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.)

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

The Herald's death is no minor event, not in the least.

Now donning a more somber expression than usual, Alayre seems almost lifeless and frigid as he stands amongst the mourners with an impassive gaze. He's honestly deaf to all the grumblings and mumblings as Evelyn Trevelyan is laid to rest. While this is merely a prelude for the chaos to come, Alayre doesn't allow the pettiness of his fellow Templar to spoil the mood further.

"Such a woeful state of affairs." Alayre mumbles with a deep sigh as he adjusts the collar of his black tunic.

"It's worse enough that the Inquisition has lost the Herald, it need not become a spectacle as well." He whispers out of bitterness once the blame of the Evelyn's demise is shifted towards the mages. A look of discomfort passes through his stoic expression briefly until someone grabs that fool agitator and carts him off. The fragile balance here at Skyhold has shifted for the worse now that the Herald is gone. He could literally feel the hate and loathing amongst both mage and Templar both.

It's woefully stifling and honestly sickening.

Despite obviously not up for the social aspect of this trying occasion, Alayre is garbed in an elegant suit of grey armor with blue cloth adorning it. It's not his standard suit of armor but a much more elaborate version of it that he coordinates with a black tunic underneath and black leather gloves adjourned with protective steel that laces around the knuckles. The boots he wears are of a similar fashion with a steel toe and heel. While he's certainly dressed for a proverbial war despite his elegance, Alayre is without his swords.

"May the Maker preserve us..." The Knight-Commander says after someone offers him a glass of wine. He takes a small sip and just sighs. It's Fereldan wine. His mood is shot to hell and beyond.

Edited 2015-10-27 04:21 (UTC)

[After the Funeral]

If Cullen seemed stoic during the funeral, he is definitely more somber afterwards. He doesn't mingle much, but that's mainly because of the guilt he felt. He should have gone back for her. Everyone had escaped from Haven through the pass in the mountains, he had time, he should have gone back-

No matter how many times he's told himself that he couldn't have, that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, he still feels guilty. Like he could have done more.

Many are turning the wake into a party as time goes on, and Cullen doesn't feel like sharing a drink at the moment.

[Later on that night, in the Tavern]

When Cullen decides to finally have a drink to calm his frayed nerves, it doesn't end too well. Please kids, do not make your dad angry on this day, for he will punish you all by throwing both mage and templar alike into a jail cell together and telling you to get along or else. Do not make him turn this Inquisition around, or better yet, tell Cassandra.

He's trying to keep to himself, but also keep an eye on the unruliness of everyone in the Herald's Rest. Can't we all just get along for one night without blows being thrown? Thank you.

[Wildcard - come find him at any point during the day/night!]

[Lucan had been glad to see the service come to an end and eager to join most in the tavern. The entire affair left him feeling on edge and in dire need of a drink or ten. He hoped those affected most by the Herald's death would find some closure at seeing her put to rest and for a time it seems to work.

Then someone of course had to go and ruin it.]

For the love of Andraste, get down you fool.

[Lucan is among the first to rise, openly hissing his displeasure and stepping forward the moment allegations against the mages begin. This is not the time nor the place for such things and a wave of relief washes over him as it seems others who still have their wits begin to aid in defusing the situation.

Only when Lucan is sure that the situation has calmed to the point of private conversations and not an all out brawl does he make his way over to the main counter to order another much needed drink.

Then again he was born with two hands.]

Just make it a double.

(OOC: All aboard the booze train. If you'd rather something more private then at some point in the middle of the night Lucan will stumble from the tavern and find a spot on the upper ramparts and drink until dawn. Feel free to tag under that scenario as well. )

Edited 2015-10-27 04:50 (UTC)

"We should behead that Templar."

It is one of the first thing that he has trusted himself to say all night.

He held his tongue at the comment of the Maker, at the song. Nothing filled his soul with a bright light or let him feel like any divine presence was watching over them. Stannis calmed himself by breathing slow -- rather than sighing at every possible place that he could. He dressed respectfully for the evening in simple armor. Even left his blade in his room as he felt it would leave the wrong impression.

