OPEN | coldest comfort, safety glass

[limier]

WHO: Wren, Anders, Gwen, and OTA.
WHAT: Arrivals at Skyhold & Junk.
WHEN: Post-Winter Palace. Catchall.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: I'll edit if anything comes up!

Starters in comments. If you'd like a specific starter, or to make plans for later in the month, just let me know on plurk or Discord (oeste #8807).  :)

Comments

OTA | Barracks, Gardens, Training Grounds.

[limier]

BARRACKS

Getting your own room in the Skyhold barracks doesn’t necessarily require a noble title, or heaps of money. Sometimes all it takes is some well-intentioned bureaucratic bullying.

The room is tiny, but it’s undeniably private. If you don’t care about daylight, breathing room, or being able to fit multiple living people inside, it’s perfect.

Of course, the steward has a job to do and people to yell at him, and he’s not about to give up so easily. They’re currently arguing exceedingly quietly and calmly in the doorway, both wearing expressions of deep, deep exasperation.


GARDENS

They’ve done a fine job of the garden, with its nooks to speak and pray. There are areas which require caution — too close to the interior walls, sound travels in a castle — but against herself, Wren finds it comforting. It’s a little like the courtyard they kept in her village, before the Blight poisoned its grounds.

Perhaps you catch her while contemplating a statue of Andraste, or holding a hushed conversation with a Chantry sister. She might even be rolling her eyes as that Chantry sister leaves (you saw nothing).

Maybe you’re picking flowers, having a smoke, or sharing a lewd joke in the most deliberately annoying place possible. The world is your oyster.


TRAINING GROUNDS

She makes it a point to train with the mages that will have it. There are red templars enough still afield, to say nothing of those turning to other employment. They’ll benefit for the preparation.

She imagines that it’s therapeutic for some — and it if it reminds an extreme few to think twice before trying to pick off one of the Order, well. She won’t quibble.

It’s winding down now, and she pulls off her helmet to breathe, eyes shut. She focuses on the breaths, counting slowly, in and out.

... So it takes her a moment to notice you’re there. That's probably why her expression reads: Dude, why are you there.


WILDCARD

[ have fun son. hmu if you have any questions, but i'm probably down. ]

Garden

[eolasemah]

Though the garden is mostly dead at the moment, a result of the harsh mountain winter, it has clearly been cared for and the more delicate plants are wrapped and ready to be freed again upon springtime. And even though the plants are all skeletons of themselves, there's a certain beauty to them, dead and white and comprised of so many tiny pieces fitting together. It's hard to imagine anything ever grew here, but soon enough the snow will be forgotten entirely.

A solitary elf with a shard in her chest can often be found wandering between the trees or sitting on a bench, checking on her charges, speaking to no one and in fact appearing to avoid most. But she's caught by surprise when she nearly runs into two women speaking, one bedecked in Chantry robes and the other... well, someone she's never seen before.
Clutching her shawl tightly around herself, Sina waits to gauge the privacy of their conversation before she'll consider passing.

[limier]

Their voices lift as tensions heighten. A lucky thing the grounds are so still today.

"I don’t presume to know the wishes of the Revered Mother," The sister begins, in a tone that implies she doesn’t care to, either. "But we’ve enough trouble with these sorts. There’s no call to be encouraging it. I realize you may not be used to these matters, off in the city —"

She practically spits the word. Wren slips a side-glance to Sina, a tired little nod of acknowledgment, and interrupts.

"— What emerges in the forests is surging in the streets. It is to be a study, not an endorsement. If you will not accept the request,"

"I certainly shall not." Her chin lifts, posture stiffens into rigid defiance. Wren lifts a hand, a gesture for peace.

"Then I will ask another. Be well, Sister Marguerite."

Marguerite can’t seem to leave fast enough, shooting an ugly look to Sina (it drops in quick succession to her chest, turns to faint horror) on her way out.

Wren lingers in place, eyes pressed shut, before remarking:

"I didn’t know there were a people of the world with no ears." Dryly. She lifts an eyebrow, moves to settle a polite distance back from the path. Dalish. Marguerite’s right about that much: Skyhold’s crawling with them. "I hope we did not disturb your rounds."

It's said like a question, not a dismissal.

[eolasemah]

Over the past year, Sina has learned to be very aware of to whom and when she is unwelcome, and perhaps if she weren't so incredibly Done at the moment, this might be a situation that would give her cause to leave. But she doesn't, instead standing and blinking in dull incredulity as Marguerite storms off, her large and tired eyes eventually shifting back to the other woman when she speaks.

