faderift | your pose as the dust settled around us

( She is not sure she has a place here. It is not a dissimilar feeling to her childhood, memories that that been stirred more than once since the fall of the Spire. With each visit to an alienage, even those she has been to before, she is foreign. Elf-blood, yes, but there is no obvious mark of it, and that absence only makes her more an outsider. She has earned no place here; to be a friend of Saoirise is not something universally recognised, and she would not have it so.

The problem is, truthfully, that she is not sure her mother would ever have had a place in the Starkhaven alienage were it not for her role as healer. A lucky blessing, perhaps—

She needs to visit Starkhaven, see her mother. She has not. She should, but she has not. That is but one of the reasons she kneels before the Vhenadahl. It is part of her history, even if she is not elvhen enough to call it hers, but she has some need of peace and of guidance, and she is not sure that standing in the forest that inhabits the space where the Chantry once was is enough. That is neither one thing nor the other, but she is aware that that in and of itself might make it better suited to her.

Neither one nor the other. Not a proper human, not an elf. Not a proper mage, it would seem, but tainted by the Fade. Not a real knight, and perhaps not properly of the Chantry, either. So many things begun but not completed, a strain of music composed that cannot be played. Herian Amsel is a forged to be a forgery, she suspects, although she also suspects that wordplay is not near so clever as it felt when the thought of it first occurred to her. )

OPTION A: AT THE VHENADAHL.
( She kneels, and she prays. Eventually she becomes aware of the presence of another, but continues her prayer. )

I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

( And Herian looks over her shoulder towards the person nearby. ) Did you have need of me?

OPTION B: HELPING OUT.
( Check it out, it's Herian. She's doing things, being majestic. Right now it's taken the form of trying to fix someone's door. Now, she's no woodworker or builder, but most people in alienages aren't, or can't afford the help of those who are. What she is is strong, capable, and willing to think this through to get it right.

So she's got an improvised set of equipment, and is currently hammering nails into a roughly hewn wooden door to help repair it.

Maybe its going well, or maybe she just mashed the crap out of her finger. If it's the latter, she impressively didn't show the pain.... much. )

Edited 2017-09-08 12:42 (UTC)

[It's actually two persons nearby, of a sort. Garahel is sitting beside Inessa, listening intently to Herian's prayer. His mistress bowed her head, not about to interrupt the prayer itself but perfectly willing to converse when it's over. Her lips curve in a small though genuine smile.]

Need, no. But I'm glad to see you here, nonetheless.

[She tilts her head, staring up at the branches of the great tree.]

Memories of my time in the Denerim alienage are spotty at best, but what always stood out was the vhenadahl. The sheltering branches, the offerings...I thought it the most beautiful part of the alienage. I'm glad to see this one is treated with as much care.

I've— had my hesitations about lingering overlong in the alienage. In the past when I have visited alienages I was a traveller, I— went where aid was needed. Here I am an agent of the Inquisition.

( And the two are not mutually exclusive, but Inquisition and human can only colour how she is seen by the elves, here. )

I hoped the vhenadahl would— still have a place for me. ( Herian shakes her head at herself. ) Foolish, I suspect.

[At that, Inessa shakes her head.]

It's not. You have elven heritage, as well. Thus, you have as much reason to be here as I. Elfblooded have always been part of alienage life, I see no sense in denying that. And the people here know that as well, I'm certain.

[Her lips curve in a faint smile.] If a human enters the alienage voluntarily and is not wearing Chantry robes or a guard's uniform, the odds are fairly good that it's someone with blood ties.

Edited 2017-09-11 01:54 (UTC)

Aye, that we have, ( Herian agrees, rather ruefully, ) and we have been mistrusted as much as we have been befriended.

( She does not forget everything, and she remembers what it was to be elf-blooded in the presence of her mother, a healer, and what it was to be elf-blooded when her mother was not pressing paste of leaves and ointment to putrid flesh, treating fevers or preparing compresses, or whatever else might be required of her. It had been a complicated and seemingly never-ending dance of proving worth and loyalty.

