhen site. As they climb up through the floor into the Old God structure, they'll hear a clamor of sound, amplified and echoing too wildly off the walls for its location or nature to be identified though the obvious guess is that something's happening to the colleagues they left behind. The Mortalitasi lead the way toward the strange (gate-like) chamber, which is not a straightforward process. The halls are a maze, and the veilfire torches seem to be positioned to cast confusing shadows and shifting reflections off the onyx of the walls at angles that somehow always flare light directly into eyes. Combined with the noise, the effect is disorienting, maddening.

When they finally reach the central chamber, those in the front of the group will quickly discover several things that despite all the chaotic noise of battle still ringing off the walls, the Mortalitasi left to keep an eye on the chamber are already dead; that this space is definitely one of the Seven Gates; and that the Venatori are just completing the ritual to open it.

As they cross the threshold there is a sudden rush of energy, like the air being sucked from a room though no physical breeze stirs, a sensation as if a great soundless bell has pealed vibrates through walls and bones, and then anyone who has not already stepped into the Gate chamber vanishes.

If your character had already crossed the threshold into the Gate, proceed to Part III. If they had not, proceed to Part IV. Any character can be in either group, but you have to choose.


III. THE TEMPLE

The force of the ritual is stunning, but there isn't time to be stunned. Almost before the sensation has faded, things are happening. In the center of the ritual chamber, a rift tears open onto perfect blackness, tendrils of Blight beginning to reach out of it and into the room. Some of the Venatori spot Riftwatch's entrance and lift staves or draw weapons, moving to intercept.

At the same time, a group of armored men enter from a passage across the chamber. Some might spot that their plate does not resemble the familiar shapes of Venatori armor, but it won't take any feat of perception to guess they're not Tevinter's reinforcements when they begin attacking the Venatori. A chaotic battle ensues, the elves—as it will become clear they are—intent on killing the Venatori but not hesitating to defend themselves against any attack by Riftwatch, real or perceived, and the Venatori fending off all comers.

As soon as the last Venatori falls the elves depart as quickly as they arrived, disappearing back through a nearly invisible door without a word to Riftwatch. In the aftermath, Riftwatch agents will find themselves with a few things to investigate:

• The Riftwatch agents who were standing behind them a moment ago, who have just vanished. The portion of the temple they just passed through to enter the Gate chamber is now gone, replaced with a similar but not identical section of corridors. It's also different in that it doesn't contain any of the Riftwatch agents the other bit did. They are nowhere to be found.
  
  
• The elves. Agents can find the almost seamless door they came and went by, but the passage leads to a set of crumbling stairs and a hole punched into the elvhen space below, where an eluvian is found. The few dead elves left behind lack vallaslin and wear armor that those present in Arlathan (or, years ago, in the Arbor Wilds) will recognize as an ancient elvhen style.
  
  
• The open Gate. It appears stable. As with the Gate seen in the Crossroads, the Blight is somehow contained within a perfect circle a few feet around the rift. It would be wise to stay outside that boundary. The floor beneath it has patterned channels, repositories for collecting blood, and other features similar to those noted at the Temple of Dumat, all freshly used.
  
  
• The dead Venatori have left behind notes and instructions on conducting the ritual they've just done, which corroborate what Riftwatch learned in Arlathan. Unfortunately they haven't left behind any extra materials that would allow Riftwatch to close the Gate, although review of their notes and comparison of the containers left behind suggest that they did bring extra artifacts that now seem to be missing.
  
  
• The temple housing the Gate is dedicated to the old god Zazikel, Dragon of Chaos. (Some might best remember him for the time his former head priest, the Madman of Chaos, flew the undead corpse of a dragon around Nevarra City several Satinalias ago.) Fittingly, the labyrinthine passages and distortions of sound and light continue throughout the structure, making losing one's way—and one's temper—a very real concern for even the best scouts.
  
  
• The elvhen temple beneath. This does not appear to be another case of veil-thinning effects pulling pieces of buildings out of place, or the necropolis's own strange habit of shuffling rooms about. Some walls and pillars of the two sites are continuous structures or even single pieces of stone, with only the style of decoration changing, making clear that they were built this way, the old upon the older. Sharp-eyed explorers will find patterns in the decorative mosaics that resemble wings, and statues intact enough to be identified as owls. One scrap of an inscription mentions "Dirthamen's shadow," and, "Lethanavir." Dedicated scholars of the elvhen gods (or those who go digging through libraries later) will recognize these as indicating a temple to Falon'Din.

