And as we wind on down the road

[faderifting]

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The Herald of Andraste is laid to rest, and the remains of the Inquisition try to put on a good face for their visitors. Some of them try, anyway.
WHEN: Harvestmere 26
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: n/a

The day after the mysterious strangers from the rift arrive, the Herald's body is delivered back to Skyhold. At first, there is doubt-- the timing is convenient, finally found the very day the funeral is to take place, and many still cling to hope that the Herald has somehow survived. Most, but not all, are appeased by news that the Inquisition's chief advisers have all confirmed the identity of the deceased. Preparations are accelerated: what was once to be a symbolic memorial now requires actual rites, and while some prepare the body others break down whatever can be spared for the pyre, constructed in the center of the main courtyard by another crew.

The funeral itself is a somber affair, as funerals generally are. The Great Hall has been cleared and swept but little else-- all attendees stand, and they are lucky it is a clear day, since the late afternoon sun streams in through the gaping holes in the roof. The service proceeds along strictly traditional Andrastian lines, stately and stiff. Mother Giselle provides the service and the sermon, focusing on duty, sacrifice, and the Maker's plan and concluded with a recitation of Transfigurations 10:1 by the whole assemblage. It is all very predictable, but sincerely delivered. Cassandra and Cullen lead the honor guard. It is a mismatched collection of visiting dignitaries, suspicious observers, pilgrims, colleagues, and companions that slowly process up to pay their silent respects as Evelyn Trevelyan lies in state. Some may notice that the body has been carefully arranged to disguise the fact that her left hand is gone. As night falls they light candles and then the pyre, and as the flames catch and lick up toward the star-washed sky, Mother Giselle sings a haunting version of the Chantry hymn The Dawn Will Come.

The wake that follows is less staid. It seems as if every table and chair in the castle has been dragged into The Herald's Rest and the courtyards and every hidden store of fine wine and food has been dug out from Josephine's secret stores to impress the more exalted visitors. This isn't just a funeral, after all, but a political occasion, an opportunity to demonstrate that the Inquisition lives on beyond the loss of its first symbolic leader, and that it can still be a force for peace and unity.

That impression is dented as the night wears on, and opinions and stories get shared more and more loudly. Someone hops up on a table to give their own little eulogy and others follow suit. Of course eventually it turns sour-- a templar gets up and starts blaming the mages for killing the Herald just like they killed the Divine, and mages at the next table shout back. He's hauled down before things can escalate, but grumbling and dirty looks are unlikely to be the last of it.

The event carries on into the wee hours, and noise echoes around the stone walls loudly enough to make it difficult for any to sleep early. One team of Inquisition scouts and soldiers comes out of the barn to complain more than once, and eventually move their bedrolls down into a basement hall, growling about how they have to be up at the crack of dawn to head out on a mission to scout some Maker-forsaken bog of all the places. (Mire, one of them corrects.)

Comments

{ the wake }

[equanimiti]

The Herald's death is no minor event, not in the least.

Now donning a more somber expression than usual, Alayre seems almost lifeless and frigid as he stands amongst the mourners with an impassive gaze. He's honestly deaf to all the grumblings and mumblings as Evelyn Trevelyan is laid to rest. While this is merely a prelude for the chaos to come, Alayre doesn't allow the pettiness of his fellow Templar to spoil the mood further.

"Such a woeful state of affairs." Alayre mumbles with a deep sigh as he adjusts the collar of his black tunic.

"It's worse enough that the Inquisition has lost the Herald, it need not become a spectacle as well." He whispers out of bitterness once the blame of the Evelyn's demise is shifted towards the mages. A look of discomfort passes through his stoic expression briefly until someone grabs that fool agitator and carts him off. The fragile balance here at Skyhold has shifted for the worse now that the Herald is gone. He could literally feel the hate and loathing amongst both mage and Templar both.

It's woefully stifling and honestly sickening.

Despite obviously not up for the social aspect of this trying occasion, Alayre is garbed in an elegant suit of grey armor with blue cloth adorning it. It's not his standard suit of armor but a much more elaborate version of it that he coordinates with a black tunic underneath and black leather gloves adjourned with protective steel that laces around the knuckles. The boots he wears are of a similar fashion with a steel toe and heel. While he's certainly dressed for a proverbial war despite his elegance, Alayre is without his swords.

"May the Maker preserve us..." The Knight-Commander says after someone offers him a glass of wine. He takes a small sip and just sighs. It's Fereldan wine. His mood is shot to hell and beyond.

[theonly]

"We should behead that Templar."

It is one of the first thing that he has trusted himself to say all night.

He held his tongue at the comment of the Maker, at the song. Nothing filled his soul with a bright light or let him feel like any divine presence was watching over them. Stannis calmed himself by breathing slow -- rather than sighing at every possible place that he could. He dressed respectfully for the evening in simple armor. Even left his blade in his room as he felt it would leave the wrong impression.

"Don't fall into the same trap as my brother." To become a drunkard in order to deal with any and all pain, he scowls at Alayre as he looks toward where the Templar has disappeared to. "It is everyone's fault for what has happened. No single group is responsible and they should all feel the shame of it weigh down to fix what is broken rather than squabble who is right on the body of their symbol."

A beat. "Why could we not be more as the Qunari, as the Avaar?"

Cullen | OTA

[perseverances]

[After the Funeral]

If Cullen seemed stoic during the funeral, he is definitely more somber afterwards. He doesn't mingle much, but that's mainly because of the guilt he felt. He should have gone back for her. Everyone had escaped from Haven through the pass in the mountains, he had time, he should have gone back-

No matter how many times he's told himself that he couldn't have, that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, he still feels guilty. Like he could have done more.

Many are turning the wake into a party as time goes on, and Cullen doesn't feel like sharing a drink at the moment.


[Later on that night, in the Tavern]

When Cullen decides to finally have a drink to calm his frayed nerves, it doesn't end too well. Please kids, do not make your dad angry on this day, for he will punish you all by throwing both mage and templar alike into a jail cell together and telling you to get along or else. Do not make him turn this Inquisition around, or better yet, tell Cassandra.

He's trying to keep to himself, but also keep an eye on the unruliness of everyone in the Herald's Rest. Can't we all just get along for one night without blows being thrown? Thank you.


[Wildcard - come find him at any point during the day/night!]

