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

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. ]

[liberalum]

[ The worst thing is that they're genuine. Perhaps they're bullies by nature, but if they are, it's only a thin film over what appears to be grief-tinged righteousness. Templars and their righteousness. Dorian is coming to learn so many things about the quaint, sprawling south.

He glances at the sound of a voice -- her aggressive tone and the snap of a staff to the ground put him on edge just as easily as the flurry of threats and thrown fists, until he sees who it is. They've hardly exchanged words, but her reputation is enough that he knows she must mean well.

As for his own reputation, well-- ]

Vishante kaffas! [ he snarls, in the midst of elbowing one of the more intoxicatedly insistent mages backwards, and more or less into Adelaide's grip. ]

What was that? [ is a growl from a Templar. ] Some kind of Vint curse?

Yes, [ Dorian confirms, rounding on him. ] I've cursed you, and transformed you into something repulsive and foul for the rest of your life. Tada.

[ The Templar is unchanged. That's the joke. The mage Dorian was just shoving gets it, and barks a harsh laugh, even as he absently and unthinkingly pulls back from where Adelaide is trying to herd him. The other mages have the sense not to align with the Tevinter, making for a tough crowd. The Templar surges forward, but one of his buddies grabs his elbow before Dorian's face can get rearranged.

All the same, the mood re-bristles. ]

[fleurdesel]

[ The Tevinter companion to the Herald. No wonder the Templars were hissing quite so savagely- if there's one thing worse than an uppity mage it's an uppity Tevinter mage- not that she knows much of him. That he knew the herald, that he is a mage but not a magister, and that apparently his voice is 'dreamy'. Such things one hears when minding a group of apprentices in the midst of puberty. Apparently he's not one that has much patience for this foolishness either, it give Adelaide the remaining backbone to hold fast and haul the stumbling, stupid mages away from the brawl.

Fists no longer flying: good. Glaring and swearing? Not quite so much. ]

You are not helping.

[ Standing next to Dorian is- well. It's a target she'd rather not paint on her own back, but better for someone to be trying to talk sense into the rest that isn't an 'evil magister' despite being neither. She falls in line, hand tense around her staff. ]

Neither are you. [ To the mages. ] Find your beds and sleep this off.

[liberalum]

[ The mages seem convinced by this demonstration of rationality, even the fighty drunk one, and even if they are slow to withdraw as if giving ground physically pains them. The Templars, on the other hand, demonstrate more division in the ranks, with one in favour of withdraw as evidenced by his step back, the others looking for a more decisive cue, and another standing fast, having taken some offense for being made the butt of the Tevinter's joke, only to be told off by this stroppy Orlesian mage.

Dorian isn't in the mood for a staring down. Aware, more or less, of his place in the scheme of things, he squares his shoulders ever so in well postured support of the other mage's peace-keeping. When the timing is right, he inches a step away from the impromptu battle lines, turning his shoulder to the Templars.

He is very tired from the evening, and the past several months. He greets her better now with a glance of acknowledgement, some tension softening out of his expression even if his blood is still ringing in his ears.

The Problem Templar pushes an insistent step forward, jerking his arm out of his mate's grasp. ]

And we'll still be here when you wake up. Trevelyan might have neglected to take out her own trash before she kicked it, but--

[ And Dorian's expression clouds back over, and there might be a slight tone of apology for Adelaide in the tip of his head, before he once again rounds on the Templar. This time, it isn't with stand up comedy. He cocks a fist and takes a mean, if elegant swipe across the Templar's face.

Two more are immediately on him like a pair of lions, and the mages cease their uneasy, slow retreat to push back in with a rousing chorus of fuck yous and the like. ]

[fleurdesel]

[ They very nearly had it. If not peace, then a mutual distaste for spending the remainder of the night in cells. Adelaide is far from relaxed and far too busy urging the remaining mages to their beds to truly brace herself for what comes next. Dorian seems sensible, he seems as tired of this bullshit as everyone else, they have an understanding.

It was just about over.

And of course a damned templar has to open his damn mouth and speak ill not only of mages but of the dead.

She doesn't have time to plead with Dorian to not- as if he'd listen to her. He swings, the templars lunge in, the mages start forward, and she's caught in the middle with a staff and nerves that are strained to the snapping point. Stumbling, she makes a token attempt to stumble away, to gain room to maneuver, to call a guard- anything! No room for one or time for the other and there's a fist and a lung and someone wings before she can bring her staff up to block, knocking her in the face with a jarring blow.

Only a brawl. Only a brawl but she's caught and it's the clank of metal echoing in the courtyard like hallowed halls, it's swearing and blame laid at the feet of mages with every blow, it's here but it's not now, not for her, not enough.