For all that, she does not greatly begrudge Inessa her view. There is enough struggle as an elf to perhaps miss the paranoia that could spark when guards came into the alienage, the suspicious looks that could be cast to humans born with elven blood. Neither side trusted their loyalty, or at least, not inherently. Her own relatives would speak of elfbloods in ways that, at best, came with notes of but not you, obviously. You're different.

Sorrow for that felt self-indulgent, all the same. )

I am not so certain. I have no yet proven myself, here. A human with elven blood looks the same as any other human.

[Inessa listens with sympathy, and Garahel gives a soft whine as well. She remembers alienage life to a degree, but she was also taken while barely out of toddlerhood. However clear some memories might be, there is still much she did not witness. That would include the lives and difficulties of the elfblooded, as well.]

In time, I hope the difference will be clear. An alienage is always in need, in one way or another. There won't be a lack of means to prove yourself, I'm certain.

...but I will not speak over what experiences you have, either. I'm sorry you met with suspicion rather than acceptance. It's a view I can't understand and perhaps never will, spending more time in a Circle than an alienage. [Growing up in the Circle, she didn't think twice about working alongside and living with humans, elfblooded or otherwise. What mattered, what set them apart, was their magic.]

I was lucky. ( That she knows. That she tries to remind herself, even though the words are exceptionally bitter, some days. There is little to sugar coat them. )

My mother's father, he was one of the healers in the alienage, and he taught her well. She is human, and has served the alienage loyally, ever since she has been old enough to gather plants and sew wounds shut. If not for her, and for her father, my own time in the alienage would have been far more challenging.

( A elven wife birthing a human child was not unheard of, but whether or not the child would remain, that was more complex. His kindness was not to be overlooked. And, perhaps in some way, it was another means of trying to heal the alienage, to make elven blooded humans more accepted. Perhaps that was Herian overreaching with her thoughts, with attempts to better comfort herself.

Herian huffs out a breath, and straightens her posture. ) Forgive me, my— home has been much on my mind, of late.

( And whether she can call it home, for that matter. ) How do you fare, of late? And Garahel?

[Inessa's smile is soft and a little wistful at mention of family, but she keeps her focus on Herian rather than her own memories.]

There's nothing to forgive; home and family are important, whether or not we still have them, they shaped who we are now. It's natural to have them linger in our thoughts, I believe.

[Garahel responds to the question with a happy huff and Inessa chuckles as she pets him.]

Garahel is doing well, here. He loves the city; more people to befriend and possibly spoil him, of course. The alienage children were a little wary, at first, but now he's an established playmate. [Indeed, some of the children call out to him when he's spotted. Garahel looks over to Inessa, who nods, before darting off to greet them.]

As for myself, I'm now heading the Rifts and the Veil project. I hope to see what more we can learn regarding the shards and how to best assist those bearing them.

"You ought to get the joints lined up better first."

The words of advice come from a petite elven girl standing a few yards back from the reconstruction attempt. Fern has her skinny arms folded over her chest and a satchel of purchases slung over her shoulders, and the wide berth she gives Herian might very much be because she's a shemlen in the alienage; shems too near elves spells trouble, in her experience.

...but Fern does know how to fix the door. Eying Herian like she's a dog that might bite, she nonetheless takes a few deer-like steps nearer. "You want some help?"

Herian is not a fool. Rigid, at times, and sharp, lacking in most branches of diplomatic patience. And yet, for all that, she remembers what it was to grow in an alienage, human, but with elvhen blood and surrounded with the same mould and filth as those whose bodies did not feel akin to a betrayal to the people most precious to her.

When she speaks, her voice marks her as one of Starkhaven, though she has to pause just to let the throbbing in her hand ease a little.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd be much indebted. I— hoped to help, but I fear I overestimated myself."

Herian makes no move closer to the young woman, but she does attempt a slight smile.

Fern is too cautious of Herian to have the presence of mind to return her smile, though she does creep forward like a little mouse skirting out of reach of a cat's paws to approach the door frame. Once she's closer to it, some of her fear abates; with a task in front of her, she's easily distracted from her fear.

