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

[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.