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

Alistair | OTA

[byblow]

AFTER THE WAKE
SUBTITLE: MAGES ARE ASSHOLES TOO

Technically, they haven't hurt anyone yet. They're just loud.

They're also young--not apprentices anymore, if Alistair had to guess, but only barely--and clearly a touch drunk, which Alistair is in no position to judge anyone for. (Q: Does alcohol quiet the Calling? A: No, but it makes it a little funny. All the things an Old God could do with access to their heads, and it decides to sing.) From what he saw in the tavern, they've probably had a rough night, if not a rough week. Or a rough year--wars will do that. Or rough lifetimes--Circles will do that. He does know.

But there are people here who are neither mage nor Templar. Unarmed people. Rude people, perhaps, who did not need the Herald's death as an excuse to be wary to the point of prejudice. But unarmed. And here's a sullen mage with his clenched fist crackling with ice and a tired cook in his cross-hairs, saying, "What did you call me?" while his friends look on with an even mix of silent trepidation and snickering amusement.

And here's Alistair, coming back out of the stables with straw in his hair and a foolish lack of armor or weaponry, blinking to force himself more awake.

"I said--" says Tired Cook, defiant in a way that is too stupid to be admirable.

"You're leaving," Alistair says. He's not very good at sounding commanding on a good day, let alone when he's about to fall asleep standing up, but maybe the lot of them are too surprised to notice. He turns his attention on the angry, icy one. "You're not helping anyone."

He doesn't have a sword or a shield, but he doesn't need them. He doesn't need to do anything but focus, and the solid world reasserts itself against the Fade, and the mage's fist is boring and fleshy again. If the world were a fair and reasonable place, that would be the end of that.

So of course it isn't. The Stupid Blighted Cook says, "Not so tough with Templars around, are you, spellbind?"

"For Andraste's sake," Alistair says, rounding on her, but her skirt is already on fire.

such assholes, very drama, wow

[fleurdesel]

A glass of wine (singular) and three apprentices (tipsy) to mind and the whole of the tavern full of tense, crackling unpleasantness but so far they've managed to avoid most of it. But some muttering off to one side became more than mere muttering and any time templars looked twitchy it made the Orlesian mages tense for reasons and such the incident bore investigation. Or at least minding so it doesn't escalate.

Of course, by the time she's woven her way over, it's escalated.

"Enough." A word, a gesture, a wave through the fade that twists and silences the spells on the rise and in the air- extinguishing the flaming skirts of the one cook. Not something Adelaide cared to do often with how other mages tend to react to having their magic tampered with- not something she's had to do often in the past few months but this? This is madness. This is asking for bloodshed. "Are you trying to bring the templars down upon us? You know better."

Any mage worth their salt knows better. Drink and frustration are not reason enough to lash out at anyone, even if they're being particularly aggressive.

[byblow]

"She called him--" one of the young mages begins to protest.

"--killed the Herald, I heard them Templars say so," the cook says, muttering really, busy with her charred skirts but apparently not too busy to continue making poor choices. Alistair had turned his focus to Adelaide, but at that he glances back over his shoulder, and realizes with some amount of horror that the cook is now hiding behind him. Like a shield. And not shutting up.

"Please, please stop talking," he says to her. Then, to Adelaide: "Forgive them. I'm sure the Circles' books on good manners were the first to burn."

It's a joke. He's joking. It's incredibly appropriate.

[fleurdesel]

"Nothing worth responding to-" Except for that. Of course that would be making the rounds. Who else is there to blame? The Qunari? The Orlesians? Why can't they go back to blaming Tevinter for everything like civilized people? But no. Mages. It always comes back to mages.

Though she's not in a position to say much of anything after that- nor is she of the mind to after the mages seem to see fit to put her between them and Cook and her chosen champion. Lovely. "Mages don't burn books. Templars burn books. Irritable cooks that do not know how to mind their tongues burn books. Mages do not anymore than we kill Heralds."