She assesses the door in a quick glance and starts to reach up to give the right-most side of the frame a nudge to the left, but can't quite reach it. "Here," she says, glancing back at Herian--who is quite tall, in Fern's estimation, and looks strong enough to do the heavy lifting necessary, "--just shove that bit closer to this angle, so they're flush up against each other. This one's got to rest on it, so they--well, you know." A vague hand gesture. She clearly knows how it's supposed to work, just not how to describe it.

Herian glances between her apparent rescuer, and the door itself, assessing and listening and trying to ensure she doesn't make a mistake by misunderstanding. Carpentry had been a focus neither of her life before or after the Circle, and though she understood it was a skill...
well. She didn't think a door would fight back quite so effectively.

"Align?" she attempts, though there's a note of uncertainty in it, because she really doesn't know, either. I'll help, said she. I'll help secure your home. A fine mess she'd made for herself, and her fingers would be bruised and purple, soon. Better to carry on, before they risked swelling beyond practicality for working.

No matter her ego, for now; she follows the instructions carefully, glancing to Fern to see if she has it right, before committing to another strike. "Be you greatly experienced in the trade, Miss?"

She's not sure whether it's more likely or unlikely, and there are times she has learned it is better to make few assumptions.

"Be you greatly experienced in the trade, Miss?"

"Not really," Fern answers, but she does shove her shoulder up against the frame to hold it in place while Herian hammers it into place. (It requires all of her slight strength, her nose wrinkled up with effort, but she doesn't complain.) "Just grew up on a farm, so, y'know--lots of odd jobs needing to get done. You learn things."

Once the frame is hammered into place, she leans away from it and gives it an experimental nudge. It's more secure now. Pleased, she turns a small smile on Herian, only for it to fall again as she realizes she's looking at a shem. She twists her lips into a little frown. "What're you doing in the alienage anyway?"

"I grew up in the alienage at Starkhaven," she says, simply enough, and it seemed to satisfy as response to both of her company's comments. Her tone carries no edge or malice, just a fact to be presented and left for the other party to do with as they will. Sometimes it bettered regard of her. Sometimes it did little at all, or only increased disdain. Herian keeps her gaze on the door, so that she does not have to bear witness to whatever twist of expression might come.

"My father was elven. Even if I am not, I cannot neglect the alienage here." This time, the strike of the nail goes more successfully, but she still sighs a little. This work suddenly feels a little less satisfying. "Though it may be that I am less helpful than I had hoped."

Fern's mouth forms a small 'oh' of both surprise and understanding--she'd met a few elf-blooded humans back in Ansburg, farmers and farmhands both.

"Though it may be that I am less helpful than I had hoped."

She shakes her head and offers a quick, "You're all right," and budges her shoulder up against the frame one more time. She nods to the hammer, trying to give Herian an encouraging look. "One more time ought to get it done. I'm Fern," she adds, along with a very small, shy smile.

"Herian Amsel, Knight Enchanter to the Inquisition," with a little nod. "Well met, Fern. You've done me a great kindness."

And, with that, she delivers another strike to the door, following Fern's instruction. By the will of the Maker and His divine mercy, the door does as it's meant to. Herian is relieved.

"I was worried I'd doomed this poor house to a worse door than it had started with."

Fern would be more ready to credit herself and Herian for the repairs, but she's never been a very good Andrastian.

"Herian Amsel, Knight Enchanter to the Inquisition."

"You're a mage?" she asks with bright curiosity coming into her eyes, already starting to smile a little bit more; she's only ever heard the title of 'enchanter' used when referring to mages--and to be a knight, too? "So am I--though I didn't know you could be a knight and a mage at the same time."

"Aye. I served at Starkhaven, first, and when that Circle was destroyed by fire, I moved to Val Royeaux, the White Spire. I was greatly privileged to learn from great minds at both Circles, and to enjoy comforts hard to come by in the alienage."

