faderift | 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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Most people didn't even seem to remember that there was a social class between the magisters and the slaves. It was fitting, he supposed, that nobody realized that he was Tevinter, until he dressed in the regalia. His armor wasn't indicative as to his origin as anything but a mercenary.

At the question, he has to try very hard to keep his bristling to a minimum. An Orlesian asking such things was almost as bad as some barefaced Fereldan noble scoffing at him from behind a hand for his trying to pay his respects here.

"I came here from Haven," he said evenly, consciously keeping his hands from curling into fists. "But I was part of the Imperium Regular Army. Why?"

Christine cocks her head to one side, terribly curious. Obviously her education in the Circle was full of remarks on how corrupt and awful the Imperium was. When Fiona had made the deal with Alexius to indenture them to him, Christine had seriously considered running away and trying to make it on her own rather than go to Tevinter and live a step above slavery.

"I did not think the Imperium would send soldiers to aid the Inquisition. Is this so?"

Krem's lips pursed, and he turned in place, a hand raising as he fumed, though he still kept his voice down.

"They didn't. I'm not here as a representative of the Imperium, or even of my company. It just so happens that I personally respect the Herald, as do the rest of the Chargers." He gestured back to where the rest of his men were arranged, though some were drifting back out toward the tavern. "If Tevinter sent anyone here, it would be to spy, but they wouldn't see the Inquisition as an enemy with Lady Trevelyan gone."

"Peace, ser. I was merely curious. We need not quarrel when we are all mourning the Herald." She lifts a brow as if to ask if that was his plan, or what he was assuming she was trying to do.

"You say you are not a representative, and yet you wear the uniform of the Imperium's army. Surely you can see why one would ask. But the Chargers, you are mercenaries, yes?"

Krem recoils some, brow knitting. He's being uncouth, and an entire ass about all of this. He is on edge, but that was no reason to take it out on someone that was merely curious.

"Apologies, my lady," he says quietly, head bowing. "I was a soldier once, but now I'm not even a Tevinter citizen. This is the only formal clothing I actually own. I'm the Chargers' lieutenant, see, best to make a good impression here, but...I guess I went about it the wrong way."

Christine bows her head too.

"All is forgiven. It is good of you to want to show the Herald respect by dressing formally. Maybe just not in a country's attire that gives people such a strong reaction." But now she gestures down to herself.

"At least you did. Mage robes are all I have." And after the Herald rescued them from Alexius, Christine had wished to show the proper respect, but there had been nothing else for her to wear.

"Lady Trevelyan deserves that much, and more. She never once seemed to give a damn where I came from, but she probably would have been amused to see something besides armor..." He gives a weak little laugh at that, picking some at one of the fasteners of the coat. He looked up at the comment about her robes, and a hand came up to rub at the side of his neck. "If you need, I could probably make something. Nothing fancy like you can get from the merchants here, but something that's not mages' robes. Wouldn't cost anything if you could find material for me."

It's wholly unexpected, and Christine looks quite surprised for a moment.

"Truly? You would do that?" Christine has worn apprentice and mage robes for so long, that wearing something different feels like a real treat.

"Oh, yes, please. I will find fabric somewhere!"

"I need something to do with my hands, and it's better than listening to people complain about a lack of decent clothes when I've got the full capability to fix that." He shrugs some, though her smile is somewhat infectious. It breaks him of his anger, at least for a little while. A comment from nearby breaks that though, and he whirls on the spot with a fist raised, jaw set. "For now," he continues tensely, "perhaps we should speak another time. I would need access to your measurements, anyway, and this is not the place or time."

"Of course," she says, smile dimming at the comment from nearby. It seems people are using the Herald's death as an excuse to snipe at one another, and she wants no part of it, so she'll return to the healers' tents, where the unconscious can't talk back.

"Another time, ser. Oh, what is your name, so I may find you again?"

At least she has a good idea. He can't really say he does, at least at the moment.

"Cremisius Aclassi. You need me, ask for Krem; more people recognize that."

"Krem. All right. I am Christine Delacroix, better known as 'that other blonde Orlesian mage healer.'" Because Adelaide has definitely made herself known already, and Christine is happy to follow such an instructor.

"Until later." And with that, she'll return to the healer tents.

And as we wind on down the road

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