open | run and hide, your head's on fire

[limier]

WHO: Wren + Cade, Gwen, OPEN

WHAT: Pre-Kirkwall Catchall
WHEN: Post-announcement, pre-move
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Will edit as appropriate

starters in the comments, feel free to hmu if you'd like something specific ❤

Comments

OTA | Mess, barracks, battlements.

[limier]

THE PLACE WHERE PEOPLE EAT, UNLESS YOU EAT SOME PLACE REALLY WEIRD

She's a taciturn presence in the mess hall — not averse to conversation, but not about to begin her own. Food is the clear priority. Food will never transport you into an alternate future hellscape.

Well, probably. If you want an honest answer or an unvarnished opinion, here's your chance.


BARRACKS

There’s a map staked to the cramped table, spotted with ink and abandoned pages. Wren hunches over it (no room for a chair), tapping out rhythm with the point of a knife. Put more honestly — Repeatedly stabbing the wood.

She doesn’t seem to notice, wedging the blade in and out of Kirkwall with a methodical absence. To anyone lingering in the doorway, a remarkably calm: "Yes?"


(ALL ALONG THE) WATCHTOWER

Sentry shifts are long, tedious, and cold. Perfect if you don’t want to think. For the most part, she lets them pass in silence.

But it’s not long into this round of frozen fingers and tepid disinterest that she rummages in her pockets for a roll, breaks it in half to offer. A small bribe for conversation.

"Know any ghost stories?"


WILDCARD

This starter is your oyster. Don't ask me how that works.

GWEN

[limier]

She’s already passed the request (a meeting, a personal matter only, if she might find the time?) over the crystals.

"Lady Vauquelin,"

There’s no uniform now, just politely folded hands, a head tipped in question. She trusts they both know her previous proposition to be moot; there’s no need to discuss it. Had there ever been interest, any actionability ended with Gwen's last editorial.

They’ll dredge some university scholar for the task, and that will be half a scandal in itself — a more tolerable kind. More easily sold.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me."

[elegiaque]

It hadn't occurred to her, at the time - it had been rather far from her mind when that piece had gone to publication. Nevertheless, the oversight is not an inability to grasp: Wren's voice had reminded her, and then, oh. Well, that's that, then. Perhaps it's for the best, she thinks, that she not entangle herself in Chantry politics. At least not so directly; aren't they all on tenterhooks seeing which way the wind ends up blowing, now?

Set it aside. Now, instead, she folds her hands in her lap as Yva (her third maidservant, now - a human girl, this time) steps out of the chamber and closes the door softly behind herself, wonders what personal matter of Ser Coupe's could possibly require her attention.

"Of course," she says, head tilted. "I'm at your disposal, Ser, what is it I can do for you?"

[limier]

Gwenaëlle looks so much softer here, without that harrowed, topiary fierceness. Call it a trick of the light, lest she forget: that briars needn't be shaped to bite.

A maid this time, and human. Not so unusual, but perhaps something to ask after later. Eyebrows lifted in question (may I?), Wren moves to sit.

"I wished to ask your impressions of Skyhold's security. I have had... little occasion to entertain the perspective of your position."

Wren has lived too long with the expectation of violence to know what it is to not know it. To find it surprising, aberrant. A hypothetical, or a fear, or even a fantasy — and most, far removed from the meat of it.

"But as the Inquisition’s dealings grow, my ignorance seems an oversight."

Her ignorance, sure. That's what all this is about. It's flimsy cover, but there's truth within. Wren is not noble, she is no civilian, and she will be asked to stand before those that are both.

[elegiaque]

A tilt of her head is all the permission Wren needs; Gwenaëlle's quarters are close in comparison to what she must enjoy in her own home, but they have many of those home comforts. The seating by her fireside is plush, and the room itself an oasis of Orlais in miniature, arranged about her. A sewing basket by her armchair, a writing desk in the far corner, a low table cleared of the afternoon's debris and holding only a few papers.

