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."

[limier]

"You've saved me from another half hour's argument. I'd sing your praises if it might not draw her back."

A better look at her now, and Maker — Sina looks like shit. Despite herself, she can't keep from a degree of... interest? Worry? What do you call it exactly, when you don't want a strange elven teenager to pass out in the middle of the walkway?

Whatever you call it, you invent an excuse.

"May I ask, are you familiar with these gardens?"

[eolasemah]

Well that's... a little better. Sina's defensiveness melts into a small, self-conscious smile, though she still looks guarded, especially when the woman looks at her like that. But at least The Topic doesn't have to come up.
"...yes," she says, with a small start of surprise at the subject change, "I... live here, actually. And cultivate them myself." Among others, but she spends the majority of her time here, and has taken a particular pride in shaping its growth.

[limier]

"I’d wondered at the tent." The slip of a smile back. She admits: "And at half the plants. I'd expected to recognize more of them."

Not so much a surprise; her experience is limited largely to the species of her childhood, and a few more obvious breeds.

"I had hoped — a small request. But only if you've the time."

She lifts a palm, shakes her head slightly to imply it's no matter. Wren will never be a woman capable of appearing wholly harmless. In moments like these, the best she aims for is non-threatening.

[eolasemah]

Sina smiles, a little bashfully at that. It seems the tent is regarded as strange to others-- and it is to her, if she thinks too hard about it, but she and Nari make do.
Tilting her head at Wren, she nods to prompt her onward. "What is it?"

[limier]

"There's a habit that my mother kept with Arbor Blessing. But my eye for vines has never been sharp. I always mix them with ivy."

Particularly when riding through them at face height. Fucking vines.

"Our gardens were lost many years ago now. But if the Inquisition cultivates any — I know it is difficult to coax, but I should be grateful perhaps to carry on her small tradition."

[eolasemah]

This is the magic topic, the one that will put a light in Sina's eyes no matter her mood. She perks up and nods, starting to grin. "There's a small section of it over by the pots in the corner, the things everyone always uses," she says cheerfully, "I can show you, if you like."

[limier]

"Please." Wren gestures out to the path. "After you."

Her expression's calm, but behind it there's some private relief. Sina looks more her age when she smiles, a young woman and not a wounded thing. All elves have a peculiar proportion about them, by small measures distinctly inhuman. But few of them look quite so much like her parents' fawns.

"I apologize, my manners. I'm called Wren."

A simpler name, a gentler one, than the one she typically favours. A name for those moments she must pretend to still be someone simple and gentle.

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?"

[limier]

"Knight-Lieutenant Luwenna Coupe, twenty-five years a Templar,"

Every shitlicking new recruit knows how little a lieutenant actually comes down to. But she can hope the Steward doesn't. She wouldn't be pushing this matter at all, were the stakes not quite so high.

If she has to be the sort of person she hates today, perhaps she might still do some good with it. She shifts to allow the nugs room to investigate.

"Presently representing Revered Mother Thorn of Apcher. A small honour, to be sure, when one finds themselves in vaunted company. Am I to understand these are not your personal residences?" Shocked. She's shocked, Yngvi. Back to the Steward: "I must amend the request, monsieur. It's clear that we shall each require a room."

"Perhaps," The steward’s cheeks are swelling an angry red. He strains: "The two of you might share."

[inagutterson]

Like weeds they appear in his life, he did not saunter out of Kirkwall to set up shop again amidst more Templars yet they persisteth. This is how he'll dictate the letter of complaint to his boss, and her reply will predictably be 'tough shit, here's your pay'.

"Twenty-five years and able to string a whole sentence, not a lady to tangle with if you still want all your fingers and other bits. Oh the tales I could tell of Kirkwall, and the other ones I could sing."

By the way Yngvi singing is pretty much a goose farting in the fog so let's hope it's not going to come down to that.

Terrible isn't, the people they let in here to staff the place, someone should do something about it. Say, like a dwarf rummaging through their stuff and setting some traps. "On Chantry business. All this? Set up by the Divine? Right and Left Hands floating about somewhere? Somehow? Not entirely clear on how that works, seemed a bit grisly for the Chantry to have detached hands running about the place but sometimes they surprise you."

Only the Chantry only surprises him when it's being hypocritical but you can't just say that, especially when you're meant to be a stupid filthy dwarf best known for having too many nugs unleashed on the populace.

"I was given to understand," this is how people that talk without swearing every second word because oh how he is trying right now but they're so very close. He has to close his eyes. Compose himself. Like smug rich people do before they say very patronising things. Right before you get to feed them their teeth. "Mate," there it is, the danger zone Kirkwall Carta note, "that this Inquisition is for all. You saying I don't need space because I'm a dwarf?"

