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

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.

[thecookery]

"That's right," she answers, keeping up her sort of stiff maître d'hôtel routine. "Made sure there'd be plenty to go around, when we heard you were nearly here. Just right up this way." She motions toward a number of people already heading in the direction of the dining hall with her instructions, and likely she would have simply left it there and moved on to the next person in the crowd if not for the horse.

When Avery looks at him and his antics, the smile becomes a little more relaxed, more genuine. "Stables are the other way, if you've a mind to leave this one there. Or at least have the horsemaster give him a look over. He's a good one. Will take damn good care."

[dashing]

"He's not welcome in the dining hall?"

For all the dryness in the delivery, the flatness that might just make Herian sound bizarre or off-kilter, there is the faintest edge of a smile. It doesn't show, exactly, except for him nudging her arm with his giant head, evidently unimpressed by the lack of attention, until Theon makes a clicking sound and coaxes the horse to follow. "I will advise them where to take him. I dare say he'd appreciate the attention."

Not to say he doesn't get plenty, with a collection of children cooing at him daily, but there's a difference between knowing hands assessing for injury and providng warm bran mash, and children braiding tails. Herian's hand rest on the pommel of her sword as she looks at the woman. "Thank you. I am sure we are all much appreciative of your efforts."

Her words trail off and turn questioning, head tilting very slightly as she waits for the stranger to provide their name.

[thecookery]

"Avery," she provides after a moment, brushing past the thanks without comment and finally taking a moment to give this woman a good look-over. The horse, the sword, the posture. Well, well, look at this little knightling and her elvish entourage. There's obviously a story there, but there always is. Especially around here.

So instead of asking about any of it, Avery simply shrugs and says, with matching dryness, "And nobody said he wasn't welcome. Just might have some trouble with the stairs."

[dashing]

"You'd be surprised what that beast is capable of, when there are carrot to be had."

No, really. There are tales to be told, though the very dryness of her tone makes it sound as if they will never be shared.

Herian inhales, watches Avery a moment, and bows her head slightly. "Herian Amsel, of the White Spire." A Circle lost to rumours of murder and blood magic and Templars and Seekers running rampant and mages out of control. "Are you the Inquisition's official welcoming committee?"

She does not seem a diplomat, though Herian hardly minds. It is simply... curious.

[thecookery]

Oh, she can imagine. Still, the stairways and doorframes might be a bit short for him.

As for the woman, Avery isn't sure what to make of the bit about the White Spire. She's heard those rumors of course, as well as many others that are even more outlandish, but she knows next to nothing about the Circles that she's certain is the truth. Especially ones outside of Ferelden, so instead of excogitating profusely on what this might mean, she focuses on the question and lets out a small, darkly amused huff of breath. "Definitely not. Just a cook who needed a minute out of the kitchen. Thought I might as well make myself useful while I was at it."

She nods further into the Keep. "I'm sure someone more important will be down to give you some sort of speech soon. Show you where to set up and all that."

[dashing]

If the Herian that stood before Avery now were the same woman that roamed the halls of the Spire, she might have asked something along the lines of and do you not make yourself useful in the kitchens? with a gentle smile that strayed into the territory of a smirk. Instead Avery is met simply with the slight quirk of an eyebrow, a gaze that is cool as much as it is curious.

"I'm sure we're grateful for your efforts, Miss Avery. Thank you for the kindness. I've no need or desire for speeches, myself."

[thecookery]

Avery responds to the thanks as she usually does. With discomfort. This time in the form of a small, stiff smile and nod.

"That's too bad," she finally says after a moment. "You'll likely find no shortage of those here. Wordy, most of this lot. There was one who went on for hours non-stop not too long ago."

[dashing]

"Better allow them more breath and time, then. They'll not need my manipulation of either."

Somehow she makes it sound very polite and very calm, rather than dry and faintly amused. Herian is curious, not eager to be rude or unpolite, and her general level of low-key (not that low-key) cautious.

"And yourself? Do you consider yourself a great orator?" Herman starts to walk, then, watching to see if Avery of the Kitchens will go with her.

[thecookery]

She hesitates for a moment, glancing around, before following with a scoff. "What do you think?"

oh my god i missed a herman correction, fml

[dashing]

"I think a person is not limited by the role they hold, and assumption benefit few."