Food, three times a day, enough that her belly never ached at night; dry bedding, in a room not hosting corners of mould and rot; learning to read, to write, and simply that, but access to shelf upon shelf of books, more than she'd wager many folk had seen in their lives. There was so much she never would have been able to do, had she not been moved from the alienage, and people sought to call Circles the very worst of places. She could not help but think such people fools.

"You are not familiar with Knight Enchanters?" Cautious, as she considers what that might mean. An apprentice not yet turned mage, someone new to their abilities, or an apostate? Presumption would not serve her well. She clears her throat, thinking for long moments before she speaks. How to explain? How could you explain when it was something so essential, something that defined you so thoroughly?

"It is, to my mind, one of the greatest responsibilities a mage can have, to be a warrior worthy of serving and protecting the Chantry and its ideals, or in my case, to help it rebuild into something greater than what it hand been rendered. Knight Enchanters must be focused, and honourable, and though we are bound to the will of the Divine, so too are we dedicated to protecting the people of Thedas. Spirit Healers can heal, and soothe hurts. Knight Enchanters do our utmost to see that those hurts do not come to pass, and if they do, that justice be delivered."

She takes a step back from the door as she speaks, and nods to herself. The work seemed decent enough.

What work is she referring to--repairing the door, or inspiring stars in the eyes of a spurned Grey Warden recruit still desperate for heroism and adventure? It probably doesn't matter much, because Herian has accomplished both.

"That sounds--amazing!" The words burst out of Fern with all the fervour and sincerity of a young person suddenly swept away on a tide of their own romanticized imaginings of a thing; sure, the bit about the Chantry and the Divine and stuff is kind of boring and makes her think of stuffy, incense-infused evenings at vespers with her family and all her stupid brothers, but the rest? "I can fight with a sword too. A little," she amends, and 'fight' probably isn't the proper word. More like she shook a sword at a lone wolf once to scare it away from Farmer Heinrich's sheep.

The Kirkwall alienage and its vhenadahl seem no more familiar to Vandelin now than they did when he first ventured in here, no matter how he's been hoping they might. Even his recollections of Hasmal's alienage are hazy. He doesn't remember quite how the streets were laid out, or what any of his neighbors' faces looked like. How can he expect, after 25 years in the Circle, to be able to feel at home in a strange alienage on the opposite side of the country from his birthplace?

But Herian's prayer stirs memory in a way he'd rather it hadn't. Of course her voice is different, her accent is different, but the Chant is the Chant, and it has the same cadence here as it did when his father preached in front of Hasmal's vhenadahl to crowds of hungry faithful.

It's galling enough to hear it from an elf, from a man who had no choice but to use the dilapidated alienage courtyard as his pulpit because no Chantry would have let him through the door. It makes Vandelin angry enough to hear his people singing the prayers of the occupiers who had slashed them from the record and burned all the evidence, but from a human, it feels mocking. His face is impassive as the woman looks up at him.

"I don't think anyone here has need of you."

This is not unexpected. She'd like to think it holds not sting, but to claim such would be utterly false. Knights are bound to honesty, even if honesty to oneself is not easily.

"And what position do you hold, to dismiss me?"

Herian's voice is even and precise and carefully polite above all else, accent sharply Starkhaven, body clad in light leather armour; a scar tugs at the left corner of her mouth, but as she turns her right ear becomes visible. The scars are long healed, but it is messy hacking away of flesh to render her very human ear extremely pointed. Although her question might, in another tone, be insulting, all she means is to genuinely inquire.

"No offence was meant. I am but a child of an alienage seeking the comfort of the vhenadahl. My faith is my concern."

The elf-blooded are, to Vandelin, not quite an abstract concept--he remembers them from the alienage, giant clumsy children he'd steered clear of as much because their size intimidated him as because of the vitriol his parents muttered about them around the dinner table, but invisible elven heritage hadn't been such a remarkable distinction in his Circle. Nobody really found cause to discuss it much, and those who had it rarely mentioned it, and it had faded largely out of mind.