Fear and reflex take over common sense- it's a word, a flare of light and a crack of her staff against the flagstones- Glyphs of Paralysis burn into being under the templars despite her better judgement, giving her the room to stumble back- one hand curled around the shoulder of the nearest mage whether it be Dorian or one of the drunken others. ]

Go. Now.

[ They won't hold for long. Not when done in panic. ]

[cicatrices]

[ It especially won't hold for long against Templars. Already the effects of the spell are incomplete in the face of their resistance, and the most determined of them lifts his hand to purge the spell when, with a crack and a grunt it is done for him. In a different moment the voice that follows-- the accent and the anger unmistakable-- would paralyze them all just as effectively. Tonight, with the noise and the rage and the drink, it carries but no more. ]

What is going on here? Stop this nonsense at once!

[ Cassandra is loathe to draw her sword, but she is not about to stand back and watch this continue, either. Her sigh is gusty and disgusted as she wades in, hauling a templar off a mage, grabbing them both by the collars and baring her teeth in their faces, lip curled. ]

Enough.

waaaaake

[amygdalae]

[There would always be people to check up upon, patients to treat, people to heal. Even the death of the Herald wouldn't change that, as sad as that reality was. The death of such a woman wasn't going to somehow magically stop the deaths of the others.

Having finished with one group of patients Bruce is on his way to another where then he spots Dorian. They weren't really acquaintances nor friends, but Bruce had the pleasure (of a sort) of talking to him a few times after he went to help deliver a few messages in the stead of some terrified individuals who couldn't bring themselves to speak to the 'evil magister from Tevinter'.

He debates if he should approach him; Dorian knew the Herald much more than Bruce himself ever could, and he could only begin to guess what Dorian must be feeling now. It didn't feel right to ask walk up and ask how he was doing, but...]

Pavus. [He calls, softly, just loud enough for Dorian to hear as Bruce walks towards him.] You... are you alright?

[Not the best conversation starter, he knows, and he really could have done better - but it was hard to think of something right on the spot.]

[liberalum]

[ When Bruce finds him, Dorian is people-watching -- it's something that isn't drastically out of character, but context is context, and his people-watching readily slips into unfocused self-reflection as if a glass wall exists between him and the rest of everyone else.

But it isn't soundproof, ostensibly, and he doesn't immediately get out of the lean he's struck against the wall, gesturing with his wine glass to indicate himself. ]

I'm not bleeding where I can't see, am I? All limbs attached? No, I shouldn't think your attentions're required.

[ But his flippancy is not dismissal, his voice too rich and animated for that, especially as he flattens it back down into a better answer; ]

The prognosis is favourable. Thank you for asking.

[amygdalae]

I'm sure you'd be able to take care of yourself even if you're bleeding.

[Dorian is a very capable mage after all, from what Bruce understands. Surely he could manage a simple healing spell or two.

The wryness of his response quickly dies down once Dorian sobers up as well, and Bruce tries his best to give a hopefully reassuring smile. It was a trying time for all, but he can only guess that it must be doubly hard for people such as Dorian.]

Has anybody given you any trouble so far? [What with him being from Tevinter and all. While Bruce himself has no real beef with the place (or at least, none that affected his treatment of Dorian), he knows that a lot of people don't exactly share his sentiments. It was only all too easy to link Corypheus to him.]

[liberalum]

[ Dorian's eyebrows lift, as if charmed. There is always an inaccessible air about him cultivated by the inevitably changing effect of court life, but what mask-like control there is in his bearing is off-set by the easy way his eyes shine a little warmer. ]

Will I put it to you to defend my honour if the answer is affirmative? You're even more obliging than I knew about, Bruce.

[ Dorian waves jest and concern both away with a gesture of his wine glass. ]

No more trouble that can be expected. I receive worse welcome when I see to get my armor mended, and I was practically raised on disapproving glances and scowling asides.

The question remains: what is he still doing here. I'd likely supply an answer if any of them asked me directly.

[amygdalae]

I'll have to see it for myself.

[He says with another wry smile on his face. Balance of the humors has always been something that Bruce does, but with Dorian its just that little bit easier. Probably because the man does it himself, in his own way. Dorian's brand of sarcasm is usually audible from a mile away.

But that's besides the point.]

Somehow I think they won't like your answer, though. [There's a quirk on Bruce's lip this time around.] But I suppose I could be wrong.

[liberalum]

Rather, they won't believe my answer.

[ This would be a good time to talk about himself. Instead-- ]

Have you had the misfortune to run into that one Templar -- Knight-Commander Stannis? He made plain his belief that any day now, I'll wreak blood magic havoc upon the poor, innocent Southern mages -- out of habit, I suppose, perhaps boredom.

I'd say the Herald had better taste than all that, but I can't use her name as a shield forever, and I shouldn't want to.

