faderift | points the faith in higher things,

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points the faith in higher things,

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.

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Korrin is ill at ease in the fancy estate, trying to tell herself it's just another job and this won't last. Even so, she can't remain still and sets about to pacing/inspecting every aspect of the estate before feeling more comfortable with it. It's on one of these rounds that she spots the dark-haired human woman and her elven entourage. Unlike her, Korrin's status as a mage is readily apparent, given the staff on her back. She also has an empty sword hilt at her hip, something that's puzzled passing servants.

Heading over, Korrin makes sure to give the refugees plenty of space, not wanting to come off as threatening. Her answer is immediate. "Eirlys Ancarrow is who you'll want. She's also the city elf liaison to the Inquisiton, so any issues you need addressed should go to her. She's compassionate and fair-minded; you couldn't ask for better."

Edited 2016-07-16 14:53 (UTC)

Inessa is fortunately outside, the small, pale elven woman in Grey Warden armor playing fetch with her mabari. Even though it's the same action over and over, Garahel never seems to tire of it. 'Seems' but she knows he will eventually, and be a calmer, better-behaved dog to have around. Even playtime serves a purpose.

Upon spotting the group, however, Inessa refrains from throwing the ball again and snaps to alertness, approaching them. Garahael perks up and barks to Herian, tail wagging happily. Hello again! "...Herian?" Well, this is a surprise, though definitely not an unwelcome one. But she doesn't allow shock to take over when there are people in need. "The estate has plenty of rooms available. I'll be glad to show the way."

At the sound of approaching steps and their response, Herian and her charge both look to the source. Cerise, the woman who is leaning on Herian, seems to shrink against her. Herian remains steady, coolly observing the woman before she replies. A staff barely need comment, but she has never heard of Qunari joining Circles, and it makes her back tense. The chance is all it imperceptible; just because she didn't hear of it doesn't mean it never happend, but she has her doubts. Her hand steadies Cerise, and she holds out a hand to stay the group behind her, a gesture of reassurance. Stay, we have been safe together thus far.

Her assessment takes barely seconds for all that it is thorough. Qunari, but with a bladeless sword hilt. One count towards a Circle made and another against.

Herian's expression remains neutral. "There is a liaison? We've heard nothing of that in our travels."

Not accusatory, but cautious underneath the calm, and she does speak very calmly. "To whom do I owe my thanks for the information?"

It has been a long time since she's heard her given name spoken with any inflection other than Orlesian. That it almost as great a surprise as a stranger knowing her name, although she would be less shocked this close to Halamshiral. Here she is called anything from her given name to Starkhaven demon, both with varying degrees of affection.

Recognition does not come immediately; it has been coming on two years since the Spire fell, but at least the uniform gives her a point for reference, and Herian's mouth flickers into a frown for long moments before finally she makes the connection.

"Warden Serra." Her posture eases just barely. "It is a fine thing to see you well. Your guidance is greatly appreciated, though I suspect my companions will be better at ease closer to their kin than might be expected in the rooms of this estate." Cautious, mistrustful of this Duc rather than anything the Warden has ever said or done. "Know you where the elves are most commonly accommodated?"

She's been doing this too long to think they are anything but secluded in some way.

The assessment doesn't go unnoticed, but Korrin won't comment on it unless the woman does. She has nothing to hide, isn't the last bit ashamed or apologetic about what she is, any of it. The only thing that gets her sympathy is the intimidated woman at her side, and Korrin mindfully keeps her distance so as not to intimidate her further.

"Well, the liaisons are a fairly new thing, used to give voice to the many groups that are a part of the Inquisition." For instance.... "Korrin Ataash, of the Valo-Kas and the Mage Council. There's room and medical assistance for any who need it."

The delay in recognition doesn't bother Inessa, who smiles when it finally happens. Their interaction hadn't been extensive, and much had happened since then. Even so, seeing the strong-willed knight-enchanter alive and well is some relief. Thedas needs that determination and skill right now.

It's a testament to how long Inessa has lived in integrated settings -first the Circle, then the Wardens- that the question catches her a little off-guard. "There isn't a specific area designated for elves, as the Inquisition's forces are rather integrated. But if they'd feel more comfortable establishing a specific place, there is space available to claim. Perhaps nearest the medical tents?" The pregnant woman with Herian doesn't escape notice, and she'd hate to see her make a long trek in order to be tended."

Somewhat revitalized by travel, and confident to leave the garden alone for longer, Sina has been spending more time in the healing tents. Although quite competent with healing magic, she often prefers to use herbal remedies, partially to conserve her magic for the more dire injuries and partially so as not to provoke another shard-related incident.
When she sees Korrin talking to a new arrival, Sina smiles at them mildly from across the cluster of tents and then makes her way over, wiping her hands on a cloth.
"Hello," she says quietly, and, looking past Herian, greets the elves with a somewhat more emphatic "andaran atish'an." Then she clears her throat to address them all. "I'm not Eirlys, but I'll do what I can until she's available. Are there any who are badly injured?" Her eyes flit nervously to the pregnant elf; this is something she knows how to deal with in theory, but has never had an occasion to practice. Hopefully labor can wait a little longer.

