faderift | get ready everybody 'cause here we go

Entry tags:

get ready everybody 'cause here we go

WHO: Saoirse, Herian & open.
WHAT: a combined birthday hangout.
WHEN: 30th Haring.
WHERE: The Hanged Man.
NOTES: Drink up now and turn up hungover to the Firstday feast. Open invitation over here, no need to reply to the network post or even have prior cr in order to attend. Please add any warnings to subject lines if they come up.

"Party" would be an extreme word for it; the more accurate word would be "casual gathering of people with liquor readily available." It is The Hanged Man, though, so who knows what shenanigans could unfold.

They've taken over a corner of the inn, and though there isn't much in the way of decorations - making sure the place could be easily accessed after all that snow was work enough - there are a couple of strings of bunting.

Don't get too wild; it'd be unfortunate if Herian had to interrupt her own (shared) birthday celebration in the sake of preserving the Inquisition's reputation. (Or do get wild, and simply shrug it off as The Hanged Man's influence. Whatever.)

Be sure of one thing, though - at least one round is one Herian. Maybe. If you're a close friend, or look particularly glum.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“Tolerable,” she says, droll. “You've caught us in motion-” with a gesture to the house at large, which seems a-bustle with activity for also being fucking cold. In the private sitting room on the top floor that Herian has been shown up to, there's a roaring fire (Hardie, her hound, has taken up residence in front of it and will not be moved), and Gwenaëlle has arranged blankets and bearskins appropriately - but much of the rest of the house is chilled and cold, and in the process of being shut up.

“It wasn't built for this winter,” a bit more critically, regarding the home she's become grudgingly sort of fond of, “and I'm a bit concerned my birds are going to die in the night, so we'll be decamping to the Gallows by the end of the week. How did the Hanged Man treat you?”

"Of course." There's no sarcasm or disrespect in it; she's simply never really had to be concerned about the well-being of birds, but that must be the sort of things that a noble has the time to become invested in (literally).

She is doing her utmost not to feel that she should also be assisting, though it is a difficult impulse to quash. "Very well, thank you. You generous gift was greatly appreciated by Enchanter Ceallach and myself - I wanted to thank you for your kindness."

And— "Can I offer any assistance with the impending relocation?"

Gwenaëlle quashes the flippant query that springs to mind (do you want to ride an elk into the Gallows) because whatever her own feelings are about Herian Amsel, she's perfectly aware of Thranduil's and nothing sounds more awkward than trying to explain she was joking and that he would almost certainly be unimpressed with the joke to someone who, she is pretty sure, has joked three and a half times in her entire life.

“In the inquisitorial race to the lowest common denominator,” she says, with no small amount of sincerity, “you are one of the few people of whom I can say I had the pleasure without much irony.”

Like, a little, but in a tolerant way and because of Herian's personality rather than because she'd ever walked away from a conversation with her despairing for the fate of Thedas.

“I, personally, would drink to that. And if you want to assist me, you'll not let me drink alone.”

(There's a bell pull. She pulls it. Drinks will be forthcoming.)

There's a visible moment of ah, which isn't so much an ah, no as an ah, I did not expect that but now I realise I probably should have. It's a sequence that would fit well in a slideshow about the stages of grief, or something of the sort. Pictured here: acceptance.

"In that case I will gladly join you." Not to excess, but she's learned there are times when strictest temperance causes offence needlessly. A glass is no crime.

The cases of both the pleasure without much irony and the not letting her drink alone. The problem is, of course, that Herian remains... well, Herian, which is not so much lacking in emotion, but lacking in ease of emotional expression, when she has fought so hard to be controlled for so long.

"One could suppose the lack of irony might be linked lack of exposure to my presence," Herian replies, and it falls with her usual formality, although there is a very faint crack of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Gwenaëlle revises her mental estimate of times Herian Amsel has joked on purpose to a round four.

“I reserve the right to rescind my tolerance at any time,” she says, archly, and waves her down not to a stiff-backed chair but to the mess of blankets and bearskins and cushions that she's made a nest of at a safe enough distance of the fire not to eventually turn pink from it. Her shoes are...somewhere, but it doesn't matter, in thick velvet skirts, and however terrible Herian might be at expressing emotion, Gwenaëlle — is, also, but she speaks her own language for it.

It isn't a hard one to learn. You just have to pay attention.

She eyes the nest with faint amusement. It doesn’t seem entirely fitting with what she knows of Lady Vauquelin, but then what she has learned of her seems to be that she enjoys defying what is expected, so perhaps a nest is exactly fitting. With that said, Herian is not entirely certain about how to position herself in such a setting, with such company.

She sits, still upright and rigid, with her legs stretched out before her to spare her the inevitable curse of pins and needles. For a moment she has exactly no idea what to say; their dynamic is a strange one. Friendship is presumptuous, and acquaintance far too dismissive.

“May I ask you your opinion on something related to Inquisition matters?” Forthright, rather than awkward, as though she’s remembered something relevant. “I can spare you it gladly, but I would… appreciate another opinion.”

The truth of the matter is both much simpler and much more complicated—how her lady mother wished she was enjoying defiance, at least then she might have imagined it was deliberate, that there was a fucking purpose to any of it. No, she's just like this, even when she's trying hard to do nothing more than be precisely what she's meant to be—she's never quite learned the trick of it. A time was when she might have been dismayed to know what Herian thinks of her, but she's a little more resigned to being a disappointment, these days.

At least everyone she disappointed most is dead.

(She can be contrary, of course, but it's difficult to mistake that for anything but hostility.)