He doesn't realize yet that she comes from a Circle too. It must, he thinks, be an issue far more immediate for her. (He never likes to acknowledge, either, that not every Circle was like Hasmal. People were kind in Hasmal. Things were gentler. One never realizes these things until after one leaves.)

"So it is," he concedes, the closest thing to an apology that Vandelin will ever give. "I thought maybe you were here to proselytize. Though I imagine even that wouldn't go amiss with everybody." He thinks of his cousin, who would probably be delighted to kneel right down and join her in prayer.

"I serve the Inquisition. That by its very nature would... suggest a crisis within the Chantry, would it not? Doubt in its governing, the rest of our world's concerns quite aside." Herian shakes her head a little, though the line of thought is too serious and severe for her to quite muster a smile. "There are somethings I believe unshakeable, as points of priority. Honour, protecting those in need of it, serving faithfully, but nothing could sway me to press faith upon those who do not crave it for themselves. The elves have been interfered with enough."

Does that make her dishonourable, she wonders? To begin to draw lines of what she is and is not prepared to do for the Chantry? Or did it mark others so, when they followed blindly, and acted cruelly, in the process?

She may not be a diplomat, but Herian inclines her head in a bow, respectful. "Herian Amsel. I hope we are well met, ser."

It's disorienting to stand here in the shade of a vhenadahl he can't see, with offerings he's not quite sure aren't an inappropriate bit of paganry in hand, and hear someone else pray from the Trials with such fervor. Twenty-two years since he'd left his own alienage with the templars, and this is what he finds on first setting foot in one again.

For someone accustomed to seeing the Maker's handiwork in the smallest things, this seems an unmistakeable sign. The only question: A sign of what?

"Ah," Myr starts, jounced out of his slightly guilty rumination by Herian's voice. "Not any need, cousin." He assumes--if she's here, she's a kinswoman (and he isn't wrong, precisely). "I just didn't want to interrupt you at your prayers."

Now that she's not praying he can step forward to lay his own offering--wildflowers, a fragment of honeycomb--beneath the tree. It's a careful operation, as he delicately feels out an empty space for it among the copious other offerings, but soon enough he's found somewhere to put it all down.

"--I'm sorry if I did, anyway," he continues. "Wasn't meaning to loom."

Edited 2017-09-10 23:18 (UTC)

At the sight of his blindfold, Herian feels a little prickle of guilt. The jagged flesh of her ear feels horribly conspicuous, but at least she has not suffered anything more severe, more debilitating. He seems to move very ably, though she could curse herself for failing to step forward and offer him assistance in a more timely fashion.

It is not uncommon for Herian to feel chastened, or to reflect more carefully on her conducts. It is, perhaps, a little unusual that such things are brought about in a matter of seconds. (It is nice to be called "cousin," even if she has some awareness of where the assumption might have come from.)

"No apologies are necessary," she starts, and her own tone is conciliatory. "Please forgive me mine own severity. I am," she pauses, weighing her words, "clumsy with my manners, more often than I would wish."

"Forgiven," Myr replies, favoring Herian's direction with a warm smile. "We're none of us perfect, and you're a damned sight more mannerly than some I've known."

Himself included, if only because he's too inclined to let his curiosity get away from him. He steps back from the vhenadahl, tipping his head back toward the branches overhead. They do still get sun down here, at least, cold and damp as Kirkwall seems to him otherwise. "Besides, it's what we make of our flaws that matters in the Maker's sight, in the end--isn't it?"

He realizes he's maundering and laughs softly at himself for it. Break in on her prayers and pitch homilies at her; well done. "But I'm forgetting my own manners. I'm--" An instant's calculation of how much to offer, of what matters, "Myrobalan."

Mannerly. A much nicer way of putting it. There were those that called her rigid and cold, those who had accused her of being more statue than person. (Not a statue, she hopes. Never a statue, because that was woven in with inaction, and that was a dangerous, insidious sort of crime. To not act, not speak, to look away, to silently condone with one's own stillness.)