No Circle, and yet... a member of the Inquisition's Mage Council. Curiouser and curiouser. Her expression remains neutral, for all its default severity.

The Code dictates that she cause no wanton offense, and so her tongue is stayed, just as her gaze remains impassive.

"Well met, Councilor Ataash. I am Herian Amsel, Knight Enchanter of the White Spire and guardian to these elves, so long as they deem me worthy."

The faintest flicker of a smile, barely there before it disappears.

Herian is almost ready to look up with a slight smile at the offer. She is almost ready to respond graciously for the offer of aid, to gently deny if it comes from a human or accept the assistance of an elf. She is not prepared for a Dalish.

To her credit, she keeps her mouth curling into a snarl. The only visible reaction is the subtle clench of her jaw, and the slowing of her breath.

"We will wait," she manages, slowly, "for Healer Ancarrow."

The gall. The utter gall of the Dalish offering aid to those they have tormented. There is an air of unease in the group, though whether it is from the tension coiling in Herian's muscles or from the Dalish herself might be hard to discern.

"I thank you for your generous offer, but we decline."

Edited 2016-07-18 07:50 (UTC)

Sina's smile slowly dwindles into a look of vague confusion, though she wasn't born yesterday and can tell when a human is being... well, a shem. She looks from Herian to the elves, trying to puzzle out the situation. Then she tries again, forcing the smile back on.

"I assure you I'm a capable healer," she persists, "and I can see to any minor injuries or immediate threats while you wait for Eirlys. ...there's really no need to wait."

"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.

Neutral is fine, especially given that the woman's priorities are elsewhere. The elven refugees understandably come first. She raises an eyebrow at mention of the infamous White Spire, though as much on behalf of certain friends as anything else. "Then you must know Senior Enchanter Adelaide. She's on the Council as well, and around here somewhere." Her tone is warm, not bothering to hide her fondness for a dear friend. But she won't remain on a tangent while there are people waiting.

"At any rate, while Eirlys tends to those in need, I can ask around if you haven't already received notice on where the elves can stay. We're not lacking for room, but it's better to double-check, just in case space was set aside for something else."

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.

Edited 2016-07-18 17:34 (UTC)

Herian's refugees aren't the only new arrivals to Skyhold in the month of Solace after witnessing horrors. The survivors from Dairsmuid stick together unsurprisingly but they're comfortable mingling with anyone that doesn't wear the badge of a Templar or a Seeker, the story spreading of the rescue the way all stories do. Araceli might be back in Skyhold, she might be checking on them every day still and shifting her lessons and training around them until they don't need her quite so much but she hasn't forgotten everything she saw.

Yes, she got to relax after. Even got to spend her birthday by the sea but it takes a toll on a person so it's why she's down in the hot springs alone, to sort herself out. A little pampering. Mostly all that hair hence the basket on her arm with all the pins, and combs, and brushes, but most importantly the bottle of hair oil. The really good stuff that she may or may not have a cache of, hidden away under her bed.

It's probably rude to gasp when she sees what she sees but that's upsetting. That is deeply, deeply distressing. In a sort of everyday upsetting. Not traumatising. She'll take it over reading the words of a dead woman. Having to be strong for a band of survivors. Killing Templars after a mad dash to rescue people that came to be friends after the longest wait of her life.

"Your hair!" The stone walls of the hot springs are perfect for highlighting how quietly aghast she is at the state of Herian's mane.

Eirlys jumps up as she sees how tired and how very pregnant the woman Herian's leading toward the tents is, relieved and grateful that the stress of her journey here hadn't brought on an early delivery. She clears the space where she'd been working to give the woman somewhere to rest.

"There's myself, and Kallian, and Sina." There's a part of her that wants to reassure Herian that the human healers would treat them well, but she understands their distrust from her own experience. "I promise, you will all be safe here."

"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.

"You are Eirlys Ancarrow, yes?" Herian studies her carefully, bracing herself for the familiar scent of healing tents. Memories are woven into smells, and she knows well that some herbs drag up more than she can readily deal with after such a journey. She will not, however, abandon her post for such a need. "The liason for elves from the cities?"
It is a question while also... not actually being a question at all, and a slightly odd emphasis on from the cities. She has encountered on Dalish healer claiming a desire to help already, and has little desire or interest in happening upon another.