[ He speaks bluntly, sharper around the topic of 'that one Templar', but a certain refusal to sound injured about any of it. ]

wake.

[ungovernable]

( dorian had been the first person from the inquisition that benevenuta met, coming up the mountain; they have been fast friends, in spite of the fact that when her own magic and general northernness are like as not working against her and she scarcely needs the stigma of attaching herself to someone too northern to live. it is smart to cultivate him, but maybe it would be smarter to do it a little differently - there are places that she might be more effective than at his side, this evening, but

benevenuta is but one of many people set a-tremble in the great impact that is the herald's death - dorian knew her as a woman and not a symbol, and she knows him as a man, and not the human-form representation of all that is wrong with tevinter. so she is a small and stoic presence at his elbow, listening to his eulogy, declining the wine that flows inevitably toward someone having a punch up later.

she had appreciated the spectacle of the funeral for what it set out to do and what it achieved; it is something else, to hear this, here. )

Well said.

[liberalum]

[ The lines at the corners of his eyes shadow ever so in nearly-smile, which generally takes place more there than anywhere else anyway. There isn't much he can do about that. He'd always thought his own eyes watery and more telling than he'd like them to be, and impossible to change.

He's looking at his wine, anyway, but perhaps Benevenuta can feel a sense of acknowledgement, transmitted via where there shoulders almost brush. ]

It's all nonsense.

[ His 'well said' words, maybe, or the funeral, or the Herald's passing. ]

wake

[thedevilson]

[It was almost as unbearable as sitting in church, not that he’d done much in the way of attending services over the years and for good reason. A half demon in a church? He’d probably catch fire if he’d overstayed his welcome…that…and, Jesus it was boring. He’d considered not attending the wake, but then again he didn’t want to appear unsociable and uncaring…not that he’d had much of a stake in this Inquisitor’s life…

…Granted he’d fallen out of the green shitter in the sky at approximately the same time she’d been buried. So there was the taint that he and nine others carried and a kind of reluctant obligation to be present if for no other reason than to disassociate himself with evil rumors…like that would stop them.

There was also the wine, the wine was another reason to come, he didn’t do it by glasses, he did it by bottles and was presently carrying one around, some kind of red wine, he wasn’t a connoisseur, he just drank the stuff. Occasionally he would happen upon something interesting, a bit of conversation, whispers, badly given eulogies.

He paused not too far from Dorian as he was making his speech hiding his more inappropriate expressions behind a cough or scratching his upper lip as he listened. It wasn’t particularly interesting…at least not until he started talking about who killed her. He was remarkably attentive in this, even though it was barely conversational, his hearing was attuned.

Now that was something…maybe he’d get somewhere after all. The people here seemed to be reluctant to talk about how the Inquisitor had died, but if his lips were loose enough maybe he could pick Dorian’s brain for a while. He didn’t want to do it while there were people crowding too closely so he’d bide his time and wait.

Wait until he was relatively alone before stepping up beside him, discreetly, his eyes focused on the peppering of people here and there, but he spoke directly to Dorian.]

Mind talking for a minute?

[liberalum]

Famously, no.

[ Which wasn't exactly the question and Dorian knows it, but flippancy comes swifter than anything else. Having recently broken off from a conversation, Dante finds him in the midst of a round of people-watching, disinclined to immediately attach himself to someone else or a circle of conversation, standing instead where a fire circled in stone and metal heats this corner of the courtyard.

He glances, then, not recognising Dante's voice, but immediately recognising the man himself as one of the so-called 'rifters' he'd seen in attendance of the ceremony. He doesn't allow interest to warm his expression, save for one slightly raised eyebrow. ]

But I'll gladly take prompts.

[thedevilson]

Wind you up and watch you go then? Fair enough, let's see how you go.

[While Dante might not be one for mincing words or long dialogues of speech, Dorian could talk as much or as little as he wanted so long as he touched on the ideas that Dante was attempting to finesse out of him. After all it was his eulogy that held the most pertinent information this evening.]

I don't know much about this world outside of what I've seen so far...magisters, mages...whatever. You mentioned the Herald...Inquisitor...[Dante attempting to be respectful of the situation was very difficult so instead of saying anything he just made a gesture with his hand]...you said they'd been killed by a magister. Is he also responsible for the rift? More importantly does anyone know anything about his whereabouts?

[Because if this magister whoever is responsible then Dante would like nothing more than to knock on his front door, fruit basket in hand, and give him his own form of greeting. Well, that's if Dorian, or anyone knew anything, if not, he had quite a hunt ahead of him.]

[liberalum]

You have some burning questions for him, no doubt.