Tavern

[el_tybs]

The funeral had brought all their questions to a close, and finally they could truly mourn. So when they all gathered for the wake everyone could finally voice their worries, fears, and such that they kept bottled up for the past few weeks. They were able to share their stories from the time they spent at Haven.

For the most part it was decently pleasant. At least until fingers started getting pointed. Even though Sam didn't believe a bit of the accusations, it still... hurt, and for the rest of the time he mainly kept to himself. At least until being around so many others began to become suffocating.

Taking his mug with him - fully intent on drinking on his own - Sam had every intention of going for the front door of the tavern. At least until he passed the Commander, sitting there staring at the mug in front of him. The smart thing might have been just to keep going, but seeing the Commander like he was was disheartening.

Moving closer to the table, but not taking a seat, he clears his throat, making his presence known subtly. It occurs to Sam that this is the first time he's actually met the Commander, and not just in passing. "It's a dumb question, but... how you holding up Commander?"

After the Funeral

[girlinthebox]

That guilt roils off of him, but it's so much a part of him. He's heavy, wears it on his shoulders like physical penance for his sins. He pins himself in on purpose, it's written into his stiff posture, into the lines on his face that belong to a man far older than he is.

Don't get close, Simon would say. He's a templar, or was. The trappings still cling and he still bears their mark, even as he swears to divest himself of all that he was. Could be dangerous, but he doesn't feel hot, hateful like the rest. Just full of remorse, filling all the hollow space.

She isn't like Cole, can't make herself unseen. If River stares at him from across the hall, he's probably due to notice at some point.

wildcard

[aceso]

Christine is wise enough to not enter a small building containing grieving Templars. That would be a recipe for disaster. Yet even down at the healers' tents she can hear the argument that occurs and with a sigh, she grabs her shawl and a small pack of bandages and poultices, heading up the stairs to see. She's not planning on going in, mind you, but any injured party can be brought out and baby-sat in the case of an injured Templar. She doesn't want to be alone with one right now.

Instead she sees the Commander outside the Herald's Rest and she lifts an eyebrow. Not quite a Templar. More reasonable by far, one should think.

"I heard the distinct sound of people being idiots. Anyone bleeding?"

t-t-tavern

[rathercommon]

It's not another drink that Kitty brings over. There's no need for more drink, really - the Commander is being amply supplied with plenty of drink, and all the barmaids are making sure that his cup doesn't go empty. Not that he seems to be taking advantage of that generosity - as far as Kitty can tell, he's staying far soberer than most of the people celebrating here.

No. Instead, what she brings to him is a pressed biscuit. It's broad, big enough for the stallion of House Trevelyan to be depicted on the top of the biscuit in crushed rosemary - the herb of remembrance. It was an intricate process for the tavern's cook, stencilling out the house's heraldry, gathering enough rosemary to depict the creature, and so there aren't many of these. But the cook made sure that Cullen would get one.

"Here." Kitty offers it to him with both hands. "To remember her."

Herald's Rest + After

[shocktroops]

[Lucan had been glad to see the service come to an end and eager to join most in the tavern. The entire affair left him feeling on edge and in dire need of a drink or ten. He hoped those affected most by the Herald's death would find some closure at seeing her put to rest and for a time it seems to work.

Then someone of course had to go and ruin it.]

For the love of Andraste, get down you fool.

[Lucan is among the first to rise, openly hissing his displeasure and stepping forward the moment allegations against the mages begin. This is not the time nor the place for such things and a wave of relief washes over him as it seems others who still have their wits begin to aid in defusing the situation.

Only when Lucan is sure that the situation has calmed to the point of private conversations and not an all out brawl does he make his way over to the main counter to order another much needed drink.

Then again he was born with two hands.]

Just make it a double.

(OOC: All aboard the booze train. If you'd rather something more private then at some point in the middle of the night Lucan will stumble from the tavern and find a spot on the upper ramparts and drink until dawn. Feel free to tag under that scenario as well. )

Herald's Rest

[equanimiti]

Careful.

[Once the mage approached the bar, Alayre showed some interest. He watched in silence as the scene unfolded earlier but stopped himself from joining the bantering. While everyone assumes all templars to be like minded brutes, they would do well to notice that the Orlesian legion hailing from Pharos has yet to cause a scene. Perhaps it has something to do with the Knight-Commander's malevolent gaze that halts them, or just maybe they come from better stock. Whichever the reason, these men hold to their silence within this tavern.]

Tis unwise to drink during such sorrow.

[Want to know what he's having? Cider and naught a thing else.]

[kremdelacreme]

The Funeral
The Chargers were there. They weren't prominent (or any more prominent than they generally were at any gathering they attended) but they were there, the elves saying prayers, the men standing in silence, about as at-attention as they could manage. Krem stood front and center, in a Tevinter Army dress uniform that didn't quite fit right even after he'd spent time that day trying to fix it. He stood up ramrod-straight, as he'd been trained to do, but in his hand was a candle, a the other hand held up to keep the flame from going out. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol that day, but his eyes were faintly reddened.

Vint echoed in his ears from time to time, from people in the crowd that had noticed his uniform.

The hell is he doing here?

Is this some kind of joke?

Teeth grinding subtly, Krem ignored it, listening to the speeches, the chants of the sisters, even singing along with the hymn. He wasn't Andrastian, but that was no reason to be disrespectful at the funeral of Thedas' last hero. He had liked Lady Trevelyan. He had been the first of his men to speak to her, and had been pleased to report back to the Iron Bull on her cooperation. He had wanted to be here. He had wanted, in Cole's words, to help.

And now he was here, listening to the judgments of others when their attentions should have been on the Herald, the one responsible for saving all of their sorry hides. He imagined that Dorian was probably dealing with the same, if not worse.

Ignore the angry glisten of tears, they don't exist, and he would fervently deny they were there in the first place.

After the service, in a quiet place away from the loud and the drink
Something to occupy his hands was necessary now, before he decided to undertake some mission that would see him back at Skyhold bloodied. So here, draped in a thick, fur-lined cloak over his dress uniform, Krem puffed out clouds of mist while pulling a needle through a plush only half-finished. His hands were steady, and he worked at a pace that was actually producing a few plush toys an hour. He had his plans, he wouldn't break them, he would go through with raining nugs down on the heads of the people here.