"Well met, Myrobalan. I am Herian Amsel." Her words almost seem to falter. She feels less certain of how to introduce herself than she once did. "I fear that to omit would be as cruel as to lie." He is not free to see her and to judge, as other's might. A blessing for her, perhaps, and yet - she cannot be false, not in this, and not in this place, before the vhenadahl. "I am of the Starkhaven alienage, but I am human, elven-blooded though I am. I understand if you would sooner not be witnessed associating so."

She does not know this alienage well, yet; she does not know if there are repercussions for speaking with a human, elven-blooded or otherwise, with those of less-truthworthy stock. Herian has no desire to hide who she is, whether it be her elven or human heritage, or being a mage. All are true, though that latter seems less relevant, in this moment.

He's always had a knack for finding the positive in any situation, in any person. She may be exact and cool in her wording, but the researcher in him admires that for precision and dispassion. It might not endear her to the masses, but it's a useful thing to have learned all the same.

The part of Herian's lineage that catches Myr's attention is not the part she's most concerned about. He brightens as she gives her full name, recognizing a part of it, though he doesn't leap in over the top of her words to ask the question that's on the tip of his tongue. (The sobriety does her in good stead there, giving weight enough to what she's saying to make him pay attention and be courteous.) That look of eagerness on his face only dims faintly at her revelation, clouded over by a kind of puzzled concern. "I don't know why I would be concerned to be seen with you," he replies. "You're still my kinswoman."

He knows the issue's more fraught than that, that there are currents of resentment and prejudice that run deep on the subject of halfbreeds both within the alienage and without it. But he knows all that intellectually; emotionally, it's exactly as he says: She's as good as another elf, to him. "And," there's a wry smile on his face now, "it's not that I've got a reputation to ruin here besides; I'm from Hasmal Circle, myself.

"Speaking of--you're not related to Cerys Amsel, are you?"

If there is a single thing that might have surprised her more, she cannot think of it. Herian just stares for a moment, dumbfounded, before she finds her voice. "An aunt of my father's, I believe. I cannot remember the exact nature," and her voice sounds a little distant, from confusion more than coldness, now. "When the Starkhaven alienage burned I was sent to the Spire, to Orlais, because there were relatives of mine already inhabiting the Circles of the Free Marches. I— I hardly imagined that—"

That— what? That people would know them? Speak of them? Aunt Cerys was a woman barely known even to her relatives, taken to the alienage when she was very young, and understood as little as a legend almost more than as a person.

"You know her?" Knew her? Hasmal had suffered as much as any Circle, and perhaps more. There is an earnestness in her voice rarely heard by those who have not known her considerably longer than Myrobalan has.

Almost any other thread of their conversation is forgotten, for the time being. She will return to them later, consider them, and be grateful, more than likely. Right now, alas, her attention has been effectively stolen to one focus, one concern.

Another mage, then, as well as elfblooded--and she is related to Cerys. There's enough of pain in what Herian reveals that Myr can't quite grin openly the way he'd like to--it would seem too much like mockery--but he's glad to realize he's closer kin even than he'd thought, if not by blood than by sentiment.

"She may as well be the grandmother of the whole Circle," he affirms. A crazy, demons-may-care, prankster grandmother, which is really the best kind of grandmother to be. "Of course she was closest to her own students in primal magic, but she was kind to all of us--around all the pranks--and she'd dote on anyone who could master a greasefire to her satisfaction." There's a wistfulness that creeps into his tone there; she'd been so pleased when he'd gotten it down that she immediately declared a trip to the testing area to "practice" destroying broken furniture.

"I'm only sorry she didn't come with us to join the Inquisition so you could meet her. But she wanted the opportunity to travel and not even Knight-Commander Brycen would argue with her over it, after--everything was said and done."

"She specialises in primal magic?" There's a kind of hunger sparked by this, one that she's not truly sure how to process, how to acknowledge. She is learning about her family from someone who is, really, a perfect stranger. It is not as though the types of magic are limitless; her aunt had been a Spirit Healer, but her great (great?) aunt worked with primal magic? Something they had in common, even if there is little else. Herian is not quite speechless, but there is something awestruck in her tone. Grandmother of the whole Circle - kind, then, she assumes. Grandmother implied fondness, more than severity.

