points the faith in higher things,

[dashing]

WHO: Herian Amsel & open.
WHAT: the party don't start 'til she walks in. (Introducing Herian & her recruitment to the Inquisiton.)
WHEN: mid-July & onwards.
WHERE: Halamshiral & surrounds, maybe some Skyhold later?
NOTES: Prose/brackets are both fine!
Open starters in the main post (more to be added), closed starters in the comments, if we've discussed any plans feel free to barge in with a wildcard or prod me via pm or pp @karmacharging and I'll whip something up. If you'd like some information on this problem child, here is her info post.
WARNINGS: Herian's background includes themes of violence, torture and death, as well as discrimination and her own post traumatic stress disorder. While she will not in general be vocal about some of her own prejudices (against apostates, Dalish and nobles as some examples) it is very likely to come up in narrative and could come up in dialogue depending on interactions. Here is an opt out post if you'd rather certain things be avoided, or if you'd like to opt out of interactions with her in general.

Arriving with the Inquisition ( open. )
Herian Amsel exists in shades of winter, even when the world around her is dusty from heat. Her hair is dark, the black of a tree stripped of leaves and colour and grasping at a grey, unsympathetic sky, her eyes a pale, blue that people might foolishly attribute to ice in a fit of romanticism. For all that she appears to carry winter with her, summer has rolled relentlessly through a country already bearing the scorchmarks of war, making the people and the landscape seem to blur together. It is the dirt, she expects, the clouds of dust that have rolled over them on their journey. Even the grass feels dry and brittle. The closer they have drawn to the estate of Duc Hugues Pelletier, the more she has wondered just what difference there will be between the state of the gardens and the grass the common folk can wander on outside. It seems comical, if not downright insane that she be leading a group of elven refugees to the estate of an Orlesian noble for sanctuary, but she promised them she would bring them to the Inquisiton, and if the Inquisition is in Halamshiral then the group will have access to better food and medicine and more protection than she can afford them if she were to escort them to Skyhold as their sole guard.


Option A.
Herian is on foot, leading a palomino stallion with an elven woman on his back, pregnant and exhausted. Mage as she might be, Herian carries no staff. Instead a sword hangs by her side, and something like twenty refugees follow behind her.

"Inquisition," she starts, and her accent is defiantly and perhaps unexpectedly Starkhaven. "These refugees seek sanctuary amongst your number, and to lend their hands to your cause. To where shall I lead them?"


Option B.
Still on foot, Herian accompanies a smaller number of elves, now, heading towards the makeshift Medical Tents. The pregnant woman from before is with her, Herian leading her so that the woman can rest a hand on her forearm, Herian move slowly and patiently.

"This way. The mages here work under the Inquisiton banner, so if your need is dire then they are well qualified to bring you aid. You need not spend any time in the presence of those that set you ill at ease." Her voice is soft, and she has not yet looked up to the person standing nearby. "Can I have the names of your elven healers, for my friends?"


Other Increasingly Ridiculous Prompts ( open. )
Option C.
There is something singularly satisfying about the burn of muscles after exertion. Usually it comes in the form of training, practicing forms over and over for hours on end. Today, though, Herian is chopping wood, ensuring that those she accompanied who are still tired or injured need not worry should they have need, or perhaps so she can be useful to the Inquisition in some form.

Largely she does it because she likes to work, and the steady routine of grabbing up the heavy slabs of wood and breaking them apart with an axe is steadying. Not quite the meditation technique that she was taught in the Spire, but it sets her in the right frame of mind all the same. Her breath, her mind, and the regular thud and splinter make her feel better. Sweat rolls down her back, the thin material of her shirt sticks to her skin, and the tangled mess of her hair seems wilder even than before.

.... Although it is after noon and she's doing it non-stop for a long time in the summer sun, so perhaps an intervention would be wise.


Wildcard me, bro.

