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]

"Clan Neirysa declared themselves to us when my father took me to them. So far as they are concerned, it is not matter of suspicion." Just in case she had been unclear. Communication is no great virtue of hers, not in the way that others seem to spin words and make understanding bend to their benefit. Not quite lies, but a number of convenient truths.

"That was near Starkhaven. These more recent attacks were in Orlais; our party is largely comprised of elves from Val Firmin and the area surrounding. It was not safe to travel by road much of the way, with the war escalating." Her brow flickers, and Herian reaches for a long stick, a leftover from an earlier game of sword fighting between the children earlier. She uses to to sketch a rough map detailing from Val Firmin to Halamshiral, with a line to indicate the Frostbacks, as well. "Much of the journey demanded hiding from soldiers and chevaliers and common villagers alike. Straying into the edges of woods provided decent enough cover." She could do much, but if there were endless troops? Ah, she'd not endanger the elves for the sake of her ego. "So close to the Dales as we were, we tried to balance the risks."

On the map she marks three crosses over the rough areas where they were attacked. One is roughly in the area around Montsimmard, while the two others are much closer together, near Verchiel. "The first attack was only arrows. I cannot know with certainty based in evidence, but based upon the shots loosed upon us near Verchiel," and she taps the city on the map, "where we saw those attacking us, I think the arrows shared the same method of crafting. The first attack would have been three weeks past." Their travel was not as fast as it could have been, taking awkward roads and travelling with the frail and vulnerable. "They did not attack me alone; our party entire was subject to their violence. They ask them at your leisure, they can speak of it with their own tongues if you've cause to doubt. She frowns for a moment. "There was no formal introduction, but several of them called out Grymusseth."

[rowancrowned]

He is not getting all the information from her he needs. Not her fault—she has not been trained as a scout, and furthermore is not loyal to him. Nor does he wish to subject her to further prodding. He has a name—he has two names, though ‘Grymusseth’ is as far from Elvhen-sounding as anything could be. Montsimmard, Verchiel, Clan Neirysa. Thranduil has done more with less.

Now, he stands, and steps neatly around her map, not wishing to do her insult by ruining it. “I leave for Orlais within the week. I do not know how long I shall linger there, but once my business is done, I will call upon these elves, and ask for a reckoning.”

And receive one. He would not go alone, of course, he would need Galadriel’s help, and if he could not persuade another elf or two along—Merrill? Cyril?—he was a poor politician.

“I thank you for your help.” He inclines his head, a bow by degrees. “And later, if she will have it, give my thanks to Agathe. If the elflings need anything-- anything-- do not hesitate to ask.”

[dashing]

She is not sure what surprises her more; that he seems to listen, or that he seems to take her words seriously, and holds the matters that troubled these elves here worthy of action. Even if it is a pretence, that is more than many see fit to offer. Herian stands as Thranduil does, and bows, right hand pressed over her heart as she does so. "I am grateful. And I am glad that these elves have another friend hence. They have been too long deprived."

Part of her is uncertain at the thought of leaving another to do the work that is her own, and though her brow is furrowed, she stays silent a moment, debating if she should request a place in this reckoning. It seems doubtful that he would heed such a request.

"If they have any need, they or I will call upon you. You have my word."