I. CLOSED.

[feckless]

WHO: Caliban and Others
WHAT: A new arrival Skyhold.
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Initial arrival is closed, later Firstfall threads that are open pending (or will tag into other things).

The scruffy pony probably did most of the work in what had felt, to a natural born city dweller, like an arduous and treacherous journey through the icy slopes of the Frostback Mountains. These peaks had been simply a backdrop on a clear day. Travelling into the heart of them felt as feasible as entering an oil painting.

Yet here he is. Caliban gets past the guards with a token of permission: the dim green glow nested in the palm of his hand.

Not much else in the way of instruction, though, but he didn't exactly make conversation. He leads his mount into the muddy courtyard, a stranger, if people are getting used to familiar faces by now. The clothing he is bundled in is peasant-made and unimpressive, and he has a bow and quiver at his back, and a hefty bundle with the feathered ends of arrows peaking, tied to the saddle. A cowl disguises pointed ears, but sometimes you can just tell in these parts, with the narrowness of his face and the brightness of his eyes, without any tribal markings to otherwise distinguish him.

It's warmer, up here. He'd noticed that before, but his journey seems to have set a chill in his bones that is stubborn to shake. Stiffly, he forces himself to let go of the reins, and awkwardly kick a foot out of the stirrup. His dismounting swiftly becomes an awkward slip and collapse.

Comments

[feckless]

"We could tell them it hurts the people that carry it."

Which, that's probably how that went down, Caliban, but he can't help but sigh out this observation anyway as Zevran leads him into the kitchens. The people they pass are a mix of human and elf, and the friendlier implications of this community doesn't seem to relax him. But upon stepping inside, a little tension eases away, the fire-warmed air easing cold swifter from his bones.

Topics of 'food' and 'the Herald died of it' war with Caliban's attention. He divides it neatly, bright hazel eyes settling on where firelight leaks out of the edges of iron doors and with it, the scent of roasting meat, even as he says, "I want to get rid of it. Nothing fancy. I don't mind just getting rid of it."

It's fine. Andraste can touch other people, he'll be on his way.

[ombranera]

"They may or may not know that already." Zev deposits this particular elf by the fire and passes coin to the nearest serving girl. A bowl of stew, a hunk of bread, a pint of ale. A simple meal indeed but after so long in the freezing weather of the mountains? more than enough to warm the bones. Zevran offers all this to their wayward associate.

"Unless you want to lose your hand? It is not so simple as removing that which glows." Not for lack of trying, or so he has heard.