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

[dashing]

"I assure you, the elves of Orlais and lands beyond are well acquainted with the capabilities of your kin."

Sharp, brittle - as if the words might be fit to render injury as well as any broken glass.

She is at risk of being uncivil, may even have slipped so already and it will not do (nor will her lack of awareness, even momentarily, do.) Her chest feels tight, her lungs both too large for her chest and too small to draw in air. This took her off guard, and it cannot be endured. She cannot falter, now. She is no elf and she knows it well, but she endeavours to speak in defence and support of these innocent men and woman that she has sworn to protect.

[eolasemah]

Sina is desperately confused, but she reads tone well enough. Her uncertainty gives way to a low and roiling anger, signified only by a flash of her eyes.

"I am a healer," she says in a slightly more forceful tone, "and you asked for an elf. Here I am." Noticing the others, Sina angles her gaze toward them again. "...why does she speak for you?" she asks, a genuine question. "Is this your wish, or hers?" She's prepared to be reasonable, even if the human is setting off every alarm bell in her head.
"Please, sister, at least come take some water and rest." This, somewhat imploringly, to the pregnant woman.

[dashing]

"An elf," Herian agrees, very softly. "Not one of the Dalish." She leeches the bite and the venom out of it, wrestles the anger from her tone, but even with all the neutrality she can muster there is weight to it. Dalish sounds clipped, a strange harshness in each syllable.

From a few paces behind another elf steps forward. He's blond and dust-worn as much as all of them. "Herian helped us out of our alienage and offered to bring us to the Inquisition. She's kept us safe from the Civil War--" The man is in his forties, perhaps, or maybe his thirties. The mix of alienage brutality and elven blood makes it hard to tell if he looks old or young. A tilt of his head, and he holds up his arm, the mark of an arrow's bite through his forearm. "And, at times, the Dalish."
Cerise, the woman leaning against Herian, clears her throat. "She speaks for us because her decisions have kept us safe."

Cerise's gaze is not so harsh as Herian's, but it is cautious all the same. Herian, for her part, looks to the woman at her arm and frowns. She does need water, and she needs rest, but she does not need to be indebted to the Dalish, nor trapped in the presence of one. "I know not if the succour this woman offers is sincere, but I doubt it with every fibre of me," Herian murmurs, more for Cerise than anyone else.

[eolasemah]

This doesn't make sense.
Sina's eyes begin to brim with tears as she looks between them, flabbergasted. She takes note of the man's wound, able to tell that it was indeed from an arrow, though she's not familiar enough with the non-Dalish kind to be able to identify it beyond that. For all she knows, he's telling the truth. And that's... horrifying.
"I don't understand," she says, faltering, addressing only Cerise and the man who spoke. "What cause would a clan have to attack their own kin?" Herian might as well not be there, her opinion mattering less and less to Sina. She's as offensive as she is uninjured, so there is no reason to attend her at all.

[dashing]

"Matching ears do not make you kin," Herian replies, a low murmur that is still entirely audible.

She does not have the ears or the body of an elf, but she has their blood, and she has always fought for them. And what have the Dalish ever done?

Cerise, surprised by Sina's emotion, retreats a step, shaking her head. Something in it makes her mouth tremble unhappily, arms wrapped around herself, and Herian resharpens her gaze on Sina. "Your kind has done enough, whether through direct action, or by its lack. Do not come near these men and women. They have endured much, and I will not see you worsen it."

[eolasemah]

Her kind.
The words themselves make Sina's blood boil, an angry flush rising in her cheeks, and of course her eyes beginning to shed tears, since her anger is rarely graceful or poised.
"My" kind," she sputters, "is their kind. And if it weren't for your kind, alienages wouldn't exist at all. And perhaps the Dalish wouldn't either, because we'd all still be welcome in the world your kind took from us." She's too hurt to even look back at the other elves, having more or less abandoned the idea of offering any assistance; she's just not about to take this kind of insult lying down. If she weren't the First, she might. But she has to be an example.
Probably.

[dashing]

"Have you ever seen an alienage?"

She is as still as the glass of undisturbed water. The surface is pristine as a mirror, while the current boils beneath. She is ready to drown any fool that thinks to challenge her.

"I was raised in one, and I saw the abuse of the Dalish more than once. My family is elven, they are my blood, and we all suffered at the hands of humans, more than you know."

She stands between her people and this brat with crocodile tears, and tilts her head ina way that suggests off with you.

"I believe our stance is clear. Take your ignorance elsewhere."

[eolasemah]

Sina shakes her head, but doesn't see how that relates-- she's heard enough stories, and doesn't understand why it's being described to her as something she didn't already know was awful. She watches Herian incredulously, pausing only to wipe her arm brusquely across her face.
"Elf-blooded," she repeats, more to solidify it in her mind than to cast it at the woman, "then you should know better." Her voice is quiet, if quavery with emotion.
"Do not speak to me as though I couldn't understand. Any cruelty imposed on you does not justify poisoning your own people against each other, dividing us all to be penned into filthy hovels or chased away and slaughtered at the whims of shem'len. How dare you!"