"Don't fall into the same trap as my brother." To become a drunkard in order to deal with any and all pain, he scowls at Alayre as he looks toward where the Templar has disappeared to. "It is everyone's fault for what has happened. No single group is responsible and they should all feel the shame of it weigh down to fix what is broken rather than squabble who is right on the body of their symbol."

A beat. "Why could we not be more as the Qunari, as the Avaar?"

The funeral had brought all their questions to a close, and finally they could truly mourn. So when they all gathered for the wake everyone could finally voice their worries, fears, and such that they kept bottled up for the past few weeks. They were able to share their stories from the time they spent at Haven.

For the most part it was decently pleasant. At least until fingers started getting pointed. Even though Sam didn't believe a bit of the accusations, it still... hurt, and for the rest of the time he mainly kept to himself. At least until being around so many others began to become suffocating.

Taking his mug with him - fully intent on drinking on his own - Sam had every intention of going for the front door of the tavern. At least until he passed the Commander, sitting there staring at the mug in front of him. The smart thing might have been just to keep going, but seeing the Commander like he was was disheartening.

Moving closer to the table, but not taking a seat, he clears his throat, making his presence known subtly. It occurs to Sam that this is the first time he's actually met the Commander, and not just in passing. "It's a dumb question, but... how you holding up Commander?"

The Funeral
The Chargers were there. They weren't prominent (or any more prominent than they generally were at any gathering they attended) but they were there, the elves saying prayers, the men standing in silence, about as at-attention as they could manage. Krem stood front and center, in a Tevinter Army dress uniform that didn't quite fit right even after he'd spent time that day trying to fix it. He stood up ramrod-straight, as he'd been trained to do, but in his hand was a candle, a the other hand held up to keep the flame from going out. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol that day, but his eyes were faintly reddened.

Vint echoed in his ears from time to time, from people in the crowd that had noticed his uniform.

The hell is he doing here?

Is this some kind of joke?

Teeth grinding subtly, Krem ignored it, listening to the speeches, the chants of the sisters, even singing along with the hymn. He wasn't Andrastian, but that was no reason to be disrespectful at the funeral of Thedas' last hero. He had liked Lady Trevelyan. He had been the first of his men to speak to her, and had been pleased to report back to the Iron Bull on her cooperation. He had wanted to be here. He had wanted, in Cole's words, to help.

And now he was here, listening to the judgments of others when their attentions should have been on the Herald, the one responsible for saving all of their sorry hides. He imagined that Dorian was probably dealing with the same, if not worse.

Ignore the angry glisten of tears, they don't exist, and he would fervently deny they were there in the first place.

After the service, in a quiet place away from the loud and the drink
Something to occupy his hands was necessary now, before he decided to undertake some mission that would see him back at Skyhold bloodied. So here, draped in a thick, fur-lined cloak over his dress uniform, Krem puffed out clouds of mist while pulling a needle through a plush only half-finished. His hands were steady, and he worked at a pace that was actually producing a few plush toys an hour. He had his plans, he wouldn't break them, he would go through with raining nugs down on the heads of the people here.

It was just a matter of shaking off this nasty melancholy and getting up the courage to go out and face people again.

one. post-funeral, early in the evening (before the disruption)

[The funeral is somber, and although there's no rain it feels like even the sky itself does grieve for the passing of such a great woman.

Bruce doesn't stay close to the main procession, sticking to the sidelines as he watches the whole thing. The Herald of Andraste, now lost to them for good, and this entire thing was the proverbial nail in the coffin on whatever last hopes that other people might have had on her being alive. Bruce, of course, had lost whatever hope he had long ago - and although the people who were holding out were suffering now, he envied them, in a way.

It must be nice, to still have that much hope inside.

The crowd mostly disperses into smaller crowds once the main event ends; many people start to break out the drinks and drink for the Herald, but Bruce doesn't do that. He doesn't drink, not when drinking reminds him of things he'd rather not recall, of people he doesn't want to remember.

