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.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"What's that?" Bull's voice comes out of the darkness, followed by the man himself stepping out into the light, a tankard of ale in each hand. He'd notice Krem's lack of presence at the festivies indoors -- Bull himself had started considering taking his own leave when the mages and templars decided to start sniping at one another. This is, in his opinion, neither the time nor place for that and both sides needed to calm down before they were burying more than just one of their own.

He'd liked the Inquisitor well enough. They only spoke briefly, but she seemed respectful and smart, and Bull could respect that in a leader. It was a testimony to how much she'd convinced him the Inquisition was doing good work that the Chargers hadn't packed up and left after her death. They were still needed here, even if they were nothing more than a bunch of outcasts with no one to really back their position here up. For now, anyway. The Iron Bull was working on that.

He settles down next to Krem, setting one of the tankards close enough for his lieutenant to reach and takes a draw of his own, nearly draining it in one fell swoop. "You makin' those nugs you were talking about?

When Krem looks up at Bull, he looks incredibly tired, and more than a little angry, but he keeps it to himself, no matter how easily it can be read on his face. He lifts the nug in his hand, then picks up another from the small pile of them at his side. He trades it for the tankard, taking a couple of swallows then laying it aside. He didn't want to drink much tonight, didn't want to embolden himself into confronting the men that had been whispering about him through the service.

"'s a better use of my time an' hands than anything else I can think of right now," he murmurs, poking the point of his needle against the calloused pad of his thumb.

"Better than trying to punch mages," comes the reply, complete with a disdainful huff. "Good on you for not reacting, by the way. Unsettles them more because they have to rethink their opinion of you."

Of course he'd heard everything. He'd even gone so far as to make mental notes of who was doing the speaking. He probably wouldn't need the information, in the long run, but it was there. Just in case.

"How many have you finished?" He asks because he's not expecting a reply to his commentary, and doesn't want to make Krem feel like he owes him one.

"'s not worth trying to convince them otherwise by shouting anyway." Krem slumped forward, pulling his leg up and resting his elbow against his knee, forehead in his palm. "Where do they get off though? Thinkin' it's right to do this kind of shit at a funeral of all things?" He might have kept muttering, if not for Bull's question. Good at derailing destructive trains of thought.

"About a third of them, including the ones from the last few days. Planning on adding more to the original plans, to account for the new people," he replies with a sigh, looking down at the faintly shimmering blue one in his lap. All of the finished ones are different colors, made from the different fabrics others had gathered for him. "Might go faster though, since I've managed to get some help."

Bull nods, draining the last of his ale, settling back. The one in Krem's hands catches his eye (get it), and he nods towards it. "That one looks special," he says, grin evident in his voice. "Who's it for?"

Krem blinks, then looks down at the nug in his hands. He shakes his head with a soft smile. "Not really. 's just the last of the samite someone fetched. There was one, ended up as a gift though. That one was made out of plaidweave." He grins a little more widely at remembering the look on Sam's face when he'd taken the tacky little thing, though that faded as his brow furrowed some. Right. Sam. He'd really screwed the pooch when it came to him...

And as we wind on down the road

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