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 understand that a good many have abandoned their vows." Her disgust sneaks into her tone, even as she manages to control so many other things and keep them from it. "And I understand that a good many have little grasp of what it is to be a knight. They undermine their honour and the honour of all their fellows through their selfishness."

Her disgust is a thing that sounds harsh and hollow in the same moment, sincere, but as if she was trying to deprive that fire of air even as she spoke. It is better to listen and understand before taking action. She wonders how many of those Templars had even tried to think. She remembers Elodie, and for a moment her eyes drift shut.

Templars seeing an order through might be deemed honourable. In these circumstances those same standards do not seem to apply, not from the outside. Not if this woman's words are to be trusted at all, though she is not quick to assume Seekers condemned simply for displeasure—

Her hands clench into fists below the water, and flatten again. The Spire had not warranted it, either, though Rivain and its unique practices are of little interest to her. It was the land lacking Chantry influence and with much of the Qun and of pirates. Beyond that she knew little.

"Vile." The only word she has for it, and there are complicated emotions woven into that one syllable.

[foxsays]

"Do you understand what it is to be one? Only I wonder if I have ever met a knight at all here." Her sigh echoes in the room more than she means it to; all the stories of brave knights, of honour and valour and chivalry that leave her grimacing and in need of rum to wash the taste out when she finishes her studies for the day. It's easy to guess what a knight would say of most of her home but she'd still take honesty over all of that. Honesty isn't upholding someone then butchering the people that can't defend themselves. What good is a vow when it does nothing to help those truly in need?

She takes up the next comb, works it through Herian's hair before she speaks again, close to her ear when she catches that motion. (Her parents daughter, and they their parents' children before them, there is nothing she won't miss in the water.) "Calma," her voice is low and easy, even if she doesn't feel that way, "calma."

One last check of Herian's hair - sleek for the moment, the cramp in her fingers that she last felt when she returned herself rom the Mire and scraped mud and things she didn't want to think about then or now from it standing testament to that - and she sets down the comb in the basket again. The steam has warmed the oil but when she pours a generous quantity into her hands she rubs them together just to be certain, moving to shift her weight when her legs start going to sleep. The noise she makes as she massages the oil in is an agreeing one. All of those mages are her friends now but even if they weren't? She can't stand to see anyone hurting that way.

"I live in hope that with enough hard work that such things will never be repeated. I am not afraid to roll up my sleeves and pitch in as necessary." The cheer is false but she's determined, that much is plain even if knowing where to start when no one even wants to agree is utterly daunting at times.

[dashing]

"I would be a poor knight indeed, if I claimed myself an expert above all others. And yet, there are those times when I wonder if any remember what meaning there is to the word. Knight-Commanders and Knight-Enchanters alike should conduct themselves to protect, and to be honourable." She cannot glance at Araceli easily, though her gaze flickers to the side, an estimation of a look her way. "Does your question an interest?"

Or was it simply a pondering and a lamenting? Herian does not hold the desire to inflict her thoughts upon those with no interest as something close and dear and precious.

Herian is tense, though. Tense, angry, wrestling with the world and herself. The quiet roll of the strangers words over her accent then them soothing. She rolls her reck as Araceli warms the oil on her hands, a noisy crackle up her spine and a quiet crunch in her muscles issued in response. Somehow she resists the urge to grimace. There are more important things to consider.

"Thank you," she says, softly. "For you aid to those needing in." Mages, moreso than her hair.

[foxsays]

"Everyone must find their way in the world again. Some cling to the familiar even if it no longer fits them, others try on a new thing to see if it will suit. Captaincy is what I understand better, that sort of responsibility to so many people, and Knight-Commander would come with more strings than Knight-Enchanter. Unless Knight-Echanters are more formally recognised than I have been told, in which case I must apologise for my ignorance." So yes, there's an interest of a sort, in a roundabout sort of a way which is how Araceli does tend to work with some of these things when she's conducting her careful lines of questioning as regards mages and their matters. There's no reason she can't do two things at once here. Three if she counts distracting herself from Rivain.

A sympathetic wince tugs at Araceli's face at that sound. "You need to come here every day for at least a week, and to sleep in a real bed. Or a hammock, take all the weight off your bones if not your shoulders." Not so easy with the latter but Araceli still keeps the hammock she fashioned for the sleep she snatches away from Korrin in the middle of the day even if it isn't hot enough to require a siesta in Skyhold.

"There is no need to thank me, I only did what was right."

[dashing]

A very slight shake of her head, not eager to interrupt Araceli's work. It is very strange to have someone seeing to something that feels so very whimsical, but it is not... unpleasant. "Knight-Commanders have a good many under them, both to issues orders and to protect. Knight-Enchanters hold some recognition, but not near the same. Our position is a unique one amongst mages, I think."

Tricky to explain, though she is musing how to best shape her feelings into sentences so that they make sense.

"You are very kind," Herian starts, with that same calm that presses over all of her words and sculpts them, seems read to sculpt her, as well. "My place is with the refugees. I'll not sleep anywhere they do not. I deserve no privilege above them." There were those amongst them who would benefit far more from the relief to their bones, she is sure, but Skyhold has not beds enough to house all the refugees. At least, not so many newly arrived ones. Perhaps she can look into these barracks and discover how great their numbers are, but then stands the worry of how they will stand being parted from one another, if that should come to pass, if there will be apostates amongst the people staying there, and her shoulders tense a little with the progression of her thoughts.

"Doing what is right is not always much appreciated. Honour is too easily cast aside. Pray do not undercut the value of having acted as you did."

[foxsays]

"I have spoken with a few in my time, though only one at any great length," Araceli explains, seeing no real point in dragging the names of Baratheon or Sauveterre into the discussion if she can help it, not when both men are long gone from Skyhold now too. "Knight-Commander Norrington is the only one of such a rank here, he was good enough to answer many of my questions but I know the dangers of relying on one perspective alone. A Knight-Enchanter then does not hold the same sort of authority as an Enchanter, or Senior Enchanter, or First Enchanter would have, correct? Or still does, such things, like the fraternities, still have power." Such things might still have a use if it salvaged carefully.

It would be very wasteful, perhaps damaging otherwise.

"I slept in the hayloft above the stables my first few nights here. It wasn't quite so busy, warm enough, no one bothered me. Once I had the things to make a hammock though, I could sleep wherever I could hang it, usually wherever was warmest - I had not seen snow until I came here." As if that is some sort of terrible confession, the way she says it, her hands in Herian's hair to let the oil work its own sort of magic, moving to the side to wash her hands in the water and then the combs so she can use them again to get rid of the excess. "You will need rest though, to be the very best aid you wish to be to them, but at least there are more than just tents in the snow now. Skyhold actually has options." Who would have thought.

A little taken aback, she stills, blinking at Herian's back; if Lux were here, they would share a look. Greatest double act either side of a rift. "I am still adjusting to so many having moral compasses that point in the wrong direction." Easier to deflect than to say that girls like Araceli are seldom accused of having honour.