It was just a matter of shaking off this nasty melancholy and getting up the courage to go out and face people again.

[el_tybs]

He couldn't get out of the tavern soon enough. There were too many people crowded together to his liking, and with a fight breaking out... it was being dealt with though. Honestly he couldn't really trust himself not getting involved in a fight right now. Enough of his buttons had been pushed already for him to have zero tolerance for any verbal or physical abuse.

It didn't look like he could disappear to his bedroll though; he'd be able to hear all the noise coming from the tavern. For a moment he considers doing some work, but quickly tosses the idea away. In the mood he's in he'd probably end up messing something up or hurting himself, and the last thing he needed was to have something to fuel his frustrations.

After some debate, Sam finds himself going for a walk. Normally, he would just wander the courtyards, but seeing as they were filled with people yelling and drinking as well, Sam instead finds himself wandering the tops of the wall and the battlements. He only complains slightly to himself about the idea seeing as he didn't have a cloak, but the cold wasn't too bad if he didn't stay out too long.

At least that was the plan until he happened upon Krem.

He was so used to the Charger being at the tavern every day that it had not occurred to him that he would have been any other place. Not that he wasn't glad to see him, but he honestly wasn't planning on bothering the man at all tonight. Not with how melancholy he was currently feeling. Regardless, Sam finds himself walking over closer.

"Fancy meeting you here." He blinks, tilting his head, realizing that Krem was actually doing something and not just sitting there. "What's that?"

Bruce no-longer-Banner | ota - prose or brackets are both a-ok

[amygdalae]

one. post-funeral, early in the evening (before the disruption)

[The funeral is somber, and although there's no rain it feels like even the sky itself does grieve for the passing of such a great woman.

Bruce doesn't stay close to the main procession, sticking to the sidelines as he watches the whole thing. The Herald of Andraste, now lost to them for good, and this entire thing was the proverbial nail in the coffin on whatever last hopes that other people might have had on her being alive. Bruce, of course, had lost whatever hope he had long ago - and although the people who were holding out were suffering now, he envied them, in a way.

It must be nice, to still have that much hope inside.

The crowd mostly disperses into smaller crowds once the main event ends; many people start to break out the drinks and drink for the Herald, but Bruce doesn't do that. He doesn't drink, not when drinking reminds him of things he'd rather not recall, of people he doesn't want to remember.

Instead he trails back to the groups of refugees, throwing himself back to what he came here to do, focusing on fixing up people and patching them up even as he quietly listened to their tears and sorrows over the passing of what had been many people's beacon of hope.]


two. late into the night, a good amount of time after the disruption

[Its because of you mages now that the Herald is dead!

You murdered her!

Abominations!

The words weren't for him, Bruce knows, but they sting all the same. Murderer. Abomination. Monster. It echoes inside him over and over again, never stopping, and as most of the people fall asleep from booze or exhaustion or both Bruce finds himself unable to rest. Not when he closed his eyes and would only ever see the shadows of his guilt, the blood on his hands.

Evelyn Trevelyan was dead and Bruce did not know her, but yet he felt the weight of her death so much more than all the other deaths he had caused by his hand. If he had tried to help instead of protecting him, did something instead of running like a coward, could something have changed? Would he have saved her, somehow? Would the people still have their Herald? The answer was probably no, perhaps, but now the question would always haunt him. The question of what if despite knowing better, and with that the guilt of knowing that he could have done something but didn't. Now, another good person had died while he himself was still alive.

Bruce looks up into the sky from where he sits under a tree so far away from everyone else, staring unblinkingly at the moon and the stars and the clouds. If there was truly a Maker, some god above that allowed all of this to happen, then he really must be a truly cruel god. To give him this life, and to let everyone here suffer like this.]


three. wildcard
[Make up your own stuff! Feel free to just tag in or PM me if you want to hash out stuff.]

[slipshot]

[At some point in the night, Gavin appears at the tree, standing at Bruce's shoulder, staring up at the sky. Without saying anything, he held out a cookie for Bruce, and took a seat down beside him.]

dorian pavus. wake + later.

[liberalum]

WAKE;

She was ordinary.

[ The time for speeches has long since passed, both the formalities of a funeral along the rigid lines of hymn and prayer, as well as the cups raising of the wake that followed. Dorian had risen to neither occasion, listening and keeping to himself, his attention sharper when those he knew and knew Trevelyan spoke, fading over when those who did not presumed to lift their voices.

By the time it's a little later, he is a little drunker.

Immune, now, both to the cold and to the scowls his mere presence attracts.

And so, a haphazard eulogy, quietly delivered, where he sits perched on the edge of a table and a goblet of wine in hand. ]

An ordinary woman, with a tendency t'wards providence, and a terrible kind streak that never got her into as much trouble as it ought. They'll remember the Herald of Andraste, and others will remember Evelyn, just not as many. She rescued a druffalo, and the entirety of Thedas. Terrible at directions, or using paths, which I suspect was a rogue thing.

[ He pauses, considering his wine. ] A Magister killed her, [ he offers, before lifting it to sip. Much like the rest, it is more to himself, but still audible. ] Not a mage.

[ Otherwise, you can find him around -- pouring a fresh glass of wine from a pitcher, slinking through the edges of the gathering rather than claiming centres of attention, trading eye contact with the people he knows. He doesn't shed tears, but he is quiet, in a state of slow adjustment to a reality he had made an off-colour joke about hardly a week ago. ]

LATER;

[ It's an awkward time of night. Late enough to be almost early, although the sun has yet to tinge the sky, but also for Dorian to have sort of started sobering again. Which means he can safely sleep without completely feeling like dog shit the following day.

The courtyard isn't empty, but still feels abandoned. People have been reduced to silhouettes, the gathering broken down to its clinger-on dregs, reminding him a little of a normal pre-dawn in Minrathous. There is broken glass on the cobblestones that crack underfoot as he makes his way for the staircase leading up and out of the courtyard. The atmosphere has soured, grief like vinegar, an occasional tendency towards the mood in Skyhold that he has observed before. The mixing of company ill suited to one another will do that. Throw in the death of a nice lady, and well.

There is something happening, and he looks. Voices raised, personal space invaded, a scattering of men and women. Dorian considers not caring when there is the sound of a fist smacking flesh, and a sharp cry of indignance.