Herian guides the woman to the cleared spot, and offers Eirlys something that might, on a day with less disasters to be navigated, have been a smile. "This is Cerise." A moment, and she looks between Eirlys and Cerise, hand briefly on the woman's shoulder before she takes a respectful step back. "Would you sooner I wait outside the tent for a time?" For privacy and attending to matters of health, and possibly making sure no more Dalish appear out of the woodwork.

For a moment Herian's expression is utterly still, as if she had been caught in time.

"Enchanter LeBlanc," she clarifies, after a long moment. Enchanter LeBlanc had been her teacher. A mentor, of sorts, so much as someone can mentor a person whose magical abilities veer so widely from your own. Fire and ice, healing flesh and the vicious strike of a spirit blade. The stillness remains a moment longer, and Herian realises that this is not the time for her own indulgence. Enchanter LeBlanc is alive. She would, more than likely, still be alive in a few hours, or a few days. Herian had duties that demanded her attention first, for all that she is sure the colour has drained from her face. Perhaps the excess of dust hides the effect, perhaps not. She doesn't much care.

She swallows to wet her throat, and stop dryness dragging across her voice. Herian is torn on whether to accept the aid. Such an action would set her in debt to someone of whom she knows little other than scant facts that do not add to a satisfactory picture. Abandoning her charges, though, in such a place as this? The thought sets her ill at ease.

"I can see to it," she finally replies, and her voice sounds fainter than she'd like. "I have received some information already. All I need do is confirm, and that can be done with the Liason, I'm sure." It seems simple enough, though she learned long ago that seeming and reality do not always align happily.

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.

While they've a couple of elven healers, they don't have enough to be on shift at all times. Anders checks on her sometimes when he's on duty, and today is no exception. He's wrapping up, glad to assure her that her former exhaustion has done nothing harmful to her child, when someone else comes in. Before looking, he finishes what he's saying. The patient is the most important person in the room; the other can wait.

Only after does he turn and look at the woman standing there. Tall. Impressive. Doesn't look like she smiles much. That doesn't tell him enough to identify her just yet, though there's something very familiar about her face.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Edited 2016-07-19 00:03 (UTC)

That reaction isn't entirely unexpected, as Korrin remembers Adelaide telling her about the chaos at the White Spire. Anyone making it out of that mess at all was a miracle; that they weren't aware of others who had done so is more than understandable. It makes her smile a little as she nods regarding that last name, glad that her friend will have the knowledge that another of her students made it out.

That Herian is protective about her charges gains an approving nod; there isn't reason to be so here, but after what she must have been through, Korrin won't fault her for ensuring their welfare herself. "Alright, but if you change your mind or need to find your way around, you can find out here. I shouldn't be far."

Pel can be found among the refugees at some point, passing out items from her yarn shop. Hats, mitts, socks, and shawls, all to keep people warm at night. Her own personal shawl has disappeared. When Herian approaches, she is on one knee, letting a small girl touch the tattoos on her face.

"Just for a little while," she answers whatever question it was the girl asked. "It means I belong to Mythal, who protects the People."

The little girl breaks away from her and runs to hug Herian's knee, clutching a little improvised yarn-doll to her chest.

The integration of the Circles was something she treasrued, before it was taken from her. There are reasons why Herian sets her trust of Circle mages even above her trust of city elves, by a few degrees; city elves saw her as a half-breed, if that. Her loyalty was questioned, her cause debatable. In the Circle she had simply been a mage, and that was enough. She had studied hard, practiced without end, endured her Harrowing, and she had progressed impressively through each trial laid down before her.

Outside those walls the cruelties and injustices of the world felt far more real - inescapable.

"No specific area." She sounds gently sceptical, and her gaze narrows a little, thoughtfulness more than anything else. Sometimes outside the Circle it had seemed that separation kept elves safer. (And then she always remembered Halamshiral, and the smell of sulfur and charcoal.)

"The medical tents would suit well," she agrees, looking towards the group. They are exhausted, one or two with recovering injuries, but not so bad they cannot travel. Still, there is no cause to keep them waiting, so she continues, "know you where they are?"

"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."

Herian is content enough to ignore anyone else as she goes about her business. It is bathing, and it is bathing in facilities far better than what has been afforded her in some time. She has hardly ever lacked for hot water with the nature of her magic, but anything more than a bucket or a stream is luxurious. Herian pauses, just short of pulling her faded grey shirt over her head, and folds it as she stands, laying it onto a chair. The action reveals burn scars that wrap over her right shoulder and reach down to her ribs as she pulls away her bra.

Despite her general policy of be silent and ignore, the comment makes Herian look over her shoulder, turning with little concern for her state of undress, though she does cross her arms for some semblance of modesty.

"Such manners," she replies, a little dryly. It's a subtle type of thing. "I must confess myself unfamiliar with this particular greeting."

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points the faith in higher things,

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araceli & herian asmr hour; last day of solace; wildcard

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do we need to do a cw for platonic nudity idk