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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[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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.

[ Cassandra isn't alone; she's backed up by 7 feet of solid wall carrying an axe that probably weighs about as much as one of the mages. He's not swinging it -- not yet. It's just strapped to his back, but the intent is clear all the same. He will use it if he has to. There are a couple of his men in there, good mages and not particularly bad people. The Templars might have a job to do, but this is not how you do it. He reaches out with a meaty hand, shoving Templars aside, kicking one swiftly in the ass when he doesn't run away fast enough. ]

Listen to the nice lady, before she becomes not so nice.

[ Somewhere in between Dorian getting tackled to the ground -- worth it!! -- and the satisfying sound of a Qunari boot slamming into the backside of one of his aggressors, Dorian has rolled into a sit on dirty cobblestone with the reluctance of a man who's taken a few kicks while he's down. A trickle of crimson escapes from his hairline at the back of his neck, staining his collar. He still has the presence of mind to look more inconvenienced than injured.

The last of the paralytic spell, rendered purged, is little more than a fading light trick on the ground. Dorian looks from the hulking shadow that is Bull, over to where Cassandra is terrorising two men, one in each hand, and barks a coarse laugh.

Funny joke.

Two of the mages recognise what's what, the girl grabbing the hand of her friend and dragging him in her wake, hightailing it before anyone can ask questions like 'who started it'. The mage in Cassandra's grip gets in a last open palmed slap at the Templar, who surges in resistance against the Seeker's arm. Still. The ranks are falling. The one Templar who'd wanted to book it early surges in to help drag that one off Cassandra, apologising at a slur, growling in the ear of his companion to let up, and the last Problem Templar spits on the ground near Adelaide's feet, and takes off after his friends. ]

I was one staircase away from making it out of this evening unsullied, [ Dorian announces, to no one in particular. His voice is husky from drinking, and he slowly gets to his feet, being very careful about it. ]

Edited 2015-10-28 08:06 (UTC)

[ A spell shattered, mages more drunk than sober, a tackled Tevinter and a black eye. Explaining this come morning is going to be fun. Explaining it now? Difficult until she manages to remember where and when now is, exactly. The Seeker and The Iron Bull disperse the crowd well enough, had she any true grip on her composure Adelaide might have fled with them. As it stands she clings to her staff and attempts to catch her breath, hand pressed to the blooming bruise on her eye.

Maker, what a night. But no blood, not of hers. Not of the mages. No swords. It's something- not much, but it's something.

It's Dorian's voice that jars her from the no longer quite so white halls to the present. The barest prodding from Compassion that bids her make certain he, at least, is well. Even if he'd thrown the punch that made things worse after trying to make it better- she can't fault him. It was ill said of whoever that particular ass might have been. ]

Your head.

[ Despite herself her voice wavers. She clears her throat, extends a hand that yet trembles, and tries again. ]

Let me see?

[ Cassandra and the Bull get the closest thing to a respectful dip of her head that she can manage. Anything else is going to have to come after she's buried her own panicked reaction under tending to Dorian. Or. Never. Never is preferable. ]

Shut up, Dorian.

[ There's a good chance that this isn't his fault, and it isn't even really a comment that deserves shushing, but Cassandra is irritated and his is the only name she knows and voice she recognizes. The whole thing is a disgrace to the Inquisition's reputation and the Herald's memory and if she were a vengeful woman maybe she'd haul them all off to the stocks or at least a cell to make them think about what they've done.

But she just releases the collar of the slapping mage and grabs his ear instead as the Templar is held back by his compatriot. ]

All of you, shut up. I don't want to hear another word of this stupidity. The Herald thought you all worthy of being our allies and this is how you repay her? If I hear anymore of this you will no longer be welcome in Skyhold.

[ She gives the one whose ear she has a shove, upright and away from the departing templars. She moves to stand beside Iron Bull, who has been unusually helpful. She makes a mental note to thank him later, and to find out who was who in the scuffley center of things. For now she looks to Adelaide tending to the Tevinter. ]

Is it serious?

[ The Bull snorts at Cassandra's words, implicitly agreeing with her without outright saying it. He's broken up many bar brawls in his time, but at a funeral? Come on. Y'all need the Qun, for real. He watches the Templars and mages slink off, making the barest of steps towards a templar that looks like he's not going to disperse. She does, after that, and Bull resumes his position next to Cassandra, a silent enforcer that she doesn't really need, but probably helps all the same.

His gaze follows her to the 'vint and the healer, and he raises his eyebrows, nodding. ] Doubtful. The templars weren't aiming to kill, yet, just to bully. Any more of that pretty mouth of his, though, and he'd have been in real trouble.

[ He grins at the Seeker. ] Can I just say that was totally hot?

[ Cassandra is irritated and his is the only name he knows and the only voice she recognises; this is an equation that is easy to put together, words rolling by as he inspects his palms and dusts them off of courtyard grit and tries not to imagine how much filth is tracked across these floors on a regular basis. With the fight scattering and scattered, Dorian collects himself, looking to Adelaide as she approaches.

She seems worse off than he is, even if she isn't bleeding, but he's too tired to do much with the little curl of guilt twinging in his heart place.

Before he can answer on the encroaching, and for once largely unwanted attention on his person, Dorian snaps a look to Bull that is oddly frosty, not even taking the time to roll his eyes as he might have done otherwise. He just smiles, white incisors in the gloom, but it's a touch crooked, and a little harsh. He quests back with his fingers, feeling over that sore spot hidden in his hair, his brow pinching in annoyance. The scarlet smeared on his fingers is fresh and warm, and expected -- head wounds bleed worse than they are. ]

Quite true -- nothing a little salve won't mend. The double vision is most certainly the wine.

[ He's probably joking. ]

Thank you for your timely intervention, Cassandra. You're nothing if not punctual, I've always said.

I am fairly certain it was not his mouth that started this mess.

[ Pretty or otherwise. Not that she pays much mind to pretty mouths or pretty anything- the wound however? That has her attention. A bruise, some blood? Nothing that would have her worried. The mention of double vision, jest or otherwise, helps her scrape enough composure together to scowl at his flippancy. That will not do at all. ]

The double vision is cause for concern. Let me see. If it is nothing I shall leave you be.

[ No more wavering, though she's certainly not relaxed. Not with a templar- a seeker right there and a massive Qunari besides but- they had broken it up and seem no more interested in continued trouble than either she or Dorian. It is not much of a comfort- but it is something of one. ]

[ Bull's presence is welcome; it's true that she does not need the assistance, but had things gotten more out of control a pair of massive helping hands would certainly have been useful. And it is nice to know he is willing to assist in preventing mayhem, not only in starting it. Still. She rolls her eyes at his remark and gives her head an incredulous shake. ]

Only because I know that you will say something worse otherwise.

[ He's ridiculous, but she kind of enjoys it. Just don't tell anyone. Like Dorian, for instance, at whom she also rolls her eyes. She turns a look from him to Adele and back, questioning. ]

The Iron Bull is right, that was about to get truly out of hand. How did it begin, if not with your mouth?

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And as we wind on down the road

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