Unthinking, he turns on a heel, walking over. The shapes of Templar armor and the skirts of mage robes are clear and distinct silhouettes in the darkness, where nearby torches throw them into queasy shadows. Dorian is his own quality, and he acts fast, reaching to grab the wrist of a young apostate raising her hand, the distinct glow of flame bright in her palm, and snuffed in disruption. ]

Let's not be completely stupid, [ he suggests. He tosses a look at the Templars, tipping his chin up to best cast an evaluation down the length of his nose. ] As natural as that comes to some of us.

[ Behind him, the mage who'd been knocked down is getting up again with help, and the other wrenches free of Dorian's grip. A third and last of them isn't keen on taking advice, planting a shove in the chest of a Templar, the smack of flesh ringing off armor.

It becomes messier, after that. The mages have the sense not to cast spells, and the Templars don't draw blades, but they are a bad turn short of escalation. For his troubles, Dorian manages only just to duck a thrown punch, not quite so self-sacrificing as to wish to give them all something to unite against in the form of a bleeding Vint. ]

the brawl

[fleurdesel]

[ Angry words in the tavern, but the peace holds. By the thinnest of strings but no one wants to be the next ass to say something. Stories are told, wine drunk, bodies shuffled off to their bedrolls; Adelaide there as a courtesy more than anything else, tucked into a back corner and minding the few of hers old enough to want a drink. No trouble for them, thank the Maker, but it is when she's guiding their swaying steps back to the room they've claimed that she hears something familiar. Something frightening. She ushers Roul onward and diverts from the path. It doesn't take long to find the source of the sounds. The scuffle- the brawl.

No swords and no magic but it's more than enough to leave bruises- to bleed either party. She presses herself tight against the far wall for a moment longer than she should. Arguing with herself. No one's going to die, no one is going to burn, no one's drawing a blade. She can move on. It is not her concern but when it's mages, when it's templars- when it's fists and it'd be all too easy for a little blood to become far too much? Hand white knuckled around her staff, teeth grit, she shoves her way forward. Pulls as much imperious authority that she could manage while fighting back the urge to turn and run for the hold with every step. Shouting down rowdy apprentices this is not, but fear puts anger in her voice and steel in her spine. ]

That is enough!

[ It's a bit of a cliche, slamming the butt of her staff into the cobblestones for that sharp crack of sound, but if it works? She's not about to complain. Some of the mages at the edges note her, recognize her from the healing tents and draw away. Not out of the fight but- away.

The templars don't give a damn. Typical. Were they sober they might listen long enough to sneer but right now? Too deep into their cups and too angry by half to bother. Without any real room for hesitation lest she lose her momentum and her nerve entirely, Adelaide stalks forward to start bodily hauling mages, at least, out of the brawl. ]

Beleth Ashara | OTA

[arlathvhen]

Funeral

[ Well, it wasn't a Dalish funeral, that was for certain. She'd figured that out shortly after people started scraping together whatever scrap wood they could find. She'd make subtle inquiries about Andrastian funerals, and discovered two things: People usually dressed up for them, and for some reason, they took dead bodies and set them on fire. Why would you dress up for that? What if you ended up with soot on you? But Beleth didn't ask these questions, she just nodded and went and found a dress.

She certainly didn't come with a dress, but the Inquisition had been paying her, and she managed to scrap up enough money to get one. It certainly wasn't a fancy dress, but she fit in among the other lower class people who probably also only had one set of dress clothes to their name. She stayed in that crowd, sticking close to her clanmates and trying not to fidget as she listened to the Revered Mother speak on about the Maker and Andraste and whoever else was involved in all of this. Beleth may have little love for the Chant, or for the Andrastian faith, but the Herald deserved the respect of a solemn, still figure among the others, watching as the flames leapt up the fire, smoke rising up into the sky.

She'd never met the woman, dead before Beleth had ever come to the Inquisition, but her deeds were well known. She didn't deserve this early death, didn't deserve to make it so far, just to fall. Eyes stayed focused on the pyre, but lips moved as she muttered under her breath, ignoring Mother Giselle's words. Anyone close enough could hear the words, though most would not understand them. ]

Hahren na melana sahlin.
Emma ir abelas,
souver'inan isala hamin.
Vhenan him dor'felas,
in uthenera na revas.

After the service

[ Beleth had been willing enough to go to the tavern with the others and drink, fidgeting in her new dress. She keeps a wary eye open, even as she sips at a mug. There's something about the tension in the room that has her on edge, eyes scouting out the people around her. It feels like everyone here is doing a balancing act, and someone was going to tip over.

The shouted eulogies do nothing for her nerves. Shouting humans, shouting drunk humans are bad news, and she gets up, slowly moving towards the door. She doesn't head straight for it, trying to move naturally in the crowd, but she's on alert, eyes wide. The tipping point finally comes when the templar starts yelling, and she winces like it was directed at her. Now she doesn't even bother to cover it, she starts heading straight for the door, because no good will come of this.

There's a few murmurs by the people by the door when she dashes out of it, but it doesn't matter, because at least she's free from the tension in there. It doesn't help much, her nerves still buzzing, wanting to get away before things explode. Get somewhere safe. So she starts off, and if left alone on her journey, can eventually be found curled up in a ball in the stables, the horses paying her little mind, aside from occasionally sniffling at her hair.

It might come out a little drooly in the morning. ]

[eolasemah]

Siuona, having arrived after the Herald's death, had attended the funeral out of respect for an important stranger, nothing more. She had stayed out of the fray for the most part, standing at the back of the hall, avoiding the drunken revelry in the Herald's Rest, and at present was walking by the tavern in search of Nari. When another elf came bursting out, Sina nearly collided with her.

"Ir abelas," she gasped immediately, and then paused, taking note of Beleth's vallaslin. "...it was you," she said, curiosity in her eyes, "you were the one--" She smiled uncertainly. "...you sang her to uthenera. Why?"

Gavin Ashara | OTA

[slipshot]

{At Various Points Throughout The Night}

She didn't look like herself. That was the weird thing. Well, it was obviously her, but it also wasn't, if that made any sense at all. An empty vessel.

He'd never done funerals well. (Elf, human, Dwarven or otherwise.) He slipped away early before anyone could notice.

The grief was surprising. He'd never even spoken to her, but her presence had been a constant, her will and her soul unmistakable. The driving force behind the inquisition, a ray of hope. And now that was gone, and as the night went on, the fighting began.