"No," Sina says absently, and after a pause, drily, "I hope I didn't disturb yours."

barracks; i apologise for this dwarf

[inagutterson]

Despite sort of having been here for months - since Asher came back injured enough they thought he'd die - Yngvi doesn't really have a permanent home. Wherever he pitches his tent is good enough for him, or wherever he just casually invades. It's not stealing if you're not caught, so what if the room is left in a state, as if a small but very wild, impossibly filthy animal rampaged through it for a night stinking of cheap ale? No one can prove anything.

Maybe that's why he's watching this. Maybe that's why he's just going to invite himself to join the narrative.

"Serah, other serah" he interrupts since he's Kirkwall to the bone. "What's all this about?"

never apologize for greatness

[limier]

"These rooms are reserved for visiting nobility and members of state," The steward begins, backing up to plant himself defensively against the wall.

Wren looks to Yngvi. Her gaze slowly tracks to the trashed room just beyond.

"Quite." A pause, as she presses a hand over her heart in exaggerated shame. Dryly: "Please forgive our intrusion, your highness."

The poor steward presses a hand to his temple, looking a little wistfully as though he’d like to murder everyone in the room.

"Obviously that is not what I meant —"

"No, of course not. No rudeness was intended, milord." She's just ignoring him now, in favour of Yngvi.

[inagutterson]

"These rooms? " Allow him to sound at his most merchant's guild good serah, if you even are a serah, which he very much doubts, a doglord wouldn't even let you scrub out the kennel. He won't let you scrub out the kennel, not even with your face. Though, tempting. Another time, 'serah'. "Was a Harrowmount visiting recently? No manners, but that's what happens when there's bronto and gurn in the family."

Two nugs arrive on the scene. Unsurprisingly they both belong to the dwarf. (They're two of twenty but he gave up naming them after four because he was drunk and ran of out of food-based puns that went well with them.)

"Unless it was the Orlesians from Saturnalia? I said we needed wine inspections but does anyone listen to the dwarf that's familiar with the drinking habits of people such as the de Launcets? No. No they don't." Also he has no idea who this stranger is so he should probably get on that now. "And you are, Serah?"

Gardens

[bouclier]

Geneviève oddly enough enjoys the gardens. She could do with a few less Chantry sisters milling around, but the flowers and trees are enjoyable enough. She was sitting and people-watching when she noticed the templar woman and Chantry sister exchange words, and she caught the eye-roll from the former as the latter stepped away.

Close enough to speak up without being widely overheard, Geneviève does, her chin resting lightly on her knuckles and her eyebrows raised.

"Careful, they see you rolling your eyes at them and they'll make you recite the Canticle of Trials all afternoon."

[limier]

"I am not alone," She quotes dryly. "Even as I stumble on the path."

A significant glance to Geniveve. Ah, the sweet shared confidence of another former problem child.

Wren tries not to allow these things to visibly ruffle her feathers — and really, most of the time she’s better at hiding it. You don’t get through Orlais unmasked without learning to keep your thoughts to yourself. But it’s the sixth day of seven before she might revisit the contents of her philter box, and the barrier she holds before the world is beginning to wear thin.

Hardly worth berating herself for. There is a certain trust born from moments of small weakness (or as Fereldans might call it: humanity).

“Is it a blasphemy, to ask that you hold such matters in faith?”

A slight smile, and a bit of a pun: The admission that yes, you’ve caught me at it.

[bouclier]

"It may be," she replies, a smile touching her lips as she inclines her head. "Fortunately for you, my cousin is the only truly religious one in my family." At least of her family that she still talks to. Glancing in the direction the Chantry sister had gone Geneviève lifts her chin a little, contemplating the retreating figure.

"Though he might agree that that particular sister is worse than most."

ANDERS

[limier]

If she resents having to haul herself off to a healer, she’s not foolish enough to ignore the need. Skyhold’s lucky to have so many ready to lend aid — and it’s the third morning she’s awoken to find her breathing tight.

She stoops into the little tent, dusting the snow from the shoulders of her coat. She’s dressed as any off-duty soldier, unarmed and unmarked by affiliation; still, it’s difficult for the familiar to miss the faint, burnt smell clinging to her.

“Ah, hello?” A rasping question, and a rattle of a cough, as she stretches back to her full height. “Is anyone available?”

Her eyes narrow, sweeping over the brush of curtain, the little tables stacked with materials. It’s difficult, even now, to resist the urge to pry.

[justice_is_blond]

He rises, setting down his quill and turning to look at the new arrival.

"Of course. Come in." There's a protest from the table as he steps away, a black cat rolling over and stretching out to show off her belly in clear invitation to return. The cat gets a flash of a smile before Anders is looking at the woman again.

