faderift | open | run and hide, your head's on fire

"Ser Harriman,"

Calmly, but pitched to carry. She waits in the doorway, a figure in simple Chantry-marked leathers.

"Lieutenant Coupe, previously of the Spire." A step in, and an introduction — however strange that is to make now, to a Cade with both eyes open and unclouded and startlingly blue.

"I require assistance in a small matter, outside Skyhold. Your name was recommended to me," In a. Very very loose sense of the word. "Are you free?"

He is, whether he yet knows it or not. She’s arranged for that much.

Edited 2017-03-26 20:56 (UTC)

Several things about this are surprising: first, that Cade was recommended to her. Second, that this is happening at all. Third, that she's a Lieutenant, which invokes a pang of shame in his chest; he was a Lieutenant, not all that long ago. Now he's just...
...an inconvenience.

Cade stands with a small nod, not bothering to introduce himself since Coupe clearly already knows who he is. He briefly meets her gaze, then looks away, feeling not terribly unlike he would when interacting with Nerva: outclassed, intimidated, but with an uncanny desire to please her.

No more talkative now than later, apparently. As little as she appreciates this dull silence, knowing the gossip of what he does say —

Well. If they're looking to better his reputation, there are worse qualities than to be tight-lipped around strangers.

"Thank you. An hour’s time, by the front gate. Have a mount saddled. There will be no combat," That seems a matter to have out with from the beginning. "But armor yourself, please, regardless."

A short, sweeping gesture.

"If you've questions?"

Cade's first instinct is generally to assume he's about to be taken out behind the woodshed when a higher-up demands his presence, but woodshed or none, he'll do what he's told.

"Ser," he says with a nod, acknowledging Wren's instructions, then shakes his head. No questions.

It's a little before an hour later that he's standing by the gate and holding the reins of Lady Patience, the neurotic dappled grey mare with whom he always seems to get stuck. He's trying to stand straight and ready, but she keeps nosing him to make him stumble. He didn't bring her any treats.

A honking bray announces their approach.

That is. An enormous donkey, its saddlebags loaded with supplies: Food, blankets, tinder, bandages — even a sloppily-stitched ragdoll, conspicuously lacking ears.

A faintly amused look between the pair, as Scrug the donkey moves too to snuffle at Cade. Some shining white knights they'll make. By way of explanation,

"There are pilgrims camped along the roads to Skyhold. Pious men, refugees, those seeking employ." And the opportunists looking to rob them blind. It doesn't matter. "We shall be delivering supplies."

Her head tips to regard him,

"Why do you think we're doing so?"

She knows, since she planned the damn thing, but she wants his take. The Inquisition could send anyone. A Chantry sister would be well-received, a healer, potentially useful. Two templars?

.....hhhhuh.
Cade looks at the donkey in mild distaste, but makes no comment-- not every hoofed animal can be majestic and proud. He scans the contents of Scrug's saddlebags, then looks back to Wren, a bit skeptically. Perhaps nervously. He has his suspicions, and they involve interacting with people, generally not one of his stronger suits.

"...to make a good impression?" he guesses uneasily.

"Quite." The thin slip of a smile. Gold star, Cade.

It's half the reason, at least — the half that it wouldn't be terribly impolite to mention. Kirkwall is going to be a trial for everyone, its returning children likely among them. She needs a better measure of him (beyond what gossip can supply) before they depart.

"While we are there," She pulls herself up into place, motions he do the same. "I want you to observe those we meet. To take note of what occurs,"

"I will need you to be my eyes."

This seems reasonable enough. Cade nods again, this time providing a "yes, ser," as he mounts his horse-- after several tries, since she likes to dance to the side once his weight is in the stirrup.
He and Lady Patience are two of a kind, and for that reason they make one another very nervous.

"Should we expect any trouble?"

"No. But trouble has a way of surprising." She waits for Cade to settle in before urging Scrug forward. He huffs once, tail flicking lazily, before starting off. Slow and steady.

"There may be confidence men among the travelers, or those looking to intimidate. I think it likely they will give us berth,"

This close to fortress walls, the jackals must be cleverer. Open banditry would be quickly put down — it doesn’t pay to pick fights with an army.

"So we shall need to spot them for ourselves. It would not do for them to arrive at our gates later, acting the mercenary."

