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

[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?"

[kremdelacreme]

When Krem looked up, the sourness on his face faded some, making him look more exhausted than angry. There were deep bags under his eyes upon closer inspection, and he just shrugged his cloak further up around his shoulders. Even still, he held up one of his finished stuffed nugs, giving its nose a gentle squeeze, causing it to squeak.

"Did I ever tell you what I used to do, before joining the army?" he asked, looking up at Sam with a soft frown. "I was slated to be a tailor, following Father's work. This was how I learned to sew back then."

[el_tybs]

There's a small ache in his chest at the look Krem gives him. He can only imagine what is going through the other man's head, but the bags under the eyes, the exhaustion, the way his shoulders are slightly slumped under the cloak... that is all too familiar. For a moment Sam isn't sure how to continue from there. He's much more used to being on the receiving end of an attack and then Krem smirking as he sits with him through the pain. From that he feels that they are friends, but this is new territory.

So when a stuffed nug is held up to him and it 'squeals', Sam is a bit caught off guard, a smile gracing his face despite recent events. He suddenly feels a tiny bit better at the cuteness and silliness. That's not the only thing that Krem does that catches Sam off though.

He didn't know any of what Krem had just told him. Honestly, Krem hadn't told him much about himself period except for that Sam knew; the man was the Charger's second-in-command and he was ridiculously strong. Also had a bad habit of not watching his drink at times and missing his mouth. Regardless, the question and the explanation sounds like an invitation to join him. So while Krem talks, Sam finds a spot next to him, hands fidgeting with the still half full mug he had.

There's a smile still on Sam's face, but it's sadder by the time Krem finishes. He doesn't see this story ending happily, but he's happy to have Krem feel comfortable enough to be telling him about his past. "I didn't know that." He pauses, taking a drink - he's had enough by now that he doesn't even flinch at the taste - thinking. "You were expected to continue the family profession too, huh? What happened?" He winces at that. Ah, his curiosity. He knows not everyone is comfortable sharing. "If you don't want to talk about it, it's alright."

[gatheringstorm]

Standing in attendance near the Chargers, probably considering it more appropriate given their shared mercenary status, Korrin is close enough to hear those muttered words about Krem. Her mood shifts from solemnity and grief as that temper flares up, staining those cheeks. Not only do those assholes not know what they're talking about, but this sort of conduct is an insult to the Herald rather than the respect she so rightfully deserves.

It takes a monumental amount of willpower not to whirl around and glare at them all, but Korrin refuses to be the one to disrupt the funeral. If they can't control themselves, that's on them but the Vashoth 'savage' will show a better example. She does come to stand by Krem, though, lending her silent support until the funeral is over.

[kremdelacreme]

In the face of the insulting judgments of the other attendants, Krem's silent focus on the pyre as it's lit is all the more proper, and as the oil-soaked wood goes up and throws black smoke into the air, Krem raises his candle, then blows it out, leaning against Korrin's side.

"Pointless," he hisses, his eyes finally falling to the stone underfoot. "'s like they've never attended a funeral before..."

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin huffs in agreement, throwing an arm around his shoulders companionably. She's not shy about such displays of affection, especially not when people she cares about seem to need them. The funeral is over, so the peanut gallery can go hang for all she cares. If any pass by on the way out, she doesn't dignify them with a glance.

"Assholes, all of them. Want to go hit something and vent before the wake?"

[aceso]

Christine didn't know that there were any other Tevinters here besides that friend of the Herald's. The one with the overgroomed mustache. She's a little perplexed as to why this one is here, but even more so since he doesn't appear to be a mage, at least from the uniform. All she knows of Tevinter is that the magisters wield all the power, they keep elven slaves, and they've always been a threat. She's never given much thought to those living in the Imperium who are neither magister nor slave.

It's a curious thing, and once the funeral concludes and Christine has blown out her candle, she approaches.

"Excuse me," she says with an Orlesian accent. "I could not help but notice your uniform. You came here from Tevinter?"

[kremdelacreme]

Most people didn't even seem to remember that there was a social class between the magisters and the slaves. It was fitting, he supposed, that nobody realized that he was Tevinter, until he dressed in the regalia. His armor wasn't indicative as to his origin as anything but a mercenary.

At the question, he has to try very hard to keep his bristling to a minimum. An Orlesian asking such things was almost as bad as some barefaced Fereldan noble scoffing at him from behind a hand for his trying to pay his respects here.

"I came here from Haven," he said evenly, consciously keeping his hands from curling into fists. "But I was part of the Imperium Regular Army. Why?"

[aceso]

Christine cocks her head to one side, terribly curious. Obviously her education in the Circle was full of remarks on how corrupt and awful the Imperium was. When Fiona had made the deal with Alexius to indenture them to him, Christine had seriously considered running away and trying to make it on her own rather than go to Tevinter and live a step above slavery.

"I did not think the Imperium would send soldiers to aid the Inquisition. Is this so?"

