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WHO: The new Inquisition moving company & friends
WHAT: One important roadtrip to Starkhaven
WHEN: /waves hands in a timey wimey wibbly wobbly vague way
WHERE: Kirkwall, the lovely main roads along the Free Marches & Starkhaven proper
NOTES: None to mention, will add as needed
WHAT: One important roadtrip to Starkhaven
WHEN: /waves hands in a timey wimey wibbly wobbly vague way
WHERE: Kirkwall, the lovely main roads along the Free Marches & Starkhaven proper
NOTES: None to mention, will add as needed
The group leaves Kirkwall early in the morning just as the sun is rising. Their wards have all piled into one covered wagon, all of their worldly possessions fitting neatly and seemingly... little after several generations living inside the city. Speaking of Kirkwall, the young one's elderly grandparents do spend a few short moments looking over the city before it rightly goes out of sight with quiet tears. Saoirse stands with them, speaking comforting words but understanding well what it is like to leave behind all one knows for something (one hopes and prays) will be better.
Their trip along the roads to Starkhaven are thankfully underwhelming compared to most ventures Inquisition members take outside the city these days. They make good time passing through Vimmark Mountains and Wildervale, making brief stops as needed along the road. One they reach the Minanter River, it isn't long before the city of Starkhaven comes into view and it very clear even at a distance that there is a good reason why it is the wealthiest city in the Free Marches. Nestled in a fertile valley, alongside the river, the air is even different from the tense air that has lingered over Kirkwall lately. It's light, free caring with the citizens clearly at ease within their city walls.
Those here to continue help with the moving process will be led along with Saoirse to the alienage, none too different from any other alienage despite the grand buildings that surround it but the people seem welcoming especially when they realize the group is with two of their own. They are also quick to help with the moving process, removing boxes and helping the family set up their new home. Others are more than welcome to travel the city, explore and visit family. Just... not make trouble, okay? The last thing the Inquisition needs is another Marcher city frowning at them.
OOC: Welcome to Starkhaven!!! Currently this is planned to take place before the group goes to Neverra, backdated to early in the month. The trip is currently expected to take three days (at the most) before returning to Kirkwall. Nevertheless folks are welcomed to stay longer if they wish.
HERIAN.
SAOIRSE cw ref to past death.
She managed the situation ably, she thought. Stayed very calm as the words met her, let them wash over and sink in, as water washing over muddy banks and sand shores, rather than the crashing of waves. The disturbance was there, but it lacked the hungry desperation of the sea. Step by step she proceeded respectfully and carefully, was informed of family business, was told what a nice surprise it was to see her well, even if they had seemed… uncomfortable. That was reasonable, she told herself. She was a human, elf-blooded as she might be, and a mage as well. She had been absent from the alienage longer than she had ever lived here.
Herian excuses herself; she will return, but she needs to check in on the well-being of some of the party she travelled here with. She moves from the home with steps that are just a little too quick to be calm and composed, though she blindly walks past her friend, unknowingly ignoring her as she moves, until she hits a muddy alleyway that she turns into abruptly as her vision swims, breath coming in sharply, too rapid to be effective.)
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it is her home but, she feels rather like a stranger standing in its streets.
thankfully, work keeps her busy as she moves boxes and helps arrange belongings. she plays games with the little ones, telling him that she will bring back gifts for his friends in Kirkwall and takes tea with his grandparents as the sun begins to dip into the sky. a flash of a familiar face has her glancing to Herian, smiling and opening her mouth to offer an invitation to her friend but she can barely summon her words before the other woman walks past her without so much a look. )
Herian— ( she finally manages but it is already too late as her friend vanishes into an alley, leaving Saoirse reeling until she quickly dismisses herself and hurries after. she finds Herian, breathing in panicked gasps of air and rushes to her side without a second thought. Saoirse's hands reach for her own, protectively as she speaks: )
Herian, breathe with me — calmly now. Have you been hurt?
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Saoirse is familiar, no matter the years that divided them. Maker, they must have run down this alleyway as children. She can imagine it, the sort of memory that has occurred so many times over that picking out particular instances of it seems almost impossible. For a moment she barely seems able to focus on her friend standing before her. Her should is braces against the wall, as if she might be unable to hold herself up without it, and she slowly clasps Saoirse's hands in turn, though her hold is weaker than it might normally be. )
I am unharmed.
( Her voice has slipped past its usual control into an unhealthy dullness, as she and she still isn't looking at Saoirse, though she's trying to match her breathing with faltering progress. )
Are you— ( Another ragged breath ) How are you?
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the sound of her voice alone is enough to worry Saoirse, her heart dropping and wishing there was more she could do in the moment. )
I am fine, do not worry for me. ( an then: a thought. ) Here, come with me. You need to rest and my home is not far from here.
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(It seemed so wrong, so warped, in retrospect. What else did she not know? What else did she have wrong? They are all background thoughts that her brain feels too stretched to be able to comprehend.)
Herian means to nod, to move in silence, but instead she leans back against the wall, watching Saoirse in exhausted silence for a moment. )
My mother is dead, Saoirse. She has been so for— ( Herian's mouth twists a moment, but she reigns herself back under control. She must be controlled. She must. Her breath hitches, ) —for many years.
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a hand moves, raising to perhaps brush hair from her friend's face when the words drop and she stares in a horrified silence. )
Your mother? I don't— ( why hadn't anyone told her? why hadn't her father said anything? but... could she have told Herian this truth? ) I'm so sorry.