"I'm one of the healers here, a spirit healer. What can I do for you?" His robes are dark blue with silver buckles, catching bits of the light that comes in from the thin door curtains.

[limier]

The reaction is silent and immediate. Her posture stiffens, grows more intent. Hands tense, ready to reach for a blade that isn't there; a full-body shift towards alertness. It's like watching a mabari sight a hare.

She'd known the Wardens were sheltering him — and the Inquisition, the Wardens. But she can't claim his face isn't the last that she expects to see, here and now, etched onto flesh and not a printing plate. How finely he's dressed. How peaceful a scene. You'd never know that half the world had been burning.

You can give me a moment, to run and fetch a sword.

But patience is with her today. Anders isn't the sort of problem that will quietly go away — not until Corypheus is finished, and no one's watching as closely — sooner or later, they'd have to make an introduction.

She can use this.

"Ser Coupe," The wheels are grinding hard behind her eyes. She doesn't blink. With slow, deliberate motion (no weapons to reach for) Wren tugs down the collar of her shirt to expose a thick line of scar. "Consider this a checkup."

GWEN | Delivered by someone or another.

[limier]

[ There are advantages to attaching one’s name and face so publicly to the Inquisition’s cause. Those interested in your work know where to find you, for example. They might even make certain inaccurately favourable assessments of your character, before you ever meet.

This is also a notable drawback. ]


Lady Vauquelin,

I represent the interests of a small number of Chantry mothers committed to the Inquisition’s cause.

[ Or at least, now that it's proven to own a little staying power. ]

They have expressed a deal of interest in your Observations. It requires a patient voice and even temper to put ink to these chaotic times, and their recent absence has been missed.

If you are available, perhaps we might discuss your future literary plans, within or outside Skyhold.

— Ser Luwenna Coupe.

[elegiaque]

( 'the interests of chantry mothers' sounds like absolutely nothing of remote interest to gwenaëlle - and she's never been described as either patient or even-tempered - but on the other hand, if that's the impression she's been giving...

there are certainly worse things in the world, and she can see a use for such an association. it couldn't hurt to hear the woman out, especially when she's inclined as ever to position herself as a friendly ear to those templars as make their way to skyhold and the inquisition. a note with a runner returns to wren with a suggestion that they meet on one of the hold's quieter balconies; when she arrives, gwenaëlle is already there, tea set out because some things they beat into you really do stick, but no lady's maid, no companions. only gwenaëlle, who is in some ways upon first sight a darker miniature of her uncle; favouring a similarly dark colour-scheme as he always had, high cheekbones and intelligent eyes, the same tendency to fidget when left to her own devices.

in this case, with a set of thinly-rimmed gold spectacles that hang from a matching chain at her waist. she is a creature of orlais from the top of her coiffure to her toes, though she's evidently eschewed the necessity of masks within the inquisition; vivienne doesn't, and what's good enough for vivienne is certainly good enough for gwenaëlle. some people - like, for instance, vivienne - do not require the mask to be difficult to read.

lady vauquelin is not one of those people. frankly, she wears her moods so obviously it's like as not the mask doesn't help when she does wear it. )

[limier]

[ She's expecting a number of things — none of them are tea.

If the Order's taught Wren anything over the years, it's how to keep a straight face. Even so, something in the back of her throat catches, is as quickly released. She'd never be so blind to their situation as to call Gervais a friend, but at times the resemblance was uncanny.

As it is now. ]

Lady Vauqelin, [ She dips into a short, polite bow. Wren's forgone armor (it would have been inappropriate — and a rattling mess on the stairs) for a simple tunic, stitched unsubtly with the Chantry sun. ] I must thank you for your hospitality, particularly on such short notice.

[ She can't keep her eyes wholly from the chain's flicker. It really is as though someone's carved him into one of those little dancers, the kind in Dwarven jewelry boxes. The idea's absurd enough to shake her back to the task at hand. She lifts a bag from her side, withdraws a small sheaf of documents. ]

I hope you will forgive my brevity, words have never been my particular strength.

[ At least, not while speaking honestly. She'd prefer not to lie to this girl, not Gervais' little niece and favourite conversational shield. ]

May I ask how it is that you came to lend yours to the Inquisition?

you know who and you know where-ish

[tactical_alert]

The effort of rebuilding Skyhold has paid off tremendously. Where there were holes and gaps where snow and sunlight might have streamed in, it's solid walls and solid roofs. The battlements aren't the kindest in the midst of winter, where those unsteady might slip on ice or be blown by the wind, but inside the towers it's servicable, if a little empty. Bookshelves mostly bare save for the occasional text from the library someone forgot to return. A table, though only one lone chair sitting in a corner, forgotten. (He can see where the light might hit that spot just right through the windows for reading. Clever.)

