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.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"...that was a salve. Why would you-" Gavin. Gavin No. Gavin why? "Poultices are not for drinking, salves are not for eating. And I thought I would only ever have to tell Alistair that."

There'd been a concussion involved but still- the point remained.

"Normal people don't brood silently. They group up, find someone to blame, then kill them. Or pay someone else to kill them."

"I was just checking." Some medicines were edible, right? Some of them. He was sure. Maybe he just had a hard time letting anything be on him if he didn't know what it was. But the salve certainly tasted medicine-y...

Okay, maybe he was just curious.

"Isn't that what started this whole mess in the first place?" Gavin asked, rhetorically, with a sigh, before he hefted himself up onto the battlement and pulled out a cookie for himself. "You'd think the 'someone to blame' would be pretty obvious. We all saw that - dragon, archdemon, whatever it was. Why hit each other?"

But it really wasn't the point. He'd come to check on Zevran, not wax philosophical about human's murdering tendencies.

"You haven't been punched, I hope?" That was way easier, and way less scary, to ask than to actually ask how Zevran was doing generally.

"A word from the wise- if the salve, or poultice, or any particular substance comes from an assassin? Do not put it in your mouth." How had he survived this long? Luck. The fortune of the foolish, surely.

"A dragon, an arch demon, the rift- these things are large and strange and terrifying. They are the concerns of heroes, not of your average man, what they want is something they can put their fist to in order to say they did something. Be it mages, someone of tevinter, or an elf attempting to keep the peace. It simplifies things." It did not make it right- merely more simple. Manageable. The grander the scale a thing is? The deeper the fury.

The more violent the blood.

Zevran nibbled on his cookie carefully before crackling a laugh. "Ah, no. Word has gotten round that I am that Zevran and buying drinks for the past few weeks of those that seemed in need of them has endeared me to even the most righteously furious ass in the hold."

Fool's luck. Definitely.

It simplifies things. Gavin wasn't sure that it did, but maybe Zevran was right. He could talk about heroes, after all. He was one.

He knew better than Gavin did.

Zevran's final reply brought a sincere smile to Gavin's lips. "Good. Obviously now what I need to do is make sure that all of my friends are heroes, and then maybe people will stop punching them." It was said with humour, but not entirely in jest - it actually wasn't that bad of a plan.

Besides, of course, the fact that Gavin had absolutely no way of making people into heroes. Well. Except telling elaborate stories about them. No way that could go wrong, right?

"Saucy Assassin Sidekick. Not a hero." He stabbed things and failed to die- while the cause was worthy and the intent noble? He himself was not. It was a life debt that needed to be paid and a scrap of freedom after he'd chased with everything in him. Being called 'hero' felt much like a death sentence.

Especially with what happened with the Herald.

"Heroes always die, Gavin. Sooner or later. I had thought, perhaps, to be proven wrong with Jonas- but the Blight was but a single war in a single country. It was the overture. This? This is the real tale. I'll not be a hero in it for all the gold in Antiva." The larger a story, the higher the stakes- the further to fall. The bloodier the failure.

No thank you.

"Avoid the humans until they settle. Give them a day or two to grieve, get it out of their systems. Either they'll kill each other and we'll have fewer mouths to feed or they'll get over it and we can move forward."

He couldn't actually disagree with Zevran's point. The Herald had been an actual hero, a real one. More than anyone he'd ever seen. And she was dead, and the rest of them were - well. The rest of them were throwing fights over her corpse, apparently.

"Not a hero, then," He agreed, putting his hands up to concede the point. "Though you can't tell me that people don't think you are one. The People certainly do." The Elves would take anything they could get, really.

"I think in the long run, them not killing each other will probably be better for the whole. Saving the World. Thing." He made a gesture with his hands that could either have been a bird flying off, or a spider being swept up into the sky, but certainly didn't resemble whatever a hand gesture for saving the world should be.

"The People think me a flat ear and a waste of their time. Your clan has, oddly enough, proved to be the exception." Live as the Dalish lived and you were an elf. Live in any way that deviated? And you were a waste. Not too terribly different from the humans they so hated. Strange the points of commonality one can find when no one wants you for whatever reason.

