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

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."

[slipshot]

Gavin had happily settled in beside him, if silently. He feigned surprise that he had bruises at all, but turned his head so that Zevran could see the angry red mark beneath his eye. It would be purple in the morning.

"I think they've gone on to lashing out at everyone, to be honest," he admitted with a small, wry smile that did not reach his eyes. "You should see the other guy."

The other guy - well, guys - that he had not even tried to punch. They were probably all fine. At least until they picked a fight with someone who would hit back.

"I'm fine, don't worry."

[ombranera]

"This is me being practical, not worrying. Zevran never worries. Tonight it is fists, tomorrow? Knives. The temper and impulsive violence of humans isn't something you should ever underestimate, Gavin." The only people he'd met that were more so were dwarven berzerkers, and then? only by a hair. Without so much as asking Zevran pulled a small jaw of balm from his belt and began to apply it in smooth, even strokes of his thumb across Gavin's skin.

"Also: Ducking. Ducking is a good tactic when faced with a fist."

[arlathvhen]

There's an anger in her heart at even the idea of her friend getting hurt, and it's hard to control that, with the air already thick with it. It was hard to not butt in, return violence with violence, show them that there's a reason you leave the Dalish alone, because they are never truly alone, and they look out for each other. But she's not stupid enough to think that would help. She keeps an eye on the people who did this, memorizes their faces. Justice isn't always violence to meet violence.

Sometimes it's sprinkling certain plants into a bedroll, or maybe a spider. She's met a few while cleaning...

But that will have to wait until later. For now, she keeps an eye on him, and the next time he butts in, and a human scowls instead of laughs, Beleth darts over. The quick reflexes of a woman raised to be a rogue from youth show themselves as she grabs Gavin's collar and yanks, unceremoniously dragging him out of the path of the fist. She then turns to the human, all apologies and those big doe eyes being batted and a few 'sers' and some groveling later, she's pulling Gavin away, still clutching his collar.

"You're going to get yourself killed. What am I going to do, then? What will I write the Keeper? How am I possibly supposed to explain to her that you died because you kept messing with these fucking quicks." The last part was hissed to him, contempt in her voice.

[slipshot]

He smiled at her as if nothing at all had happened, even as she dragged him forcibly away.

"I would think it would be easy," he replied, and then tried to take a somber tone: "I'm sorry, Keeper, but he died doing what he does best."

Being an idiot. At least he felt like one, for once, tonight.

[arlathvhen]

She huffed at him, puffing out her cheeks. Because pouting like a five year old is a reasonable reaction for any adult. After she got him into a more private corner, she plopped in a chair, though she leaned to him to keep up their conversation in hushed whispers.

"You think she would buy that? She won't. I will receive a book on how I failed the entire clan, and you know what? I'm going to take it, and I'm going to read the entire thing at your grave, so you can suffer with me. Is that what you want, Gavin? Trying to walk with Falon'Din and you have to listen to me reciting a novel about why the Keeper is disappointed in me. Because of you. I'll do it."

At the least, her little rant seemed to calm her down, enough that she stopped resembling an agitated bird with ruffled feathers. She gave a little sigh, then reached over to let her fingers brush against the red mark on Gavin's face that she hadn't been able to save him from. That was going to bruise. "I'll get you something for that, okay? Just--stop bothering them. They're like dogs when there's a storm brewing. On edge, ready to bite at anything."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell knew the words. He could recall and recite them with nary a thought; of course he could. He was a Trevean. His family was nearly as synonymous with the Chantry as candles and chants.

But it was different this time. He felt it, more, in that service than he had since... well, perhaps ever really. (There had been gusto in his youth, but that was more a child's desire to please, than because he'd understand what was going on.) For the first time, he really, truly hoped there was more to the the words than just that.

If anyone deserved that promised peace, the warmth and comfort of the Maker's side, it was that woman, lying silent and still before them.

As the flames caught and the Herald's form disappeared behind the red-gold curtain, he turned and slipped away, wanting.... he wasn't even entirely sure. A drink didn't offer the numbing comfort he'd hoped it would, especially when the shouting started.

Trevelyan's ashes weren't even cold and they were forgetting everything she'd stood for.

Telling a muttering templar beside him to stop drinking, he pushed away from the bar and headed back out into the dark. The moon felt familiar, low and heavy, and he stood there, uncertain, until he spotted a figure just below, slim and dark on the battlements.

Quietly, he headed up.

[slipshot]

He'd retreated after being punched the third time. He might be an idiot, but he didn't have a death wish, and he knew his friends would need him before the night was through.

For the moment, however, he actually took a breath for himself, staring up at the huge, glowing moon, watching it silently. He wasn't thinking. In fact, he was doing all he possibly could do to not think, to just lose himself in that moonlight. To let his mild clear and his heart settle, so that when he went back down those stairs, to the kitchens, and then off to find his friends, he could smile and the smiles would be honest.

He wasn't expecting one of them to find him.

He was so lost in his own reverie that he nearly jumped out of his skin when Maxwell approached, turning quickly, only to instantly relax upon seeing who it was.