Malcolm does not give himself to pacing. When he's anxious, nervous, his stillness takes over. Oftentimes he's noticed this difference when arguing with Cassandra, whose passions and emotions have her going back and forth and gesturing. He merely sucks in a cold, deep breath and waits for the Templar.

The name is mildly familiar from some Orlesian song. It'd be funny if the circumstances weren't so dire. He's given Dairsmuid much thought since the mission Araceli gathered there, the vicious fight against Templars, the captured mage who recognized him, forgave him. It will always weigh heavily on his mind, on his conscience, but though the idea of discussing it, with a stranger no less, is mortifying, it still seems doable. Had this been before that fateful mission? He probably would have shut her down immediately.

Templars are hardly his favourite group of people, but at the end of the day, they were given orders, and orders were followed. It's all anyone can do to try and make up for those sins.

no i don't what the hell is a skyhold

[limier]

There are those who wear their affiliation like a second layer of armor. They wrap themselves in colours and title, march everywhere in rigid parade step.

That's well enough, if the point's to be noticed. Every army needs soldiers, every wall, its guard. But that's never been her particular way. When Wren arrives it's devoid of arms or symbol (no point, when she's made both clear already), an understated presence that allows her to slip more quietly through the fortress, wrapped bundle beneath her arm.

She could be any other soldier, were it not for the faint air of burning.

"Seeker," She lingers in the doorway, allows time between address and entry. "I must thank you for the quick response. I am aware of your duties to the Lady Seeker, and to the Inquisition's forces."

Calmly. It would be fruitless to attempt casualness, would only ring false. Still, as she glances over him (didn't know they made Seekers that short), she eases her own shoulders down, dips her head faintly to the side.

An old instinct, the stance she's used to adopting around a wary mule. It doesn't take any conscious deliberation to keep her hands in full view as she sets the parcel on the table.

"This journal was recovered from a Red Templar encampment." She withdraws a pair of gloves, offers one out. "The exposure is likely negligible, but it does not pay to be incautious."

[tactical_alert]

In the winter months, outside of battle, outside of trips beyond the walls, there's little reason to bear the full Seeker armour. In this sense, at least, they're on even ground.

Damn, though, she is...very big, for a human woman. He wonders if she gets off-colour jokes about her parentage often. He wonders if those people still retain their tongues. This is...all very beside the point, of course. The point is this is the Templar who contacted him, and she's brought the evidence.

Easy, in the face of this, rather than his demons (literal, figurative) to slip further into the veneer of stern stoicism. Put the work first. There's a man's life at stake. He takes a glove with a nod of thanks, tugging it on. An overabundance of caution he can live with.

"Where from?" He'll let her find whatever passage is relevant, rather than bullheadedly flip through himself. "We've been driving back pockets of them, but it's never, apparently, enough." The attack on the Winter Palace showed that all too well.

one templar two templar, red templar blue templar

[limier]

"Raleigh Samson." A heavy, dry drawl. She’s allowed hints of her farmer’s cadence to return for today’s purpose. "You look like shit."

Tell me something I don’t know, she’s sure. Wren leans back on her heels, shoots a curt nod to the guard. The kid practically jogs up the steps — there's a girl he's sweet on, as he might have let slip. If he's quick they can catch a few minutes now.

Abruptly the two of them are alone, or what must pass for it. Wren holds no illusions that the others kept down here do not listen in (if they’ve been remotely clever, the Inquisition will have them reporting on each other), but it’s as good as it’ll get. Reed’s already been informed of her purpose, to see her make the rounds would not be unexpected, will raise no alarms.

Still, she’s dressed simply, without Chantry sun or sword. She might be any other soldier, without knowing what to look for, but to those who do it's obvious. The skin about her jaw’s stretched tight, lines pooling shadowy beneath her eyes. It casts a certain edge to her features, one she hopes to play into. You look like shit, and so do I.

"What number visitor does this make?"

sad templar dad templar

[redinside]

It is plenty obvious. This woman bears old tells, but her face is new, and Raleigh Samson, so named, digests her appearance with a slow look down and up again while she speaks to him from the other side of the bars. Sat on his bedroll with his forearms on his knees, looking like he's either considering sleep or just emerging from it, he considers whether he wants to bother standing up. His boots—the prisoners here get boots, how about that—sit paired against the wall, a pair of gloves lay together on top. Stockings, too, draped beneath them. He curls his bare toes just the once, and flexes them after, and ultimately decides, nah, he'll stay just where he is for the time being.

