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

It had been, all things considered, a very good punch. He hadn't even seen it coming - as he was trying to talk down a completely different mage at the time - and he had crashed fairly hard into the nearby table, making all the dishes shake before he drew himself up, rubbing his jaw before he looked up and saw the woman standing between him and his assailant, who -

Obviously had been attempting to continue his attack. Wonderful.

The Mage in question was now scowling at the newly appeared templar.

"This has nothing to do with you, Templar. Uppity knife ear needs to be taught a lesson he'll remember."

"My memory is like a sieve, you really shouldn't bother, it won't take," Gavin said wryly - which of course was a complete lie but that really wasn't the point of saying it.

"Of all the-"

Of all the damned things. Would the world be able to survive if every group didn't have someone to condescend to? Human mages were fairly low in the social hierarchy, but, ho! At least they had the elves to look down upon. She could only sigh and take a step back from the (she prayed drunken, that would be some excuse) mage, hoping the elf behind her would move along with her.

"The room's too small for casting. Let's call it a draw and we can pick it up in the morning, hm? My friend and I-" and with that she took another step away, while nodding towards the elf- "Have other plans for the night."

Please, Maker, don't make her punch a mage. Not in the middle of all this. It really will not help her plans for peace.

"Yes," Gavin agreed instantly, sliding along beside Maria as she backed away. "Very complicated plans, that really would require too much to explain--"

"Are you calling me stupid?" The mage hissed, growing purple, his fist tightening at his sides.

"No! No, of course not. That would be incredibly rude."

And that earned him a mage, lunging for his throat, missing only because Gavin was already stumbling backwards, hitting the floor, and scrambling backwards out of the way.

He really should just not be allowed near bar brawls at all, was what he was coming to understand.

Technically, she wasn't punching a mage. Technically, she was grabbing his right wrist and twisting it- hard- behind his back until he was forced onto his tip toes.

"Right handed, right? Easy to tell. With that being your attacking arm and all."

And other mages were looking. Looking and seeing the Templar doing this and she offered a brief, near grimace of a smile as she continued to speak in a level tone to the mage in her grasp.

"Casting arm. I know you want that whole. So, here's an idea. Go plot revenge with your friends and call it a night. Then you get to have an arm to do it with tomorrow and I-" a look down at the elf- "Get no interruption of complicated plans."

There may just be a hint of sarcasm on the 'complicated.' How had this become her night?

The mage cursed at her but then agreed in a rough grunt, waiting until she let him go before he and his friends stalked off to the corner to lick their wounds. Once they retreated Gavin stood back up, brushing himself off an offering her a sheepish grin.

"Ah - Thanks. For that. The whole, you know, saving my skin. Thing."

What were words anyway.

She watches the mage go with a frown, utterly unimpressed with the behavior of either side of the Templar-mage war this evening.

"One night was too much to ask..."

Maria shakes her head, finally noticing the elf boy was speaking again and flicks her gaze over his face. But nothing too worrying, anyone in this room should be able to handle a few bruises and bumps. He'd survive.

"Complicated plans?"

"Ah- first thing off the top of my head," he said with a sheepish smile.

"Though I'm sure I could think of something, as a - ah - thank you. Maybe not inside a tavern full of people who apparently are having way too much fun figuring out who should punch me in the face next."

She tilted head head slightly think of something?. Maker, she should just let that slide...but on a night like tonight, a little teasing could go a long way to improving her mood. She nods towards a small area of bar still open and begins (with the solid, shoulder bumping progress of a woman used to wearing armor and crowds parting thanks to that fact) to make a path for them over to where the drinks are.

"A thank you? And just what is it you do? Other than bar room brawls."

"Well, I have garden brawls, bridge brawls, river brawls, brawls on mountain tops..." He grinned as he followed. "No, mostly I tell people stories and hope that they laugh, though I'm aware of how much more pathetic that is." He had less pathetic talents, but he could lead up to those.

"I'm also told that I have a miraculous ability to fall off of things and not die, if you fell like shoving me off of something."

She raises an eyebrow as she, at last considering that brawl detour, reaches the fabled bar and the tender behind it. She isn't here to be drunk, but an ale seems the least she deserves after this monster of an evening. So she orders two, one for herself and one for the boy to hold against his deepening bruises, if nothing else.

"Losing at brawls and non-fatal falling skills aren't what bring people to the Inquisition."

"True," He admits, happy to take the ale, and then holding it up to hers in a toast.

"I'm a scout, if we are to be particular. I spend most of my time finding myself in new places, and then telling people about them, and managing not to get myself killed while doing so. The non-fatal falling skills actually come in quite useful, in that case."

She meets the toast with a light tap of her own tankard, looking slightly pleased with herself at being right. The boy did have some talents worth talking about.

"You should open with that. Talk too much about story telling and people might take you for a bard."

"I'm used to roaming too much, where the scouting is less interesting than the stories," Gavin admits with a grin. "But I'm no bard - at least not in the Orlesian sense of the word. Give me a target? I'll hit it for you. But ask me to assassinate someone...? I'll probably end up with a best friend, or a lover, by the end of the night. Or both."

It may have already actually happened.

He really wasn't an assassin.

"That's what a bard might say."

Not that she believes it. She's seen the craftiness of the order, but even they have limits. Or so she thought.

"But it's hard to see the glory or tale in your latest battle scar."

"Oh give me another ale and an hour and I'll end up telling it with a Dragon, a horde of undead and a woman in bright shining templar armour coming to my rescue." He grinned at her and took a sip of his ale.

"Though I suppose I should actually learn what the name of my rescuer is, at some point, if she would be so kind as to tell me."

"Maria Hill. Knight of the Order. If there are to be songs, at least keep some truth to the tail."

The best lies are based in truth and all that.

"And the name of my prize?"

"Gavin," he replied with a grin, more than happy to be the Knight's prize. "Of the Dalish Clan Ashara. And I can only imagine any song made better with a valiant knight in it. The beautiful part helps too, obviously."

She opened her mouth to reply- and there was another Marker-be-damned mage glaring at her- them?- from the corner. Possibly a friend of the scorned one from a moment before. Maria frowned briefly, then took another swallow of her ale. A long, possibly draining about half swallow. The rest will just have to be left behind.

"Valiant is wonderful for stories, but discretion usually works better in reality. We should step outside."

He followed her eyes to the corner, his ears drooping slightly as he saw them being watched.

It was going to be a long night.

"Ah - I think you may be right," He admitted, quickly finishing his ale. He considered asking the bartender for a bottle they could take with them, but in reality, tonight was not a night when he wanted to be drunk. He put the glass down, before offering Maria his arm in a fairly ridiculous fashion. Not that he really expected her to take it, but it seemed the most amusing thing to do.

Much as predicted, Maria gave an amused shake of her head before placing one hand on his elbow to gently force his arm down.

"I'm not the escorted in this one, serah. When you've rescued me in battle, then we can talk."

For now, it was all pushing the crowd aside to slip from the tavern. If the mages wanted to follow at least they would be in the open air. Practice dummies were replaceable, people caught in crossfire were not.

That made him laugh. "We might be waiting a while, then, unless you need anything shot."

Luckily it seemed that any will to fight had left their opponents by the time the stepped outside. Gavin stretched almost immediately, very much like a cat, enjoying the cool air after the stuffiness of the tavern. He turned to grin at her.

"So where were you planning to escort me, maserre, if it wasn't merely 'anywhere but here'?"

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And as we wind on down the road

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