faderift | OPEN: this will be a better year

OPEN: this will be a better year

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: First Day
WHEN: Wintermarch 1 (forward-dated)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Scouts from both the Western Approach and Emprise du Lion are welcome (but not required) to have returned to Skyhold in time for this event.

There have been better First Day feasts, and less crowded ones, and cheerier ones. It isn't a good year for many to look back on, and this one isn't starting any better. Reports from both Eastern and Western Orlais are grim. Many in the Inquisition can't afford to take more than a few hours away from their work, if that.

But for those who can, the ambassador does her best. At lunchtime some tables, hot food, and finery are reserved for visiting nobility and wealthy pilgrims--cause for grumbling in some quarters, perhaps, but they're the people filling the Inquisition's coffers, and allowances must be made--but there's plenty of stew, bread, and ale for everyone, even with the soldiers and refugees who stay outside the fortress invited inside for the holiday. The recently repaired garden and its carefully tended plants aren't off limits, but anyone noisy and holding a drink will be stopped at the door; the battlements, with their potential for deadly falls, are blocked by Inquisition guards. But the courtyards brim with people, most of them happy despite the possibility that the world might end before another First Day arrives.

If the courtyards are too full of tipsy visitors for comfort, there's also the valley beyond the fortress, expansive, barren, and covered in snow. By the river the soldiers help the refugees make a bonfire larger than would ever be allowed inside Skyhold's walls, and some lend their shields to use as sleds down the embankments. A group of scouts start the most intense game of hide and seek Thedas has ever seen, with snowballs to the face for whoever is found first. In the camp, a refugee girl with her hand wrapped in a green scarf chases other children around the tents, shouting raaar, I'm from the rifts!

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"I don't know," she says honestly, a little surprise in her voice. "I'm at least used to the nobility," (she adds with a disdainful tone in her voice on the word), "getting all of the special foods and merriment, but a party like this for all to enjoy? I have to wonder if the Inquisition has enough to have a party like this for every holiday or if they've just been saving up for the first of the year."

She has to admit, it's much easier to keep track of the days visually with changes in the...what's that word...seasons? Yes, the seasons.

He considers that for a moment and looks towards the castle, wondering what it's like to be in there with the nobles and the inner circle. It must be nice. Though it's not really worth it to be wishful.

"Perhaps they're worried it will be the last year and want to make sure we welcome the end of the world in style." He doesn't believe that though. He thinks the Inquisition can save the world, or else he wouldn't be here.

"If the end of the world comes, there's going to be a lot of fire and running and screaming. I don't think style counts for any points. I think they just want us all to have a way to blow off steam. Enjoy ourselves, rest, relax. We've earned it in one way or another. I can appreciate that kind of sentiment."

"And that's certainly true. So many of the men and women here have given up their home to dedicate themselves to the cause, and risk even more every day." He held up the drink he was nursing, like a toast. "We ought to let our hair down every once and a while."

"Did you?" That might be too personal, and she would take no offense if he declined to answer. "Give anything important up, I mean. To be here."

After a pause of thought. "I imagine that every Dalish elf here has. In order to be here, we have to have left our clans. The feelings that each of us have on that fact likely varies from elf to elf though."

"Is there a way to tell a Dalish elf from a city elf or...any other kind of elf besides asking? Here is the first I've ever met any Dalish, and I rarely came across any elves at all before. It's just a shame to leave, but that you feel the need to help is appreciated all the same, I'm sure. You may return heroes."

Cyril smiles a bit and then settles a bit like he's going to explain himself. "You mean you haven't caught the air of superiority or heard anyone going on and on about our lost history yet?" He's teasing here, because most of the Dalish here aren't like that. It's an inaccurate stereotype more than anything.

Then he gets more serious. "One of the easiest ways to tell is the vallaslin. They're different than other tattoo designs but they do vary. If you'd like, I can attempt to draw out some of the more common designs for you. That way it should be easier for you to pick us out."

"It's the..." She motions to her face, then thinks better because her facial tattoos mean something much different and motions to his. "The thin ones across the face? I've seen some of the designs. I wasn't sure what if it's just a personal style in elves or if they meant anything."

She does hate, sometimes, to show how knowledgeable she isn't on this surface world, but she's always eager to learn what she can.

He's patient though, completely nonjudgmental about her lack of knowledge. What is more important is that she's willing to learn.

"They honor our gods," he offered, though he can't really go into more details than that. "The choice is personal, but there are set ones depending on the deity."

"I've heard tell of elves and their many gods. It's...fascinating." And weird. But then, she's run into a couple of religions by now on the surface, and she supposes some dwarf beliefs (as grounded as they are, thank you) must also seem really weird. "And it's not chosen for you? Not passed down through a family or through a rite, you just choose a god?"

"Some clans pass them down, some families do too," Cyril responded. "I'm afraid each clan has it's own traditions so the answers are too varied. For my clan, each elf makes their own choice. They choose a god they feel close to, or one who has values they hold dear."

"What sort of god does yours honor?" She would hardly take offense if that's too personal, but she's always been a little more curious than is necessarily healthy for a dwarf who is less than nothing.

Cyril doesn't seem to think it's too personal, but that probably says more about him than anything. "Mine are for Mythal. She is the mother goddess. She represents protection, love, and justice. You can tell they belong to her because they are reminiscent of a tree's branches. Some have lines that go down towards their chin that look like roots."

"Roots to ground, arms up to support, shade to protect." See, she can do metaphor, too. "Motherly." Not in her experience, but generally. "The lines are so fine and delicate. Very much like an elf." Whereas hers are thick, bold, squares and angles, structured. Very much like a dwarf. "It must take a skilled hand. It's pretty," she determines with a small smile.

"Thank you," Cyril says, pleased at the compliment. "Your markings are bold and strong. Do they symbolize anything?"

She touches her cheek for just a moment. She doesn't remember that branding, done when they're but babes. It's been with her her whole life. "Here is the mark that tells all dwarves that someone somewhere in my family did something unworthy to make them casteless, and now I'm likewise unworthy. That the Stone will reject me, and that I'm to be spat upon."

It's the truth. Painful truth, but one she's lived with her entire life. And Cyril has been honest and straightforward with her. Only fair she return the favor. "But upon my forehead is a marking of my own undertaking. I can't admit to too much creativity, but I thought it a pretty design. Stability, in the symmetry. But taking control and owning my fate," she adds, tracing down the side of her face where hers meets down beside the brand.

"There is much a casteless has no control over. We take that control where we can. This, in some ways, was mine."

Cyril tilts his head a bit and feels guilty for having complimented the brand now that he know what it means. He wishes there was something he could do to help encourage her.

"You're here too, did you join the Inquisition by choice?"

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OPEN: this will be a better year

feast

i'm so sorry this is so late!

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