He tried to help, tried to ease tensions, but in the end he was a knife ear, butting in where he didn't belong, pretending to care when he'd done nothing to save the Herald. He got punched, a few times. Each time he'd laughed it off, and gotten punched again. Eventually, he simply started to avoid everyone altogether.

Well. Almost. His friends, he quietly sought out. With a cookie, or an apple, and a soft smile.

He'd done nothing for the herald. But maybe he could do something for them.


((OOC feel free to assume established CR and a cookie delivery! Gavin would have tried introducing himself to basically everyone at some point. Or have him be the reason he took a punch, he's good at that too.))

[ombranera]

The service had been...well. It'd been a service. Last respects to the first hero Thedas had seen that did what all heroes ought to do. A decade of kind fates and now? Hope was lost. Tensions rose. Tonight was the first Zevran did not spend in the tavern- there'd be no keeping the peace. He had no patience to make any token attempts. If there would be blood he would be well away from it.

That didn't keep Gavin from finding him on the battlements with a smile and a cookie, however. Despite the chill, or perhaps because of it, Zevran bumped their shoulders together companionably. At least until he took note of the bruises.

"...So they are lashing out at 'knife ears' as well now, yes? Turn your head, let me see."

lace harding | ota, any format you wish

[lacere]

FUNERAL

There was a little part of Harding that had always hoped the Herald had survived, somehow, had hoped that she would never be found, as there were no remains to find because she was alive. A farmstead they hadn't searched, the ruins of a building where she hid with other refugees, just somewhere beyond the reach of her and the other scouts. There's something very final about seeing a body.

The loss of her stung, especially on a day like today, when it real - that she was dead and would soon be taken by Chantry fire. For whatever she had been to Thedas, the Herald had been a hero to Harding - an aspiration. One who had been called to higher things, and had taken it upon herself to fulfill them, even if the world hated her for it, and dogged her at every turn. The Inquisition had been hers; Leliana and Cassandra announced it, but she had been the one to make it rise. Yet even so, the Herald had been a woman, and human - she had been one of them, a person, not just a hero delivered from the Fade by Andraste. And now no one would really know it, with her immortalised in death by those who never cared to know her in life, in sermon after sermon, because her funeral would also bring a message that the Inquisition was strong, that it would continue in its goal without its leader.

Harding couldn't say she liked that idea very much.

All too soon the pyre is lit and the crowds thin and gradually disperse. Not for a moment has Harding taken her eyes from the Herald's face, not as the fire catches and consumes, not until she's among the last left in a once crowded hall.

"For what it's worth," she whispers, to no one in particular, maybe to herself, maybe in the hopes that if the Herald did return to the Maker's side that she can hear her, and maybe it's all too little too late, but she says it all the same. "Thanks, Trevelyan."


WAKE

It takes a long time for Harding to put in an appearance, lingering with ghosts in the great hall, but eventually she does. She gets a complimentary drink from somewhere, some of the best the Inquisition has, but she doesn't drink. Hours go by with the same tankard still in hand, likely spoiled as the minutes tick by, but Harding stays observant. Someone has to, in case things do indeed become sour, because as with her death, Evelyn Trevelyan deserves better at her wake.

The renegade templar is dealt with easily enough, but the mood is charged after, and any possibilities of Harding relaxing are lost with it. Observers of the observant will catch her in corners, sometimes outside, sometimes exchanging word with other agents, because she still has a job to do which will not stop for one night, and if someone has to be persuaded back to their bedrolls or taken forcefully outside to simmer off, so be it.


WILDCARD?

wildcard?? in between the funeral and wake

[amygdalae]

[Many people mourned the loss of the Herald, but Bruce knew that Harding was one of those who especially felt it - she had spoke and met the Herald several times, and he understood how much Harding liked her. She must be really affected by all of this.

So he lingers around a bit near the entrance of the hall once everyone else had left, waiting until Harding is done and is making her way out of the place. He steps into view, and what he speaks his voice is soft.]

Hey.

[mythalenaste]

The Funeral

It makes her think of the plague that ripped through Clan Ashara, the song and the tears, only instead of in uthenera na revas it is the night is long and the path is dark. There is burning wood instead of living tree, and the cry is to the Maker instead of Falon'din.

Pel did not know Evelyn Trevelyan, but she wasn't the only one to die at Haven. She feels like she owes it to those who joined the Inquisition before her, who took the risk she never took, to attend this funeral. She's wearing her best blue tunic with a wide sash and wool leggings, and her silver hair is braided back.

The Wake

Still in her best blue tunic, Pel has taken up the philosophy of "if you can't beat them, join them." She is very tired, but there's no sleep to be had. She sits on a chair with her bare feet folded under her, spinning from a drop spindle and listening to conversation and song.

Then a templar starts blaming mages and Pel is immediately on her feet and walking out the door. Which attracts another templar's attention.

"Cowards," the templar declares, standing up and blocking Pel's exit. "Stand and face your accusers. With the Circles, you have given up your safe havens to retreat to."

Pel stands still and glares at the beefy human woman as if waiting for her to notice the facial tattoos and realize her mistake. The templar glowers back at her as if daring her to try to get around her.

Wildcard


[OOC: Assumed CR is fine!]

waaaaake

[amygdalae]

[Bruce isn't really one to go near the tavern. In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that he had been helping out near the entrance of the tavern, he wouldn't even be in the area.

Maybe it is for the better that he was around, because it seemed like things were going to get bad very, very fast.

He hears the accusations - monster, murderer, abomination - and they sting, and in the darkness he flinches, even though they're not directed at him. Still the emotions come, that all too familiar feeling of guiltpainhate that Bruce relates to himself far too much.

Before he can get too lost in his own head, however, the commotion only seems to increase, and Bruce looks up to see a familiar elf seemingly in a spot of trouble. Without thinking twice he gets up and goes to the scene, stopping behind the Templar who was blocking her.]

Ser, please--let's not make this situation any worse than it is.

[gatheringstorm]

[Funeral]

Representing the Valo-Kas, at least in her mind, Korrin stands in attendance at the funeral of the Herald of Andraste. The Vashoth mage either doesn’t own or desire whatever passes for standard formal funeral attire, instead opting for her armor. But hers is impeccably clean, the metal polished until it shines. Anything less, in her mind, would be a sign of disrespect to the Herald, and therefore not acceptable.