"Oh, Maxwell." A smile that was half honest and half forced. Happy to see him, embarrassed to be found. "Sorry. I was - I was somewhere else." A strained laugh, before he motioned for the man to come up and stand beside him.

[dreadinquisitor]

Gavin had known her, Maxwell remembered. Perhaps not personally, but more certainly than many present. That the elf's presence was a comfort to him was secondary to his concern for his friend.

Or, at least, he hoped it was.

"Most of us are, I think--" he began, offering a small, sad smile, but he broke off when Gavin turned in the moonlight and the darkening bruises came into few. His smile curved into a frown, and his brow turned downward, veeing over his nose. "What happened?"

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin is well on her way to abandoning sobriety, stretched out in a corner with her feet propped up on a chair and glaring daggers at the Templar who delivered his mood-wrecking eulogy. Any Templars who seem to agree with him will get that look as well, though she won't go so far as to start a brawl over it. Well, not unless explicitly provoked.

Her terrible mood is alleviated somewhat when she spots Gavin, managing a faint smile and raising her glass for him. "Tell you what, I'll take one of those if you sit still long enough for me to have a look at what they did to you. Those have to hurt." She has some potions on her, doesn't she? Wait...no, it's with her gear, since she didn't think to have them on her now. Damn.

[slipshot]

He's holding the cookie out, debating on retracting the gift (unthinkable) and letting her see his battle wounds (terrifying) but ultimately decided that at least if she decided to punch someone about it, it wouldn't be him, and that was good, but still:

"You promise you're not going to go punch someone if I do?" he asked, stepping over and then just sitting on the table right in front of her, like a good first grader might. "I'm fine. I've had worse."

[gatheringstorm]

That question has Korrin rolling her eyes. "No. If someone's asking for it, then that's on them, not me. Though I can give them a running start." That's about as generous as she cares to be to anyone who would dare to harm anyone she likes.

She straightens up to have a better look at him, frowning sharply as she notes the bruising. "What the hell happened, Gavin? Aside from people blaming each other, I get that. But if people are being disrespectful asses, I'm not just going to let it continue."

[serannas]

Ellana sat on her bed roll, knees drawn up to her chest and staring at the stars. Tonight was the first night since coming here that she really felt afraid of what humans would do to her. She knew it could happen, but they were all so focused on rebuilding that she'd hoped prejudice could be set aside. Not when it came to remembering the Herald. If anything, she's equally upset that slurs and stereotypes were flung at her during the wake for the Herald. It should have been about remembering her, not about blaming others. She's sure a woman such as the Herald never would have blamed anyone for her end.

When Gavin appeared, she forced a smile, but it faded again as she saw his face.

"Oh no, Gavin. You too?"

[slipshot]

He'd come looking for her when he didn't see her, with an apple (he'd run out of cookies) and sat down next to her as he offered it to her.

"What this? Oh, no, no, I was just doing a little - ah - facial redocrating." He offered her a grin, which then faded. "Wait - what do you mean, 'you too'? Did something happen?"

[serannas]

Taking the apple, Ellana sighed, wishing she knew any healing spells to help him. But she didn't. Maybe someone else could help, if he wouldn't brush it off as nothing.

"In the tavern. After that Templar was dragged out, I tried to leave and-- and they accused me of blood magic." She rotated the apple in her hands, eyes lowered. "They have no respect for the Herald. This is the time for putting aside differences, not shouting at each other." Her eyes searched Gavin's face. "Not hitting each other."

[nofury]

Some Templars found mages throwing punches entertaining. The stereotype of a mage was a skinny bookworm, reliant on magic thanks to a lack of physical strength. This fault, invariably, making them open to corruption. Weakness in the body was weakness in the mind, etc.

Those Templars hadn't spent most of their lives tracking down apostates who had learned how hitting hard and fast with a staff or fist was a better way to avoid attention than setting every frightened peasant on fire. So when Maria sees a mage sucker punch an elf, she isn't entertained. The whole night, in fact, had been less than entertaining. Starting with he funeral of the woman they were supposed to be mourning.

So while the mage and templar war was apparently still going strong in the tavern, she had no interest in joining in other than to step in and allow her leather tunic (no plate mail at a wake, just poor manors) to take the second punch meant for the staggered boy.

"That's enough."

[slipshot]

It had been, all things considered, a very good punch. He hadn't even seen it coming - as he was trying to talk down a completely different mage at the time - and he had crashed fairly hard into the nearby table, making all the dishes shake before he drew himself up, rubbing his jaw before he looked up and saw the woman standing between him and his assailant, who -

Obviously had been attempting to continue his attack. Wonderful.

The Mage in question was now scowling at the newly appeared templar.

"This has nothing to do with you, Templar. Uppity knife ear needs to be taught a lesson he'll remember."

"My memory is like a sieve, you really shouldn't bother, it won't take," Gavin said wryly - which of course was a complete lie but that really wasn't the point of saying it.