“By all means. I have no shortage of opinions,” lightly, cosy in contrast to Herian's stiff-backed posture. How she manages it in such tight corsetry is the gift of practise, probably.

“I might be presumptuous enough to ask two of you, then.” Or she might not. Casual discussions of Tranquility may be a little much even for them.
Herian debates internally, just for a few moments, how to broach the topic. “It’s regarding the matter of the forest that was grown at the Chantry.” Not the Chantry forest, because it has no Chantry sanction, no matter its location. “I’ve… some thoughts regarding it and what might be done, both to improve the Inquisition’s standing in Kirkwall and with the Chantry so that our cause not be undermined, but knowing that it is considered… particularly precious by a number of Inquisiton members, given the recent loss of Dahlasanor.”
She pauses, and sighs. “You know my regard for the Dalish, and the forest undoubtedly poses risk and dangers - the efforts to profit from it aside, it could be used as a hideaway by criminals, and to keep it safe and patrolled is a use of manpower that is… a tax on the Inquisition better avoided. I would like to try and determine a means to make it more acceptable to the Chantry and preserve some part of what Dahlasanor created for the sake of those she was dear to, but…”
But? “I would appreciate your opinions and insights. I am… limited by my own experience, and while I think it is imperative to improve our standing with the Chantry to better serve our cause, I have no desire to cause needless injury.”

"If it was precious," after an incredulous pause, "that one less mouth to feed isn't a great loss because that is the sort of nonsense you've got to be quite thick to come up with. I assumed it was done out of spite. Why else put it there?"

Where it stands as an insult to Kirkwall, and out of the reach of anyone a Dalish elf might want to help...there's nothing in Hightown for elves, and the Inquisition is hardly going to win hearts and minds by setting themselves so blatantly against public opinion.

"I've been buying the firewood," frankly. "The sooner it's gone, the better. It's not Inquisition land. The Inquisition, to be perfectly frank, hasn't any right to tell Kirkwall what to do with it. They'll regret it if they try, and so will you. Don't waste your time."

"I agree," she starts, to make it plain. "The injury suffered was one inflicted upon the Inquisition, but upon Kirkwall. It was they who lost people, and even worse, one amongst our number inflicted that hurt. They should have control of what happens to that land, and whatever it is that they desire, I intend to support and attempt to aid them with, even if it demands lobbying funds from the Inquisition to undo what has been planted."

It would not... make her happy, and she would sooner save some part of the forest if possible. "I warned Dahlasanor that the Chantry would not like it after it was grown, but I could recognise the potential for reconciliation in it. Fertile land, materials for use - perhaps the land could even be converted to the garden originally envisioned."

She's considering possibilities, but she sighs. "While it stands and the Inquisition does not act to support Kirkwall whatever course of action they wish to take, we are committing an insult against those we infringe upon and keeping the Chantry and their influence turned against us."

"The Dalish have no place in that conversation," is her blunt conclusion, shrugging as an (...elven) maid brings in the mulled wine that she'd rung for earlier. "If they don't like that, that's no one's problem but theirs and entirely the product of their own foolishness. I doubt they'll like whatever happens to it, but it isn't for them to like or not like."

She passes Herian a warm glass, adding, "Your life will be easier when you stop taking other people's stupidity on your shoulders."

“No,” Herian agrees, though she does not look satisfied. “But they have lost the one who planted the forest, and… I thought it would be kinder to try and preserve some very small part of that, if it could be done in such a way that would appeal to the Chantry.”

She accepts the wine, but waits to sip until her host has done so.

“We need the Chantry if we are to rally support to our cause instead of opposition. Someone must see amends made, and I am part of the Chantry Relations Project.” Who else will do it? “We cannot fight Corypheus by endlessly avoiding matters that must be addressed.”

"Steal a cutting or a small tree and replant it if you absolutely must," with a roll of her eyes. "It isn't as if as it stands it's any kind of monument her loved ones can visit or benefit from. They're hardly losing anything in whatever happens. They didn't gain anything in the first place."

A shake of her head, tasting the wine and then drinking deeper, "Cosseting the woodland creatures isn't going to get them anywhere in the long run, Herian. No one cares what they think, least of all Kirkwall's Chantry. And we're on damned thin ice as it is. If they're a liability..."

Well, she wouldn't miss them if they all went back wherever they came from. Thranduil might, but he's a pragmatic sort.

"It's Kirkwall we need."

It’s Kirkwall they need, undeniably. Kirkwall, the Chantry, and the world beyond. Sina had used her magic to create that forest, but if the forest undercut their opportunities to build alliances and the entire world was lost through repeated blunders with this amongst them, what then?

She slowly exhales, and drinks some of the wine, spiced and rich.

“I have no desire to act insensibly; winning the Chantry and Kirkwall is important, and I will do whatever I can. Thank you for your counsel, it is greatly appreciated. I dread my own… history with the Dalish rendering me incapable of acting with reason.”

Knowing that what would be necessary to win the Chantry may make others who have suffered a loss unhappy brought her no joy, but the site was for Kirkwall’s loss in the first place. A magic forest suddenly appearing in a city long tormented by blood magic was, in some ways, lucky to last as long as it had. She was not, however, under the illusion that if the Chantry did demand the forest cut down, that it would be of much comfort. (She dislikes the Dalish, does not trust them, has suffered at their hands. That does not mean she wishes to make them suffer. There is no honour, no justice, no goodness in that.)

A sip of wine, because This Chat.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

get ready everybody 'cause here we go

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

was NOT one inflicted on the Inquisiton, fml thanks hands

i knew what u meant bb

thanks bruh