As Mother Giselle speaks, Korrin gives her undivided attention, showing far more respect and patience than she might otherwise for an Andrastian service. And she echoes the recitation along with everyone else, obviously knowing the words by heart as she doesn’t falter. To the looks of surprise shot her way by those expecting otherwise, Korrin simply rolls her eyes at them. She’s not going to make a spectacle here.

As various attendees approach to pay their respects, Korrin joins them. She didn’t know the Herald as well as some, didn’t have the chance to travel with her personally, but her loss is nonetheless keenly felt. As the Herald was a symbol of hope to many, she was to the Vashoth mage as well. It wasn’t right, that someone who had done so much for them all should meet such an end, and the injustice of it formed a lump in her throat as she looked down at the Herald’s silent form. The Vashoth woman remains in back after paying her respects, not wanting to obscure anyone's line of sight, her own eyes dark with memories of those lost from the Conclave to Haven. She doesn't depart for some time to come after that, watching the flames of the funeral pyre.

[Wake]

After that? Hell yes, she needs a drink and badly. Korrin wastes no time in heading straight for the tavern, as though she hadn’t spent the last night there needing a reprieve from her latest assignment. In her mind, this is just a continuation of that night, hopefully one where the alcohol would affect her more. At this point, she really has no desire to be sober.

Korrin will be all over the tavern, using some of her money to buy friends and random people drinks just because she can. After such a sober affair, she desperately needs to make someone smile. It’ll be the good stuff, too, no holding back tonight. At least she can afford such generosity, having spent her coin on more practical matters earlier. Whatever people want, they’ll get as long as she has the coin to pay for it.

Throughout the evening, Korrin will be all over the tavern, swapping stories of both the Herald and her latest adventure. The less sober she is, the more her voice carries and the less likely she is to care about that fact. While she doesn't hop on the eulogy bandwagon, the Vashoth mage raises her current drink to them all...until that templar ruins it. She shouts back along with her fellow mages, only calming down when he's no longer in sight.

"Ugh, enough of that asshole. Someone ask the bard to sing again. If you do, I'm buying your next drink. Fucking Templar can go fuck himself...."

The Wake

[equanimiti]

An amused rumble of a chuckle escapes Alayre once he heard the request. That was probably the most humorous thing he's heard all evening since the funeral began. He's still quite disappointed in the nature of the situation but he copes with disappointment well. You could say he's had ample practice since youth.

"As long as you promise me a mug of good mead, I'll honour your request." The Knight-Commander replies with a faint smirk. Still dressed in his ceremonial armor, Alayre must look somewhat out of place here within this tavern. Most of his legion thought it best to take their leave for now. The growing tensions between Mage and Templar has left them, and himself, feeling a tad jaded.

"Do you have any particular preference in terms of song? I'm certain that bard knows enough epic odes to serenade the malice away."

stannis baratheon (au) | OTA

[theonly]

Wake

[ The funeral is the first that he has seen the Herald. He never met her, only heard tale of her deeds. It is odd to look at someone that so many feel like they "know." But not a feeling that he has not experienced before. Did he not have something similar when the Divine died years past?

His head aches from how much he clenches his teeth. Nothing grants him peace and he doubts that there will be much for others present. It is a show, and he is dislikes it. The woman did her duty for Thedas and should be allowed to rest without making even her death a fiasco. Stannis had thought that the Templars would share his opinion but it appears not.

It is a shame that he decided to leave his blade behind.

But he is glad to see the man carted off. Not so those that are still huffing under their breath. He sucks his teeth as he feels the anger increase. ] The fault lies with everyone. To rely so heavily upon one person and to not look upon your own duties to the realm. You come to pay your respects and I see none. Not for the woman, not for the Herald. [ It is the most that he can say least he let his anger continue.

He finds a place that he could sit to drink. It may be amusing that he chooses to drink water over all other alcohol that is being presented. Stannis looks towards the door as he wonders if he could retrieve his sword and return swiftly enough. But Commander Cullen would probably not appreciate the men suffering capital punishment without judgment -- and what he had been told before rings true. Kill too many men and they fear you for the wrong reasons.

His back presses against the wall as he watches everyone. ] And we must be feared for the right reasons.

WILDCARD?

Daylen Mathan | OTA

[deflocked]

(Not) the Funeral

He skips the funeral. The Inquisition do a lot of good, but their flaunting of Lady Trevelyan as the Herald of Andraste leaves him severely uncomfortable. He doesn't believe that's what she was for a moment, though he has no desire to disrespect her at her own funeral. He stays clear, keeping to the healing tents. At least around the severely injured he's less likely to draw attention to himself by those wondering why he isn't there with everyone else. If there's even anyone around to take note of him.

The Wake

He intends to avoid the wake too, but the atmosphere is charged and he spies more than one person who's been on the losing end of a fight. As the evening draws on he finds himself giving up on any plans he might have had of reading quietly in the library and gathering together some basic healing supplies. With his mabari in tow he finds a relatively quiet place on the steps to sit, hound stretching out on the wider step behind him.

By keeping to the edge he can keep more or less out of the way, and the height gives him a good view of the festivities. He watches them closely, hoping to defuse any disagreements before they come to blows. Not that it always works, or that he even sees everything that happens. His healing magic is being made good use of this evening.

He's starting to think maybe he should move his services to inside the tavern given the number of causalities coming out of it, but the templars who bitterly decline his services and injured fellow mages keep him based outside. Even so, he's fairly certain the only reason he hasn't received a punch himself is because of the growls of the mabari who moves in front of him any time someone seems to be intimidating him.

Wildcard

The library pre-wake? Somewhere post-wake? Any other ideas? That's fine too.

Library Pre-Wake

[el_tybs]

He could be helping with moving chairs and tables for the Wake, but for once Sam doesn't have the need to help. Honestly, Sam feels that it is probably shitty of him to help, but he just cannot muster the same energy to do so, not after the funeral. He needs a bit of quiet before he tries to face people again.

That's how he finds himself at the library. The scent of parchment and leather weren't necessarily good memories, but they were familiar. He's not that interested in reading, but regardless he picks out a book, one he knows that has a lot of illustrations.

Once he's taken the book it's at that point he realizes he isn't alone. "Sorry, I didn't realize anyone else was here."