IV. THE DEPTHS

Those beyond the threshold of the vanishing chamber will find themselves in sudden quiet and sudden darkness, save any light they provide themselves. The door that led deeper into the temple now opens into blackness that investigation reveals to be a cavern. There's no light to follow out, and though there is airflow, it seems to shift direction rather than come from a single source.

No magic button for putting the chamber back where it belongs presents itself. Attempts to reach the surface through the sending crystals only work intermittently, and there's nothing anyone can do to reach or help them anyway. Journeying through the caverns takes a few days (though it may feel longer), with no clear evidence that anyone is heading in the right direction. A path that seems at first to be heading up may instead head down; many promising routes end in dead ends. Aside from staring at the walls by firelight and endlessly walking, those seeking a way out might need to:

• Seek out water sources, most urgently. Some limited water might be found dripping from the ceiling at the outset of the journey, and just as things begin to get desperate, they'll be able to find a flowing stream of fresh, clear water flowing from a spring.
  
• Scrounge or hunt for food — the most accessible items being nugs and mushrooms, though the deeper they'll go the less familiar the fungus they'll encounter, including some identical to safe varieties that will instead cause hallucinations.
  
• Find a way to record the ancient dwarven symbols on the walls, not quite understandable even to those who can read more recent dwarven texts.

While few if any among Riftwatch's number may be familiar enough with Shaperate records to name what they've found themselves within, observation alone will allow the conclusion that it somehow feels alive, especially when they reach caverns threaded with of exposed raw lyrium veins that slowly pulse with light as if in time with a heartbeat. Upon entering this area their sending crystals, already malfunctioning, begin broadcasting anything they say through the lyrium veins in the walls, surrounding them with their own voices.

In time they also find the heart, a stone-encrusted node of lyrium suspended in a cavern that, on examination, has a spine and a ribcage larger than any dragon's (though only so much larger). They'll only have a half-hour or so to investigate, however, before a person with the build of a dwarf, indistinguishable beneath crown-to-toe nugskin armor save for glowing blue eyes, arrives and gets their attention across the language barrier.

Though armed with unfamiliar weaponry, their new companion shows no inclination to harm them (unless threatened), though they do seem eager to get everyone away from the heart and may slap a hand away from touching anything. Riftwatch would be forgiven for thinking the dwarf intends to guide them to the surface out of the goodness of their lyrium-imbued heart, but they're led instead to a cavern where two other nearly identical dwarves are facing down an arcing stone protrusion across a chasm that's laced with red-tinged black instead of blue. They quickly make it understood that they're trying to remove this section of the rock — an emergency amputation. The creature they're protecting is not so very large, but there are only the three of them acting on its behalf, armed with pick axes and small lyrium explosives, and they're able to communicate with pointing and a quickly-agreed upon language of thumbs-up and thumbs-down that they need help:

• Use magic to pummel the stone or fire to burn back the encroaching veins of Blight.
  
• Help them place their explosives into hard-to-reach crevices, invent creative ways to hold them in place, and rappel around the edges of the rocky limb to get at it from new angles.
  
• Grab a pickaxe and get pickaxing.

And do all of this while dealing with earth-rumbling tremors and the occasional outright visible movement of the stone, as if it's struggling, all of which can only be calmed by the song hummed by their mysterious dwarven companions. As the work progresses they'll become more insistent that their assistants join in. Once the stone is connected by slivers of what it once was, the guardian who fetched them from the ribcage beckons them to cross over it to the other side, where they can watch as the two who remain behind detonate the last explosives to drop the arc into the chasm below.

The one who crossed with them will lead them from there through a maze of connecting caves, outward and upward, sometimes squeezing the largest of them through perilously tight squeezes, until they reach a point where the occasional ancient carving in the stone walls bear signs of elven and then Nevarran influence. The dwarf will decline to go any further. But from there only an hour's more exploration will allow them to emerge into a dusty chamber where a wandering, helpful Necropolis spirit can assist them in reuniting with the living.

Comments

lazar

[extortionate]

I) OUCHIES

Can't hardly draw a blade before the melee crushes in. Lazar does what he does best: Tries not to up and die.

Bashes here, clears a little space there, on the end of a burning sword. He stomps faces, hop-steps over others — friendly ones — in just the nick of time. And yeah, maybe he got your wrist. That's on you, mate.