[nofury]

"Of all the-"

Of all the damned things. Would the world be able to survive if every group didn't have someone to condescend to? Human mages were fairly low in the social hierarchy, but, ho! At least they had the elves to look down upon. She could only sigh and take a step back from the (she prayed drunken, that would be some excuse) mage, hoping the elf behind her would move along with her.

"The room's too small for casting. Let's call it a draw and we can pick it up in the morning, hm? My friend and I-" and with that she took another step away, while nodding towards the elf- "Have other plans for the night."

Please, Maker, don't make her punch a mage. Not in the middle of all this. It really will not help her plans for peace.

doop doop, coming to visit the mage

[cameasarat]

Peter hadn't attended the funeral. Or the wake. That was probably a bad thing. He hadn't gone and that probably labeled him a traitor among some. But, in truth, it wasn't anything so heinous. He was simply a coward. Peter didn't want to face the death of their symbol of hope and so he just...hadn't.

He'd spent the day in the basement library instead, rats running around at his feet and musty books in his hands to be organized. It was easier than taking care of plants or repairing the walls. Just figure out which books were still whole enough to be moved to the proper library, the one the Tevinter was more or less living in. Easy enough.

No room for dead heroes there.

a derp for a doop

[slipshot]

Peter was, all things considered, actually one of the easiest ones to find. The basement library was the first place he had planned to check, the next being where Peter's stationed quarters were. But he'd got it right in one.

He had a good hunk of cheese in his hand as he walked in, knocking on a bookcase to announce his presence with an accidental shower of dust.

"Hey, Peter. Thought you might need a snack."

:>

[cameasarat]

Peter looks up at the sound of his voice- and Gavin is covered in face bruises. Normally, when a battle had just happened or something exploded or some other demon related event had occurred, Peter wouldn't ask. But it had been a funeral, a funeral. So the cheese isn't noticed as Peter, without a single second given to a mental filter, blurts out-

"What happened to your face?"

[lacere]

After the latest punch-up, Harding is outside the front door of the tavern, arms crossed. Whilst she could be inside, and was up until recently, now it's become a case of making sure the drunken members of the Inquisition (who were very keen on sticking to their individual labels tonight) didn't return. Given the number of disturbances in the past half hour, it seemed moot - it would make more sense to get the peaceful ones out and barricade the doors to the tavern and leave them to it. But that, sadly, would cut numbers, infinitely increase paperwork, and she's Harding is still trying to make this night worthy of Evelyn Trevelyan. Somehow.

If they didn't want to get along, did they have to involve everyone else?

She's busy glaring down two ambling mages, one zig-zagging her way across the courtyard and the other hiccuping and having sparks fly from his fingers, much to the girl's amusement. It's clear they've forgotten the fact that half an hour ago he set a templar's cape on fire, and no way in Andraste's name is she letting them back in.

She turns as the tavern door opens, just enough to see who's coming out of it - more throw-outs, another scout, someone who's had enough - but sees Gavin, instead.

"You should really let one of the healers take a look at that," she says, stern, but also without much conviction. She's sure that's a new bruise since the last time she saw him.

[slipshot]

It was his third bruise of the night (on his face, at least) and he was rubbing at it thoughtfully as he staggered out of the tavern. He was getting tired of it, and though he didn't let it show on his face as much as he could have, there was a certain stiffness to his general gait and a difficulty to the smile that he had plastered on his face most of the time. When he turned his gaze up at the voice and saw Harding, however, the smile became much less difficult, and much more warm, and he trudged over toward her.

"Half the healers are in the tavern, and some of them are the cause of some of the wounds being dealt out tonight," He mused wryly. "Though I didn't see Bruce, so I'll go find him later. You look pretty hale, though I have to imagine there are more than a few that have felt your wrath, tonight."

[lacere]

"If you don't, I'll drag you to him," she says, lowering her arms for his benefit to show that she won't do that - probably - but not too much, in case courtyard lurkers get ideas about re-entry.

"I'm surprised at how capable they've all been in a physical fight," she muses in return. Some of them have really let whomever was causing trouble have it, but when you would be the one to patch them up later, perhaps that wasn't such a bad plan. As much as she'd prefer a hundred percent cut in fighting altogether. "It's infuriating. I didn't want it to come to this, but if we actually want a force this time tomorrow, something has to be done. After all that ceremony and circumstance for the nobles about how we're strong, about how the Herald united two warring factions, and now what? We're the ones that survived Haven, and this is what we do? Divide ourselves?"

She seems angry, though for Harding, that anger is soft, something much more menacing by the fact it's still under the surface. But she cares so much, it's a near insult that co-operation and co-existance has taken a backstep. She's glad for the defense, for the fact some aren't standing for it, but if it weren't happening in the first place...

Harding exhales. "Sorry, Gavin. You shouldn't have to listen to me rant. Not when you've already taken several blows for innocents."

She's small enough to be in the right place at the right time to cause an obstruction and have someone fall, to get in and get out and probably not be threatened with a punch in the first place due to her reputation. Not all are so lucky.