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

[ When Bruce finds him, Dorian is people-watching -- it's something that isn't drastically out of character, but context is context, and his people-watching readily slips into unfocused self-reflection as if a glass wall exists between him and the rest of everyone else.

But it isn't soundproof, ostensibly, and he doesn't immediately get out of the lean he's struck against the wall, gesturing with his wine glass to indicate himself. ]

I'm not bleeding where I can't see, am I? All limbs attached? No, I shouldn't think your attentions're required.

[ But his flippancy is not dismissal, his voice too rich and animated for that, especially as he flattens it back down into a better answer; ]

The prognosis is favourable. Thank you for asking.

I'm sure you'd be able to take care of yourself even if you're bleeding.

[Dorian is a very capable mage after all, from what Bruce understands. Surely he could manage a simple healing spell or two.

The wryness of his response quickly dies down once Dorian sobers up as well, and Bruce tries his best to give a hopefully reassuring smile. It was a trying time for all, but he can only guess that it must be doubly hard for people such as Dorian.]

Has anybody given you any trouble so far? [What with him being from Tevinter and all. While Bruce himself has no real beef with the place (or at least, none that affected his treatment of Dorian), he knows that a lot of people don't exactly share his sentiments. It was only all too easy to link Corypheus to him.]

[ Dorian's eyebrows lift, as if charmed. There is always an inaccessible air about him cultivated by the inevitably changing effect of court life, but what mask-like control there is in his bearing is off-set by the easy way his eyes shine a little warmer. ]

Will I put it to you to defend my honour if the answer is affirmative? You're even more obliging than I knew about, Bruce.

[ Dorian waves jest and concern both away with a gesture of his wine glass. ]

No more trouble that can be expected. I receive worse welcome when I see to get my armor mended, and I was practically raised on disapproving glances and scowling asides.

The question remains: what is he still doing here. I'd likely supply an answer if any of them asked me directly.

I'll have to see it for myself.

[He says with another wry smile on his face. Balance of the humors has always been something that Bruce does, but with Dorian its just that little bit easier. Probably because the man does it himself, in his own way. Dorian's brand of sarcasm is usually audible from a mile away.

But that's besides the point.]

Somehow I think they won't like your answer, though. [There's a quirk on Bruce's lip this time around.] But I suppose I could be wrong.

Rather, they won't believe my answer.

[ This would be a good time to talk about himself. Instead-- ]

Have you had the misfortune to run into that one Templar -- Knight-Commander Stannis? He made plain his belief that any day now, I'll wreak blood magic havoc upon the poor, innocent Southern mages -- out of habit, I suppose, perhaps boredom.

I'd say the Herald had better taste than all that, but I can't use her name as a shield forever, and I shouldn't want to.

[ He speaks bluntly, sharper around the topic of 'that one Templar', but a certain refusal to sound injured about any of it. ]

[While Bruce has met him he doesn't know his name at all, but considering the way Dorian goes about him Bruce can kind of place his face to that name. The Knight-Commander, in Bruce's own meeting with him, had been quite... traditional, to put it mildly.]

I've talked to him once. [Purely out of coincidence.] He was certainly... a very straightforward individual, if anything.

[A wry smile here.]

Don't worry about him so much. I'm sure the others will see what you're really here for. [Which is to stop Corypheus. Bruce knows that Dorian is here to do the right thing and that's what matters. After all, he himself is pretty much in the same boat - even if others don't know about it.]

[ Harumph, is the noise Dorian almost makes. Like he's allergic to the idea of caring what Stannis Baratheon thinks of him. ]

He has a concerning amount of seniority amongst the Templar ranks, which make up no small fraction in the Inquisition's combative forces. You're right, of course, [ he adds. ] But one may still fuss over a particularly stubborn splinter.

[ He brings his wine up to sip from, turning the heel of his palm to his mouth to collect excess damp. He watches the scattered crowd for another moment, before summarising his thoughts; ]

Things would be better, if she were still alive. It's far too early days for martyrs.

[The thing about splinters is no matter how stubborn they may be, the wound they leave will eventually heal. Of course, it may be hard, but it won't be there forever either. Dorian has proven himself thus far and Bruce may have his own misgivings over Tevinter, he knows that a culture doesn't reflect on its people.

He follows Dorian's gaze to look at the crowd as well, watching the people are they all mourned and grieved over the passing of the Herald. Hard times were coming but still the world must go on, and things still had to continue.]

She must have been an amazing woman. [He never really had the chance to speak with her but from the few times he had seen her, well. She was the Herald for a reason besides the whole 'stepping out of the rift' thing.] It'll be impossible to find anybody like her.

I doubt they'll be holding auditions any time soon.

[ Dry and crisp, his humour runs as bitter as can only be expected. It's entirely impersonal, as far as Bruce is concerned. ]

You don't appear to be drinking.

[Bruce can hardly blame Dorian for the bitter humor - her death is still far too real, and the loss is profound. Maybe his words weren't the best in this situation, but it's the best he could give all the same.

At the comment Bruce only gives a small shake of his head along with a wry smile.] Somebody has to stay sober around here.

[Plus he isn't fond of alcohol anyway. Too many... associations.]

And as we wind on down the road

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