(The scent of wine hangs in the air, though, from which Wren can draw her own conclusions.)

There are a few out-of-place notes; a Chasind figure of a cat on her mantel, a framed sketch of a mabari (of Cullen Rutherford's mabari, specifically, though she mightn't be familiar enough to know it), a bearskin (head and all) draped over the chaise Wren sits upon. Hints of what might be called a certain flexibility of philosophy by some observers; Gwenaëlle is every inch gently-bred, from the top of her hair (swept back with a moonstone-encrusted comb in a curious geometric pattern) to the tips of her toes (bare and tucked slightly under her skirts to hide), but even now and even without the sharpened edges of a world that won't be, she is more complicated than she entirely likes to appear.

"My impressions of its security," she repeats, contemplating for a moment the hound quietly alert at her feet. (Young, still; full grown or near enough to, now, but lacking something of the stateliness he'd attained in Ortan Thaig.) She isn't quite wary, yet, but there's a reserve-- "In what respect?"

[limier]

It would be desperately inappropriate to pat the bear's head, to maybe scratch its ears just a little. Alas.

"We have armed ourselves against broader threats," If the Inquisition's unprepared to face Corypheus, it's still the guiding purpose of their work. The Venatori could fly another damn dragon up the mountain, and it would be a surprise — but not a shock. "Thick walls, training drills, measures purposed to war."

"I worry that we risk a singular vision, and by doing, overlook the smaller dangers. Several emissaries keep private guards in tow."

A glance to Hardie, from the corner of her eye.

[elegiaque]

Get her out of here; Bellamy's voice. Alexander's arms around her as he dragged her away, her hands slick with blood as she doubled over to fight his grip--

"I have every faith in the Inquisition's forces," she says, neutrally, her hand only half-hidden by her skirts when it fists to betray the awful taste of the lie that lingers in the words. There were no thick walls on that Orlesian road. Every time she gets in a fucking carriage, someone dies -

Hardie whines, and she knows he hears the edge in her voice. She makes herself easier.

"He was a gift," she says, in an attempt at something more upbeat. "From someone who felt I might do with one of those." Private guards.

[limier]

Fingers curl, her words hedge. Not so distant — not so practiced at it either. Gwen reaches for her skirts and not her hound, even as she minds him; a reflex that must be older than the beast. Poorly-hidden for it.

"I do not." Calmly. Wren regards her, expression still. She does not have faith. Nor, I think, does your someone.

"He is a fine creature." And he will not be enough. Dogs die, too. Perhaps not a thought to voice aloud. "Why did they believe you'd need of him?"

[elegiaque]

"We live in very uncertain times," she says, wanting it to be enough, suspicious in a sinking way that it won't be, and that this is going somewhere she won't like. It's already somewhere she doesn't like, uneasy with the topic and with what she can possibly be expected to contribute on it. "I've been - very lucky, of course."

(The second arrow jutting horrifically from the wreckage of Guenievre's throat, her eyes sightless to the sky, her grip falling away from where she'd taken Gwenaëlle's arm and hauled her unceremoniously toward the treeline, her last words unremarkable, unremembered. Further back, the smell of her own flesh burning, the agony of jostled wounds on that first trip up the Frostbacks--

and Gwenaëlle is lucky.)

"But I'm ill-suited to this sort of thing. Obviously."

[limier]

"Are you?"

Lucky. Ill-suited. It’s as plain that Gwen doesn’t want to speak of this as it is increasingly apparent that they must.

Her possessions speak to scattered interests, too mismatched to be the likely product of personal acquisitiveness. Others, pressing forth the things they love in a transitive affection. She surrounds herself in them. So many little guards.

The girl owns protectors. It’s a fortune that only extends so far.

"Why is that?"