"Oh, I don't know. Unless the go about stabbing people not involved in the squabbling, it's only the most foolish and the gullible that will die. I think the Inquisition would manage just fine with less of them." It's- a gesture. one Zevran can roughly grasp the meaning of

"Well, let's be honest, I can only speak for myself, really, and should probably stick to doing just that. But as I would rather you not die, sassy assassin side-kick it is." He offered Zevran a warm grin, and then laughed at the rest.

"Creators, then I'm in trouble. Hopefully they won't be rounding up the fools and I can slip out before they make a clean sweep of it."

"The sassy side kick never dies- unless they're the comic relief. It's why I try not to be too funny." With varying results. He pulled himself up onto the battlement with Gavin, leaning to knock their shoulders together. The faith and consideration he was shown was...strange. And not at all something he knew how to handle now they were past the 'rolling in hay' stage.

"Hide in the stable till it passes. You will be safe there."

"Try not to be too funny," Gavin repeated, as if he were taking notes, knocking Zevran's shoulder back companionably. "There seem to be a lot of rules to this whole not-being-a-hero-and-yet-still-not-dying thing."

He chewed his cookie thoughtfully, less worried about Zevran's state of mind but still not entirely convinced, and too - well, chicken - to actually ask directly. So he tried to think of something else instead.

"You mentioned Alistair, earlier - I heard a rumour he's here too?"

"It is a delicate balance I walk every day, but I manage." Lighter and easier, that. The only true threat to him at the moment was the Crows- and they have not shown their hand for anything just yet. Given time they'd take an interest, but for now? nothing.

Talk of heroes and the herald and humans lashing out had not bothered him, but it was the question of Alistair that gave Zevran pause. His smile did not waver as, well. Gavin was asking after another of his heroes. What is not to tell?

"He arrived not long ago with a small company of wardens, yes."

"Oh! Wardens!" Honest surprise crossed his face then. "I guess they came because of the - you know - maybe-an-arch-demon. I've met a few, you know, but they're usually a pretty grim, solitary bunch." Which suited him just fine, but also meant that they rarely had time for an idiot who tried eating the salve off his face. Though considering that had been exactly what Zevran had drawn the connection between Gavin and Alistair for, maybe they would get along better.

"Wardens, I mean. Not Arch Demons. Well I met a dragon, once, but it was definitely not a demon, or particularly happy with me, but I really wanted to know what dragon egg tasted like --" He cut off with a sheepish grin. "Also not for eating, I can tell you, but for other reasons. Anyway. Hopefully they have some better idea of what is going on. Still, must be nice to see old friends?"

"...You met a dragon because you wished to eat it's eggs." Gavin- every moment that he continued to speak and more absurd things came out, the more Zevran wondered if this was not some manner of elaborate prank. Surely this was not possible. That Gavin could be how he was, yet alive, and wholly sincere in his strange asides.

It wasn't possible.

"Blighted dragon. It is not an arch demon as far as they know. As Alistair met one face to face I would take his word for it." Ah yes, the old band back together again. Hurrah. Well- parts of it back together. "We send each other letters on occasion- but it is good to see him again. I think he's gotten taller."

"Or maybe it just didn't like my singing voice," Gavin relented, with a grin, his eyes twinkling slightly.

"Right. Blighted dragon." He paused there, frowning. "... Can they do that?" he asked, with what appeared to be complete sincerity. "Humans, I mean? I thought once they grew up they stopped - well - growing up." The flicker in his expression was the only evidence that he was teasing.

"At least you can send letters. I've tried. I send notes home sometimes, but ah... they tend to be closer to completely unreadable scribbles than anything else."

"...you are a very strange elf, Gavin." He patted him on the shoulder, leaving his arm draped around them afterward. Strange and amusing and quite likely gullible. He'd have to keep that in mind for the future. It could be useful- or get the boy killed and him blamed for it. That'd be terrible.

"Alistair never truly 'grew up' in the way most men at war might and for that? I am quite grateful. Otherwise the Wardens would be thoroughly depressing at all times. It does not do to have so grim an order when you need to save the world." A beat. "Can you not write?"

