faderift | And as we wind on down the road

And as we wind on down the road

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: The Herald of Andraste is laid to rest, and the remains of the Inquisition try to put on a good face for their visitors. Some of them try, anyway.
WHEN: Harvestmere 26
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: n/a

The day after the mysterious strangers from the rift arrive, the Herald's body is delivered back to Skyhold. At first, there is doubt-- the timing is convenient, finally found the very day the funeral is to take place, and many still cling to hope that the Herald has somehow survived. Most, but not all, are appeased by news that the Inquisition's chief advisers have all confirmed the identity of the deceased. Preparations are accelerated: what was once to be a symbolic memorial now requires actual rites, and while some prepare the body others break down whatever can be spared for the pyre, constructed in the center of the main courtyard by another crew.

The funeral itself is a somber affair, as funerals generally are. The Great Hall has been cleared and swept but little else-- all attendees stand, and they are lucky it is a clear day, since the late afternoon sun streams in through the gaping holes in the roof. The service proceeds along strictly traditional Andrastian lines, stately and stiff. Mother Giselle provides the service and the sermon, focusing on duty, sacrifice, and the Maker's plan and concluded with a recitation of Transfigurations 10:1 by the whole assemblage. It is all very predictable, but sincerely delivered. Cassandra and Cullen lead the honor guard. It is a mismatched collection of visiting dignitaries, suspicious observers, pilgrims, colleagues, and companions that slowly process up to pay their silent respects as Evelyn Trevelyan lies in state. Some may notice that the body has been carefully arranged to disguise the fact that her left hand is gone. As night falls they light candles and then the pyre, and as the flames catch and lick up toward the star-washed sky, Mother Giselle sings a haunting version of the Chantry hymn The Dawn Will Come.

The wake that follows is less staid. It seems as if every table and chair in the castle has been dragged into The Herald's Rest and the courtyards and every hidden store of fine wine and food has been dug out from Josephine's secret stores to impress the more exalted visitors. This isn't just a funeral, after all, but a political occasion, an opportunity to demonstrate that the Inquisition lives on beyond the loss of its first symbolic leader, and that it can still be a force for peace and unity.

That impression is dented as the night wears on, and opinions and stories get shared more and more loudly. Someone hops up on a table to give their own little eulogy and others follow suit. Of course eventually it turns sour-- a templar gets up and starts blaming the mages for killing the Herald just like they killed the Divine, and mages at the next table shout back. He's hauled down before things can escalate, but grumbling and dirty looks are unlikely to be the last of it.

The event carries on into the wee hours, and noise echoes around the stone walls loudly enough to make it difficult for any to sleep early. One team of Inquisition scouts and soldiers comes out of the barn to complain more than once, and eventually move their bedrolls down into a basement hall, growling about how they have to be up at the crack of dawn to head out on a mission to scout some Maker-forsaken bog of all the places. (Mire, one of them corrects.)

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"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."

"Poisons, I could use," He said, the humour dropping for a second. "I've never had a good hand with them, but being able to poison my arrows would definitely be a boon, that's easy enough to see. As for traps--" He flushed a little and then laughed, "Better not. I can manage a few simple ones, but I tend to - ah - get distracted, and forget where I put them...."

"Something else you and Alistair have in common. Finding traps. Sometimes before I could disarm them- and oh the whining and complaining. 'My ankle!, why Maker, my beautiful ankle?' or some other such strangeness. It all blurs together after awhile." He crackled a laugh. "Ah, but so long as you promise not to lick them to test them, yes. The Poisons."

He raised his right hand and held it over his heart. "I swear, I will not lick anything you give me unless you expressly ask me to, from now on," Gavin said, with a twinkle in his eye and a grin.

"...Please keep that promise. I do not need your whole clan coming upon me like the hand of an angry god should I fail to keep you alive." Merrick, Especially, might see him dead. Or at least try.

"I will," Gavin promised, smiling warmly. "Though on that note - I had better find them all, and make sure they're alright. If the shems are gunning for elves tonight, it's going to get worse before it gets better." He leaned over and placed a warm kiss to Zevran's temple, and a squeeze around his shoulders, before he started to stand up.

"Only if they don't know to keep their head down- so. If you find that Merrick fellow? Keep him away from the tavern. Otherwise there will be blood." Frustrations being what they are, that's the last thing they need.

Gavin got in return a quick squeeze about the waist and a pinch of the rear. To be playful.

"Ah - yes. Though I think you overestimate my abilities if you think I can keep him away from the tavern, but I'll do my best."

He stretched as he stepped onto the battlements, and then smiled. "Good night, Zevran. Sleep well, when you get some." And then he was gone.

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And as we wind on down the road

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