[elegiaque]

Gwenaëlle looks down at Hardie, rising slowly to sit on his haunches, thudding his tail encouragingly against the thick rug. It's hard not to remember the short, sharp way she'd lashed out at Thranduil that day he'd first spoken of him; how he'd told her she must learn to protect herself. How he'd coaxed her back from the ledge, pressed Hardie into her hands. To reassure him of her safety, giving her this little thing that loves her, now--

Bigger, now.

But Hardie is not going to protect her from a demon and she knows it.

"I don't have my father's aptitude for violence," she says, quietly. She used to like to watch-- even in the past year, when she first came here, she used to watch the warriors at training.

She hasn't, not for weeks. Months. She doesn't examine why not. She doesn't care to.

[limier]

An aptitude. That’s one way to describe a well-publicized habit of brawling. She doubts it is all the comment intends.

Wren knows little of the wound, cannot guess its shape, its depth — but she has seen the curled edges of the scar. Enough to know its presence. A hand needn’t be turned against you to harm.

My father failed me every day of his life,

"That is not violence," Her voice lowers, head tips. "It is destruction."

Another sort of aptitude, and given far greater means.

"Your dog is not," Gently: "He is anything but."

[elegiaque]

Five years hence, Gwenaëlle had wanted Emeric's bravery remembered. Today -

He has a scar on his shoulder, misshapen from both the wound that caused it and his daughter's inexpert tending, muttering viciously under her breath as she'd stitched him up with needle and thread out of the same sewing basket that sits so innocuously beside her now. His muffled complaints, her furious exasperation, a further bottle of brandy between them to dull it all. No such anesthesia when she'd watched you did this lodge between his ribs, drain the colour from his face; no satisfaction in it, either.

Instead, an emptiness she hasn't known how to fill, the loneliness of a grief she is too accustomed to bearing alone to know how it is she could reach out to those who might ease the burden. He grieves, too. It doesn't matter.

"His name is Hardie," she says, and is there anything left here that doesn't ache.

CADE

[limier]

"Ser Harriman,"

Calmly, but pitched to carry. She waits in the doorway, a figure in simple Chantry-marked leathers.

"Lieutenant Coupe, previously of the Spire." A step in, and an introduction — however strange that is to make now, to a Cade with both eyes open and unclouded and startlingly blue.

"I require assistance in a small matter, outside Skyhold. Your name was recommended to me," In a. Very very loose sense of the word. "Are you free?"

He is, whether he yet knows it or not. She’s arranged for that much.

[onlyhymns]

Several things about this are surprising: first, that Cade was recommended to her. Second, that this is happening at all. Third, that she's a Lieutenant, which invokes a pang of shame in his chest; he was a Lieutenant, not all that long ago. Now he's just...
...an inconvenience.

Cade stands with a small nod, not bothering to introduce himself since Coupe clearly already knows who he is. He briefly meets her gaze, then looks away, feeling not terribly unlike he would when interacting with Nerva: outclassed, intimidated, but with an uncanny desire to please her.

[limier]

No more talkative now than later, apparently. As little as she appreciates this dull silence, knowing the gossip of what he does say —

Well. If they're looking to better his reputation, there are worse qualities than to be tight-lipped around strangers.

"Thank you. An hour’s time, by the front gate. Have a mount saddled. There will be no combat," That seems a matter to have out with from the beginning. "But armor yourself, please, regardless."

A short, sweeping gesture.

"If you've questions?"

[onlyhymns]

Cade's first instinct is generally to assume he's about to be taken out behind the woodshed when a higher-up demands his presence, but woodshed or none, he'll do what he's told.

"Ser," he says with a nod, acknowledging Wren's instructions, then shakes his head. No questions.

It's a little before an hour later that he's standing by the gate and holding the reins of Lady Patience, the neurotic dappled grey mare with whom he always seems to get stuck. He's trying to stand straight and ready, but she keeps nosing him to make him stumble. He didn't bring her any treats.

[limier]

A honking bray announces their approach.

