npc inbox: taravast

[groundrules]

NPC INBOX: TARAVAST

Reach out to your (not-so-)favourite NPC here, putting their name in the comment header. Try to keep it to just quick text/audio/written exchanges or inquiries that can accept summarised answers, please!

PREVIOUS NPC INBOX FOR ARC I: SA-HARETH & STAIRS OF SIGHS

	MACALUSO Earnest and moderate nephew of Bonaccorso, seeking to succeed his grandfather. A pursuer of astronomy, accountancy, diplomacy and elemental magic, with a long history of supporting the witches of Bessis. Champions firmer ties with foreign citadels to improve Taravast's access to armies and resources. Looking to choose a bride.
	VANNOZZA Beautiful and fierce niece of Bonaccorso, contending to become the next Ilia Doxe. Mind of a scientist and a lady of the hunt. A practitioner and frequent visitor of the necromantic and healing sectors. Has entertained and turned away more lovers than the heroine of a particularly sappy romance novel. Often indisposed.
	RIGARDA Lively, charismatic and gossip-prone lady of the highest echelons, received at every gathering. Can slaughter half a dozen reputations with the right twitch of her brows before breakfast. An associate of the Merchant's and old friend of the current Ilia Doxe of Taravast, Bonaccorso. Indifferent in the game of succession. Loathes crumpets and witches.
	THE LAVISH LOCALS From the witches of Bessis or Attaryl to academicians, politicians, nobles, servant folk, artists or protestors — if you’ve got a question, someone can surely supply an answer.
	THE MERCHANT The patron saint of etiquette and the eastbound getaway expedition. Seems to largely trade information alongside wares. Appreciates spices, strategy and collaboration. Has an eerie and overly cautious manner. Committed. Defends the benefit of the many, to the detriment of the few.
	KARSA Sorceress, young (?). Employed by the Merchant and deferential to him. Talented but fiery and frequently impatient, intolerant of fools. She will get today's job done yesterday. Struggles to sympathise with men, objections and those who cannot absorb information quickly. Enchanted the group's translation devices. Only available until 28/12.
	ASGEIRR The ghost of a scholar monk. Haunts the tattered execution cloak that the party stole from the La Rea bank in Sa-Hareth. Once a champion of equality and freedom, he faced ire for converting his followers against the regionally profitable trade of slavery. Soft-spoken but wise and just, slow to regain his strength. Will speak to those who visit his cloak in brief interludes. Favours necromancers.

SA-HARETH

"HALTHAM" | ANURR The undead warlord Anurr, previously posing as gentle-mannered giant Haltham. An embodiment of Sa-Hareth's cold storms and wind, who regained his territory from contender Unhalad with the inadvertent help of the party in Arc I. Frostily rational and amenable to some negotiation.

Comments

[bearshermark]

Eleven breathes quiet relief. He'd feared worse.

He nods, relieved too that Moran had appraised him of the political landscape so that the information isn't new. Though there's certainly a part of his mind that finds the situation an even stranger unreality than the one Bonaccorso expresses: that he's not only a foreigner in a foreign city, but from a foreign world, and now asked after his barely existent political leanings.

"..Lady Vannozza seems like a sensible sort who seeks uphold Taravast's strength. Lord Macaluso appears to have heart, though he certainly seems to be enjoying the wealth of attention from abroad in service of alliances."

Eleven offers a slight shrug and a sheepish smile. "But you must know I'm not terribly familiar with policy. At the moment, I feel Vannozza's decisiveness is a strength Taravast needs. But it could also be that Macaluso has an adept mind for strategy that I haven't heard tell of. In your position, I think the most pressing concern of mine would be which of them could serve better in Taravast's defence, should it come to conflict. I'm sure there isn't anyone living that would like to see the city fall under undead rule."

[aprescoup]

"We will not fall to the dead," he says evenly, old steel in his voice, the determination of a man who has ruled and would rule still, if not for the fallacies of his body. "We will not bow, we will not concede. We have witches. We have magic. We have fire. I would sooner burn down the citadel behind our closed gates than surrender to them."

A long silence stretches between them. Bonaccorso makes no attempt to fill it, but taps gently the arm holder of his chair. "Vannozza's decisiveness has made an impact, then. It is always, I fear, those who speak loudest who are heard foremost. She is a sword. And Macaluso is a shield."

He shrugs, emptily. "A pity that wars require both."