Instead he trails back to the groups of refugees, throwing himself back to what he came here to do, focusing on fixing up people and patching them up even as he quietly listened to their tears and sorrows over the passing of what had been many people's beacon of hope.]

two. late into the night, a good amount of time after the disruption

[Its because of you mages now that the Herald is dead!

You murdered her!

Abominations!

The words weren't for him, Bruce knows, but they sting all the same. Murderer. Abomination. Monster. It echoes inside him over and over again, never stopping, and as most of the people fall asleep from booze or exhaustion or both Bruce finds himself unable to rest. Not when he closed his eyes and would only ever see the shadows of his guilt, the blood on his hands.

Evelyn Trevelyan was dead and Bruce did not know her, but yet he felt the weight of her death so much more than all the other deaths he had caused by his hand. If he had tried to help instead of protecting him, did something instead of running like a coward, could something have changed? Would he have saved her, somehow? Would the people still have their Herald? The answer was probably no, perhaps, but now the question would always haunt him. The question of what if despite knowing better, and with that the guilt of knowing that he could have done something but didn't. Now, another good person had died while he himself was still alive.

Bruce looks up into the sky from where he sits under a tree so far away from everyone else, staring unblinkingly at the moon and the stars and the clouds. If there was truly a Maker, some god above that allowed all of this to happen, then he really must be a truly cruel god. To give him this life, and to let everyone here suffer like this.]

three. wildcard
[Make up your own stuff! Feel free to just tag in or PM me if you want to hash out stuff.]

Edited 2015-10-27 08:44 (UTC)

WAKE;

She was ordinary.

[ The time for speeches has long since passed, both the formalities of a funeral along the rigid lines of hymn and prayer, as well as the cups raising of the wake that followed. Dorian had risen to neither occasion, listening and keeping to himself, his attention sharper when those he knew and knew Trevelyan spoke, fading over when those who did not presumed to lift their voices.

By the time it's a little later, he is a little drunker.

Immune, now, both to the cold and to the scowls his mere presence attracts.

And so, a haphazard eulogy, quietly delivered, where he sits perched on the edge of a table and a goblet of wine in hand. ]

An ordinary woman, with a tendency t'wards providence, and a terrible kind streak that never got her into as much trouble as it ought. They'll remember the Herald of Andraste, and others will remember Evelyn, just not as many. She rescued a druffalo, and the entirety of Thedas. Terrible at directions, or using paths, which I suspect was a rogue thing.

[ He pauses, considering his wine. ] A Magister killed her, [ he offers, before lifting it to sip. Much like the rest, it is more to himself, but still audible. ] Not a mage.

[ Otherwise, you can find him around -- pouring a fresh glass of wine from a pitcher, slinking through the edges of the gathering rather than claiming centres of attention, trading eye contact with the people he knows. He doesn't shed tears, but he is quiet, in a state of slow adjustment to a reality he had made an off-colour joke about hardly a week ago. ]

LATER;

[ It's an awkward time of night. Late enough to be almost early, although the sun has yet to tinge the sky, but also for Dorian to have sort of started sobering again. Which means he can safely sleep without completely feeling like dog shit the following day.

The courtyard isn't empty, but still feels abandoned. People have been reduced to silhouettes, the gathering broken down to its clinger-on dregs, reminding him a little of a normal pre-dawn in Minrathous. There is broken glass on the cobblestones that crack underfoot as he makes his way for the staircase leading up and out of the courtyard. The atmosphere has soured, grief like vinegar, an occasional tendency towards the mood in Skyhold that he has observed before. The mixing of company ill suited to one another will do that. Throw in the death of a nice lady, and well.

There is something happening, and he looks. Voices raised, personal space invaded, a scattering of men and women. Dorian considers not caring when there is the sound of a fist smacking flesh, and a sharp cry of indignance.

Unthinking, he turns on a heel, walking over. The shapes of Templar armor and the skirts of mage robes are clear and distinct silhouettes in the darkness, where nearby torches throw them into queasy shadows. Dorian is his own quality, and he acts fast, reaching to grab the wrist of a young apostate raising her hand, the distinct glow of flame bright in her palm, and snuffed in disruption. ]

Let's not be completely stupid, [ he suggests. He tosses a look at the Templars, tipping his chin up to best cast an evaluation down the length of his nose. ] As natural as that comes to some of us.

