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.)

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Krem's brow hovered upward and he smiled faintly, sitting back with his hands in his lap around the half-finished plush. "'s a good idea, but not exactly easy in low light." He turned and picked up one of the others, holding it out. It had been completed earlier in the day, when he'd still had daylight to work by. The stitches were a little more even, spaced closer together, less likely to come loose or let the stuffing out.

Harding looks, as instructed, and sees the difference he's mentioned. She doesn't have to lean forward to note it; she can see quite clearly from where she's stood, making a soft noise of approval.

"Did you know dwarves see better in the dark?" It's not something the underground dwarves would like to hear, that surfacers haven't lost this knack and near see just as well as they do. It's helped her on occasion when traveling at night or keeping watch, walking into caves in hope of shelter (and not avoiding bears), and, in this instance, the people in her life that do sew - namely, her mother, the seamstress - when days are shorter and nights longer and candles are burning low, but it's enough.

"What I mean is, I could help. If you wanted. I know a bit." A lot. She ducks her head, almost chuckling, but also almost embarrassed, so no sound comes out. "My mother is a seamstress."

"Heard that once," Krem replies with a nod. It makes sense to him, with how dull lighting underground seemed to be even with torches and firelight to see by, which wasn't always the best solution in spaces where air had a had time reaching.

With an easy little smile up at her, Krem scoots over some on the spot, offering a place for her to sit. She doesn't have to stand there feeling awkward talking to him, after all. "For me it was because Father was a tailor. Nothing to be embarrassed about, 's a useful skill to have."

Harding sits, even though she still looks embarrassed. "It's not that," she says, scratching at the back of her neck. "What my mother does is... it's just her naming choices." Really, Lace. Lace. That was not the image she wanted to promote in this merry band of revolutionists and as lead scout. What kind of image was that, even? Flowy? Soft?

But before she spills the beans on her first name, she lets out a thoughtful 'huh'. "Never pegged us as both having that in common, though."

The smile Krem offers her at that is somewhat questioning, but he doesn't pry. If she wants to tell him, she will.

"People are full of surprises sometimes. This is good though." His fingers flex some, rather stiff in the chill, though it's only a brief motion before he gets back to work. "If you like, I can show you how I do this. Might make this go faster. Trying to make about...a hundred and thirty of them," he clarifies. "Planning on giving them to the people here, maybe sell a few to be traded elsewhere. Things like that."

She smiles back, but it's one that's planning on keeping the secret. Maybe some other time, in a life threatening situation; maybe over dinner. But right now, she keeps Lace to herself.

"Surprises are the best kind of things to be full of," Harding agrees. She likes surprising people by what she can do, what she's capable of. In what would annoy some for expecting less, Harding only challenges that opinion by showing she is willing to give so much more.

"If you wanted to sell them, I'm sure my boss would take one from you." That's Leliana, by the way. "Flying nugs could be the answer to her prayers." Or not, but if nugs could fly, the birds would probably get demoted in favour of Flying Schmooples III. "But I wouldn't mind. Would give me something else to do other than escorting people back and forth from the tavern. Mostly forth."

"Especially pleasant ones," Krem adds. Maybe later he'll offer her supper. She could absolutely eat among the Chargers when they set up camp.

He turns over one of the other nugs in his hands and reaches for one of his swatches of material, folding it over thoughtfully. Licking his lips, he reaches into the pouch at his waist to pick up a little charcoal pencil, marking the fabric to be trimmed up.

"I don't think Lady Nightingale approves much of the Chargers, to be honest. We're blunt instruments where she prefers precision," he comments after a moment of searching around in his already finished nugs. He glances back at Lace, smiling faintly as he starts to sew and then trim up what will be the wings attached to a nug in a velvety pink. He'd send it off with her later to be given to Leliana, free of charge.

And as we wind on down the road

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