Ellana | OTA

[serannas]

{ the wake }

Ellana didn't know the Herald, but a woman such as she deserves to be remembered, and so Ellana comes to the tavern to raise a glass to her. She listens to the eulogies as she nurses her drink, and some stories of the Herald's deeds are touching enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Yet not everything is calm. Not even the death of someone so revered can bring everyone together. When accusations start to fly, Ellana feels decidedly uncomfortable. She doesn't even have her staff on her at the moment, but she knows people have seen her energizing rubble outside. They know she's a mage. When the Templar is pulled out, she gets up and makes for the door, only to hear someone shout.

"And what of the knife-eared mage? The Dalish raise demons and use blood magic!" Ellana freezes, unsure what to do. She doesn't want to get into an argument, so she keeps moving for the door. "See!" the man shouts. "She doesn't even deny it! Are we going to allow a blood mage to walk freely in the Inquisition?"

[gatheringstorm]

Already in a foul mood, Korrin's temper is sparked by that accusation and she's on her feet faster than one would think for someone intent on abandoning sobriety. She levels a fierce glare at the man in question, striding up right over to him so he's forced to look up at the Vashoth. As much as she prefers not to intimidate people with her height normally, now is the perfect time.

"Fuck. Off. Repeat that garbage in front of me, and you'll regret it. I'm not warning you again."

With that, she whirls around to act as a living shield for Ellana so that the latter can reach the door without further incident. "Just keep going, no one's going to reach you tonight." And if they try, they'll learn that Korrin can pack a mean punch for a mage.

Eirlys Ancarrow | OTA

[ancarrow]

a) Funeral
There's something reassuring about the funeral rites. Eirlys is able to just go through the motions, listening through the sermon and reciting the Chant with the rest, taking comfort in something familiar and traditional, even though she's felt her own faith begin to waver ever since the veil was torn open in front of her eyes. She's used to smaller services in the alienage, and being one of the only elves surrounded by humans in their devotions was odd, but it's the first time that she's felt at some sort of unity with them.

b) Wake
She goes to the wake against her better judgement, weaving through the crowd to a corner of the tavern, sipping on her wine and jumping at every noise, afraid that a brawl will break out any moment. When things between the Templars and Mages do begin to get heated she decides it's time for a swift exit, pushing her way through the mass of people to head for upstairs and out to the battlements for some peace and quiet.

b

[roguishpast]

Sigrun is sitting against the battlements when Eirlys arrives. She appears to be making a wood carving of some sort. Appears being the key word— In actuality, all she’s really accomplishing is whittling down a wooden stick to a sharp point with a knife. She looks up from her “work” as the presence of another person registers on her radar, and she gives a half-smile that is as well-meaning as it is apologetic.

“All the bad blood got to you, too, huh?”

Merrill

[vir_tasallan]

[Funeral]
The Herald had been a figure, prominent and sudden, who rose to fame like a bright star and had burnt out just as quickly. Even if she had never met the Herald of Andraste personally, Merrill knew it was only proper to join in the Inquisition in their mourning. The subdued atmosphere spoke volumes despite the earlier hustle and bustle of activity to repair and sort out Skyhold. In terms of grandeur this funeral tried to put into action what words could never accomplish. All these people felt this loss, both new and old.

There would be no rushing this moment, no efforts to cheer up or tell her fellows to look to the silver lining. Grief had a place and it couldn't be forced out-- not wisely, at least. If it was left to fester she knew the consequences. But it had been beautiful, and even if she were not Andrastian, she could feel the reverence . Her rites were likely not popular, so she silently offered up her own prayer to Falon'Din to guide the Herald across the Veil. No one would mind if she didn't sing the song the Andrastians seemed to know. But in its own way it was hauntingly lovely instead of abjectly foreign.

[Herald's Rest]
For all the help the Herald had offered without prejudice to Thedas it seemed only right to offer any help where it could be given. Settled with that, Merrill set about the task of helping where she could. Seeing everyone pull together in this moment was inspiration enough for her to try harder. As the night wore on the fractures in that united feeling began to show, old hatreds coming to the fore, bouyed by grief-- so Merrill stayed close to the mages, ready to defend should the need arise.

Herald's rest

[wontforgetyou]

The rising tension was hard to miss, although maybe it wasn't a surprise, given the day and the fact that quite a few folks where determined to drink through Skyhold's entire supply of alcohol. Jamie is not one of them, although he does have a drink in his hand. There's something in the air he's not at all sure he cares for, and having more of a level head might not be a bad idea - especially given his own uncertain status as one of the folk who've fallen through the rift.

He's trying to keep that hidden, though, by wearing borrowed clothes and keeping the mark out of sight. His accent's close enough to someone from some place called Starkhaven that he's hoping that if he's careful it'll be enough to keep mostly unnoticed. But it's not so easy trying to keep out of the way of everyone here, and when he steps to the side to let of the glowering people in armor pass, he winds up in the path of someone else instead. It's one of the elves who he thinks might be Dalish, although he's still not entirely sure how to tell the difference between them and the city elves that just happens to have some sort of face-tattoo. All he knows is that he might have just wound up cutting her off from where she wants to go, and as he tries to fix that, he winds up stammering out an apology.

"S-sorry. I'm not in your way, am I?"

Maria Hill (AU) | OTA (wake)

[nofury]

A touching funeral, a quick drink, and now she had floored a fellow templar with a right hook. This, this right here was why Maria never got invited to parties. Besides the whole 'usually only in one place for a week at a time' bit, that was. It wasn't she'd wanted to. Well. Maybe a little, then man was clearly too drunk to be a credit to the order just then. But no matter what small enjoyment, the other options involved trying to argue with a drunk herself or letting him and the mage he'd currently been engaged in a blame-marathon with keep at it until someone ended up on fire. In a very flammable bar. And for all its faults, it was the only bar they had.

This may, all in all, somewhat slow her goals of better templar/mage unity within the Inquisition. Whatever. Nothing to do now but haul up the mostly unconscious Templar into what had, until a moment ago, been her chair and try to get him to stay there. She turned to the nearest person- mage he'd been arguing with, another fellow Templar, random person milling about, she didn't much care.

"Lend a hand?"

[theonly]

"I think it would be better to drag him out to sleep outside. Perhaps, when he wakes covered in filth, he'll remember who and what he actually is."