Her heart rate is rising, and with it comes a sudden and unexpected spurt of energy from the shard in Sina's chest, which staggers her briefly, but does not knock her over. Clutching it, she looks viciously back up at Herian. When she speaks again, her voice is breathy and strained, but no less intense.

"If you are of the elvhen, then you are the sister of me and mine. You're going to have to live with that."

[arlathvhen]

Beleth hadn't even noticed what was happening just a ways off, speaking with one of the healers about current herbal needs and whatnot. The argument might have passed without her notice, but there's a flash of green light and Sina is staggering.

It takes all of two seconds for Beleth to cross to the other Dalish, whisking her up worriedly, hands at Sina's elbows. "Lethallan, are you alright?" She murmurs to Sina, entirely focused on fussing over her for a few moments. "Do you need me to get someone...?" Madame Adelaide? Anders, maybe--?

It's only after Beleth is sure that Sina isn't about to keel over dead that Beleth bothers to acknowledge Herian, glancing over to her calmly, taking a moment to let her eyes flick over the woman. She'd caught the last of what Sina had said--of the elvhen? Did Sina temporarily lose her sight? Worrying.

"I am dreadfully sorry," Beleth starts, tone of impeccable politeness, smiling calmly. "Is there a problem at hand...? I would hate to see the peace broken and a fuss raised over something trivial." All the time, she kept her hands on Sina, carefully positioning herself between the other Dalish and this strange shemlen.

[dashing]

If it were not set at Cerise's back for support, Herian's hand would be shaking. Liar. Vicious little spider. Her heart thunders, but the storm is a private one . No one will known the lurch of sea and the crash of lightning within her. A second Dalish arrives, and though there is no smile, her expression is calm - neutral. Herian is the very picture of slightly stern serenity.

"Nothing of great consequence." Undercutting the injury inflicted, the knives set against her oen heart. More Dalish, sporting a false smile and false friendliness. Herian saw players of the Game, throughout Orlais. She was aware politics had a role even in the lives of the Circle mages. Knights, she believed, should be separate from it. Political agenda was not what mattered, only doing what was right, honourable and just.

The Dalish wishes to smile sweetly, sooner than start a fight? Herian preferred it so, for the sake of those with her and the woman clutching her arm.

"We had a rather stark disagreement in our discussion. I fear, though, that your friend maybe be in need of aid, herself."

The concern is genuine. She hates the Dalish, but she has no love of suffering.

[eolasemah]

This happens too often to be a big surprise, but seldom enough that Sina still isn't ever quite ready for it. She accepts Beleth's support, leaning slightly on her and wincing as she tries to take deeper breaths. The conflict isn't forgotten, but she finds she's having a more difficult time concentrating on it. And under no circumstances does she want to appear weak in any way, let alone fall, in front of this woman.

"We should go," she says, a bit shortly, her breath still coming with difficulty. She's supporting at least half her weight on Beleth, and nudges her slightly in the direction of... away. She can't deal with both problems at once, and can't help but worry that Beleth will have a worse time than she.

[arlathvhen]

"Of course, Lethallan." Once again, Beleth's focus is entirely centered on Sina, keeping a hand on her, concern marking her face. But even when speaking to her fellow Dalish, she makes sure her words are carefully planned. "Do you want to go back to the gardens? Or if food would help, we can go to the kitchens. Burly is a sweetheart, he's made me all kinds of sweets, I'm sure we can talk him into making you something." If Beleth were ever going to marry a man for his job, it would probably be him.

Then she turns to Herian, calm and polite. "I'm glad that this disagreement was of no consequence. Indeed, I'm sure it was nothing." A very deliberate, measured pause, and then she continues. "I would hate to think that there were any strife between us and...your people. Please, if any of us causes offense, do not hesitate to contact any of the advisors. They are all personally acquainted with at least a few of the Dalish, and I am sure that they would do their best to resolve the matter. Or if you find it preferable, you can also speak to the mage's council. The People have members among them as well, and I have absolute faith that they would do their best to make sure none of us are causing a disturbance to anyone."

Another measured pause, and her smile increases, as she puts a hand on her chest. "And of course, you are welcome to bring up any issue to me. But not right now, I'm afraid. If you'll excuse me, I must attend to my friend. It was a pleasure to meet you."

[dashing]

The snake enjoys the sound of her hiss, to go on with so many unnecessary words when her friend struggles. Herian held little care for the well-being of reptiles, but she had believed them like to at least see to their own. (Their own, indeed, seemed to be their only care.) Cerise's hold on Herian has eased, and for all that she is pregnant and tired, she is in far better form than the struggling Dalish.

The hissing is not near so clever or subtle as she thinks. All pause and emphasis and making pretty with her words, when they both of them knew the truth of it. The Dalish had poisoned the waters. They had compromised the Inquisition's very integrity. Herian promised to bring these people somewhere safe, and instead she has lead them to a pit of snakes.

It seems worth noting that she can hardly seek this self-righteous creature out without knowing her name, but she's no great interest in pressing the point when the other is in pain. Herian simply nods an acknowledgement.

"Blessings with you."