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

[mythalenaste]

Pel looks at Herian. Judges. Considers. The anti-Dalish sentiment is one she has run into before, dealing with refugees. She had a baby snatched from her arms a few months ago. By comparison, this is polite. It doesn't kindly dispose her toward this lady, though.

"You going to go round collecting the knits I've given out and make these people go cold?"

[dashing]

"By no means." Her voice stays cool - controlled. There'll be no yelling or scenes, if she can make it so. "But I'll thank you to give me the costings that I can see you paid, and not have a soul here indebted to your ilk." The Dalish have no honour, but well can she imagine them twisting the honour of others. "And then we will part ways gladly, and you will not attend here again."

Her accent is soft but persistent, and her gaze is steady.

[mythalenaste]

A soft snort. Pel's eyes slide shut briefly. She went to Val Royeaux, she saw an alienage, she knew what had to be done. What the Dalish had to own up to. And now, for that very reason, she's being told to leave.

"These people couldn't possibly owe me anything. I don't need to know where they're from to know it was a shem who led them out of it, not the Dalish. I have a thousand years of making up to do to them. Consider it a drop in the bucket. Please."

[dashing]

Do not call me that.
The words would be so simple, but they would be the admission of a raw nerve, exposed and ever in danger of being pressed upon. Do not call me that had, as a child, only resulted in others flinging the word all the more readily, and it had stung. She knew what she was, one of only two humans in a family entirely of elves, whose very difference was ignored and ignored until it felt like the only thing she could be aware of.

The softer context doesn't take the edge off the word, even as Herian could mock herself for it. Knights should be above something so petty, surely, so childish and so vulnerable. Knights were meant to be something stronger. Thinking too much about that one word made it hard to process all the Dalish has said, until a few moments after she has concluded speaking.

"They suffered attacks from Dalish on the road here. I will not see them reminded for the sake of your conscience." Soft, still. Anger prickles under her skin, but makes it neither to her voice nor her expression. Frost advances, but not anger. "Better you stay the blades of your kin, than try to stymie the wounds."

[mythalenaste]

There's a bit of a pause. The words hit Pel and sink in. Her stoic facade drops, and a line appears between her brows. She gave up being a Keeper. Does she have any right to stay the blades of her kin, or complain about their behavior at all, when she gave up her method of influence? But how much longer could she have been bled dry before it killed her?

How long have these people bled even worse than she did, though?

She glances away, briefly, then shakes her head.

"Say they're from the Inquisition. I was just passing them out."

[dashing]

( +5 Herian Slightly Approves. But also -30 because DALISH DALISH DALISH DALISH etc )

From any other person Herian might have accepted the words more graciously, have granted the one speaking them more credit. It makes her immediate ire cool, only to stoke quiet suspicion that burns in her chest as effectively as if she had swallowed hot coals. (And there is the truth of her, that she could condemn the Dalish for doing and for not doing, for helping and for not helping. Whatever could be done would not be right, and even when they acted to her requests, she would doubt them. Some part of her knows it, and the greater part of her is too raw to manage that awareness. They could all burn, just as Halamshiral had burned.

She cannot think such thoughts without regret, but the vicious, childish anger is there all the same.)

"As you say." Calm, still. Her teachers always told her to control her emotions, but there are times when she wonders if perhaps she just became very good at burying them. And, out of caution rather than politeness or personal interest, "what is your name?"

[mythalenaste]

"Pel." No clan name given. She's no longer certain she can rightly give one. Her own name is enough, for now. She sort of enjoys the anonymity of it, but it will cause problems in the long-term, not belonging anywhere. "My cousin Cyril is the Dalish liaison to the Inquisition. If you have a problem with me, it goes to him. He'll take it to the leaders of the Inquisition."

[dashing]

A Dalish liason. How very civil. There is a brief moment where her incredulity catches the corner of her mouth. If she were much inclined to smiles then it might have ended with a cruel, mocking sort of smile. Better for both their sakes that she is not. She is not sure what is more laughable - that the Dalish deign to liase with anyone but themselves, or that the Inquisition has such an infestation.

"We can parley reasonably enough, I'd wager." For now, at least. The information, though, is stored away. This Cyril was likely to be even more of a viper than the rest, controlling and manipulating the information that the Inquisition heard of his kind. Convenient, that.

"Pel," she starts, watching her with the kind of curiosity most people reserve for watching a venomous snake writhe just out of arms reach, "I am Herian Amsel, Knight Enchanter of the White Spire." A knight enchanter with no staff and only a sword hanging at her side, her spirit hilt hidden away more discretely.

[mythalenaste]

"One of my best friends is a Senior Enchanter from the White Spire." And you can be sure Adelaide will hear about how Herian treats her Dalish allies. "I'm pleased to have the acquaintance of one of her comrades. I'll be sure to send her your regards."

It's a casual-sounding pleasantry, but its purpose is to let this woman know Pel is connected. To people who probably know her. And that she is going to be asked about.

[dashing]

"Enchanter LeBlanc was a teacher of mine," Herian replies, tone measured. She is prepared, this time, so it is not the locked lung reaction the Qunari saw.

A teacher who knows what the Dalish did to her, how they had left their cruelty branded on her. A teacher who has befriended the Dalish regardless— Herian must confess herself uncertain how to gauge that, but all Dalish were liars. One of my best friends, Pel claims, and yet Herian finds herself hard pressed to believe it. Herian could claim that one of her close friends was a Keeper, if she was so inclined, and none would be the wiser.

Her gaze as she watches Pel is impassive, unfazed. Her secrets are not to easily spurred from her, nor is fear. "I will be glad to find her here, once my friends are properly settled."

In truth, some part of her is torn. She would sooner have found Enchanter LeBlanc immediately upon arriving here, but there was much to be done, and it was selfishness that spurred her desire to find the Enchanter. Duty first. Honour first. She had a promise to these people, and they would be safe and settled before she took time for her own interests.

"Beannachd leibh. I trust you can find your own way?"