[ The amusement in his voice isn't necessarily unfriendly, but lacks much in the way of actual humour. He turns so that he is facing away from the fire, letting it warm up his thighs. ]

He was known to us first as the Elder One, before revealing his name as Corypheus. As for his being a magister-- [ Dorian pauses, looking again at Dante. It's hard to fathom the concept of someone completely alien to this world and all its complications, and harder still to fathom an answer.

Oh, well. The lad will surely stop him if he has questions. ] If he is to be believed, then he is a magister of an ancient time, tainted and corrupted with darkness and rendered nigh immortal, returned now to do Maker knows what exactly. Destroy the world, likely enough.

He opened the Breach in the sky, that which spawned those little rifts that you and the others came from, so, yes, to put it simply. As for his whereabouts-- he commands an army, and no doubt our scouts and spies will be attempting to track their movements.

That's the rather dressed down version, but in truth, we know precious little else save for inference and the word of Corpyheus himself.

[thedevilson]

Well you know how villains are, you're a lowly piece of shit, but whack 'em around like a pinata and it's not long before they're spitting out prizes.

[For all intents and purposes Dante looked very serious and very confident, at least in his ability to potentially tear this Elder One a new ass. For the most part he listened to whatever pearls of wisdom and information Dorian could provide him with.

Oddly enough he wasn't bothered by the cold so he stood out of the heat, letting the other man take as much of it as he needed. He was more interested in having the man answer his questions as thoroughly as possible, though it didn't stop him from sipping wine in the process, it just gave him something to do with himself given that he wasn't used to this level of inactivity.]

I just love it when they're nigh immortal, it keeps things interesting. [Dante punctuated with a wink and a light-hearted grin, it was very possible that the gravity of the situation hadn't settled in yet or he was just that damned cocky.] So we know he's responsible for the rifts that brought me here from Limbo...but aside from having an army moving around, no one knows where his lair of doom is?

[Pressing the rim of the wine bottle to his bottom lip Dante looks thoughtful for a moment]

That makes it complicated...I'm not the hurry up and wait sort.

Wake

[gatheringstorm]

[The Tevinter mage is known enough to Korrin in that she's heard of his involvement in Redcliffe, and remembers him vaguely from that last horrible night in Haven. That and she's seen him around the tavern and library when in the area. However, she's usually been on her own assignments, nothing involving the Herald, so her involvement with him has been peripheral at best. That has to change.

Korrin, well on her way to abandoning sobriety as well, raises her flagon in tribute to that impromptu eulogy. She doesn't feel right giving one herself, not when she didn't know the Herald on a personal level. However, that doesn't mean she can't appreciate the words of others, especially one known to be a companion of hers.

When he's done, the Vashoth mage plops down on a nearby seat, giving the Tevinter mage space but still close enough to be heard.]

I'm in need of a refill. What more of that wine, or something different? I'm buying, no arguments.

[liberalum]

[ Dorian's gaze tracks the Qunari in her approach and sitting down -- not suspicious, not of her, so much as waiting to see what this conversation might bring about, neutral to good or ill. What does does settle on isn't all the way expected, evident in the way the corner of his mouth twinges up ever so, and he looks down at his mostly depleted drink.

He knocks back the rest in one neat swallow. ]

I'll take an ale, then. I'm not sure what sours this wine so -- if it's a characteristic of southern vintage, or the occasion.

[gatheringstorm]

Could be both. Besides, wine is to be savored, isn't it? This isn't a night to savor anything but an escape from sobriety.

[If she's feeling it that badly, Korrin would bet that Dorian has it even worse. And he deserves to be hammered, so she'll help him in that quest. It's the least she can do. It doesn't take her more than a moment to retrieve the ale, probably because the bartender doesn't want a huge, horned not-sober woman to become impatient. She sits back down, sliding one of the mugs forward.]

To absent friends, hm?

[liberalum]

[ A light laugh follows Korrin on her way to retrieve the ale -- it isn't even an evil magister laugh, nor does it ring discordant against an air of mourning. It's the kind that appreciates the excuse, and one does not all the time get encouraged into the warmth depths of intoxication by a helpful Qunari woman.

Dorian takes up a mug with a nod of thanks, raising it accordingly. ] And the ones still yet clinging to this mortal coil, [ is another reason to drink, and so he does, a deep pull of the brew.

Fereldan beer is pretty good, really. He'll never admit to it where a Fereldan can hear him. ]

[gatheringstorm]

[Korrin nods and raises her drink to that before taking a long sip.]

It's not bad, though I prefer Free Marcher brews. I'm afraid the local magister might have ruined me with her spoils from home, though. Probably won't find anything of that like here, which is the true tragedy.

[She can't possibly impose on Maevaris all the time, though given her tone, it's bound to happen again. It can't be helped, not when faced with that amount of charm.]