But battle's done.

"Close one."

He rumbles, and steps forward, ignorant to the thin elven blade wedged deeply into his back.


II) THIS BELONGS IN A MUSEUM:

Spends some of his time at a mosaic of some winged creature, working bits loose with clear and constant focus. If any of that's unusual, it's that he hasn't gone after the gilt elves upstairs.

"Shine a light," Yeah, you. "This one's stuck."


III) REUNION (OPEN TO CAVE CREW)

"About fuckin' time," Stomped out of to survey their better half: "Some of us been working out here."

A mummy lifts its goblet behind him, tattered silks flapping from one creaking arm. Cheers.


IV) WILDCARD

[ world's your oyster, hmu on on plurk if you want something specific ]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CB_ep7Vx2Nc

[armd]

Maybe so; she got too close. It's the sad reality of attacking close range and he only drew a little blood. Abby registers the wound as much as she would a paper cut as she yanks her mace out the chest of the Venatori that had been holding on it for her.

"You're telling m— oh shit—"

The silvery little blade quivers with the movement of his muscle. Abby hisses, doesn't it hurt? "Stop, you're wounded."

[extortionate]

"It's just the hair's gone," He lifts an arm — that don't lift so far as it oughta — to review his singed knuckles. "Gotta get a second rune, keep the handle cold."

He twists around to squint at her: She looks alright. The knife phwings a little on the air, back and forth, and hell if it don't feel like someone slugged him good. Gonna be a deep bruise.

(Blood pours freely down the back of his leathers.)

[armd]

"No," she says and winces when he turns, making half a motion, like nearly grabbing something on its way by. "Not your hands. Can't you feel that?"

Maybe it's like 'acupuncture'. She's heard about that before. She gestures in the general direction of the blade but on herself, turning side on. When she notices the blood starting to drip near his boot heel she gestures a bit harder.

[extortionate]

Takes him a minute, brow furrowed as she twists like some kinda barn dance. Can't she feel her own cuts? Takes him a minute, but he finally reaches back. Shoulder grinds blade and pain drops the whole arm slack.

He goes white-faced, then ruddy with it; coughing for nothing but the spasm of his chest. Yeah, he can feel that.

"Shit," Might've been happier to ignore the damn thing. "Can't pull it out."

Not alone. At Abby's feet, the dying man twitches, burbles. Lazar knows a little Vint — the old tongue, anyway. This doesn't sound like much but blood.

[armd]

"Yeah, it's in the middle of your fucking back," since there's no need to be so delicate about it now that he's realised. At least he isn't panicking now that knows it's there. Blood dots the ground, pulls along in tacky smears with the edge of his boot heel while he coughs, shifting weight. "Sit down. I'll get it."

Bedside manner needs a little work, sweetheart chides a little dad-voice in her ear.

"It's thin so it shouldn't bleed that much — not before we get you to a healer, anyway. You're gonna be sore tomorrow though."

[extortionate]

Lazar squats dutiful next to the cooling body, spares a glance for the final twitch of eyes: Come on mate, hurry it up –

— Abruptly rocks from heels to ass, off-balance and thumping stone floor. Impact stutters along the bleeder's hand, pinned fingers waving one last wormy tremble. Lazar huffs, wobbles to find his breath.

"Ain't you a healer?"

Near enough. Always mucking about the Infirmary, and if someone makes off for Strange he's gonna,

Shit. Where's Strange. Where's half the bloody crew?

[armd]

"I can't do magic."

Derrica was a healer, she could put her hand on something and make it better. Sometimes Abby imagines what it would be like to know that kind of magic if she were still in Seattle, imagines wiping both palms over her dad's blood-stained neck and throat and vanishing it, bringing him sputtering to. Things would be different, but aren't.

"I'm good with bandages." She knows what RICE stands for. She can stop something from getting much worse until somebody better gets there, it isn't the same thing. Still helpful though. "On three.

One," and she pulls the blade out neatly, sealing her hand over the top of his leathers and pushing into his back, applying pressure.

[extortionate]

"Fuck magic." Is bravado, and the second they find someone's seen a live body he'll change his tune. He's ready to flatter, threaten, even pay the nearest mage to lay hands on this. Oughta be cheaper than the ass. "Never around wh –"

One. Bellows hard out his throat on a lungful of air, squeaking into wheeze when that runs short. Every language has words for this. He can't think of them just now.

