( open ) your destiny is forlorn

[dashing]

WHO: Herian Amsel & OPEN.
WHAT: a few open threads & a catch all, basically.
WHEN: throughout Harvestmere
WHERE: probably mostly Kirkwall
NOTES: prose or brackets are fine.

I. THE ALIENAGE.

Since her appointment as the Ambassador and managing projects in need of new leadership, she has not been to the Alienage nearly so often as she'd like, or enough to satisfy the her duties. Now with Saoirse departed, it is all the more pressing that she attend. Less to do with the idea that this might somehow be a boon to the Inquisition, and far more to do with her own wants, the need to maintain some connection to the Alienage, even though it is not the one where she grew up.

So, here she is, assisting a collection of Chantry sisters and brothers who remain committed and enthusiastic about assisting with education in the Alienage and in Darktown, and here she will be as often as she is able to without neglecting her duties to the Inquisition.

A. On some days, Herian can be found with dirt under her nails and rubbed across her skin, as she helps with teaching how to do repairs, and helping with repairs in the process.

B. On others, she is accepting papers with efforts at writing, smiling at the student handing it over - some young, some old - and speaking with the Chantry brother who is collecting some ink wells and pens from the make-shift classroom they are clearing up.

II. THE GALLOWS WALLS.

Dusk has faded way, the sky turned inky blue and the stars shining through, where the weather allows. Herian sits atop the Gallows ramparts, clad not in the more formal attire she wears in her office, nor the light armour she might don for missions. Now she is only in simple leather trousers, a dark green cotton shirt with ties that descend from shoulder to wrist, as she sides on the wall and looks down over the bay to Kirkwall, and the Gallows courtyard, candles nearby - perhaps not immediately recognisable as the controlled and severe Knight Enchanter.

It is a vigil, of sorts, or maybe a meditation, to try and give her mind a chance to order itself.

Perhaps she is singing the Chant, or perhaps she simply watches and listens.

III. THE BATHS.

Her muscles protest the sink into the hot water, but it is a welcome relief. Tattoos stretch across her skin, intricate patterns on either side of her spine and down her arms, follow her collarbones, and scars have distorted the skin. These are not matters of shame or concern, she is untroubled if others see them, as she closes her eyes and tries to knead at her shoulders to help them recover from training. It felt harder to keep up with her training and not suffer for it, now she was even more shackled to her desk.

There's an unholy crack from her back, and Herian makes a face. Oh, that wasn't good. That was probably going to cause a problem tomorrow.

IV. THE DIPLOMACY OFFICE.

A round table, a sleepy corgi, wild flowers in vases, and Herian probably wishing for a reprieve from writing letters. Please help her.

V. or some wildcard nonsense.