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

[liberalum]

[ 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.

[fleurdesel]

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. ]

[cicatrices]

[ 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?