Salem Lavellan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fortheloveoffalondin) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2015-11-20 12:04 am
fortheloveoffalondin) wrote in faderift2015-11-20 12:04 am
Entry tags:
A Challenger Arrives!
WHO: Salem of clan Ghilan, and whoever finds him there at the gates
WHAT: The arrival of one small, cold elf that is not part of clan Ashara
WHEN: After most people have returned from the Mire
WHERE: Skyhold's front gates, then possibly the healers' tents
Keeper
I've made it to the mountains. It's so cold in the South.
I will find our missing brothers. They deserve to be home, or if they've not survived, they deserve to be buried as the knights are.
Updates will be sent as events escalate.
You have my thanks for allowing me on this journey. Now you must endure until I return.
The scroll was kept in a skin tube at his side, to be delivered when he arrived at Haven. When he'd arrived in the valley where it had been tucked, though, all he'd found was a mound of snow, rattled off the mountain, and droves of corpses. He'd lingered only long enough to offer prayers, ask that the souls be guided from the place to what afterlifes they would seek, then started off into the mountains. It was fortunate that one of his few great skills was tracking, as he'd been able to pick up a trail, first wide and hectic, trampling the snow as people had fled, but as he'd followed, stopping where the ground was swept clean and there were still traces of campfires, humps of snow and crude markers over the graves of villagers that had fallen, he'd started to slow. He was persistent, stubborn, and had a good capacity for endurance in conditions that really should have killed him within days.
The snow had all but completely erased the tracks he'd been following in some areas, but people always left markers behind that were easy enough to find, for one with keen eyes and determination that bordered on obsession.
When the hold had come into view, Salem was draped in furs, wrapped up tight to stave off the cold as his armor hadn't been able to. There were still parts of him that were frostbitten, and by the time he'd started the trek up the last leg of the path, his vision was swimming, legs shaking. His food had all but completely run out, hard tack and dried herbs the last scraps in his bag. He'd been chewing on strong mint to keep himself conscious, but even that was failing, and as soon as he'd rounded the top of the last slope and found where the land had mostly leveled off on the path up to the gates, he'd finally fallen.
An alert was put out to some of the healers: an unknown Dalish had been found in front of the hold, freezing, dehydrated, delirious upon being shaken to consciousness, but alive.
Two days later, after regaining the ability to walk without wobbling
Where was he now? The question went out among the healers, unanswered as the elf had disappeared from his cot while their backs had been turned. His armor was gone, his blades were gone, but it had apparently been too hard to drag his axe away unnoticed, so it was still dug into the dirt where it had been.
Now one elf a little too thin and dressed a little too sparsely was tucked away into a shadowy corner with a good view of the courtyard, a book in his hand and charcoal pencil scribbling away as he took notes on everything that he could see, from the Orlesian humans wandering the hold, to the elves here and there both from the city and from some other Dalish clan. He'd caught sight of an armored human man that looked like he'd had better days, a sword sheathed at his hip and an empty harness across his back similar to the one that he wore when he carried his greataxe, and had leaned out of his corner to track his movement until he'd disappeared into the tavern. Then he'd caught sight of another human, blonde and older and tired but with the bearing of a leader and a scar on his mouth that he wanted to see close-up and no his face was not turning pink over these stupid gods-forsaken shems you see nothing.
WHAT: The arrival of one small, cold elf that is not part of clan Ashara
WHEN: After most people have returned from the Mire
WHERE: Skyhold's front gates, then possibly the healers' tents
Keeper
I've made it to the mountains. It's so cold in the South.
I will find our missing brothers. They deserve to be home, or if they've not survived, they deserve to be buried as the knights are.
Updates will be sent as events escalate.
You have my thanks for allowing me on this journey. Now you must endure until I return.
The scroll was kept in a skin tube at his side, to be delivered when he arrived at Haven. When he'd arrived in the valley where it had been tucked, though, all he'd found was a mound of snow, rattled off the mountain, and droves of corpses. He'd lingered only long enough to offer prayers, ask that the souls be guided from the place to what afterlifes they would seek, then started off into the mountains. It was fortunate that one of his few great skills was tracking, as he'd been able to pick up a trail, first wide and hectic, trampling the snow as people had fled, but as he'd followed, stopping where the ground was swept clean and there were still traces of campfires, humps of snow and crude markers over the graves of villagers that had fallen, he'd started to slow. He was persistent, stubborn, and had a good capacity for endurance in conditions that really should have killed him within days.
