faderift | OPEN - Then the mountain rose before me

WHO: Nathaniel Howe and YOU
WHAT: Nathaniel settles into Skyhold
WHEN: Current
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Will update with any warnings that come up.

Courtyard

A dark-haired man in his late thirties or early forties is sitting on a camp stool and shaving, hair damp from a recent wash. He has a couple of inches of black beard he's mostly getting rid of, leaving only a soul patch under his lip. He works the brush while flinching at the cold and peering into a small mirror. The cold is not his friend when the razor comes out, either, but it's too dark inside for shaving. He manages the shave without cutting himself from shivering, at least. Come bother him.

Great Hall

Later, he's inside on a chair by the fire in the great hall, warming up. His feet are propped up on another chair. He's enjoying a lazy session of people-watching, smoking from a pipe and listening to a nearby psaltery player. If you catch his eyes on you, he will give a courteous nod and politely direct his gaze elsewhere. His posture is fairly open, so if you want to approach, he'll speak with you.

Tavern

It's after dark that he goes into the tavern and enjoys the smells and sounds, and occasional polite conversation. But it isn't terribly long before, lulled by warmth and safety, he cocoons himself in his cloak, rests his head against the wall, and falls soundly asleep. Until something wakes him up.

WILDCARD

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There were times that even Michel, who was not much for drinking personally, felt that the revelry within the Herald's Rest never died down, but it had to at some point. People eventually filed out, the fires became barely glowing embers, and while some had fashioned nests for themselves in the tavern, it didn't appear that the man in the corner had quite achieved such a fashion.

Sleeping in such a spot couldn't be for the best, not when the chill finally managed to creep its way through the walls. Michel was sorely tempted to go on his way, that it was none of his business...but the chevalier inside of him had a hard time ignoring the lone man wrapped in his cloak in the corner. It would be a wrench to wake him, perhaps carry him? No.

"Monsieur," Michel pressed, crouched at the stranger's side, hand on his shoulder as careful at waking him as he would have been waking the Empress. He'd plenty of practice in that as well.

Nathaniel breathes in deeply through his nose as he wakes, prying his eyelids open and stretching.

"Something the matter?"

"Not particularly," at least nothing dangerous that Michel was aware of, "I was simply curious if this was where you intended to sleep?"

Not that Michel couldn't imagine worse places, but now that the warmth was slowly creeping out of the tavern he couldn't help but wonder if the man had anywhere else to go.

"Probably not for the night," Nathaniel says pleasantly, sitting up with a faint chuckle. "But it's not a bad place for a nap. I never thought I'd be able to say that about any tavern, but this one is particularly--peculiarly--non-threatening."

"The Herald's Rest is well named, I certainly agree with you on this point," Michel offered a half-smile in return, though it was somewhat apologetic. He had not meant to disturb the man's rest, but again the cold was creeping in, "have you been assigned quarters?"

That Maker-damned Orlesian accent, fine in small doses, is starting to remind Nathaniel of--shudder--relatives. The smile remains, as does the pleasant tone.

"No. Well, yes. I've found someone to room with." He squints at Michel briefly, as if sizing him up, then offers a hand to shake. "Senior Warden Nathaniel Howe."

Michel was well aware that Orlesian was often an acquired taste and he certainly went to great lengths to refine his accent when speaking to others, especially now that he was on the very margins of his country for the time being.

"Not everyone is so fortunate as that," there were some still huddled in tents around camp fires outside. Taking the hand offered to him politely, Michel shook it in turn, "Michel de Chevin...your name, it sounds familiar somehow."

"My family was Fereldan nobility based in Amaranthine. My father was Rendon Howe."

This is usually the part where people back away slowly. But it's better to have it out in the open than to pretend it never happened. Most people make the connection sooner or later. Nathaniel bobs his head, looking more toward the floor than at Michel, but the smile only fades a little.

"Yes...the Orlesian courts have a name for your father that I will not repeat," which was certainly how he had come to know of the name Howe, but he was too much the gentleman to repeat it out loud.

He did not back away, however, he remained crouched where he was looking curious and little more, "you are your father's son, not your father. I had not meant to bring up something so painful, however, do not mind me."

An icy look at the mention of the name. Fereldans call him "The Butcher of Denerim," what worse thing can the Orlesians come up with?

Further ice as Michel appears to back off, but leaves it on Nathaniel to actually change the subject. Damn all Orlesians. Well, Nathaniel grew up the child of a Bryland and squired to a Verley. He knows how to fence.

"Nor did you mean to linger on it, I am sure. For the sake of my pain."

Orlesians could certainly be creative in their stylistic choices, especially when it came to slander.

"My apologies, it was not my intent to offend...simple curiosity," and really, that was not what he'd set out to do, he knew about the reputation, but he did not judge the other man for it either.

If he didn't back away before, he did now, levering himself to his feet and offering Nathaniel a slight bow.

OPEN - Then the mountain rose before me

Tavern

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