faderift | And as we wind on down the road

And as we wind on down the road

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.)

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[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!]

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?"

Cullen hasn't even taken a drink from his mug yet, instead having kept dwelling on the matter of the Herald's death. He should have done something more, should have gone back when there was still time.

He's pulled from his guilt-ridden thoughts and he looks up, forcing himself to nod. "It's not a dumb question," he starts. How exactly was he feeling, though? Aside from the obvious. "I'm fine," he lies, but he's spent years of telling people e was fine when he felt such turmoil inside. "How are you holding up?"

He doesn't look like a man that was 'fine'. Not with what they all had gone through. The rest of them were a mess after this, Sam could only imagine how it was for someone who had been close to the Herald, and her advisor at that.

Hearing his question being repeated back does bring a small smile to his face. He didn't know what he was expecting when he stopped to talk to the Commander, but it wasn't as... overwhelming as he imagined it might be. After all, Commander Cullen led the forces of the Inquisition, and his presence demanded attention.

"I'm... doing well considering. It's a lot to take in... all of this."

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.

He tries to hide his emotions as he talks, putting on a gruff exterior to betray how he feels. She did her duty, he tells many. We would all be lost without her,he tells others. What he doesn't say is that he could have gone back, after the others were safe. She could have still been alive.

At some point he feels like he's being watched, like he can't shake the feeling of it. He excuses himself from the group he was speaking with to give a quick turn, and while he's trained to notice things, it takes a moment for him to spot her. He's calm as he approaches, stopping a few feet from her. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," River replies, somewhat tonelessly. It's the truth. He's a templar. There's plenty he could do, conceivably.

"But you probably shouldn't," she adds after a moment, tipping her head and regarding him with some degree of scrutiny. "You're trying to be better, now."

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?"

Cullen is the first to offer a sigh. He had also been drawn by the distinct sound of people being idiots, and he had wanted to make sure that people weren't killing themselves on the Inquisition's time. They could do that on their own time. He had refrained from going in, however, and wanted to make sure there were no wails of death before he entered.

"I'm sure their is, but it would be for their own stupidity, sadly."

"Still, no good can come from them bleeding all over everything." But she crosses her arms, bandages clutched in one fist. "I think it best to stay out here and let them come to me. What the tavern doesn't need right now is one more mage."

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."

He's definitely had fewer drinks than most - and while he would love to drown himself into more mugs than he could count, he knows he needs to set an example to the others in the Tavern. He looks up when Kitty approaches, quite sure she was going to offer condolences like the rest had. The Herald had done her job, saving the rest of the Inquisition, letting it live on without her.

He was surprised, however, at the gift. He takes it from her, quiet as he looks it over. "Thank you," he says finally. "It's quite thoughtful."

"Oh, thank the cook," she responds, giving him a small smile. Her expression is quite gentle, but her eyes are sharp, searching his face for the sorrow and weariness she knows must be there. Poor man. "It was her idea, and her handiwork. But I'll pass along the appreciation."

She pauses a moment. Then, a little cautiously, she says, "Out there, it's incredibly dangerous, you know. Especially for someone like me, who can't really fight or defend herself. The Inquisition being here, and being willing to take in people like me and all the others like me - it's saving our lives. So the fact that all of you have continued on is helping every one of us."

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And as we wind on down the road

Cullen | OTA

Tavern

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After the Funeral

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wildcard

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t-t-tavern

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