[ Behind him, the mage who'd been knocked down is getting up again with help, and the other wrenches free of Dorian's grip. A third and last of them isn't keen on taking advice, planting a shove in the chest of a Templar, the smack of flesh ringing off armor.

It becomes messier, after that. The mages have the sense not to cast spells, and the Templars don't draw blades, but they are a bad turn short of escalation. For his troubles, Dorian manages only just to duck a thrown punch, not quite so self-sacrificing as to wish to give them all something to unite against in the form of a bleeding Vint. ]

Edited 2015-10-27 09:23 (UTC)

[ Angry words in the tavern, but the peace holds. By the thinnest of strings but no one wants to be the next ass to say something. Stories are told, wine drunk, bodies shuffled off to their bedrolls; Adelaide there as a courtesy more than anything else, tucked into a back corner and minding the few of hers old enough to want a drink. No trouble for them, thank the Maker, but it is when she's guiding their swaying steps back to the room they've claimed that she hears something familiar. Something frightening. She ushers Roul onward and diverts from the path. It doesn't take long to find the source of the sounds. The scuffle- the brawl.

No swords and no magic but it's more than enough to leave bruises- to bleed either party. She presses herself tight against the far wall for a moment longer than she should. Arguing with herself. No one's going to die, no one is going to burn, no one's drawing a blade. She can move on. It is not her concern but when it's mages, when it's templars- when it's fists and it'd be all too easy for a little blood to become far too much? Hand white knuckled around her staff, teeth grit, she shoves her way forward. Pulls as much imperious authority that she could manage while fighting back the urge to turn and run for the hold with every step. Shouting down rowdy apprentices this is not, but fear puts anger in her voice and steel in her spine. ]

That is enough!

[ It's a bit of a cliche, slamming the butt of her staff into the cobblestones for that sharp crack of sound, but if it works? She's not about to complain. Some of the mages at the edges note her, recognize her from the healing tents and draw away. Not out of the fight but- away.

The templars don't give a damn. Typical. Were they sober they might listen long enough to sneer but right now? Too deep into their cups and too angry by half to bother. Without any real room for hesitation lest she lose her momentum and her nerve entirely, Adelaide stalks forward to start bodily hauling mages, at least, out of the brawl. ]

Edited 2015-10-27 09:33 (UTC)

[There would always be people to check up upon, patients to treat, people to heal. Even the death of the Herald wouldn't change that, as sad as that reality was. The death of such a woman wasn't going to somehow magically stop the deaths of the others.

Having finished with one group of patients Bruce is on his way to another where then he spots Dorian. They weren't really acquaintances nor friends, but Bruce had the pleasure (of a sort) of talking to him a few times after he went to help deliver a few messages in the stead of some terrified individuals who couldn't bring themselves to speak to the 'evil magister from Tevinter'.

He debates if he should approach him; Dorian knew the Herald much more than Bruce himself ever could, and he could only begin to guess what Dorian must be feeling now. It didn't feel right to ask walk up and ask how he was doing, but...]

Pavus. [He calls, softly, just loud enough for Dorian to hear as Bruce walks towards him.] You... are you alright?

[Not the best conversation starter, he knows, and he really could have done better - but it was hard to think of something right on the spot.]

Funeral

[ Well, it wasn't a Dalish funeral, that was for certain. She'd figured that out shortly after people started scraping together whatever scrap wood they could find. She'd make subtle inquiries about Andrastian funerals, and discovered two things: People usually dressed up for them, and for some reason, they took dead bodies and set them on fire. Why would you dress up for that? What if you ended up with soot on you? But Beleth didn't ask these questions, she just nodded and went and found a dress.

She certainly didn't come with a dress, but the Inquisition had been paying her, and she managed to scrap up enough money to get one. It certainly wasn't a fancy dress, but she fit in among the other lower class people who probably also only had one set of dress clothes to their name. She stayed in that crowd, sticking close to her clanmates and trying not to fidget as she listened to the Revered Mother speak on about the Maker and Andraste and whoever else was involved in all of this. Beleth may have little love for the Chant, or for the Andrastian faith, but the Herald deserved the respect of a solemn, still figure among the others, watching as the flames leapt up the fire, smoke rising up into the sky.