"I hope that's a good thing," Gavin said with a grin at him, happily taking the draped shoulder as he kicked his feet idly on the stone.

"Well, sounds like someone I should like to meet, then," he decided, but then had the decency to look embarrassed at the last question.

"Ah - well. A little. Sort of. Easy things. But I get the uh.. I get the runes mixed up, you know. Apparently sometimes I draw them backwards, or upside down. At least writing I can get my point across. Reading is worse."

"Well you are not the strangest I have met. But- plenty strange in your own charming way." Terribly charming on occasion, even if he did not quite understand how it was he was charmed.

Such things were beyond explaining. He did not wish to worry about it overmuch.

"I think he would like you quite a bit." They could be oddly charming together. "I do not suppose the Dalish have much cause for learning letters- most of your lore is spoken, yes?"

"Hello, Mister Warden Alistair Ser, but Zevran said we could be friends so would you like a flask," Gavin said, making fun of himself a bit, but, seriously he'd probably do that. Whatever he is, subtle isn't it.

He shook his head. "It's all oral lore. Not that I'm much better at that. Most of the others can read and write, though. Our clan has always been pretty open to trading with humans, and when you do that, you need to be able to write agreements down. Humans don't usually respect oral agreements."

"Cheese. Offer him cheese and compliment him on his hair? And you will have him eating out of the palm of your hand." Not quite literally, that depended on how drunk Alistair might be. If he drank at all. Then again, the warden had more cause than most to wish for a drink.

"Mostly because they do not remember them all that well." He shrugs. "Normally Elves that live in an Alienage are not worth teaching, but the Crows needed us to be able to snoop about in case anything was written down and of value."

Gavin chuckled and nodded. "Cheese and hair. I think I can remember that."

"Or don't care to remember them all that well," Gavin said wryly. "The Crows..." Gavin frowned. Something pinged at him, but it took a moment to sort through his memory- "Ah! Yes. That's how you met the Warden, right? Right, I remember them now. Is that why they took you, then? So that you could snoop through people's letters?" Okay that might have been teasing a bit. "Are you sure it wasn't to seduce the pants off of people? Because if not, they've missed an opportunity there."

"Sold, Gavin. I was sold to the Crows for three sovereigns." Nonchalant as anything. Such a detail as that was hard to forget. Of course he was probably worth far more now with his skills and notoriety but by how much? It wasn't as though he calculated that often or not, no Ser. "They taught those of us that lived long enough to be worth teaching. And- I actually was trained and used for honytrap tactics. It was my greatest skill, or so I was told."

Him rather than Rinna for the risk of pregnancy, rather than Taliesin for elves tended to be so much more exotic and lovely than humans.

"Ah." Sold. Right. He had the decency to look sheepish at that. Slavery was something he was aware of, but tended to forget actually existed, and something that hadn't exactly been harped upon in the stories told by his clan, apparently.

"Well, I can't argue with their assessment, though the whole 'lived long enough to be worth teaching' is highly disconcerting."

"You did well in training or you died trying." He shrugged- distant enough from the whole deal to not think too much of it. It was what it was, he survived, he was free- why make a fuss? "If I am to assist in the training of rogues for the Inquisition I shall have to make certain my standards aren't so lethal."

"You're going to be assisting?" Gavin asked, putting aside the question of lethality for now - though it was certainly curious, it also wasn't a subject he really wanted to dwell on, this particular night. He could unpack it later.

"Are you going to be teaching 'honeypot' techniques? Because I think I would fail that and just about every other class," He teased with a grin.

"If it is required. The more I see of the rogues here and the more I consider what it is we are up against? The easier it is to convince myself such a thing may need to be." But. Responsibility. Not his first choice. But if it needed to be done, he would see it done and drink the stress out afterward.

"Ah- that is a little advanced for most sorts, my friend. Trap building, disarming, proper tactics, group tactics, maneuverability, ambushes, poisons and venom, this is what I would teach. I do not think the Inquisition will have need of honey traps."

And as we wind on down the road

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