That is. An enormous donkey, its saddlebags loaded with supplies: Food, blankets, tinder, bandages — even a sloppily-stitched ragdoll, conspicuously lacking ears.

A faintly amused look between the pair, as Scrug the donkey moves too to snuffle at Cade. Some shining white knights they'll make. By way of explanation,

"There are pilgrims camped along the roads to Skyhold. Pious men, refugees, those seeking employ." And the opportunists looking to rob them blind. It doesn't matter. "We shall be delivering supplies."

Her head tips to regard him,

"Why do you think we're doing so?"

She knows, since she planned the damn thing, but she wants his take. The Inquisition could send anyone. A Chantry sister would be well-received, a healer, potentially useful. Two templars?

[onlyhymns]

.....hhhhuh.
Cade looks at the donkey in mild distaste, but makes no comment-- not every hoofed animal can be majestic and proud. He scans the contents of Scrug's saddlebags, then looks back to Wren, a bit skeptically. Perhaps nervously. He has his suspicions, and they involve interacting with people, generally not one of his stronger suits.

"...to make a good impression?" he guesses uneasily.

[limier]

"Quite." The thin slip of a smile. Gold star, Cade.

It's half the reason, at least — the half that it wouldn't be terribly impolite to mention. Kirkwall is going to be a trial for everyone, its returning children likely among them. She needs a better measure of him (beyond what gossip can supply) before they depart.

"While we are there," She pulls herself up into place, motions he do the same. "I want you to observe those we meet. To take note of what occurs,"

"I will need you to be my eyes."

[onlyhymns]

This seems reasonable enough. Cade nods again, this time providing a "yes, ser," as he mounts his horse-- after several tries, since she likes to dance to the side once his weight is in the stirrup.
He and Lady Patience are two of a kind, and for that reason they make one another very nervous.

"Should we expect any trouble?"

[limier]

"No. But trouble has a way of surprising." She waits for Cade to settle in before urging Scrug forward. He huffs once, tail flicking lazily, before starting off. Slow and steady.

"There may be confidence men among the travelers, or those looking to intimidate. I think it likely they will give us berth,"

This close to fortress walls, the jackals must be cleverer. Open banditry would be quickly put down — it doesn’t pay to pick fights with an army.

"So we shall need to spot them for ourselves. It would not do for them to arrive at our gates later, acting the mercenary."

[onlyhymns]

Already Cade feels it in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing worry that there will be confrontation, in which he will either prove completely ineffective or excessively violent. His leg is essentially healed, perhaps a bit tender where the chunk of red lyrium once was, but his mind immediately goes to it, inviting that creeping paranoia: what if they didn't get it all out? What if he loses his head and kills someone he isn't supposed to?
Worse yet, what if he simply makes an ass of himself in front of the locals? What if he offers assistance and is shouted away and insulted?

Lady Patience irritably tugs on the reins, asking for her head, which is being held back in a tight, white-knuckled death grip. Cade grants it with a whispered apology, but watches the surrounding area like a hawk as they ride, waiting for aggression seen or unseen.

[limier]

She lets him stew a moment, watches from the corner of her eye as they set out.

"Ser Harriman," White knuckles, an evident paranoia. Of what? The world outside, or something more? Gently: "I wish to be clear that you are to look, only. If we have suspicions, they will be forwarded to the Inquisition’s scouts."

The last thing she needs is to return the Order's resident problem child covered in blood. Now,

"Do you know what you are looking for?"

The typical signs of jumpiness might do — but there are reasons enough to be jumpy around Templars these days, and she’d be surprised if most people weren’t wary of Cade. He’s like a dog with its ears laid flat.

[onlyhymns]

Cade nearly twitches as he looks at her, responding immediately to his name and pinning Wren with a gaze that can only be described as needy. She holds his leash at the moment, and he responds to and relies on her and her alone.
He nods his understanding of her statement, but at the question, he shakes his head, quickly adding a "no, ser, not entirely."