[byblow]

"Oh, come on," Alistair says, and somewhere his dear old knight-commander and grand cleric are likely feeling mysteriously satisfied, if they aren't dead, as their matching assessments of Alistair as a smart-mouthed troublemaker who would embarrass the Templar Order once again prove at least slightly accurate. "I'm sure she's never touched a book in her life."

"I know my letters," the cook protests, so, all right, she's at least clever enough to know when she's been insulted. Why she couldn't have put that cleverness to use when all signs pointed toward needing to shut her mouth, Alistair couldn't say. It isn't his job to say. It's apparently his job to be a meat shield.

Anyway, he ignores her.

"And mages do burn cooks, looks like, and I'm not sure that's much better," he says. A pause to consider the most probable title has the not-entirely-unintended side-effect of making it sound like a flippant afterthought. "--Enchanter."

[fleurdesel]

"Then she should know enough to not poke at mages- and mages should know well enough to not poke back." She glares over her shoulder, managing to wring something of a contrite grimace out of one of the fools involved in this mess. Templars, horrid as they may be, have their knight commander. Mages once had their First Enchanters, Senior Enchanters- someone to guide and take point on conflicts such as this.

Now they have only one another as the titles from the Circle mean precious little. Of course that's when her own gets thrown out like a rotten fish to lay at her feet.

Adelaide draws herself up, hand tight around her staff, eyes cold and narrow. "They will be reprimanded. This is ours to handle among ourselves, not for you to meddle in, Templar."

If there was a way to make that word sound more distasteful and loathsome? Adelaide hadn't quite found it yet. Give her time.

[byblow]

"Whoa," Alistair says, both sword- and shield-free hands coming up in front of him to defend his delicate person from her glare and tone, "whoa, whoa, no. Not a Templar. Just talented."

Behind him, the cook has sat up and is inspecting her skirts, muttering beneath her breath. She doesn't sound pained, only angry, so he doesn't look back at her. He does look at the drunk mages, for a moment, to confirm that they've been cowed into submission by this woman, as they logically should be, considering how terrifying she is.

"And tired," he adds. "I'm very tired."

[fleurdesel]

"...You're a mage wrangling hobbyist then?" Oh, there. There is the rest of the loathsome distaste. The skin of her hand where she grips her staff crinkles with flakes of frost that fall free as she gestures away from the tavern, turning her glare back to the drunken mages behind her. "Sleep this off. Do not let this happen again- if it does? I will know."

It isn't often she presumes to snap at anyone as she would a misbehaving apprentice- it isn't ever, actually, but this is unacceptable on every level and these fools damn well know it. Once they've begun to shuffle off she turns her gaze back to the not Templar, The hobbyist. The- whatever he is.

"Then find your bed. Or is there something else you wish to see done?"

[deflocked]

He's tired. Too tired for this. He's spent the night healing mages and templars both. At least the templars that weren't too angry with mages to let him help them. Others too. Others the blighted fools had no business dragging into the middle of their war.

All the same, he can't stand by and not do anything. Not once the cook's skirt catches fire anyway. He needs something that can quickly down a group of mages. He opts for grease. Quick and easy and actually a really terrible idea when there's fire around. The mages slip and fall just as planned, but the cook is startlingly close and still on fire. He waves his arms in a panic.

"Get back, get back!"

Then the mabari that had been just behind him runs forward, barking loudly as he jumps and shoves the poor, panicked cook back.

[byblow]

The chaos gets more chaotic. Chaos does that a lot.

And to reiterate, Alistair doesn't have his armor. Or a sword. Or a shield. So the fact that he takes a step back from said chaos at the same time the mabari barrels forward isn't cowardice; it's common sense. Once he's had a second or three for his chronically sleep-deprived brain to process what's happened--grease, slipping, dog, fire--he steps forward again to put out the fire with a combination of Templar abilities and good old-fashioned stomping on the flames while the cook shouts about attempted murder.

She might mean the mages or the dog. Alistair doesn't ask. Some of the felled mages are trying to get back to their feet, and he holds a hand out to them--harmlessly, no Templar tricks and no weapon, just a flat palm.