She'd never met the woman, dead before Beleth had ever come to the Inquisition, but her deeds were well known. She didn't deserve this early death, didn't deserve to make it so far, just to fall. Eyes stayed focused on the pyre, but lips moved as she muttered under her breath, ignoring Mother Giselle's words. Anyone close enough could hear the words, though most would not understand them. ]

Hahren na melana sahlin.
Emma ir abelas,
souver'inan isala hamin.
Vhenan him dor'felas,
in uthenera na revas.

After the service

[ Beleth had been willing enough to go to the tavern with the others and drink, fidgeting in her new dress. She keeps a wary eye open, even as she sips at a mug. There's something about the tension in the room that has her on edge, eyes scouting out the people around her. It feels like everyone here is doing a balancing act, and someone was going to tip over.

The shouted eulogies do nothing for her nerves. Shouting humans, shouting drunk humans are bad news, and she gets up, slowly moving towards the door. She doesn't head straight for it, trying to move naturally in the crowd, but she's on alert, eyes wide. The tipping point finally comes when the templar starts yelling, and she winces like it was directed at her. Now she doesn't even bother to cover it, she starts heading straight for the door, because no good will come of this.

There's a few murmurs by the people by the door when she dashes out of it, but it doesn't matter, because at least she's free from the tension in there. It doesn't help much, her nerves still buzzing, wanting to get away before things explode. Get somewhere safe. So she starts off, and if left alone on her journey, can eventually be found curled up in a ball in the stables, the horses paying her little mind, aside from occasionally sniffling at her hair.

It might come out a little drooly in the morning. ]

Edited 2015-10-27 10:29 (UTC)

He couldn't get out of the tavern soon enough. There were too many people crowded together to his liking, and with a fight breaking out... it was being dealt with though. Honestly he couldn't really trust himself not getting involved in a fight right now. Enough of his buttons had been pushed already for him to have zero tolerance for any verbal or physical abuse.

It didn't look like he could disappear to his bedroll though; he'd be able to hear all the noise coming from the tavern. For a moment he considers doing some work, but quickly tosses the idea away. In the mood he's in he'd probably end up messing something up or hurting himself, and the last thing he needed was to have something to fuel his frustrations.

After some debate, Sam finds himself going for a walk. Normally, he would just wander the courtyards, but seeing as they were filled with people yelling and drinking as well, Sam instead finds himself wandering the tops of the wall and the battlements. He only complains slightly to himself about the idea seeing as he didn't have a cloak, but the cold wasn't too bad if he didn't stay out too long.

At least that was the plan until he happened upon Krem.

He was so used to the Charger being at the tavern every day that it had not occurred to him that he would have been any other place. Not that he wasn't glad to see him, but he honestly wasn't planning on bothering the man at all tonight. Not with how melancholy he was currently feeling. Regardless, Sam finds himself walking over closer.

"Fancy meeting you here." He blinks, tilting his head, realizing that Krem was actually doing something and not just sitting there. "What's that?"

Edited 2015-10-27 10:57 (UTC)

{At Various Points Throughout The Night}

She didn't look like herself. That was the weird thing. Well, it was obviously her, but it also wasn't, if that made any sense at all. An empty vessel.

He'd never done funerals well. (Elf, human, Dwarven or otherwise.) He slipped away early before anyone could notice.

The grief was surprising. He'd never even spoken to her, but her presence had been a constant, her will and her soul unmistakable. The driving force behind the inquisition, a ray of hope. And now that was gone, and as the night went on, the fighting began.

He tried to help, tried to ease tensions, but in the end he was a knife ear, butting in where he didn't belong, pretending to care when he'd done nothing to save the Herald. He got punched, a few times. Each time he'd laughed it off, and gotten punched again. Eventually, he simply started to avoid everyone altogether.

Well. Almost. His friends, he quietly sought out. With a cookie, or an apple, and a soft smile.