[bearshermark]

He blinks, the conviction in Bonaccorso's voice unexpected from a man so withered, but it's also heartening. The silence reigns while he imagines the strength of Bonaccorso's former rule and briefly shares the city's lament that he won't be around a great deal longer.

Eleven nods thoughtfully. "If they both love Taravast, then I'd hope they would be able to work together for the sake of it. If Vannozza is a sword, perhaps she leads the armies while Macaluso looks after the people. The politics of it all seem less important than the city's safety."

[aprescoup]

"That is a pretty thought," he concedes, but the smile never bleeds into his face, its deep-carved features. "But dual governance creates confusion. It is... like parenting a country. When the mother disapproves, disobedient will ask the same favour of the father and hope for an improvement."

He does not press. Only, softer, "My boy, if I could live forever and spare them the burden, I would. As things are..." More of the laughter. "As things are. Do you believe my people would turn against either?"

[bearshermark]

Out of his depth, Eleven hesitates. This isn't the sort of question he'd prepared for or holds a grounded opinion on.

"I don't know," he says finally, reasonably certain someone had told him it was okay to say as much- Moran possibly. "I'd like to think not, but I'm not wise enough to say for certain. I only know that I would look for a sword, in times like this."

[aprescoup]

"A sword." But his humour pales. "A sword, against witches. I don't believe you understand entirely the nature of what we've tamed."

He leans back into the chair, half transfixed. "All the same, I thank you. You have spoken your truth. It is a beautiful gift."

[bearshermark]

Against witches? Eleven hopes he manages not to betray his confusion. The conversation he'd only had a bead of understanding on escapes him. It isn't a new feeling, though it remains a frustrating one.

He inclines his head, not at all certain his feedback had been useful, but enduring the meeting with his cover intact had been all he'd set out to do.

"I'm afraid it's all I can offer, if there isn't anything else?"

[aprescoup]

At first, it seems as if Bonaccorso had not intended to speak further. And yet, he continues. "One last matter. You... my niece and nephew suddenly acquired a slew of companions to support their candidacy. I think it... excessive, but I am grateful that they apply themselves."

And he leans once more. "But I cannot help asking myself how and why it is you all appeared at once."

[bearshermark]

Eleven's breath catches just as he'd thought it might be safe to leave. Levered partially up in preparation of doing so puts him a touch closer than he'd like to the man.

"A strange coincidence," he breathes, unable to think beyond the dose of panic for anything that might serve as a believable lie. Someone else could have come up with something, he's sure. "But once more, I fear I may not be the right person to query."

[aprescoup]

"I do not understand," he offers after a long, stretched-out, laboured gaze that measures first Eleven's face, then his body, his hands. The animal flinching of his eroding composure. "Did you not come of your free will?"

[bearshermark]

"Of course I did," Eleven says through the tightening of his stomach: the first lie he'd been forced to tell. "I'd wanted to see the city."

[aprescoup]

"And all these other people," Bonaccorso murmurs with a slow grasp of Eleven's wrist, thumb strong over the pulsing vein. "You knew nothing of one another? Not a word spoken before you arrived, as a matter of coincidence?"

[bearshermark]

His jaw tightens, pulse racing beneath the insidious grip.

"Those of us that traveled together had spoken some," he admits, fighting to keep eye contact. Goddess, if he ruined everything here.. "The road was long, after all."

[aprescoup]

For a heartbeat, it is as if silence swells with anticipation. Then, Bonaccorso's grasp yields first. He falls back into his seat.

"It is a long road, yes. And lonely. Men should make friends." He holds himself still. "A pity these friends are now your enemies."

[bearshermark]

He doesn't dare move in the silence that follows. Eleven swallows, eyeing Bonaccorso with more wariness than before. The words sound more like a threat than an observation.

On second thought, he wouldn't mind terribly if the man's life slipped from him more swiftly.

"..I prefer to think of them as rivals."

[aprescoup]

"And I prefer to think that my niece and nephew will not ruin each other in their pursuit of my inheritance," he counters, steadfast where he lies, old eyes slanted. "But we both know better."

When he calls for his attendant, it is nearly as if the man materialises, light footed, of nothingness. "Please, see my guest away with a gift of fresh pears from the gardens. It is the tree's first fruit season. If I am not meant to witness a second, let this one be shared with friends."

[bearshermark]

Eleven stands, inclining his head shortly. He curls his fingers to keep them from visibly shaking.

"Thank you," he says shortly, too rattled and anxious to be away to think up further niceties. Already, he knows isn't going to brave consuming the fruit- let alone risk one of his friends.