[limier]

"A nobleman and a bard,"

There’s that bone-dry tone again, carrying as it does, the faint hint of a headache. Wren’s eyes linger on Yngvi, unblinking. It’s a little difficult to tell whether she’s amused or annoyed, but as the Antivans say: ¿Porque no los dos?

"No. Such a distinguished ally will require his own space. Where else would he practice?"

Hopefully nowhere nearby. Is it wrong that her first thought is Carta, when Kirkwall harbored such a wide variety of drunks and crooks?

"The Chantry is not so monolithic." The Steward forces through his teeth, stooping low to better hiss at Yngvi. "And it is not because you... That is, neither the Lady Seeker nor —"

He catches himself, before naming Leliana. The Steward is a brave man, but there are some people whose intentions it never pays to guess at, no matter how small the score. Wren swoops in for the kill.

"— The Inquisition leadership doubtless has more pressing matters than authorizing the construction of yet another set of rooms, when these presently stand empty." Or full of bottles and piss, as it were. "I will see them cleaned out. You will see them assigned. One to myself, and another to..."

She prompts Yngvi with the sweep of a hand. Name?

[inagutterson]

"Businessman. Legitimate businessman. From Kirkwall. You have heard of such things as business and business being conducted in Kirkwall; I know that Kirkwall is a big place, but we have many things that aren't just exploding Chantries and upjumped doglords and their questionable friends."

Neatly sidestepping the facts of the matter. Carta and mercenary. So what if the company is signed up with the Inquisition, you can't just say that anymore than he could turn around and give the lie (of his own free will) that he's some sort of merchant's guild scrub.

What's worse than Carta? Merchants. Because the Carta are honest about being thieves and stabbing you in the kidneys.

Today he'll go with the full name to see just how much that'll rattle some cages. "Yngvi Congealedinagutterson." Casual as you please, as if everyone has a surname as bizarre as that. As if he always introduces himself with a surname because usually he doesn't since he probably does have one but he's just Yngvi.

[limier]

"You've lost me. What's a business?" It's snippy in the extreme, but it's also an admission of defeat: The Steward scribbles down Yngvi's name on his clipboard in tense little strokes. Dramatically he rips off the top page, presses it down to him. He hasn't bothered to record anything after Confealed. "I'm directing any complaints to you."

He warns, in a tone that implies deepest danger. A second sheet to Wren, and she smiles, peppy-bright. It's about as fake as it's possible for a smile to look.

"My thanks, monsieur. I'll be by for a mop later."

The Steward storms off in a final huff. Wren folds her hands neatly behind her back, expression wiped away once more as she peers down at him.

"This would be an opportune time to remove anything you do not wish me to find." You know: illegitimate children, folding knives, multiple nugs.

[inagutterson]

"I'll see that I have this forward to my boss and her partner, one's Orlesian and the other one's from Kirkwall." One is an elf and the other is elf-blooded ex-Coterie but who counts these things in a lie like this, Yngvi is just enjoying a day making problems for tall folk.

He bows deeply to the steward with enough of a flourish that it's amazing he doesn't slip in his own sarcasm, but he manages. There are plenty of other tumbles in life for him to take.

Perhaps right about now as he whips up and around to stare up at the Templar, all 'who, me?' because clearly he has done nothing and if he has then he doesn't know him. That's how this works. "Excuse me? Which one of us has a war named after them? Weren't no dwarf wars. I'm a dwarf of business." Of course that would be Stroganugg and Rump Roast galloping along to see what the fuss is about and to skid to a halt in front of a stranger. But they're brave nugs, they'll just sniff at Wren, paw her with their creepy little nug hands.

[limier]

"There’s a Luwenna war? That’s a mouthful."

She stoops low to offer a hand to Rump Roast. They used to stew these things, back in winter, when better meat was scarce. Creepy buggers. With some pickled garlic and mushrooms, it's a lot easier to see the appeal.

"As a businessman, your tax records, receipts, and such sundries are surely of great — and confidential — import. A tragedy, were these clumsy hands to spill a bucket of water over them, or else mistake a coinpurse for the burn pile. But these mistakes happen. I expect such a humble dwarf as yourself too wise to fall to such folly."

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."

[limier]

"I cannot fault her commitment. But I am given to wish that Andraste had spoken occasionally of the value of compromise."

The flap of a hand. She's being facetious, of course. Maybe. Sort of. It's nothing Thorn wouldn't say, and perhaps that's a reason to guard her tongue more closely. And yet.

"You've family at Skyhold?" Not so unusual, she supposes, but Genevieve's accent speaks to finer breeding than that of a mercenary or refugee. The old crudity leaps to mind, Chantry cousins. Something of a euphemism, in the sticks where she grew up. "Or has he become elsewise acquainted?"