[slipshot]

He'd overheard the mutters. Krem had told earlier, of course, about his heritage, and Gavin had taken it like he took everyone else's : an interesting slice of backstory and that was about it. He'd already decided well before that he liked Krem, so learning it had not changed his opinion at all.

Hearing them whisper about it, though... That got him angry.

Not that he showed it, of course. Anger was not something that was common, to his expression, and even in this case, it didn't appear there, but he remembered their faces.

Even if only so he had fore warning of who was a lost cause before he met them.

It meant, however, that after the service, he went looking for Krem particular, with a cookie in hand. It took a while, but eventually he found him, glaring down at the plush creature in his hands as he worked on it.

"That looks a hundred times more productive than basically anything else I've seen tonight," Gavin said, sidling up and sliding to a seat beside him, offering a cookie. "Hungry?"

[kremdelacreme]

Krem's hands slowed as he looked around at Gavin settling beside him, and though his mouth opened, he didn't seem to have anything to say to that. He looked down at the cookie though, as if he wasn't quite parsing that he was, in fact, being handed a cookie.

"I'd...had this plan," he started hesitantly, finally putting the little creature down in the space between his crossed legs and taking the cookie, breaking off a piece of it. "I'd been making one of these for Evelyn when she was due to come back from her assault on the Breach. Something to help her feel better, since she was probably going to be out of sorts after how much it would take. But then, I thought, what if I could hand one to anyone that needed something to hold onto at night for a little bit of comfort? So...so I've got a few people helping me gather materials to do that.

"'s better than dwelling," he added with a soft sigh, picking up one of the finished plushes and handing it to the elf. It squeaked when its nose was squeezed.

[slipshot]

He took the stuffed nug with a raised eyebrow, curious and a little confused, but when He had it in his hands, accidentally squeezing the nose as he turned it, he laughed out loud when it squeaked.

He felt a little bad laughing when Krem was obviously so miserable, so he quickly cleared his throat, giving Krem a sheepish look. "I think it's a lovely plan," He said, his voice low, but still he said it with a clear decisiveness. He looked back down at the nug. "I think she would have liked it," He said, with more confidence than he possibly could have had. Who was he, to know whether or not she would have liked it? But Krem knew her, and Krem was the one who was still alive, and Krem was the one who needed the kind words, tonight. A little white lie, well intentioned and probably true anyway, couldn't hurt.

He brushed its head, as if brushing away invisible hair, smiling at it. "They seem very kind," He thought aloud. "Though I think I could probably get them into trouble before they realised what I was up to, but people would forgive them because they're so cute."

[vir_tasallan]

Noise was all fine and good when there was someone you trusted there to keep an eye out for. But Varric seemed to need more of a distraction and he needed to be with those who were more... of the inner circle type of the Inquisition. Merrill hadn't fancied staying out in the bustle so she gravitated toward the quiet.

After all, the day had been long and she hadn't felt much in the sense of loss, but it was nice to have a few moments to catch her breath. Besides, the tavern was hot where the fires burned and the people drank.

She barely noticed the soft sound of something moving. In fact, if it hadn't been quiet, she would miss it entirely. It reminded her of repairing the aravels so she turned around and gave a look about to see where it was coming from. A figure was also perched in the quiet, doing something.

"...Ah, hello? Have I disturbed you?"

[kremdelacreme]

An unfamiliar voice wasn't all that uncommon these days, and when Krem looked up, he blinked once at the elf before returning to his work. "Not really," he replied quietly, turning his project over in his hand and prodding at the stuffing to poke it back in before closing the seam. "Can I help you with anything?"

[vir_tasallan]

"Hm? Oh, no," she laughed, not nervous but out of a habit, "Just looking to find some quiet. It's nice sometimes, but-- all the time, it makes me tired."

She paused for a moment, thinking about why he had sequestered himself in the dark and came upon the conclusion she was intruding. Even if humans said otherwise, sometimes they were just trying to be nice. She'd rather not bother if she could help.

But the movement of his hands caught her attention. "...Well, now that looks cute. Is it a nug?"

outside;

[hornsup]

"What's that?" Bull's voice comes out of the darkness, followed by the man himself stepping out into the light, a tankard of ale in each hand. He'd notice Krem's lack of presence at the festivies indoors -- Bull himself had started considering taking his own leave when the mages and templars decided to start sniping at one another. This is, in his opinion, neither the time nor place for that and both sides needed to calm down before they were burying more than just one of their own.

He'd liked the Inquisitor well enough. They only spoke briefly, but she seemed respectful and smart, and Bull could respect that in a leader. It was a testimony to how much she'd convinced him the Inquisition was doing good work that the Chargers hadn't packed up and left after her death. They were still needed here, even if they were nothing more than a bunch of outcasts with no one to really back their position here up. For now, anyway. The Iron Bull was working on that.

He settles down next to Krem, setting one of the tankards close enough for his lieutenant to reach and takes a draw of his own, nearly draining it in one fell swoop. "You makin' those nugs you were talking about?