Lazar takes a moment. Takes another. Casts big wet dog eyes up to the ceiling, and:

"That's a dirty trick."

Sounds a little like admiration.

[armd]

"I know." A reply to the wheeze, firm but sympathetic. It is a dirty trick but it works every time. "Didn't want you to tense up."

She drops her hand. She keeps a kit with her on a belt, there's different pouches. It's not as reassuring as having a backpack on — there isn't enough room for everything — but having something is always gonna be better than having nothing. There's room for a roll of bandages and dried elfroot, and that's what they need right now.

Wadding up the bandage she says, "Can you loosen this for a sec."

The bandages will be the filling for the sandwich; Lazar and his leathers the bread.

[extortionate]

He could. Ordinarily, he could, and quick — right kind of woman says get that off, you listen. Abby's not that sort, but the skills of a lifetime, they keep.

It's just that tugging the laces means turning his chest, means winching himself up to a task's only gonna hurt. He could just stay sat down here.

"Was it at least a good knife?" He reaches for the ties. Breathes hard, in and out, on the comic suck of blood. "Impressive-like?"

If he can wave a blade in both hands, one's still better than other; so the fiddly bits take a second now. (Take longer than the lock.) A second, and the vest flaps open. The shitty little seal loosens over torn shirt.

iii

[brennvin]

Astrid comes hobbling out with the rest of the group. She’s paler than usual, and not just from lack of sun; her ankle’s fucked and her face tight with lingering pain, limping in a makeshift splint and using someone else’s arm for support, crutches not exactly having been on the packing list when they first came here.

Even the green-tinged Necropolis lamps make her blink, owlish; it’s like they’re goblins stumbling bleary-eyed out into the light—

“Define ‘work’,” she shoots back, but also can’t help that rush of relief, seeing him, seeing the others, seeing light. Thank the fucking Mountain-Father.

[extortionate]

"Not throwing shoes like some fancy horse."

Takes a second to take it in: Limp, splint, face and voice stretched the way they do. She's hurt. Takes a second more before the pieces slot together, and remind him what you do for that.

"Piss off," To the kindness holding her upright. Lazar wraps an arm under hers. Hauls. His own face pulls involuntary, all the juice sucked out past the wad of bandage — "You break it?"

The mummy rasps, and stretches out its cup again, pinky lifted accusatory at the line of arrivals. That's the living for you. No manners.

[brennvin]

“Head Healer said lateral ankle sprain, grade two,” Astrid says, with the sort of enunciation which says she’s parroting back words that don’t really mean anything to her, but it’s a passable impression of that American doctor in their group and his verdict on her injury.

While the other Riftwatcher melts away, she gratefully takes Lazar’s arm instead. He’s big. Sturdy. The type of solid where she doesn’t mind leaning more of her full weight on him, rather than the more polite hop-skip-limping she’d been doing with the other colleague.

“Apparently gonna be a few weeks, and— the fuck you looking at, mate,” and that’s directed to the mummy, in a huff.

[extortionate]

Lazar grunts something that might be judgment for Strange – sure, a few weeks. And all these fucking bonemen oughta be able to give a second opinion.

"Some kinda wine-seller," Of the mummy. "But it's all vinegar now, so dunno what he's on about."

Of course Lazar checked. Kicks a foot out into some overwrought funerary barrel, to steady himself as she shoves on.

"You missed a weird goddamn rendezvous. Guess we got elf friends."

Friend might be a stretch, what with the stabbing.

[brennvin]

“Elf friends?” Astrid asks. The topic’s a welcome distraction, something to focus on rather than that throbbing in her foot. Filling in the blanks, learning more about what happened while they were separated, feeling the warmth of Lazar’s arm through hers. “We made some weird ones down below, too. Dwarves.”

Her foot drags behind her. A hitch of indrawn breath. At least the Necropolis paths are more exactingly carved, rather than all the uneven earth and hewn tunnels in the depths. It’s going to be annoying having to stay off her feet once they’re back home.

“What happened?”

[extortionate]

"Room moved –" Dead handy, if they could work out how to do that on their own time. Send that observatory back from the Crossroads, or the kitchens upstairs for a hangover. "— And they came outta nowhere at us and the Vints. Didn't stick around to talk, and their mirror's all fucked."

Figured those just worked. Didn't know you had to shout abracadabra.