She walks steadily, gaze locked ahead, keeping an eye on the elves. "Little else matters, in such a context."

it is forever now. a perma-herman, if you will

[thecookery]

Avery just raises an eyebrow. It was a sarcastic brushoff of the idea, not the start of a philosophical debate, so it takes her a moment to respond.

"Right... Well, I'm not much one for speeches," she answers, unsure exactly what to say about the rest of that. "If that was still in doubt."

hermanent despair

[dashing]

Never doubt Herian's ability to be dramatic or overly serious or overly anything, really. Is there a situation where something can be taken too severely? She is here for it.

"Nor I," Herian replies, and either she is still being horribly serious, or perhaps there is a fraction of a hint of a shadow of a joke in there... maybe. "Let us pray no great hangs upon the diplomatic charms of our tongues."

[thecookery]

"I've much better tongue-related skills."

...wait.

"Cooking, I mean."

[dashing]

Uh. Herian's gaze stays trained ahead of her, but her brow furrows slightly.

She spares Avery the indignity of the look that she might otherwise level in her direction. To one known to her it might be a shared jest. To a stranger? To a stranger it would surely seem a mockery or an insult, and Herian has no interest in delivering either.

"I'm sure many would quite agree. Few celebrate speeches more than a full belly."

[thecookery]

Her self-control is appreciated. Avery seems to have brushed past the moment with no more than a furrowed brow.

"Guess we'll see about that," she comments dryly, glancing around at the rest of the crowd walking toward the dining hall.

[dashing]

Bless this mess.

Herian is silent as they move closer to the hall, and there is a brief moment where she tenses and her muscles coil, ready to run - one of the elves stumble on the stairs, and she's half a step to rushing to their side when they catch themselves and shakes their heads at another's offer of assistance. Neither the tension in her nor the sharpness of her gaze disappear completely, and she frowns as she they too begin to climb the stairs, concerned.

In an effort to distract herself, she speaks to Avery without looking at her, "from whence did you join the Inquisition?"

[thecookery]

Herian's behavior earns her a curious look. She may have been protecting these people on the road here, but most of them are adults. They're not made of glass, and she can't be responsible for keeping them from every scraped knee and pricked finger forever.

"Denerim, originally," Avery answers after a moment. "I was in Redcliffe for a while though. Saw all the fighting." Her jaw clenches for a moment at that much-abbreviated story. "Saw the Inquisition helping people. One of the few who was even trying. So I thought I'd come see if they needed another hand."

[dashing]

There's protectiveness, and if you take that up a few levels then it's Herian. They are adults; they are not glass. They are fragile all the same. They have been attacked from all sides and abused, and no one has protected them. Perhaps she protects too much, but if that is the case then she holds no regrets.

"I have only heard rumour of what transpired at Redcliffe." She watches Avery for a moment, considering. It was no small thing, after all, and Redcliffe was a town that seemed to have endured much over the years. "How do you find the people here?"

[thecookery]

Well, at least it's a shared burden now, whether it feels it yet or not?

At the question, Avery gives a single soft breath of a laugh. "They're effective, and I suppose they mean well. But if you want to know more than that about any one of them, you've definitely asked the wrong person. I don't do speeches, and I don't do any... palling around."

She gives Herian a look like just the idea of making friends is somehow off-putting to her, before continuing, "I do my job, and most of them do theirs."

[dashing]

Herian quirks an eyebrow, and wonders if she has inadvertently given the impression that she is here for the purpose of socialising, or if Avery is simply commenting on her own self. At any rate, the huff of breath that follows could possible maybe be taken for amusement. But only possibly.

"I only hoped to gauge the character of this place by some small measure. It would be a fool thing to rely solely on my scant impressions alone." Or the words of others alone, but it can help. "I suppose that is the least we can hope for."

[thecookery]

"Yeah, I mean..." She trails off for a moment. People don't normally ask for Avery's opinion on things like this, so she has to gather her thoughts and probably looks a little uncomfortable to be honest. "I don't always agree with every call they make, but who does? At least these ones seem to make them because they think it's for the best, not because it fills their pockets or whatever."