He does indeed look like shit. What little muscle tone he has left is whipcord slim, and his body's various hollows have never been so hollow—not even when he was skulking around the gutters of Lowtown, selling mages their freedom to afford himself a fix. The prison togs are hanging off him in places. Still, it could be much, much worse.

Finally, after a silence meant to feel like an inconvenience, his hooded gaze finally crawls back up to her face, and he rasps his answer: "You tell me. They give out numbers in the queue, don't they?"

heh heh.

is that what the mug cade gets him for father's day reads

[limier]

Her head tips slowly as she waits (she’s always impatient by now — in some ways, that makes it easier to hide), examining the narrow confines of the cell. He has shoes and a blanket to his name. Yes, it could be worse. Much, much worse.

Even if his toes are gross are super gross.

“Ran out of fingers to count mine on. You’re a popular man.” Or at least a rather public figure to those he’s cost. She has to wonder if they’ve managed anything useful of him yet. You don’t cure a headache through decapitation, but it’s tempting. Wren eases down to a crouch, the better to put them on eye level. “Got time for a chat?”

Dying men can still be dangerous. It doesn’t hurt her to offer the illusion of choice, however thin. She’ll sit here all damn night, if she has to. Rage can wait, loathing can wait, until she's seen this through. Bergier deserves every chance.

pretend i came up with a cool "nor" pun

[limier]

Wren peels off her sodden helm to breathe. The whistle of air still stings against her healing throat.

The new recruits acquit themselves well, enough that a few might even keep their heads in the field. Norrington clearly has matters in hand.

When she speaks, she sticks to simple technique: How to identify the varieties of corpse (is it trying to bite or to strangle you?), how to recognize if one’s companion has attacked a fearling and not mere vermin (are they panicking more stupidly than usual?), what to do if they believe they’ve encountered a revenant (how fast can you run?).

Her description of pursuing an envy demon halfway to Cumberland — Was that really eight years ago now? — seems to hold their interest, but such creatures are a blessed rarity, and she’s frank about their prospects against one. Without lyrium at their disposal, the likeliest outcome is to alarm it into flight. Another half-dozen might be possessed before tracking it down.

Not a bad bit of propaganda, really. There are many at Skyhold who forget the Order’s usefulness.

When she fights, she fights dirty. Where most own the energy of youth, they lack her experience with treachery. It takes smashing her hilt into two helms before they learn not to look down when she kicks at their knees. The third manages that much, but leaves his balls open. The fourth figures it out and refuses to be rushed. Quick learners.

In days this dire they can’t afford to rely upon honourable tactics.

"Commander," She bows her head politely. "A promising batch."

Flattery, perhaps, but there’s no dishonesty to it. These ones could yet live.

Re: pretend i came up with a cool "nor" pun

[judgemewhole]

Norrington, for his part, walks around the group, growling out correction and instruction as well as any Commander can. He shakes his head when disappointed, but the curt nod of approval is seen more often than not.

He smirks a little at her pursuing an envy demon - ah, the good old days of when those didn't fall out of rifts - before he nods his agreement. The smaller demons they have some chance with. Without a templar, however ...

Yes, there are reasons why the Templar Order are still vital to Thedas. Now, more than ever.

He smirks a little as she walks them through the dirtier tactics of swordplay. He was going to wait until they had a better grasp of the basics ... but it's not bad. Not bad at all.

"They'll do." He notes to the men and women, who grin at him. "They're getting better. But now they should run a full lap around the entire courtyard in full armor, so they know what it feels like to keep fighting even when you're spent. Go on."

They groan, but every single one of them takes off in a run, and he turns towards her. "The more we train them, the less likely they are to die as a demon's bait. With so many of our own brother and sisters gone ... "

A sigh, a wave of the hand. "But surely you and the Mothers know how dire it is."

[limier]

"Dire enough to make me miss jogs about the yard." As though those ever actually end. Her smiles quirks suddenly, fades as quick. "They know of it. But the Chantry marches slowly,"

Under the weight of history.

"As I trust you are familiar."

There is a necessity in bureaucracy, and a price. She holds his eyes a moment — she wants to know how he'll talk of politics, whether he sees his own place within it.

"Halamshiral will not mean the end of Orlesian hostilities," The country's a barrel of oil, all they've done is wind out some rope for the wick. It could buy them time, or serve as a noose. "But it will free a number of occupied hands and heads. The difficulty lies in positioning the Inquisition to receive that support."