That would be a 'no' if it is to put the Templar into a chair. But he pulls his gaze away from the man that he would rather see further punished for his crimes to the one who stopped him from creating a worst situation. "It's good to know there are others that remember their oaths and what their duty is. Why is it that you have not been able to be the example of others?" Stannis will not allow drink to be the reason why they are acting as fools. If it is, then the Order can become a "dry" one.

"Did you hurt your hand or were you smarter than that in how you punched him?"

sabriel | (ota, any format you wish)

[paperwing]

FUNERAL

Sabriel wears her armor.

Armor cleaned and freshly polished, griffon insignia glinting in the flickering light of sun and candle alike. She did not know the woman that would be seen through final rites here, but Sabriel did know what she stood for - and what she stood for was for doing what was right, to fix the unfixable, and she had succeeded; The Herald of Andraste had given her life in order to seal the breach.

Courage and self-sacrifice. Noble. It is not unlike what Sabriel and the Wardens - should - stand for. And, as a Warden, she shows her respects, extends them on behalf of her Order, or what's there of it in Skyhold. But it is not just the Warden that attends, but the person underneath - from one woman to another, she respects what the Herald had set out to do, with as little chances as she had.

Sabriel is notably silent during the Chantry mother's sermon, and her mouth stays shut through each canticle spoken aloud. She knew them, knew them as any Circle mage would, but it is not hers, and not her belief, and never has been. There is more to death, and she knows it as any Nevarran would. Instead she thinks of the woman she never knew, of those left behind at Montsimmard, of those who have been brave and never returned for it, that whatever is left of Evelyn Trevelyan can find some peace - at the Maker's side, if that is what she desired.

Sabriel lingers as is proper for a Warden, exchanges words with those that approach her, and leaves as the smoke raises to the rafters, giving those most connected to the Herald their last moments alone to mourn.


WAKE

Not even the wake can lure Sabriel to a tavern. Instead, she stays clear of the bustle and the noise - there's a tension in the air, one that could be cut with a figurative knife, and if there's no confrontation before the evening is out, she would, sadly, be surprised.

It was so strange to her, templars and mages at odds, rather than a state of co-existence. The wary looks for being a Warden, she had been prepared for, and the same for her magic, and yet, she had not quite been so prepared for the look of scorn some templars gave her, the one who got away.

So much to fix that she wanted to but couldn't. It felt like a petulant mantra that wouldn't leave her alone.

Sabriel stays in the courtyard, watching shadows through the windows, thinking about everything and nothing all at once. The distant thrum of the wake gives her a clarity she hasn't had in days, good company instead of the mutterings of Old Gods. With the Herald rites performed, will the Wardens be helped, now? Can she really sit on Inquisition charity and do nothing for them in return, where its once leaders goal had been to be amicable, to help, to heal?

By the the time the scouts have arrived for the fifth time to ask (ask was a loose word, really) the celebration to quieten down, she's made her decision; she wants to help, any way that she can.


WILDCARD?
Or drag her to the tavern?

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin made a beeline for the tavern almost directly after the funeral and has been there ever since. The only time that changes is after that Templar's eulogy when she finally storms out rather than risk starting a brawl at a wake. As hotheaded as she can be, Korrin refuses to be that disrespectful.

Taking a moment to calm herself down, Korrin glances around and it isn't long before she notices Sabriel nearby. Striding over, she huffs and plops down by the Grey Warden. "Did I mention how much I hate Templars? Fucking asshole, blaming the Herald's death on mages, just like they scapegoated us for the Divine's...."

Alistair | OTA

[byblow]

AFTER THE WAKE
SUBTITLE: MAGES ARE ASSHOLES TOO

Technically, they haven't hurt anyone yet. They're just loud.

They're also young--not apprentices anymore, if Alistair had to guess, but only barely--and clearly a touch drunk, which Alistair is in no position to judge anyone for. (Q: Does alcohol quiet the Calling? A: No, but it makes it a little funny. All the things an Old God could do with access to their heads, and it decides to sing.) From what he saw in the tavern, they've probably had a rough night, if not a rough week. Or a rough year--wars will do that. Or rough lifetimes--Circles will do that. He does know.

But there are people here who are neither mage nor Templar. Unarmed people. Rude people, perhaps, who did not need the Herald's death as an excuse to be wary to the point of prejudice. But unarmed. And here's a sullen mage with his clenched fist crackling with ice and a tired cook in his cross-hairs, saying, "What did you call me?" while his friends look on with an even mix of silent trepidation and snickering amusement.

And here's Alistair, coming back out of the stables with straw in his hair and a foolish lack of armor or weaponry, blinking to force himself more awake.

"I said--" says Tired Cook, defiant in a way that is too stupid to be admirable.

"You're leaving," Alistair says. He's not very good at sounding commanding on a good day, let alone when he's about to fall asleep standing up, but maybe the lot of them are too surprised to notice. He turns his attention on the angry, icy one. "You're not helping anyone."

He doesn't have a sword or a shield, but he doesn't need them. He doesn't need to do anything but focus, and the solid world reasserts itself against the Fade, and the mage's fist is boring and fleshy again. If the world were a fair and reasonable place, that would be the end of that.

So of course it isn't. The Stupid Blighted Cook says, "Not so tough with Templars around, are you, spellbind?"

"For Andraste's sake," Alistair says, rounding on her, but her skirt is already on fire.

such assholes, very drama, wow

[fleurdesel]

A glass of wine (singular) and three apprentices (tipsy) to mind and the whole of the tavern full of tense, crackling unpleasantness but so far they've managed to avoid most of it. But some muttering off to one side became more than mere muttering and any time templars looked twitchy it made the Orlesian mages tense for reasons and such the incident bore investigation. Or at least minding so it doesn't escalate.

Of course, by the time she's woven her way over, it's escalated.

"Enough." A word, a gesture, a wave through the fade that twists and silences the spells on the rise and in the air- extinguishing the flaming skirts of the one cook. Not something Adelaide cared to do often with how other mages tend to react to having their magic tampered with- not something she's had to do often in the past few months but this? This is madness. This is asking for bloodshed. "Are you trying to bring the templars down upon us? You know better."

Any mage worth their salt knows better. Drink and frustration are not reason enough to lash out at anyone, even if they're being particularly aggressive.