He'd done nothing for the herald. But maybe he could do something for them.

((OOC feel free to assume established CR and a cookie delivery! Gavin would have tried introducing himself to basically everyone at some point. Or have him be the reason he took a punch, he's good at that too.))

Edited 2015-10-27 10:33 (UTC)

( dorian had been the first person from the inquisition that benevenuta met, coming up the mountain; they have been fast friends, in spite of the fact that when her own magic and general northernness are like as not working against her and she scarcely needs the stigma of attaching herself to someone too northern to live. it is smart to cultivate him, but maybe it would be smarter to do it a little differently - there are places that she might be more effective than at his side, this evening, but

benevenuta is but one of many people set a-tremble in the great impact that is the herald's death - dorian knew her as a woman and not a symbol, and she knows him as a man, and not the human-form representation of all that is wrong with tevinter. so she is a small and stoic presence at his elbow, listening to his eulogy, declining the wine that flows inevitably toward someone having a punch up later.

she had appreciated the spectacle of the funeral for what it set out to do and what it achieved; it is something else, to hear this, here. )

Well said.

The service had been...well. It'd been a service. Last respects to the first hero Thedas had seen that did what all heroes ought to do. A decade of kind fates and now? Hope was lost. Tensions rose. Tonight was the first Zevran did not spend in the tavern- there'd be no keeping the peace. He had no patience to make any token attempts. If there would be blood he would be well away from it.

That didn't keep Gavin from finding him on the battlements with a smile and a cookie, however. Despite the chill, or perhaps because of it, Zevran bumped their shoulders together companionably. At least until he took note of the bruises.

"...So they are lashing out at 'knife ears' as well now, yes? Turn your head, let me see."

There's an anger in her heart at even the idea of her friend getting hurt, and it's hard to control that, with the air already thick with it. It was hard to not butt in, return violence with violence, show them that there's a reason you leave the Dalish alone, because they are never truly alone, and they look out for each other. But she's not stupid enough to think that would help. She keeps an eye on the people who did this, memorizes their faces. Justice isn't always violence to meet violence.

Sometimes it's sprinkling certain plants into a bedroll, or maybe a spider. She's met a few while cleaning...

But that will have to wait until later. For now, she keeps an eye on him, and the next time he butts in, and a human scowls instead of laughs, Beleth darts over. The quick reflexes of a woman raised to be a rogue from youth show themselves as she grabs Gavin's collar and yanks, unceremoniously dragging him out of the path of the fist. She then turns to the human, all apologies and those big doe eyes being batted and a few 'sers' and some groveling later, she's pulling Gavin away, still clutching his collar.

"You're going to get yourself killed. What am I going to do, then? What will I write the Keeper? How am I possibly supposed to explain to her that you died because you kept messing with these fucking quicks." The last part was hissed to him, contempt in her voice.

Gavin had happily settled in beside him, if silently. He feigned surprise that he had bruises at all, but turned his head so that Zevran could see the angry red mark beneath his eye. It would be purple in the morning.

"I think they've gone on to lashing out at everyone, to be honest," he admitted with a small, wry smile that did not reach his eyes. "You should see the other guy."

The other guy - well, guys - that he had not even tried to punch. They were probably all fine. At least until they picked a fight with someone who would hit back.

"I'm fine, don't worry."

He smiled at her as if nothing at all had happened, even as she dragged him forcibly away.

"I would think it would be easy," he replied, and then tried to take a somber tone: "I'm sorry, Keeper, but he died doing what he does best."

Being an idiot. At least he felt like one, for once, tonight.

"This is me being practical, not worrying. Zevran never worries. Tonight it is fists, tomorrow? Knives. The temper and impulsive violence of humans isn't something you should ever underestimate, Gavin." The only people he'd met that were more so were dwarven berzerkers, and then? only by a hair. Without so much as asking Zevran pulled a small jaw of balm from his belt and began to apply it in smooth, even strokes of his thumb across Gavin's skin.

"Also: Ducking. Ducking is a good tactic when faced with a fist."