Comments

B

[gatheringstorm]

Korrin is ill at ease in the fancy estate, trying to tell herself it's just another job and this won't last. Even so, she can't remain still and sets about to pacing/inspecting every aspect of the estate before feeling more comfortable with it. It's on one of these rounds that she spots the dark-haired human woman and her elven entourage. Unlike her, Korrin's status as a mage is readily apparent, given the staff on her back. She also has an empty sword hilt at her hip, something that's puzzled passing servants.

Heading over, Korrin makes sure to give the refugees plenty of space, not wanting to come off as threatening. Her answer is immediate. "Eirlys Ancarrow is who you'll want. She's also the city elf liaison to the Inquisiton, so any issues you need addressed should go to her. She's compassionate and fair-minded; you couldn't ask for better."

[dashing]

At the sound of approaching steps and their response, Herian and her charge both look to the source. Cerise, the woman who is leaning on Herian, seems to shrink against her. Herian remains steady, coolly observing the woman before she replies. A staff barely need comment, but she has never heard of Qunari joining Circles, and it makes her back tense. The chance is all it imperceptible; just because she didn't hear of it doesn't mean it never happend, but she has her doubts. Her hand steadies Cerise, and she holds out a hand to stay the group behind her, a gesture of reassurance. Stay, we have been safe together thus far.

Her assessment takes barely seconds for all that it is thorough. Qunari, but with a bladeless sword hilt. One count towards a Circle made and another against.

Herian's expression remains neutral. "There is a liaison? We've heard nothing of that in our travels."

Not accusatory, but cautious underneath the calm, and she does speak very calmly. "To whom do I owe my thanks for the information?"

[gatheringstorm]

The assessment doesn't go unnoticed, but Korrin won't comment on it unless the woman does. She has nothing to hide, isn't the last bit ashamed or apologetic about what she is, any of it. The only thing that gets her sympathy is the intimidated woman at her side, and Korrin mindfully keeps her distance so as not to intimidate her further.

"Well, the liaisons are a fairly new thing, used to give voice to the many groups that are a part of the Inquisition." For instance.... "Korrin Ataash, of the Valo-Kas and the Mage Council. There's room and medical assistance for any who need it."

A

[circleprodigy]

Inessa is fortunately outside, the small, pale elven woman in Grey Warden armor playing fetch with her mabari. Even though it's the same action over and over, Garahel never seems to tire of it. 'Seems' but she knows he will eventually, and be a calmer, better-behaved dog to have around. Even playtime serves a purpose.

Upon spotting the group, however, Inessa refrains from throwing the ball again and snaps to alertness, approaching them. Garahael perks up and barks to Herian, tail wagging happily. Hello again! "...Herian?" Well, this is a surprise, though definitely not an unwelcome one. But she doesn't allow shock to take over when there are people in need. "The estate has plenty of rooms available. I'll be glad to show the way."

[dashing]

It has been a long time since she's heard her given name spoken with any inflection other than Orlesian. That it almost as great a surprise as a stranger knowing her name, although she would be less shocked this close to Halamshiral. Here she is called anything from her given name to Starkhaven demon, both with varying degrees of affection.

Recognition does not come immediately; it has been coming on two years since the Spire fell, but at least the uniform gives her a point for reference, and Herian's mouth flickers into a frown for long moments before finally she makes the connection.

"Warden Serra." Her posture eases just barely. "It is a fine thing to see you well. Your guidance is greatly appreciated, though I suspect my companions will be better at ease closer to their kin than might be expected in the rooms of this estate." Cautious, mistrustful of this Duc rather than anything the Warden has ever said or done. "Know you where the elves are most commonly accommodated?"

She's been doing this too long to think they are anything but secluded in some way.