Cerys Amsel was last seen alive, and defying the orders of a Knight-Commander. Perhaps she could not fault her that.

But— "Pranks? Really?" That was not, perhaps, in keeping with the sort of sage wisdom one might expect of a woman in her later decades. Herian isn't sure if she's intrigued or just concerned.

"She does--and there weren't many better for teaching it. She never wanted for apprentices, before she retired from instruction."

They'd been family, in Hasmal, and Myr's always happy to brag on family. Perhaps happier than he would be for most when it comes to Enchanter Cerys--but then they all were. The First Enchanter and Knight-Commander were the heads of a Circle but there'd been a heart to it, too, and Herian's great-aunt was a part of it.

He can't help the smile to hear her incredulity; it's a fond thing, memory-softened. "Really, pranks. No one was immune--I saw the First Enchanter leave her office soaking wet, once. She's--" He shrugs, helplessly; he isn't usually at a loss for words but there aren't any in Trade that adequately describe the elder Amsel. "--She takes so much joy in life. It's contagious."

Joy. That, as she understood, what a privilege elves were rarely afforded in the Starkhaven alienage. There was so often a shadow that hung over things. Joy was not pure joy that came with a blade swinging over one's neck, uncertain whether it would clear the flesh, rasp painfully, or simply slice through in one swoop.

"I never had the pleasure of meeting her,"

which is perhaps a statement so obvious that she need not ever state it, "but my father had a penchant for... pranks, I suppose you could say."

It had limited opportunities to manifest to the level of his imagination, she rather suspected, which was perhaps a blessing for her mother, the people of the alienage. Pranks too big or elaborate could catch attention; cleverness and knowing how to play tricks, that allowed stealth.

Perhaps Cerys Amsel was safer outside the Circle than most mages would be. Herian smiles, very slightly. "Thank you. Did she— do you think she was happy, in Hasmal?"

"As much as anyone can be, I think." Within or without the Circles, the world is full of sorrows; happiness is no guarantee. Truly, there were griefs unique to the Chantry's kept mages--but was losing a childhood friend to a Harrowing any worse than losing one to an illness or starvation or slavers? Yet-- "Hasmal is--was," Myr catches himself; someday, he'll place it properly in the past, "kinder than most Circles. We weren't allowed as much freedom as some would've liked, but we were never abused."

It made for a very different perspective on the value of the things, to have been rescued from alienage life and given to a place he could call home, with people he could call family--though they'd never erase his love for his own flesh and blood.

He's tempted to tease, to ask her if pranks ran in the family and what she got up to in her spare time, but it feels somehow wrong with someone who wears her sobriety like a cloak the way Herian does. Instead, kindly: "It's not much likely with the state of the world and how adamant she was about being let go, but our knight-commander might be able to send a message on. If you'd like to let her know she's got family here in the Inquisition." It's what he'd want to do.

“I had thought much the same of the Spire and Starkhaven. I never… I did not know the suffering others endures or… perhaps I did not listen when such information crossed my path. The thoughts have been so much turned over that I can scarce remember what is truth and what is my own doubt and dread, or where I might have blinkered myself.”

Her voice is calm and soft, but there is an inescapable weight in it, even so. At times her own thoughts are as weights bound to a drowning man’s ankles. “The Circles gave me so much that I never imagined they truly took from anyone.”
Was it blind loyalty? Foolish faith? Were all who loved the Chantry celebrating something false? She hardly knows, and cannot bear to give it voice.

“Is your Knight-Commander here?”

To hear the thoughts of one's own heart--the doubts, the recriminations, the blackness of those idle months in the infirmary asking why--articulated in another's voice is always a shock. It leaves Myr briefly speechless; for all the time he's spent thinking about that very topic, for all the arguments he'd formulated on why the Circles were worth saving and not just because of his own peculiar experience, he's yet to find any answers that felt satisfying. (Let alone ones that might be exculpatory for all he'd overlooked--)

Maybe there isn't a perfect answer. And maybe he's done himself a disservice, over the years, in searching for one. "That's something I know too well myself," he says at length, the words nearly a sigh. "And I've yet to come up with any answers for what I might have done otherwise. Only--we pass on the good that's been given us, when we can."

