faderift | And as we wind on down the road

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.)

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He sat with Gavin for a time; a few minutes, maybe a few hours, it was hard to say, time spent with the elf didn't seem to matter as much. But Gavin had some time later spotted a figure in the courtyard below that he recognized and with a little pat and a smile, he'd been off. Maxwell had waited a bit, but had eventually realized how silly that was and had climbed down off the battlements, intent on finding his bedroll.

But before he could make his way to the garden, he was waylaid in the courtyard by a very inebriated templar, staggering and weaving as she attempted to reach the barn. She needed to see her horse, she told Maxwell after she stumbled into him, knocking him into the wall. Only her horse understood.

Uncertain what else to do, torn between pity and laughter, he slung one her arms around his shoulders and carried her the rest of the way before she fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Not that his effort mattered much, shortly after reaching the stall in question, she slumped to the hay, snoring and drooling.

Shaking his head, he drug the saddle blanket from over the door and draped it over her.

She heard people approaching. Or at least one person, who sounded trashed enough that Beleth decided that it was a good idea to stay out of the way. It was a bit alarming to have the person suddenly shoved in one of the nearby stalls, but the sounds of a drunken woman had turned into snoring, so perhaps it'd be fine. Slowly, she stood up, peekng over the stall sides just in time to see Max drape the blanket over the snoring woman.

For a moment she just watched, purple eyes reflecting brightly in the dark.

"Is this where we're tossing all the drunk people? We're going to need more stalls. And I'm not sure the horses will approve."

The sudden voice startled him, blanket jerking slightly as he hurriedly rose from he was bent over the templar. The eyes, however, were less surprising. (He was around Gavin too much for that.)

"...It's her horse," he replied, exhaling a hard little breath. His heart settling back in his chest where it belonged. "I hope it won't mind."

The templar snuffed, burrowing her face into the straw. The horse ducked its dark head toward her, but after a moment's eyeballing returned to watching Maxwell and Beleth, ears flicking between them.

"I suppose that if it already tolerates her, tolerating her while she's sleeping won't make much of a difference." She replied smoothly. Beleth wanted to point out that if she were the horse, she would mind getting someone shoved into her stall. But Beleth wasn't a horse, and she was hanging out with a hart, so she found herself with little room to really say much.

Instead, she just shrugged, standing up on her tiptoes to look over at the woman, before turning back to Maxwell. Hopefully the woman wouldn't bother her. Beleth had...kind of come here to escape drunk templars. "Have you come from the tavern, then? It must be getting bad, if people need escorts out of there."

"I was in the courtyard when she nearly flattened me, trying to get here," Maxwell explained, slightly distracted, as he eased back and attempted to squeeze through the stall door without letting the horse out after him. When he was finally out - the horse looking a little hard done by - he brushed his hands clean and turned to look at the lady elf. "But the tavern is bad. They were still shouting when I passed."

Beleth reaches out to the horse, clucking at it, and petting it on the neck. She listens to Max speak, as she leans forward. After a moment, she decided to see just how gullible the human was, and softly whispered to the horse in elvhen. The horse, not being a halla, doesn't seem to care too much, but it likes the soft words, and snuffles Beleth's hair.

She gives a little huff, and turns to Maxwell, trying to straighten her hair.

"I thought the Inquisition was supposed to solve the fighting between the mages and the templars. But if feels like all they did was capture them in a glass jar and shack it up a little." She twists her mouth, glancing off in the direction of the tavern. "I'll stay here, then. I wasn't really feeling it tonight, anyway."

Maxwell doesn't react to her whispering - talking to a horse and getting a reaction is hardly surprising. Horses were expressive and engaging beasts as a rule.

Plus, he has spent time with elves. Grew up with one - for a time - and all but lived with Gavin for a few weeks.

"That they're even agreeing to share the same space is a good thing," he sighed. "Though I won't deny it doesn't feel like it at the moment. ...I just hope we can move forward on what the Herald started."

She'd gotten them together, now they had to try and carry on without her guidance.

Well, that was no fun. You're no fun, Maxwell.

She'll just continue to pet the horse's neck as she listens to Max speak, turning to the horse as she thinks on what he says. He's right, of course. That spells and lyrium aren't being lobbed at each other is miracle enough. But she would think that the so-called Herald of Andraste could have pulled out another one to get them to stop fists as well.

"I wonder." She replied, fingers moving to the horse's mane, and beginning to give it a complicated braid. She was beginning to wonder if there was any hope at all, if this wasn't a fool's errand that she had agreed to, and she'd have to watch the Inquisition flail around until it fell, and she had to drag her clanmates back home. She didn't voice this to Maxwell. A stranger had little use for her negative opinions.

She flashed him a smile instead. "We have to start at the bottom, right? That just means that we have plenty of room to climb up."