B

[eolasemah]

Somewhat revitalized by travel, and confident to leave the garden alone for longer, Sina has been spending more time in the healing tents. Although quite competent with healing magic, she often prefers to use herbal remedies, partially to conserve her magic for the more dire injuries and partially so as not to provoke another shard-related incident.
When she sees Korrin talking to a new arrival, Sina smiles at them mildly from across the cluster of tents and then makes her way over, wiping her hands on a cloth.
"Hello," she says quietly, and, looking past Herian, greets the elves with a somewhat more emphatic "andaran atish'an." Then she clears her throat to address them all. "I'm not Eirlys, but I'll do what I can until she's available. Are there any who are badly injured?" Her eyes flit nervously to the pregnant elf; this is something she knows how to deal with in theory, but has never had an occasion to practice. Hopefully labor can wait a little longer.

[dashing]

Herian is almost ready to look up with a slight smile at the offer. She is almost ready to respond graciously for the offer of aid, to gently deny if it comes from a human or accept the assistance of an elf. She is not prepared for a Dalish.

To her credit, she keeps her mouth curling into a snarl. The only visible reaction is the subtle clench of her jaw, and the slowing of her breath.

"We will wait," she manages, slowly, "for Healer Ancarrow."

The gall. The utter gall of the Dalish offering aid to those they have tormented. There is an air of unease in the group, though whether it is from the tension coiling in Herian's muscles or from the Dalish herself might be hard to discern.

"I thank you for your generous offer, but we decline."

araceli & herian asmr hour; last day of solace; wildcard

[foxsays]

Herian's refugees aren't the only new arrivals to Skyhold in the month of Solace after witnessing horrors. The survivors from Dairsmuid stick together unsurprisingly but they're comfortable mingling with anyone that doesn't wear the badge of a Templar or a Seeker, the story spreading of the rescue the way all stories do. Araceli might be back in Skyhold, she might be checking on them every day still and shifting her lessons and training around them until they don't need her quite so much but she hasn't forgotten everything she saw.

Yes, she got to relax after. Even got to spend her birthday by the sea but it takes a toll on a person so it's why she's down in the hot springs alone, to sort herself out. A little pampering. Mostly all that hair hence the basket on her arm with all the pins, and combs, and brushes, but most importantly the bottle of hair oil. The really good stuff that she may or may not have a cache of, hidden away under her bed.

It's probably rude to gasp when she sees what she sees but that's upsetting. That is deeply, deeply distressing. In a sort of everyday upsetting. Not traumatising. She'll take it over reading the words of a dead woman. Having to be strong for a band of survivors. Killing Templars after a mad dash to rescue people that came to be friends after the longest wait of her life.

"Your hair!" The stone walls of the hot springs are perfect for highlighting how quietly aghast she is at the state of Herian's mane.

do we need to do a cw for platonic nudity idk

[dashing]

Herian is content enough to ignore anyone else as she goes about her business. It is bathing, and it is bathing in facilities far better than what has been afforded her in some time. She has hardly ever lacked for hot water with the nature of her magic, but anything more than a bucket or a stream is luxurious. Herian pauses, just short of pulling her faded grey shirt over her head, and folds it as she stands, laying it onto a chair. The action reveals burn scars that wrap over her right shoulder and reach down to her ribs as she pulls away her bra.

Despite her general policy of be silent and ignore, the comment makes Herian look over her shoulder, turning with little concern for her state of undress, though she does cross her arms for some semblance of modesty.

"Such manners," she replies, a little dryly. It's a subtle type of thing. "I must confess myself unfamiliar with this particular greeting."

B

[ancarrow]

Eirlys jumps up as she sees how tired and how very pregnant the woman Herian's leading toward the tents is, relieved and grateful that the stress of her journey here hadn't brought on an early delivery. She clears the space where she'd been working to give the woman somewhere to rest.

"There's myself, and Kallian, and Sina." There's a part of her that wants to reassure Herian that the human healers would treat them well, but she understands their distrust from her own experience. "I promise, you will all be safe here."

[dashing]

"You are Eirlys Ancarrow, yes?" Herian studies her carefully, bracing herself for the familiar scent of healing tents. Memories are woven into smells, and she knows well that some herbs drag up more than she can readily deal with after such a journey. She will not, however, abandon her post for such a need. "The liason for elves from the cities?"
It is a question while also... not actually being a question at all, and a slightly odd emphasis on from the cities. She has encountered on Dalish healer claiming a desire to help already, and has little desire or interest in happening upon another.