"Stay down," he says. For a moment desperation almost makes him sound authoritative. He ruins it by adding, "Please."

[deflocked]

It's a wonder no one else caught fire, but he thanks the Maker his poorly thought out spell didn't spread the flames to the mages. One injured party is bad enough.

"Let me look. I'm a healer," he tries to to tell the recently extinguished cook, but she just beats him back, accusing him of trying to feed her to his mangy beast. "I didn't, I--"

Daylen cuts his own protest on, distracted by the mages still trying to climb up. With extra determination after the please. One has even managed it.

"Listen to him," he begs, grabbing the mabari by the collar before he can try and intimidate them into it. "He's a warden."

"He's a templar," one of the mages still climbing up snarls. They'd all been able to recognise how he put that fire out. The one on his feet starts to cast something a little more icy to show Alistair just how welcome he is.

[byblow]

A distant region of Alistair's brain--one that isn't preoccupied with mages and fire and so on--registers who's come to his aid (to the cook's aid? to aid, generally): Enchanter Daylen Mathan, he of the heroic-looking facial hair.

"No, no, avoided that," Alistair says, but it's half under his breath. The polite thing to do might be to help the cook to her possibly-crispy feet, but he isn't willing to turn his back on the greasy mages just yet. That turns out to be a good decision, given the snarler's icy hand, but thawing it leaves Alistair that much more wobbly on his feet. That's all he's got.

The looks at the dog as if expecting to find assistance. Behind him, the cook's stream of panicked insults has expanded to include doglords. Alistair thinks perhaps he should have let her burn.

"I just want to sleep," he says. He takes a very small step toward Daylen. Behind Daylen. Probably they won't attack one of their own. "If I wanted trouble I'd have put on my armor first."

"You could just be stupid," one of the mages says. She has a point.

[deflocked]

He hadn't expected to find himself shielding both of them. He hopes the mages have the good sense not to cause any more trouble. Combat's never been his strong point, but it's Dougal's, and much as he would rather keep the hound away from them he might not have much choice if they persist.

He casts a glyph of repulsion around them, but when it comes to mages distance is hardly a barrier. Still, he'd rather not cast anything else unless he's forced to and it at least makes him feel a little more secure.

"Why are you defending templars?" one of them spits, angrily. None of them seem especially happy that a mage is standing against them.

"He's not a templar," Daylen insists again. "Even if he was, he has nothing against us. He's helped mages before. Please stop."

[byblow]

"I love mages," Alistair offers from behind Daylen. "Some of my favorite people are mages. If you go around lighting people on fire they might be put back into Circles, and I'll miss them."

This is mostly a lie. Nearly all of Alistair's favorite people are Grey Wardens, these days, and they can't be put anywhere by anyone except their own kind. But if Wynne were alive he would want her around. And he'd really like to see someone try to put Morrigan in a Circle, which is not the same as missing her, so much as it's pity for whoever mind be asked to fetch her.

"Need worse than Circles," the cook says, in the midst of all the other things she's saying, and Alistair sighs.

He also realizes, belatedly, that he's being a little bit of a coward. He steps sideways so he's less behind Daylen than beside him, palms spread open in offering.

"If we all go to bed now, I'll make anyone she complains to knows how rude she was."

The ringleader looks reluctantly thoughtful, then looks at Daylen.

[wontforgetyou]

It's been a long day already - a long few days, if he's going to be honest, and Jamie's had more than enough of glowering Templars, tetchy mages and people hurling insults at anyone who's different than they are. Finding a (relatively) quiet corner somewhere, curling up with a blanket and doing his best to shut it all out until the morning is sounding like an excellent idea to him, and he's already changed back into his kilt and retrieved a blanket when he happens to pass by the open door of the tavern just in time to see the lass having her skirts set on fire.