The snow had all but completely erased the tracks he'd been following in some areas, but people always left markers behind that were easy enough to find, for one with keen eyes and determination that bordered on obsession.
When the hold had come into view, Salem was draped in furs, wrapped up tight to stave off the cold as his armor hadn't been able to. There were still parts of him that were frostbitten, and by the time he'd started the trek up the last leg of the path, his vision was swimming, legs shaking. His food had all but completely run out, hard tack and dried herbs the last scraps in his bag. He'd been chewing on strong mint to keep himself conscious, but even that was failing, and as soon as he'd rounded the top of the last slope and found where the land had mostly leveled off on the path up to the gates, he'd finally fallen.
An alert was put out to some of the healers: an unknown Dalish had been found in front of the hold, freezing, dehydrated, delirious upon being shaken to consciousness, but alive.
Two days later, after regaining the ability to walk without wobbling
Where was he now? The question went out among the healers, unanswered as the elf had disappeared from his cot while their backs had been turned. His armor was gone, his blades were gone, but it had apparently been too hard to drag his axe away unnoticed, so it was still dug into the dirt where it had been.
Now one elf a little too thin and dressed a little too sparsely was tucked away into a shadowy corner with a good view of the courtyard, a book in his hand and charcoal pencil scribbling away as he took notes on everything that he could see, from the Orlesian humans wandering the hold, to the elves here and there both from the city and from some other Dalish clan. He'd caught sight of an armored human man that looked like he'd had better days, a sword sheathed at his hip and an empty harness across his back similar to the one that he wore when he carried his greataxe, and had leaned out of his corner to track his movement until he'd disappeared into the tavern. Then he'd caught sight of another human, blonde and older and tired but with the bearing of a leader and a scar on his mouth that he wanted to see close-up and no his face was not turning pink over these stupid gods-forsaken shems you see nothing.
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After another moment or two, Salem settles down onto the ground out of the way, prepared to roll away if Merrick should lash out, but for the time being his journal is out on his lap, pencil moving over one of the pages he'd been forced to add before coming here just to hold the information he was gathering in droves. A sketch was coming together beside a basic description of the other elf, complete with a separate example of his vallaslin. Salem's art isn't exactly the best, but it's passable, recognizable at least in its technicality and the details visible therein.
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"What are you doing?" he asks suddenly. "Is that supposed to be me?"
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"Well, yes, sort of. This is how I keep track of the world," he explains, holding the journal up for the other to see.
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His thumb absently traces the curve of her cheek.
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"If the two of you are really so close, then I thank you for taking care of her," he says quietly, giving Merrick a soft smile and sitting back some with his knees pulled up close to his chest.
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"How do you know her?" he asks, though with the way his voice sounds, it's more of a softly spoken demand.
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"We were born of the same parents," he explains. "I wasn't born until after she was taken to clan Ashara, but we spoke at the Arlathvhen. We traded the things we learned, histories and rumors, and she was happy." He looks more than a little pleased about this; in spite of how seldom they'd connected, he still loved his sister. And because of that, he's happy to meet the people that she cares about in his absence.
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Then he mutters, low and dangerous, "You're not her brother. I'm her brother."
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"I...I don't see why we can't both be."
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"You said you met her at the Arlathvhen," he continues, inflection still the same. "You weren't with her for her entire life. That's not a brother. You're an acquaintance at best."
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"She's still important to me," he huffs, buckling his book back into place. "Even if she's not my sister, that's not going to change."
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Quiet, hurt, but still warm. Just because Merrick's a prickly bastard doesn't mean he's not worth the time and effort to try to get to know. Especially if Pel cares about him.
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He's still speaking in that offhand way, not giving Salem any more attention than Merrick thinks he deserves.
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"Well if you're her brother and I'm her brother, then that makes us sort of brothers, doesn't it?" He walks off after that, mounting the steps to find somewhere higher up to lurk. He could try and make friends again later.