Already Cade feels it in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing worry that there will be confrontation, in which he will either prove completely ineffective or excessively violent. His leg is essentially healed, perhaps a bit tender where the chunk of red lyrium once was, but his mind immediately goes to it, inviting that creeping paranoia: what if they didn't get it all out? What if he loses his head and kills someone he isn't supposed to?
Worse yet, what if he simply makes an ass of himself in front of the locals? What if he offers assistance and is shouted away and insulted?

Lady Patience irritably tugs on the reins, asking for her head, which is being held back in a tight, white-knuckled death grip. Cade grants it with a whispered apology, but watches the surrounding area like a hawk as they ride, waiting for aggression seen or unseen.

She lets him stew a moment, watches from the corner of her eye as they set out.

"Ser Harriman," White knuckles, an evident paranoia. Of what? The world outside, or something more? Gently: "I wish to be clear that you are to look, only. If we have suspicions, they will be forwarded to the Inquisition’s scouts."

The last thing she needs is to return the Order's resident problem child covered in blood. Now,

"Do you know what you are looking for?"

The typical signs of jumpiness might do — but there are reasons enough to be jumpy around Templars these days, and she’d be surprised if most people weren’t wary of Cade. He’s like a dog with its ears laid flat.

Edited 2017-03-29 03:09 (UTC)

Cade nearly twitches as he looks at her, responding immediately to his name and pinning Wren with a gaze that can only be described as needy. She holds his leash at the moment, and he responds to and relies on her and her alone.
He nods his understanding of her statement, but at the question, he shakes his head, quickly adding a "no, ser, not entirely."

Cade’s the picture of an ideal soldier —

If your picture doesn’t need to think for itself. There are too few of them left to allow that to continue forever. The loyalty is useful, this cringing manner less so. Dangerous in the wrong hands.

(They have never had a shortage of those.)

"Good." That he’ll admit to it. Answering honestly is a start, answering verbally is. "If anything is unclear, please inform me."

"We must consider the nature of the crime. Skyhold is isolated, and its wealthy visitors are well-guarded." Risky prey; a poor investment to chase so far from home. "Anyone spreading sinister purpose was likely following these roads already. They will have known desperation, or seen opportunity — and chased it."

Straight down the wrong path.

"Knowing this, who ought we pay more attention to?"

This close to the border? Fereldens and Orlesians alike fit the role. A Marcher, less likely — and a vashoth or dwarf, well. They’d stand out too much. Have to be pretty fucking stupid to try. Stupid doesn't last long out here.

The questioning makes Cade uneasy. In his brief stint as a Lieutenant, he did have to know the ins and outs of what they were doing, but the fact that he is ...not Lieutenant anymore indicates he was perhaps not suited for the role. No one would agree with that more strongly than he, with the exception of perhaps the men in his command who deserted.

"..I..." he begins, visibly uncomfortable. What happens if he answers incorrectly? "...the... people who aren't wealthy?" He's not sure he understands the question, and beyond that isn't entirely thinking straight. Lady Patience demands her head again, and he grants it, but with a bit more resistance.

"True," She grants. He is not chatty, Norrington had said — well, no shit. "Human, Southern, and poor. If they own anything of quality, it will not be uniformly spread. Boots finer than they ought to afford, or more than the minimum of bedding. Honey. Other small luxuries. None of these make a bandit, but they may assist us in confirming rumour."

Wren lets the silence rest; a miniature reprieve. It’s evident that she’s overwhelmed him, but there’s no simple answer to that. Sooner or later, they’d need to dip his feet back in. Sticking the man in a mailroom the rest of his life is a disservice.

(She is, perhaps, projecting. Rationality has its place, but in these matters, it has far less than she’ll admit.)

At some length they draw upon the first line of tents: Makeshift things of damp cloth and wooden poles, worn with regular use. A crag-faced woman calls something inaudible to another two figures, crouched beside the fire. A little girl looks up to them both, waves enthusiastically.

"Wave back," Wren prods, expression slipping into a pleasant mask. "She'll want to see the horse."

Cade nods. Look out for the poors, makes sense, they're usually the troublemakers. At least they were in Kirkwall. Hawke was.
He rides in silent misery until he's addressed again, and obediently offers a tentative wave to the little girl. Don't come over here, he prays, don't make me interact with you, don't be a child near me.
Honestly, he'd rather just be fighting bandits.

open | run and hide, your head's on fire

CADE

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