And keep moving forward, keep striving, to stay out of despair's grasp. "I'm afraid to say not--he's gone on to Skyhold with the rest of our contingent. But it shouldn't be too hard to contact him, if you'd like..."

[Well... okay then. Avery isn't quite sure what she expected to see in the alienate today, but Herian Amsel smashing herself with a mallet certainly wasn't at the top of the list.

For a long moment, she's tempted to just carry on without saying anything. The search she was here on hadn't really turned up anything useful and a few people had made it pretty clear her presence wasn't particularly welcome in the area anyway, so she was already on her way out (for now at least). Just another few steps and she'd be gone with no one the wiser.

Buuuuut instead she lets out a slightly irritated sigh and starts to slowly make her way over in Herian's direction.]

All right?

I have fought a good many battles,

( She starts, flexing her hand rather ruefully, before looking to Avery, ) And I suspect I am to be bested by a tree long-since dead.

( There is a certain note of humour to her words. Maybe. Sort of. It's very very subtle, if it is there. Her fingers are already purpling though, awesome. Thanks world. ) And how do you fare?

[Frustrated. Kinda worried.]

Well enough. [Avery shrugs.] Might could be because of my avoidance of battles. Tree-ish or otherwise.

[So she says, but then looks this whole affair over and nods toward Herian's work.]

Another hand?

A wise tact.

( Herian looks at a door, and sighs a little. This won't get the better of her, and she's just tired, but also: damn, she's feeling kinda tired. )

Aye. Could you steady this section? It shifts as though it had a mind of its own. ( Wryly, that, and very aware of her lack of experience in the realms of carpentry. )

[Without comment, Avery steps over and does exactly that. She's no expert on this either, mind you, but she did at least spend some time as a hand on a farm, so she's had SOME practice at similar work.

After a moment, she nods toward the home this door belongs to.]

Friends of yours?

I would not be so presumptuous - we are only newly met.

( And Herian has a difficult temperament, and an apparent talent for repelling people with little quirks like "speaking." )

The lady of the house expressed displeasure over how vulnerable the door left her home. Is that what brings you to the alienage? ( Friends, that is. )

[She would give a noncommittal shrug if she had the free arms. "Friend" is a strong word, but she supposes she's here for something close to that.]

There's a lad comes round to buy extra pies and things from the kitchens sometimes. [After she tried to just give him a couple once and he made it clear he and the people he was bringing them back to weren't interested in a handout, so she sold them as cheap as their pride would allow.] Good kid. Haven't seen him in a while though, so thought I'd come ask if he found somewhere with better breadrolls.

( A couple more strikes with the hammer, and pausing from inspecting the progress, she glances to Avery. )

How went your investigation?

( Quiet; cautious. There were so many terrible things that could happen in an alienage. It was a credit to Avery that she attended - Herian didn't imagine her to be a dangerously determined cook when it came to ensuring the loyalty of patrons. )

Poorly. [It's all the answer she gives before nodding toward the hammer.] You know, if you hold the nail near the top and the hammer near the head, at least at the first, you're less like to get your fingers. There's more power holding by the base but less control.

[Then she sort of goes quiet a moment and licks her lips, having a slight internal debate, before continuing more quietly.]

These people got no reason to trust me, and I've no honeyed tongue. I don't know much but the boy's name, and nobody's telling me nothing.

your pose as the dust settled around us

OPEN — in the alienage. 3 max per option pls.

A

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

B

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

A

no subject

no subject

no subject

A

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

I hope I'm not running away too far with your NPC here ahaha

NO this is perfect also i know this is super light so no pressure to reply

neveeeer I love this even if we're both literal snails

GLORIOUS

local snail crawls over finish line, immediately expires

B

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject