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

sabriel | (ota, any format you wish)

[paperwing]

FUNERAL

Sabriel wears her armor.

Armor cleaned and freshly polished, griffon insignia glinting in the flickering light of sun and candle alike. She did not know the woman that would be seen through final rites here, but Sabriel did know what she stood for - and what she stood for was for doing what was right, to fix the unfixable, and she had succeeded; The Herald of Andraste had given her life in order to seal the breach.

Courage and self-sacrifice. Noble. It is not unlike what Sabriel and the Wardens - should - stand for. And, as a Warden, she shows her respects, extends them on behalf of her Order, or what's there of it in Skyhold. But it is not just the Warden that attends, but the person underneath - from one woman to another, she respects what the Herald had set out to do, with as little chances as she had.

Sabriel is notably silent during the Chantry mother's sermon, and her mouth stays shut through each canticle spoken aloud. She knew them, knew them as any Circle mage would, but it is not hers, and not her belief, and never has been. There is more to death, and she knows it as any Nevarran would. Instead she thinks of the woman she never knew, of those left behind at Montsimmard, of those who have been brave and never returned for it, that whatever is left of Evelyn Trevelyan can find some peace - at the Maker's side, if that is what she desired.

Sabriel lingers as is proper for a Warden, exchanges words with those that approach her, and leaves as the smoke raises to the rafters, giving those most connected to the Herald their last moments alone to mourn.


WAKE

Not even the wake can lure Sabriel to a tavern. Instead, she stays clear of the bustle and the noise - there's a tension in the air, one that could be cut with a figurative knife, and if there's no confrontation before the evening is out, she would, sadly, be surprised.

It was so strange to her, templars and mages at odds, rather than a state of co-existence. The wary looks for being a Warden, she had been prepared for, and the same for her magic, and yet, she had not quite been so prepared for the look of scorn some templars gave her, the one who got away.

So much to fix that she wanted to but couldn't. It felt like a petulant mantra that wouldn't leave her alone.

Sabriel stays in the courtyard, watching shadows through the windows, thinking about everything and nothing all at once. The distant thrum of the wake gives her a clarity she hasn't had in days, good company instead of the mutterings of Old Gods. With the Herald rites performed, will the Wardens be helped, now? Can she really sit on Inquisition charity and do nothing for them in return, where its once leaders goal had been to be amicable, to help, to heal?

By the the time the scouts have arrived for the fifth time to ask (ask was a loose word, really) the celebration to quieten down, she's made her decision; she wants to help, any way that she can.


WILDCARD?
Or drag her to the tavern?

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin made a beeline for the tavern almost directly after the funeral and has been there ever since. The only time that changes is after that Templar's eulogy when she finally storms out rather than risk starting a brawl at a wake. As hotheaded as she can be, Korrin refuses to be that disrespectful.

Taking a moment to calm herself down, Korrin glances around and it isn't long before she notices Sabriel nearby. Striding over, she huffs and plops down by the Grey Warden. "Did I mention how much I hate Templars? Fucking asshole, blaming the Herald's death on mages, just like they scapegoated us for the Divine's...."

[paperwing]

Sabriel hears her before she sees her, only really expecting her arrival by virtue that several others have already stored past. It's disheartening that her suspicions proved to be true rather than false.

She watches in silence as Korrin drops down, and though she listens to the rant, there's... well, Sabriel doesn't quite squirm, but that frown deepens, her face and eyes sad and melancholy.

"Some of them hate mages so much; despise them. How does it become something like this? So opposite of what our relationship to one another should be?"

[gatheringstorm]

"They seem to think our relationship to them should be their punching bags, at least the louder ones in there. I thought they got over that saltiness after we sealed the Breach together, but nope. Now they need someone to blame, and we're the targets."

Korrin picks up a pebble and hurls it at nothing in particular, watching it disappear into the night.

[paperwing]

She hears the pebble hit something in the dark, but what is another matter. Something moves, but she doesn't care enough to find out, holding her arms around her knees.

"It was different at Perendale." It's not an excuse. It's not even a reason. Just a somber, humbling thought, that something she had always seen as just and fair had not been the same elsewhere and was presently far from it. She had thought the murmurings of rebellion strange, all that time ago, especially when templars came into the argument, but she was young, hardly older than a child, and probably naive. She had seen them as they should be and not as they were to most.

Sabriel sighs, shortly. "I'd speak to them, if I did not already know that would make no difference."

[gatheringstorm]

"No, it wouldn't. It doesn't matter how long you've been a Grey Warden or what your rank would be, they'd still see you as a mage, end of discussion. Maybe it won't turn into something truly ugly, but I don't feel confident in taking that for granted."

She sighs, then tilts her head as she glances up. "What was it like at Perendale, then?"

[paperwing]

"Different," she repeats, but that's not the last of it. It's hard to explain something she's known for much of her life, something that just is. "Perendale was a place of learning. They kept us safe, and they listened to us." Within reason. "It was a fair existence, a co-existence, but some would have seen it as not enough. They wanted complete freedom, even though Nevarra... Nevarran mages always had more than other Circles. The world fears magic, but we were not feared there."

[gatheringstorm]

"I think I would have liked to linger in Nevarra. Not as part of a Circle, but still. A little more respect would have been nice." Creepy necromancy aside, though Korrin doesn't want to disparage her childhood friend's homeland by saying so. "I just never understood the point of criminalizing people before they'd done anything. If they become abominations or resort to blood magic, sure, but just being a mage? Where's the fairness in that? They need mentors, absolutely, but there's a world of difference between that and punishing them for the rest of their lives."

[paperwing]

If she did, Sabriel wouldn't mind. She's far from in agreement about the whole necromancy thing, not that she'll run around saying so - in her father's day, it made more enemies than friends. But this isn't Nevarra, and is the Inquisition, and would likely gain her more allies, but...

There are so many opinions everywhere, and her focus has to be Wardens first. Even if the rights of mages is a close second. If she could do everything, she absolutely would.

"There should be a choice, I think. That choice should also be that of the mage - even if they are a child. But that stigma... how do we make that go away? It's so ingrained."

[gatheringstorm]

"Thanks to Tevinter, it is. That's the argument I hear every time, you know. 'If we give them rights, then we'll become the Imperium', like it's inevitable. Nevermind that the Tevene people here are actually decent folk, at least those I've met."

Krem. Dorian. That lovely magister Maevaris.

"Do the Grey Wardens treat you any different? Is it a more united order on that end, or do they side-eye you as well?"

[paperwing]

Sabriel sighs. She hasn't spoken to any of the Tevinters, here, but being Nevarran, she lacks any sense of prejudice. Besides... "Look at us all. We all think we know each other, without actually knowing." Not just the world of mages, but the world of everyone else. Not everyone can be like they say, can they? That would be impossible. And yet, the world goes on believing.

Sabriel considers. "Those that I came with don't." Maybe they feared magic, and maybe they didn't, but they treated her no different. She was Sabriel, the one that sighed often, reminded them that petty theft was not a good campfire past-time, and potential saviour of lost animals had they, well, not been on the run. She was also a mage, but that also meant lighting campfires when it shouldn't have been possible, so maybe that also went in her favour. "The Order itself... before we left, it depended on the person. We're supposed to leave who we were behind; who or what we were before does not matter. But it's not always that easy. Some feared mages. Some likely disagreed with the Commander on that principle."

Not those she came with, but others - Clarel was a mage, and some would begrudgingly dislike that. Magic was weird, and they feared it, even after spending their days striking down darkspawn and drinking their blood.

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin nods thoughtfully, not overly surprised at Sabriel's words but still wanting to hear her perspective. She's tired of assuming things without hearing them directly from those involved. 'Knowing each other, without actually knowing', indeed. The Vashoth can admit, at least privately, to being guilty of that at times.

"But it's not an issue gnawing at the core of the Order, it sounds like. That's good. I can't say I'd be interested in joining -can qunari even do that?- just to get better treatment, but at least the Grey Wardens can be something of a good example. If at least most of them can put aside such difference, then it shows there's hope for those outside the order, too."

[fayth]

Yuna had taken to wearing a cloak since her arrival, since it helped both to conceal her strange clothing choice and for added warmth. Pulling the large hood over her head as she made her way out of the tavern, she thought it might be best to get away once things had started to escalate. Being both a mage and an outsider, well... she didn't think she'd be far from blame either.

It seemed that most were still either drinking their sorrows away or trying to drown them out, which made for an easy and quiet get-away -- up until the point where she tripped over the hem of the too-long robe.

"Oof -- " she caught herself before falling face first, landing on her knees and hands instead. Hopefully no one had seen that...

[paperwing]

Unfortunately or not, someone had.

From her vantage point - and the raised voices inside - Sabriel would not be surprised if the person coming out the tavern had been pushed to the ground. She's already on her feet before she sees that the person - woman? - is alone, and walking up alongside her.

"Are you alright?"

The sword jostles against her hip as she bends forward, offering a hand to help pull the stranger to her feet again.

wake!

[byblow]

Alistair emerges from the tavern late--after tempers inside have already boiled over and been brought back down to a tolerable simmer--but unscathed. Their armor can't protect them from scorn or fear or untimely death, but it does usually keep people from trying to fight with them. Even the Antivan Crows were reluctant to harm Grey Wardens.

So: unscathed. And mostly sober. It's exhaustion more than liquor that makes him drop heavily onto the ground beside Sabriel when he spots her, although the half-full tankard in his hand makes it obvious it is a little bit both.

"I thought about threatening to conscript them all if they didn't shut up," he announces without preface, "but given the givens..." The impending doom, the fugitive status, the fact that they've already got two unhappy conscripts along with them. Those little things. He hasn't forgotten--but this is how he copes. He smiles. "I thought would Warden Sabriel approve? and practiced restraint. I hope you're proud."

[paperwing]

Sabriel looks to him as he sits, her expression shifting to attentive listener more than a smile, but it does creep in. It's a change from how she reacted with uncertainty when he used to make light of things, now she knows him better.

"I wouldn't have blamed you if you had," she says. Now she does smile, vaguely. "But I am glad you didn't."

She has her hands full with two reluctant kids, don't pass along anymore. The masses think they do just throw conscription around as they fancy - likely best not to spread that view in a place as influential as the Inquisition could become.

"The Inquisition needs them more than we do."

[byblow]

"I suppose," Alistair says, as if very reluctant to admit it.

But it's true. This isn't a Blight--probably--and if all goes well, or at least its usual levels of not-well, there won't be another one for a hundred years or more. The world doesn't need more Wardens. It just needs the ones it already has to not do anything colossally stupid while they wait.

He rubs his face, extra rubbing around his eyes, trying to wake up a bit more, and says, "We shouldn't get involved, you know. We can't really be a part of this."

Shouldn't. Already the Inquisition is about more than only closing a Breach; it's about religion, and politics, and the politics of religion. There are dignitaries and murmurs about the empty seat in the Grand Cathedral. But there are also refugees here and people in need of assistance out there, and Alistair doesn't know Sabriel that well, but he knows enough to recognize the ways in which they're alike. Shouldn't; probably will.

[paperwing]

Shouldn't, probably will is the right of it. Her face is complicated, a muddle of emotions, and she doesn't quite meet his eye, because Alistair is correct. She's thought as much herself; if she were solely Sabriel, mage of former-Perendale, she would be involved, unwilling to sit back and wait for her Circle to die - or anyone else, for that matter - because it was the right thing to do. She would be uncertain, but she would do it.

But she was Warden Sabriel, and by being a Warden, and though she had done and seen so much than she could have thought, the world harsher than she suspected, this was denied - she would not get involved with politics or religion or the makings of the world, even if she felt more than ever that it was wrong, because she was a Warden. This wasn't a Blight. They should leave, go elsewhere, defeat darkspawn, stay out of it.