( the words tumble out before she can help herself and Saoirse moves suddenly, wrapping her arms around the other woman's shoulders in a gentle hug. she doesn't know what else she can do. she doesn't know what else she can say... if there was anything to say now. )
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It probably feels longer than it actually is before she manages it, wrapping her arms around her friend in a way that isn't totally still or awkward. It feels very strange, as though her limbs were numb and hard to control. )
There was a sickness. Before our Circle burned, there was a sickness in the alienage.
( Shaky, and followed by hiccuped gulp for breath. ) I should have come home sooner.
OTA
( It is an old tradition, this. She can't remember if it is one from throughout the alienage, or simply one her family has carried with them. The gathering of forget-me-nots, the weaving together of them. She's sitting on a log, weaving together the flowers and... frankly, struggling. She isn't good at this, and her hands had been steadier when she performed the task for Lady Vauquelin's mother. Herian exhales through her nose, but it could be understandably mistaken for the snort of an aggravated bull. )
Sibh sealbhaich an loinn de raoiteach gibealach!
( >:C >:C >:C )
TAVERN.
( She can't think the last time she had this, and never quite this fancy. Starkhaven's most famous dish, fish and egg pie, all richness. It's an indulgence, in ways that extend beyond the comparative luxuriousness of the dish. It wasn't necessary to go to a tavern and order a tankard of ale and this, when she could go for cheaper options. Her family made offer of much, and she would repay them for their generosity, but she needed to be away from them for a while, to breathe, when there was so much clamouring in her head.
That was an indulgence too, really, more selfish than she should allow herself to be.
Herian isn't actually eating or drinking, though, just listlessly sitting at the table in a tavern, and hiding away from the world for a while. Very stern, looming-seeming hiding. )
THE OLD CIRCLE.
( Prrrrooobably she's not supposed to be here, but hey, she's curious. Disciplined and stern she might be, but she's only human.
It's strange to walk the halls again - or what remains of them, which isn't much. Everything is burned, and she wonders how much of this is a deliberate move by her, akin to pressing down hard on a bruise. Losing Starkhaven had been hard. Losing the White Spire, moreso. In both instances the terror had seemed as smothering as the smoke that had filled Starkhaven's halls. Herian stands, palm pressed to the wall as she leans into the remains of the library, and frowns a little, moving in towards the old bookshelves, and pulls a volume from the wall that reeks of smoke and mildew. The pages crumble in her hands as she tries to leaf through and see if any of it is salvageable. Not much looks it - she'd guess she's hardly the first to have visited these halls, in the past years.
There's a movement of some sort behind her, and it is testament to both how emotionally thrown she is that she whirls about, spirit blade flaring into life. It's also a testament to her control that she does not strike - sparing either an Inquisition member, or possibly a rat. Either way, she sighs. )
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He's quick to raise his hands up defensively, the chair that he'd been grabbing still in one gloved hand--though he clearly isn't up for carrying it with one hand, and it and the hand sink down until the chair rests on the ground again. Gareth's eyes are wide as he stares at the blade in her hands--a knight enchanter, then. He's never had the chance to see one up close (and if they're all this jumpy, maybe that's a good thing). ]
Hi! Wow. That's a sword. Please don't stab me with it. I'm just...yanno. Collecting furniture. As you do.
[ He gestures to where, sure enough, a couple other of the chairs that are in good shape and a three-footed table are gathered. ]
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The blade is raised, and then it is gone, Herian holding only the hilt of the Spirit Blade. )
My apologies, ser. I had not expected any other to be here.
( She looks to the furniture, eyebrow quirking slightly. )
To take back to Kirkwall? ( She sounds... confused. Very quietly confused. )
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Nah, most of this stuff is half-rotten. I was just...going to stack them. Yanno. Make a big tower. [ That doesn't really explain anything, does it. ] And then, ah. Ask Saoirse if she wants to knock it over. Because...yeah.
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But then he mentions Saoirse, and that seems like explanation enough. Saoirse seemed like whimsy personified, at times. )
Ah. ( It is an “ah” of understanding. Of course. ) Is this a training exercise or a game?
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It's a game, I guess? Unless you ever think there will be a day when you'll need training to stack things up really high.
Which--you never know, I guess!
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( she says, a little dryly. What a strange man.
Then again, they were all of them rather strange, she imagined. )
If the day comes when our only defence depends on how well furniture can be stacked, I will rest assured I know who best to call upon.
( Not that she knows his name, she realises. She holds out her hand to shake, in offering. ) Knight Enchanter Amsel.
( ooc — just in case this is of interest, totally cool if you want the name to be unfamiliar to him though )
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Just make sure you get the right Gareth, I've heard there's a handful of us in the Inquisition right now. I'm just plain Gareth, no Sers or anything.
[ Hand shaking! He takes her hand and gives it a quick shake, that is not particularly firm. He is but a scrawny nerd. There is a moment of consideration at her name, though, as he digs around in his memories. ] Did you have an aunt or anyone in the Gallows, by chance? Old as dirt?
[ He also takes a few moments to consider her, as well. A Knight Enchanter in Fiona's army would have surely been in the front lines. That was their whole thing. And while he certainly couldn't have heard of every single person fighting at the front--He decides, as he usually does, to be wary. ]