"Then it was crawling out a temple for ages," Elf temple, Vint temple, Necropolis. "You pick up Wardens or something?"

Awful far from a Thaig for much else.

[brennvin]

Astrid shakes her head, still not sure how to explain it. “Three dwarves. Real ones, from deep down: they didn’t even speak Trade. We helped ’em and they led us out of the mountain in return. I thought there was just a rockfall behind us or something which explained why we couldn’t make our way back to you guys, didn’t realise it moved—”

And she’s had dealings with dwarves before, is the thing which keeps tripping her up. Surface-dwellers and the ones appointed to liaise with the surface, businessmen and traders and Carta, people who spoke the Avvar language of basic commerce and pragmatic exchange in their shared mountain spaces. These ones, though…

“You ever seen someone with glowing blue eyes?” she asks.

[extortionate]

"'Fore or after they fried?" That's gotta be a no, "Sounds near mage shite."

And that's full-tilt weird: Dwarves don't touch the Fade. Mornings, the maid would pour the tea, and he'd tell Sybelle about the night before. All the details he could scrounge, every bit of story; and a little line would pinch her brows, wondering at the shape of it.

(I saw you in a dream, He'd told her, in the market that first day. And later, all piled in bed, she'd shut her eyes. Shut them and said: I don't see a thing.)

"I never met a golem," At last. His back throbs. "But the drawings got them fulla light."

[brennvin]

Astrid makes a contemplative noise, a grumble. “We didn’t really see their faces under the armour, but it was nugskin leather. Golems are all stone and metal, aren’t they? Huge scary guys. These were little. Actual dwarf-sized. I seen those giant fuck-all golems in Minrathous, when I was working a job to steal their control rods, they didn’t look like this—”

Although now her braincells are churning over whether she might’ve accidentally interacted with three tiny golems and not even realised it. She hitches another step, muttering more profanities once they reach a winding stairwell leading up — why does the Necropolis have so many stairs — and then starts looking around for one of those fancy mechanical lifts.

And then as she pauses, she reaches out and grabs Lazar’s arm to stop him; not for balance, this time, but to peer behind him and size up the injury at his back. The torn leathers, glint of off-white bandage.

“The fuck happened to you?”

3

[reparo]

She would drop to her knees and kiss the ground in gratitude, except that she's seen nothing but ground for what feels like forever - regardless, though. The surface, here they are.

Finally.

"Oh, you know," she shoots back to Lazar, with a near-hysterical little laugh. "We just all collectively felt like taking up spelunking as a hobby."

[extortionate]

Hermione doesn't sound, doesn't look okay –

But neither does the mummy. They're scoring on a curve. Lazar turns, swipes the goblet from bony hand. Teeth clack and chatter after him, indignant, as Lazar lifts the cup to sniff. His nose wrinkles. Couldn't be any good spirits here, could there?

"Hell's that mean?"

He knows what spleunking is. Half a joke, half true question: What does she mean? Lazar turns the goblet overhand. A clump of spiderweb falls to floor.

[reparo]

Silent Rachel would've probably handled the depths better than Hermione - but no, Hermione doesn't look all that well. She's pale, possibly still a little bit in shock (and awe), and a combination of hungry and deprived of sunlight for long enough to be close to withering.

(Aren't they all just big leaf?)

"Not sure it was hell, but we ended up wandering down...a while," she explains under her breath, approaching with some caution. "Why have you got a mummy with you?"

[extortionate]

"Why is any of this shite down here?"

They're standing in a giant tomb. Take that up with a Nevarran. The dead one stretches bony fingers after its cup. Lazar lifts it from reach — grunts for the strain — and fishes out a flask. When he wriggles the cap loose between thumb and finger, it's with his off-hand.

He pours into the clean (ish) goblet, thrusts it out.

"Oughta drink."

Water. Wouldn't waste the good stuff.

[reparo]

Honestly? At this stage she probably wouldn't say no to a proper drink, not after the lyrium heart. Proper, though. None of the sickly sweet butterbeer stuff - maybe rice wine, or whiskey, just for nostalgia.

She takes the goblet and empties it in one go. The assesses Lazar with a wary look, trying to understand how much this group experienced.

Doesn't everyone look like they've seen The Horrors? Anytime she's on the field, at this point.

"Thank you," politely said, handing back the empty goblet. "Any open wounds? Broken bones?"

A rattle from the mummy at that.

"No offence." To the mummy. (Nevarra is weird.)