Sabriel sits a little straighter, arms folded against the chill. "My father always said that a Warden helps. And if I were only me--" well, Alistair probably knows. She doesn't need to elaborate that point. "But isn't saving the world what Wardens do? At large, or smaller, with those that are vulnerable and those that shouldn't be involved in all this, those that should be happy and safe but are not. The Inquisition does what our Order won't. It will hurt so many people."

She loves the Order likely as much as he does, and what they did broke her heart. She wanted to help; had wanted to help all her life, had not flinched when they told her it was her turn, her time, and then, they told her she would be better served shackled and bound and possessed. But she would not falter from what they stood for - what they should stand for.

"And the Inquisition may not just save the world, but change it, too, yet... I cannot take the Inquisition's charity, their sanctuary, without doing something in return, Alistair." She exhales the breath she hadn't quite realised she was holding, along with all the thoughts that suddenly came tumbling out. "I cannot do nothing to aid them, the world, in its time of need. I won't."

[byblow]

Those are a lot of words. They're all very nice words, and Alistair listens to them, and the silence on his end is weighty rather than bored, even though he is very tired and slightly drunk.

When she stops, he says, "Yeah."

He means it, though. Yeah, doing nothing isn't an option. He's walked away from disasters before--he walked away from Kirkwall while it was literally on fire, because he had orders. But now the orders are unconscionable, and they would be standing by to no particular end. Letting more people die on principle. He isn't a fan. So it's a very serious yeah, and he lets it hang there for a serious few seconds of silence.

Then, "I'm still in trouble with the First Warden for Orzammar," he says, "and the Landsmeet," even though that was in every way the opposite of his fault, "so if a few years from now Thedas believes the Grey Wardens are using the Inquisition as a puppet for their own ends," like they do everything else, "I'm letting you take that one."

Leadership.

[paperwing]

At least he knows, and he isn't telling her not to. Not that she's seeking permission - just that he knows of her intent. After so many years of hierarchal structure, it's hard to break the habit, and if anyone were to understand, it would be him.

She is not wrong.

"If there are still Grey Wardens left to blame," she says, softly, "I will."

And she means it. If Thedas survives, and the cost is her reputation, alright - she will wade through every consequence if she can live knowing she did the right thing.

She half smiles. "You don't have to follow me."

[byblow]

Alistair swivels his head to answer her with a look: the look involves both a smile and one skeptical raised eyebrow. He isn't sure about following her, but he isn't leaving.

"There will be Grey Wardens," he says. "Whatever is happening, it isn't right. We'll stop it."

He doesn't entirely believe that. When the song first reached him, before he knew everyone was being called, he thought, all right, that's it, good run. It's early for him, ten years in, but not impossible. Not with how much corruption he's been exposed to. But for Sabriel--and Rafael and Scipio, and even for Sigrun--it's too soon. And if there isn't a way to stop it, it's still his job to keep them believing there might be.

[paperwing]

Well, she has to set an example somewhere. Might as well be this.

"I hope so." It's more than an idle hope, more a staunch belief that she will do everything in her power to try and save the Wardens from themselves, but there's so many variables, so much that could go wrong. Failure isn't an option, but nonetheless, it is a possibility. They could stop the Wardens, discover the cause of the Calling... and it could be. They could be wrong.

But those are darker thoughts she doesn't want to entertain for too long, so she pushes them away. She believes in herself, in Alistair, in Sigrun, even Scipio and Rafael, if they put their minds to it. That is enough.

"I suppose I should practice an apology speech for when we do, just in case."

[byblow]

"Yes, you should," Alistair says. He reaches over to pat her knee--a flat-palmed attagirl slap, nothing weird--and leans back on his elbows. "And include two or three mentions of how I said it was a bad idea. For the First Warden."

[paperwing]

Sabriel hums, her voice a mock presentation. It starts serious. "Warden Alistair, despite leading us to Skyhold after we left Montsimmard, insisted we not get involved. Repeatedly." She pauses. "But as we were practiced at turning against command, we did not listen?"

[byblow]

"I like it," Alistair says. "And right off the cuff, too. You're going to go far, if we aren't all permanently demoted."

Or dead.