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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"Of course! And if you find new ones I'd love to come and see."
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"Do you...like history, then? Ours, or anyone else's, just...history?"
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Pel pulls a pendant out from under her shirt, a carved antler point from Merrick. But strung on the same cord is a silver ring with a green amber stone.
"Our parents gave me this ring. I can never remember if it was when I was given away or when I first met them at the Arlathvhen. I don't really remember either. Mother said it was passed down through our family."
As she speaks, a certain moodiness comes over her. Remembering the feeling of belonging, of family, and always being forced to give it up.
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"Mother has one similar. The women of her bloodline all are to get one. This one...I think she said it was great-grandmother's. She'll be pleased to know that you've kept it well." He turned his face back to Pel, though the smile on it faded at the look on hers. His hand comes and rests at the crook of her neck, head butting against hers once more. "Atisha, lethallan. No matter the changes that have come, they are proud that you live as you do."
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Family is when no matter whatever else happens in life, you come first. Pel has always been a surrogate, loved but never someone's real daughter or real sister. Everybody's second choice. Everybody's vice-Keeper, both too far above and too far beneath them to be family. She is a leader and a servant, but nobody's daughter. To everyone she grew up with, she is a replaceable part.
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"Hush, vhenan. At least this year I'll be able to give you a proper gift." He squeezes her a little tighter, hoping that even if she doesn't appreciate the jest, she'll at least be distracted from her own distress.
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"I would like to think that, too."