He snorted, nodding wryly in agreement as he reached into the stall to gently comb his fingers through the horse's forlock. (Pleased by all the attention, the animal snuffled quietly and bobbed its head gently.)

"That's very true. At this point there's far more room to move up, than down. Hopefully once some of the alcohol wears off, they'll recognize that too."

She's not sure. She's already wary of templars, and the circle mages aren't much better, in her opinion. The entire war was inconvenient on the Dalish side--Rogue templars combing the countryside, ready to attack anyone Dalish because they might be an apostate, and the rebel mages couldn't care less about the trouble they'd sown for everyone. Now they may be working for the Inquisition, but it wouldn't be that easy to forget such fresh wounds.

They needed to have better incentives to want to work together. Something beyond 'kill this crazy weird monster'.

"Hopefully," Is what she says. "No one else is doing anything. If the Inquisition fails, what then?"

Maxwell frowned, an unpleasant tingle raising the hair on the back of his neck. It was a possibility of course. Bad things happened, people died, good causes failed: look at the Conclave, the Herald... but actually say it aloud, to really think about it.

It was not a happy picture.

"I guess they would have to stop fighting then at least. Seeing as many of us would be dead."

She's dubious that they would ever stop, even if everyone around them was dead, but perhaps that was just her poor opinion of humans as a whole shining through. Either way, she shrugs. "Let's hope that it doesn't come to that. Hopefully both sides realize what will happen if they let the Inquisition down. And stop blaming each other for killing the Herald and the Divine."

She paused, glancing off to the side. "I'm...sure the Andrastian faith has plenty of divinity left. Plenty to go around. I'm sure it's not completely killed off."

Beleth...may not have quite picked up what a Divine quite was.

Maxwell replied without really thinking about statement, agreeing with it on principle.

"It's a bit funny, isn't it? She was a fine woman, one of the best among us, and how she was taken was terrible, but I don't think she would want us to--" Then the wording, and the way Beleth was looking at him, hit him and he realized that was not entirely what she meant. Maybe not at all.

He flushed slightly, feeling foolish for assuming.

"I'm sorry. That's not what you meant, is it?"

"..."

Slowly, like a confused dog, Beleth tilted her head, examining Maxwell with a look of bafflement. Then, she tried to kick her brain's wheels into motion, thinking about what Maxwell had said, what she's heard. Then, slowly, Beleth came to a startling realization.

"Wait, did Andraste die at the conclave?"

The divinity that had been destroyed, but was actually a woman...it all made sense. No wonder the humans were so up in arms about it.

Maxwell's mouth slacked slightly, his eyebrows raising in surprise, but after a heartbeat, he managed to corral back. What would she know of Andraste and the Maker - the Dalish had their own religion. It made sense.

"...No," he shook his head. "Andraste was burned a long time ago. The Divine -- is a title, given to the chosen head of the Andrastian church. Divine Justinia, the last Divine, called the peace talks at the conclave and was killed there. Among the many others lost."

She'd said something dumb. She knew that as soon as she saw Maxwell's face. That's what she got for trying to assume something about the humans. Ugh. Luckily for her, Max doesn't seem to be too upset about it. She'll keep kicking herself about it later, but for now, she'll just be pleased that he isn't throwing a fit about her lack of knowledge.

"Oh--I thought Andraste had died a while ago, but, um. That makes sense." It makes sense that there's a head of the chantry, when the whole organization is so...organized. Not quite like the Dalish, who don't have much organization about their religion. And they're the better for it, she can't help but think. "Sorry...But, um. My condolences, even if it is kind of late." So the head of the chantry is dead, the Herald is dead, the Hero of Ferelden is gone, as well as Hawke. It really did seem like a grim state of things.

"I didn't know her," Maxwell said softly, after a moment. "Not personally."

He knew of her, of course. His parents loved to talk about they had once heard her lead the Chant, when she had visited the Free Marches. And he had been so hopeful, when the peace talks had been called.

"For me, and I think many, we regret the loss of life, but mourn the loss of the idea. What Justinia was, and what she was trying to do."

Like the Herald.

"We'll just have to hope that the Inquisition can keep what she started going." Beleth replied calmly, though she wasn't so certain. "What they all tried to start. It can happen, if we put the willpower into it. At least...that's what I think." Could the Inquisition do it? Absolutely. But not if they spent their time getting drunk and bickering.

"But--I think that's a task for tomorrow. I think once the tempers have cooled, it will be a little easier." She paused. "...It was nice talking to you." He wasn't so bad, she decided. Not for a human, at least.

He ducked his head, politely, and offered the horse one last scratch before stepping back.

"And to you, though I apologize if I disturbed you," he said with a small smile. "Until next time."

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And as we wind on down the road

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