"Not worrying at all, obviously," Gavin teased quietly, but didn't resist as he was man handled, even if he squirmed a bit.

"They'll be killing each other first, if tonight is anything to go by. I did duck the first time, you know. But maybe I shouldn't have laughed when I did..."

"Laughing makes them more angry and when they are angry? They are sloppy. So if your goal is to get them off balance enough to put a knife between the ribs? By all means laugh away. It's served me well in the past." A few dabs here and there and the worst of the bruising was covered. There.

"Failing that, a swift kick below the belt is never out of the question either."

[ The worst thing is that they're genuine. Perhaps they're bullies by nature, but if they are, it's only a thin film over what appears to be grief-tinged righteousness. Templars and their righteousness. Dorian is coming to learn so many things about the quaint, sprawling south.

He glances at the sound of a voice -- her aggressive tone and the snap of a staff to the ground put him on edge just as easily as the flurry of threats and thrown fists, until he sees who it is. They've hardly exchanged words, but her reputation is enough that he knows she must mean well.

As for his own reputation, well-- ]

Vishante kaffas! [ he snarls, in the midst of elbowing one of the more intoxicatedly insistent mages backwards, and more or less into Adelaide's grip. ]

What was that? [ is a growl from a Templar. ] Some kind of Vint curse?

Yes, [ Dorian confirms, rounding on him. ] I've cursed you, and transformed you into something repulsive and foul for the rest of your life. Tada.

[ The Templar is unchanged. That's the joke. The mage Dorian was just shoving gets it, and barks a harsh laugh, even as he absently and unthinkingly pulls back from where Adelaide is trying to herd him. The other mages have the sense not to align with the Tevinter, making for a tough crowd. The Templar surges forward, but one of his buddies grabs his elbow before Dorian's face can get rearranged.

All the same, the mood re-bristles. ]

Edited (misspelling my made up words, thats cool) 2015-10-27 11:20 (UTC)

[ The Tevinter companion to the Herald. No wonder the Templars were hissing quite so savagely- if there's one thing worse than an uppity mage it's an uppity Tevinter mage- not that she knows much of him. That he knew the herald, that he is a mage but not a magister, and that apparently his voice is 'dreamy'. Such things one hears when minding a group of apprentices in the midst of puberty. Apparently he's not one that has much patience for this foolishness either, it give Adelaide the remaining backbone to hold fast and haul the stumbling, stupid mages away from the brawl.

Fists no longer flying: good. Glaring and swearing? Not quite so much. ]

You are not helping.

[ Standing next to Dorian is- well. It's a target she'd rather not paint on her own back, but better for someone to be trying to talk sense into the rest that isn't an 'evil magister' despite being neither. She falls in line, hand tense around her staff. ]

Neither are you. [ To the mages. ] Find your beds and sleep this off.

"Trust me, Stannis, I couldn't become a drunkard even if I tried."

Alayre places that offending glass of wine upon some nearby table and gives up on drinking for now. If he must endure this spectacle of nonsense, let him do so with a clear head. The Orlesian shan't allow himself to become half as craven or half as ridiculous as these brazen fools. He has his honor still as a Templar to consider here.

"We should behead him." Alayre comments after after a few seconds of silence. "We've annexed ourselves to the Inquisition, did we not? The Chantry holds no sway here. In truth, we really should behead him." A brief pause.

"It's not as if he's using that head." Is that just a mild dose of sarcasm on his part or is he serious? The world may never know.

"The longer this nonsense plays out, the worse everything shall become."

He raised his fingers to delicately touch whatever gunk was now on his face, and then carefully licked his fingertip.

Immediately he made a face and shook himself to dispell the taste.

"Not for eating," he decided, before offering Zevran a sheepish smile.

"I don't want to hurt any of them. They're all just upset and lost. I just wish they could go brood silently about it like normal People."

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And as we wind on down the road

{ the wake }

Cullen | OTA

Herald's Rest + After

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Tavern

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Bruce no-longer-Banner | ota - prose or brackets are both a-ok

dorian pavus. wake + later.

the brawl

waaaaake

Beleth Ashara | OTA

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Gavin Ashara | OTA

wake.

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