Herian guides the woman to the cleared spot, and offers Eirlys something that might, on a day with less disasters to be navigated, have been a smile. "This is Cerise." A moment, and she looks between Eirlys and Cerise, hand briefly on the woman's shoulder before she takes a respectful step back. "Would you sooner I wait outside the tent for a time?" For privacy and attending to matters of health, and possibly making sure no more Dalish appear out of the woodwork.

Wildcard

[justice_is_blond]

While they've a couple of elven healers, they don't have enough to be on shift at all times. Anders checks on her sometimes when he's on duty, and today is no exception. He's wrapping up, glad to assure her that her former exhaustion has done nothing harmful to her child, when someone else comes in. Before looking, he finishes what he's saying. The patient is the most important person in the room; the other can wait.

Only after does he turn and look at the woman standing there. Tall. Impressive. Doesn't look like she smiles much. That doesn't tell him enough to identify her just yet, though there's something very familiar about her face.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

[dashing]

On the one hand—

- he's not an elf. That's bad.
- he's not a Dalish. That's good.
- the froghurt is also cursed. That's bad.


After years watching her mother tend to people, that the patient is his sole focus softens her expression fractionally. To the amateur Herian observer it might appear that no change has taken place. "I was coming to check on the patient," she replies, with the slightest nod to Cerise. And, a note of cautious curiosity, "Healer Ancarrow was indisposed?"

Prodding, but not charging in with flaming arrows just yet.

Wildcard

[mythalenaste]

Pel can be found among the refugees at some point, passing out items from her yarn shop. Hats, mitts, socks, and shawls, all to keep people warm at night. Her own personal shawl has disappeared. When Herian approaches, she is on one knee, letting a small girl touch the tattoos on her face.

"Just for a little while," she answers whatever question it was the girl asked. "It means I belong to Mythal, who protects the People."

The little girl breaks away from her and runs to hug Herian's knee, clutching a little improvised yarn-doll to her chest.

[dashing]

Herian, for all her sternness, kneels down to bring herself down to the same level as the child. One thing at a time.

"Feasgar math, Tabitha. " Good afternoon? the child ventures, and Herian nods, offers her a slight smile that is warmer than its broadness might initially suggest. "Aye, that's the right of it." Her gaze has not wandered to the Dalish, largely because she has no particular desire to expose the child to her sharp edges. "Your father's looking for you. Better you surprise him, hmm?"

Tabitha nods, brightly, and it's only then that Herian looks to the Dalish, something in her gaze shuttering.

"There are others who can better benefit from your generosity, I think."

( closed ) Sabine.

[dashing]

There's all different shapes of exhaustion; the amazingly satisfying kind, and the less glamorous and more drained variety, where you can't even be pleased by the aches in your limbs. Herian has always done well at pushing through exhaustion, but right now her mind frels blank. They made it to an Inquisition camp, the refugees are safe, and now she must decide whether to linger and supervise a while or ride on to the next town. More people always needed help.

She is leaning against the side of an ornate fountain that seems excessive even by Orlesian standards, and slowly rolling her shoulders to tease out the tension in them.

It's a good thing its so peaceful, and all.

[glandival]

Does Herian feel watched? Maybe she should. Or maybe an exhausted mind snows over the usual strain of perceiving the world in every sense, or maybe Sabine makes a career of watching without being seen, and moving in the blindspots of humankind.

She doesn't stay there.

Herian's world suddenly tips when she is shoved from behind, blunt-palmed but lacking ferocity, more push than impact. It doesn't take much -- the lip of the fountain is right there, just below knee-high, offering little room to catch herself in a stumble with the only recourse being to land into the glistening, cool fountain water. At least it's clean, with a sparse smattering of Caprice coins shining at the bottom.