He doesn't really think after that, just sort of barrels in, shoves his way past a few people and makes for the cook, thinking to try and smother the flames with the blanket - and not really caring very much who he's irritating in the process. That's probably made far clearer about three seconds later, when he actually looks at everyone else, his mouth firmly tugged off to one side as he frowns for all he's worth.

"It's not bad enough you're insulting people, now you're setting them on fire? Are you mad, the lot of you?"

[byblow]

"Yes," Alistair says.

That probably isn't helpful. A look at the mages' faces and he revises that assessment to definitely not helpful. He's still standing between the cook and Free Marcher (he assumes) and the mages, one hand extended toward them like he can hold them back, which he only sort-of can. Perhaps they are all going to die.

But, "It's one of them," one of the mages says--not to him, to her nearest neighbor, but he hears her and looks back at his new ally long enough to finally notice his glowing green hand.

"Hey," he says, surprised. Look at that.

When he looks back at the mages they've shifted away from them, as a group; not every rifter came out of the Fade flinging terrifying magic or vomiting blood, but some of them did.

On the ground, the cook contibutes, "I'm dying."

She's not.

[wontforgetyou]

All he'd really done when he'd come out of the Fade was pick up a large stick and fling himself at the nearest demon, like you do, but it seems this is a group of mages that don't know that. Maybe that's a good thing. Even though his eyebrows raise just a fraction when they back away, he's reasonably quick to figure out the reason behind it, and , he keeps his hand raised slightly, pointed towards the mages - although in warning only, hoping it and the other man who'd been trying to keep the peace would be enough to keep the situation more or less at bay.

The cook's comment does get him to glance back down to her for just a fraction of a second, though, long enough for him to see she's not actually dying. He manages - barely - not to roll his eyes, instead offering his non-glowing hand to her in order to help her out.

"Och, you look fine to me." His eyes flick back to the skirt, and he adds, a touch dryly, "Don't think your skirt's so lucky. Keep the blanket, aye? And maybe next time don't make people that can set you on fire angry. It's not so good for your clothing."

Back to the mages. "Right, so the rest of you aren't going to change that now, are you? Last thing we need is to have this place burn down. So why don't we make this easy and the lot of you can go, oh, over on the other side over there. Not you," he adds, gesturing to Alistair. "I've a question or two I wanted to ask you. You can stay here."

The look he turns to all three of them is an expectant one, but deep down he hopes that his bluff is enough to get the groups (sans Alistair) to split up. That would make everything a lot easier for everyone. Whether it'll work, though...well, that he'll have to wait and see on.

sorryyyyy!

[byblow]

Alistair's eyebrows go up at not you--not many people give him orders anymore--and stay up as the mages actually do as they're told and step away from him, the ones nearest walking backwards for several paces until they seem to feel safely distant enough to turn their backs.

"Telling the Commander," the cook grumbles on the other side of them, picking herself up and dusting off her skirts and, no, not dying at all. "First thing in the morning--blighters--"

"Tell him what you said, too," Alistair says, "for his records. You know."

She looks on the verge of spitting, but she walks off as well, and Alistair rubs his cheek with his knuckles until she's out of earshot.

"Well. That was--handy," he says to the glowy interloper. Handy. Get it?

no apologies, that was totally worth it. totally.

[wontforgetyou]

It's not supposed to come across as an order - more like a strongly worded suggestion - but when the mages leave, he winds up straightening up and looking just a touch pleased with himself. It's not the sort of smug look that might appear from someone who knows they can get people to back off, but more the sort of thing that turns up when someone who hasn't expected something to work at all winds up being pleasantly surprised when it does.

But then...then there are puns. Or a pun, anyway, but it's not the first time that someone's gone and pulled that on him, and his reaction is the same as it is so often when he hears that sort of thing from the Doctor - which is to groan and make a face, the expression still quite visible as he turns back to look at Alistair. He doesn't come out with an 'Och', not quite, but there's a small noise from the back of his throat that almost serves the same purpose.

"That's the second worst pun I've ever heard in my life, I'll have you know. And here I thought I was doing you a favor by getting those mages to back off so you could have your drink in peace."