[kremdelacreme]

When Krem looks up at Bull, he looks incredibly tired, and more than a little angry, but he keeps it to himself, no matter how easily it can be read on his face. He lifts the nug in his hand, then picks up another from the small pile of them at his side. He trades it for the tankard, taking a couple of swallows then laying it aside. He didn't want to drink much tonight, didn't want to embolden himself into confronting the men that had been whispering about him through the service.

"'s a better use of my time an' hands than anything else I can think of right now," he murmurs, poking the point of his needle against the calloused pad of his thumb.

[hornsup]

"Better than trying to punch mages," comes the reply, complete with a disdainful huff. "Good on you for not reacting, by the way. Unsettles them more because they have to rethink their opinion of you."


Of course he'd heard everything. He'd even gone so far as to make mental notes of who was doing the speaking. He probably wouldn't need the information, in the long run, but it was there. Just in case.

"How many have you finished?" He asks because he's not expecting a reply to his commentary, and doesn't want to make Krem feel like he owes him one.

outside

[lacere]

Harding is preoccupied with a great many thoughts, but the thoughts of making sure the wake is at least deserving of Evelyn Trevelyan has turned into making sure no one murdered one another in plain sight of the rest of the tavern. It was infuriating that the institution that she believed in, believed in so absolutely, could not put their differences aside for one night, and instead, chose that night to further their respective tirades - if any day should bring them together, it should have been this one. Instead, it was dangerously having the opposing affect.

She's outside now, taking in some much needed air after the latest incident, swapping observation for patrol. The roar of noise echoes in the distance, but Harding puts it out of mind, already mentally calculating the number of reports she's going to have to help write in the morning. It's a lot.

She almost walks straight past Krem until she doubles back. After so much commotion, it's rare to see someone actually focused on something - and this someone in particular she knows, distantly, knows as the captain of the Chargers. The Chargers often make for the tavern, usually there when she's there or they will be later. It catches her attention enough to make her change direction, and when she's close enough, she's more interested in his hands.

He does have nice hands, yes, but more specifically, what is in his hands.

[kremdelacreme]

It's easy to miss Harding in the dark like this, and distracted as he is, Krem almost doesn't realize that he's being watched until he takes a moment to flex his fingers and looks up, catching a glint of metal and pausing, trying to put a name to a silhouette.

"Ah...hullo, Scout Harding," he murmurs, clearing his throat and tucking his project down into his lap as he sits up to face her more fully. "Can I help you with anything?"

[lacere]

Him saying her name is enough of an invitation to approach further, but Harding shakes her head. "Not especially, but I am glad to see one person keeping the peace." The night is a liar, it makes everything seem peachy, and the tavern can't possibly be as bad as she remembers it.

It's worse. She's quite sure of it.

She looks down at his hands again and the item in progress, nodding to it. "You're sewing?"

[liberalum]

It's all just getting a bit much, isn't it.

The overly embellished funeral and now a wake that was cursed from the onset. No one knows how to celebrate someone who dies so soon and means so many different things to so many different people. Dorian's ascension to the battlements is equal parts strategic, if temporary retreat as it is to get a better view.

His steps can be heard, then a whisper-quiet swear when toe scuffs the edge of stone in near-stumble. It's fine and he is fine. He and his drink just want some quiet time.

Except he isn't as alone as he thought he would be.

But recognition comes swiftly, and so he approaches. He is wearing robes of Tevinter-esque asymmetry, a formal contrast of black and white and silver, high collared, and still a sliver of shoulder showing in the traditional mage distribution of fabric. His fingers are bare of rings, and are wrapped around a glass of wine.

He nudges the boot of his toe against a nug that has rolled further than the rest.

"Why?"

It sounds a little more like 'hwhy', posher when drunker.

[kremdelacreme]

Krem stiffens at the voice, having been prepared to ignore the footsteps until they'd passed on by. He looks up at Dorian, reaching for the nug that had fallen further from the rest of the pile.

"Could ask you the same thing, ser," he murmurs, keeping his voice low and even, no matter how it might have wanted to rise and crack as the sounds of the brawl in the tavern reached them up there. He should have been down there, helping Bull with crowd control. But he couldn't do it, not with how much they were all bristling at one-another. Adding a 'vint in the middle of it all would only spell disaster.

Which, he figures, was part of the reason that Dorian had wandered up this way. Krem pushes himself to his feet on that thought, meaning to shuffle the mage on back to his quarters to sleep off his drink and maybe ignore the ruckus.

[liberalum]

[ ooc ; so sorry, i never got this notif and then assumed you hated me (ok maybe not that). am into continuation unless you'd rather move on. ]

Dorian steps back rather than kick the nug into Krem's reaching hand, mildly tempting though that is. The wine is informing many decisions and so he checks them. Most of them. "You could not," he says, slightly challenging. "My presence is far less inexplicable. Wine," he hefts glass, check, "fresh air," a gesture seems to indicate the mountain range view just barely visible, "and not a hand-stitched pig in sight."

They're nugs, Dorian, don't be rude.

But Krem is standing, and his brow winches in the affect of confusion. "But don't let me interrupt."