Her attacker steps readily into view. Sabine is dressed in light-weight cloth of green and ivory, skirted and cinched, a far-ish cry from her battle-scratched leathers, although the absence of a quiver probably doesn't mean she is any less armed. This isn't that kind of attack, though, smile ready and crooked.

"You are welcome," she declares, easily. You know, before Herian can thank her (???).

Healing tents

[fleurdesel]

There'd been murmurs- easily ignored- of a stern, striking woman guiding wounded elves to the Inquisition's camp. She doesn't doubt that there is such a person or such a procession- with the Civil War taking root and rattling about the citizenry while nobles drink and dine and play their Grand Game many are bloodied and broken. For anyone to step forward and take charge is commendable- and not terribly unlikely.

Some complaints filter her way as she works. A temper, a glare, a glower with a particular accent that cuts with its familiarity. She knows someone with such a voice and manner, a spark of fire and spirit bent to chivalry.

Someone that died in the Spire.

As such it is simple enough to ignore the words and the murmurs, simple enough to tend to what patients come her way and mind the stock of herbs and poultices between rounds of paperwork.

[dashing]

She does not move with ease, only in the sense that tension is slowly ascending her spine. By all apparances Herian is a a rolling cloud giving human form. Some might think her ominous, others might approve. It is the motion of potential and changeability. Herian is a storm and a summer day.

At the first chance she had, when all duty was fulfilled to a point to survive her own interrogation, she seeks out the healing tents again, and asks for the Enchanter; the Councilor, now.

There is the knock of knuckes on wood, and she steels herself, seeing a familiar back. The last time she'd seen her--

"Enchanter LeBlanc." Breathe. Remember. "Please forgive my-- abrupt intrusion."

( closed ) Cosima.

[dashing]

She is still learning the ins and outs of this place. The journey to Skyhold, even after time for her party to recover in Halamshiral, had been a tiring one, and Herian is ill at ease departing once more until she knows the elves she escorted here at well settled and comfortable with their new surrounds. They are happy enough today that she feels free to finally walk away from the Keep proper and explore a little, departing with the rising sun.

It is closer to midday when her wandering brings her across another. The stream here is not yet joined to the river that courses a little closer to Skyhold, and Herian was crouched down by it to splash water over her face and wash her hands when a sound nearby prompts her to draw her sword, moving slowly before she pinpoints the source.

"Are you in need of some assistance?" The question comes with the quiet sound of her sword returning to its scabbard, and a faintly quizzical look at the woman and her bundles of cuttings, which frankly look haphazard rather than identifiably for medicinal or culinary purposes.

[youwonscience]

"Whoa," Cosima said, hands raised the instant she registers someone coming at her with a sword, and going down only slowly after the woman puts it away. "Um." It takes a second to register that she's been asked a question.

"Oh. Uh, maybe? I'm not doing anything particularly important to anyone other than me. I thought this place didn't belong to anyone in particular?" Cosima sounds vaguely apologetic. It's the kind of day she's been having. She's probably pulling the Thedas equivalent of poison ivy, while she's at it.

( closed ) Thranduil. ( hover for translation. )

[dashing]

The days are long and dusty, and even after meeting with Adelaide, Herian is not at peace. The Dalish could come and go amongst her people freely, and though a good many of the refugees have no care for the Dalish, they did not have the standing to brace themselves against them should the Dalish insist on being present. Herian worries the inside of her cheek with her teeth as she walks with buckets of fresh water, setting them down by the fire where an older woman with waves of red hair and warm brown eyes is cooking. Herian's own smile is slight, as it always is, until there is the thunder of familiar feet.

Herian crouches down as the child approaches her, a little storm of honey-blonde ringlets, and for all that Herian barely smiles her expression still brightens, and she gently taps Tabitha's chin. "Aren't you bonny?"