[byblow]

"What?" Alistair says, pausing his idle attempts to pick hay off his clothes. He doesn't sound offended, but he does sound like someone who isn't offended trying to sound offended. "What do I have to top to get the worst?"

Perhaps not the first question one should ask a probable demon with a magic hand, in the scheme of things, but here they are.

[wontforgetyou]

Luckily, the probable demon doesn't seem offended either - and in his case, he doesn't even try to pretend that he's offended. His mouth does twitch, just a little, but that's more out of amusement than anything else.

"One about a beastie made out of metal that I've faced a few times. Very nasty things. One time, though, they were defeated by a sort of magic from our world that wound up scrambling their wee metal minds and caused them to stop working. You could say they had a complete metal breakdown."

To his credit (or to something, anyway), there's not even a hint of the groan that he'd given the Doctor over hearing that one. He even manages to keep a straight face throughout it for a second or two after - then, quite suddenly, he breaks into a grin.

"You did ask." But it's all good, as far as he's concerned, and he holds out a hand to shake. "I'm Jamie, by the way. Don't know if you've got any beasties made out of metal around here, but if you can figure out a way to use that, you're welcome to it."

[nofury]

Fire in a tavern is hard to miss, no matter how small. But while she might not have gotten there fast enough to stop that spell, she's managed to slip through the now small crowd around the event (moving was faster without heavy plate mail on, what a revelation) and into the heart of it. A handful of mages, an angry cook, and now two Templars. Well. One Templar and one Warden with a Chantry angering past. Even after near twenty years, with his reputation after the Blight and his general friendliness around Skyhold in the past few days it was hard not to recognize Alistair (Theirin, who saw that one coming?) on sight.

Maria holds out a hand towards the mages. Only as a suggestion to hold, not exerting any of those special Templar talents herself yet, but making it clear she can and will if another spell starts going. Even if it would be a damned waste of lyrium.

"Problems, Warden?"

[byblow]

"No," Alistair says, voice raised over the cook's shouting while he stomps out the fire, "everything is fine. I don't know why--" Stomp. "--you'd think--" Stomp. "--it wasn't."

The first isn't out, but it's manageable. Only her skirt. He removes his boot and is ready to tell her to smother it when it ices over--the fire, no part of the cook--and he turns back to the mages to find one lowering her hand and looking mildly abashed, but in the sort of way that makes it obvious she would rather no one notice her going against her friends. It's a sentiment Alistair would probably understand better if he had more friends.

Instead it only annoys him.

"Thank you," he says to her, pointedly, and then finally looks at his helper. "And you, Se...oh..."

He doesn't recognize her. It would be nice if he did; it would probably be a sign that he'd made a genuine effort to befriend his peers at the monastery. But he does realize that she's someone he ought to recognize, at least, someone unplaceably familiar, so he trails off into squinting at her in a very obvious searching-for-a-name sort of way.

[nofury]

"Knight Hill."

Someone finding their conscience was admirable. Poor taste in friends was not. Maria keeps her focus on the (literally) incendiary members of this little group party even as she replies. One fire was more than enough for the evening, thank you very much.

"If you remember those few days as a Templar-" and she bit her tongue, just in time, from adding my lord. Even if it was meant more as a small reminder of those...difficult teenage days than bitter, it wouldn't serve to have any semblance of division just now- "Warden."

[byblow]

"Oh," Alistair says again. He pauses, remembers her for real, and adds, "Ohh."

Hill. Maria. Templar. Not completely horrible, but still--Templar. He doesn't look any warmer. But the mages are still standing there, and the cook is still smoking, so this isn't quite the time to say, Hello, it's been so long, how are you, please forget about my awkward childhood and focus only on my awkward adulthood and I promise to do the same, and so on.

"Well, now it's two again five, so that's--" He looks the mages over again. "--still very unsportsmanlike. Maybe I should conscript two. What do you think, Knight Hill?"

Three of them step back--they don't like the idea, at least, which is sort of sad. Nine years ago people were lining up.