Tabitha beams, grabs Herian's sleeve to tug at it, and starts to draw her in the direction of Someone New in camp. Herian can feel the tension coiling about her spine even as she is lead. The last time Tabitha encountered a stranger it had been the Dalish, Pel. She doubts that her optimism at Adelaide visiting deserves any merit.

When she sees him - easily beyond a full foot taller than most elves in camp, with long hair that she could not place as silvery or blond in such bright light as this, Herian is surprised. He carries not the wretched tattoos of the Dales, but he certainly is not akin to any elf she has ever seen.

It is unsurprising Tabitha leads her to him, and she informs him very smartly that this is the lady that brought them here, and that she has kept them safe, and that she is the bravest person Tabitha has ever met, as if Herian is a favourite doll being shown off. Herian, for her part, looks up that the stranger with a guarded sort of curiosity, as Tabitha hugs against her leg.

"Ceud mìle fàilte. Fine day to you. What brings you to our dwelling, sir?"

[rowancrowned]

He's coaxed the story from several children, begged a meal from the adults, and spent the rest of the time performing little tricks for the youngest ones- coins out from behind ears, then pressed into pockets where mothers and fathers will find them later and will be less inclined to refuse.

Thranduil smiles at Tabitha before acknowledging Herian. His back was bowed a bit to be on her level, but once facing her, he straights it, settles his shoulders, and crosses his leg. The bowl and the crust of bread still in it- that he fully intends to finish, thank you- are neatly pushed to the side.

"The elflings," he answers honestly. "But they are well-fed, and for the most part clothed warmly, and those here have the sense to dig their wells away from where they dig their latrines."

They're elves- of course they have the sense to do so.

The woman comes over and ladles another half-measure of soup into his bowl. The smile he gives her is warmer than the one for Herian when he breaks eye contact with the cook, and certainly more bemused. "I stayed for the food."

Wildcard- Skyhold Entrance

[thecookery]

There was no shortage of work to be done in the kitchens this morning, as in addition to their normal duties, word from the scouts had come in that a new batch of refugees, this one fairly sizable actually, would be arriving today after a rather long trek to get here. And none of Skyhold's cooks would want people arriving bone-tired, cold, and likely hungry from such a march and not find a warm meal waiting for them, despite any other differences of opinion Avery and some of her colleagues might hold.

(She'd argued with those blasted giants until they were all blue in the face (well, one blue, two blue-grey, and one just silently smirking at their antics) that they weren't cooking for Nevarran royalty. These people will be too tired to want anything other than a simple meal that's hot and tasty and hardy enough to help them recover from the road.)

It's how she finds herself outside the gates when the refugees finally arrive. After the actual cooking was complete and all that was left was to keep the food warm and waiting, Avery had left the work to someone else and stormed off to cool her head a bit and prepare to play welcoming party. Not her forte certainly, but at the moment, it's better than spending another second in that kitchen. So giving her best smile (...5 out of 10, maybe), she begins greeting the--wow, that's a lot of elves--crowd and spreading the word of where they can go to have a meal and warm up before settling in.

[dashing]

Herian is leading a horse, a massive creature, though its head hangs low and its sides are sweaty from the ascent to the Keep. The stallion snorts as they pass under the gateway, and the elven woman sitting on the horse laughs quietly, leaning down to pet his neck. He is a great palomino creature, coat shining dark copper at his points and a deep sandy colour, as his mane and tail are cream and white— or would be, without, the dirt and mud ground into them.

It's the horse that starts nudging Herian with his shoulder, tugging at the reigns to investigate because this person smells interesting, and he huffs and stomps when Herian nudges him right back.

"Cerise, I will catch up to you. Theon learned where the healing tents were, he can guide you hence and see to this one." This one means the horse, who is sniffing at the air, lifting his top lip and leaning closer to start nibbling at Herian's hair. She nudges his face away again, sighing before approaching the human before her.

"Did I hear right? You made mention of food at the ready?"

A quiet sort of surprise, pleased, if Herian were one to let surprise or pleasure or humour or any kind of emotion show overmuch.