OPEN: this will be a better year

[faderifting]

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: First Day
WHEN: Wintermarch 1 (forward-dated)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Scouts from both the Western Approach and Emprise du Lion are welcome (but not required) to have returned to Skyhold in time for this event.

There have been better First Day feasts, and less crowded ones, and cheerier ones. It isn't a good year for many to look back on, and this one isn't starting any better. Reports from both Eastern and Western Orlais are grim. Many in the Inquisition can't afford to take more than a few hours away from their work, if that.

But for those who can, the ambassador does her best. At lunchtime some tables, hot food, and finery are reserved for visiting nobility and wealthy pilgrims--cause for grumbling in some quarters, perhaps, but they're the people filling the Inquisition's coffers, and allowances must be made--but there's plenty of stew, bread, and ale for everyone, even with the soldiers and refugees who stay outside the fortress invited inside for the holiday. The recently repaired garden and its carefully tended plants aren't off limits, but anyone noisy and holding a drink will be stopped at the door; the battlements, with their potential for deadly falls, are blocked by Inquisition guards. But the courtyards brim with people, most of them happy despite the possibility that the world might end before another First Day arrives.

If the courtyards are too full of tipsy visitors for comfort, there's also the valley beyond the fortress, expansive, barren, and covered in snow. By the river the soldiers help the refugees make a bonfire larger than would ever be allowed inside Skyhold's walls, and some lend their shields to use as sleds down the embankments. A group of scouts start the most intense game of hide and seek Thedas has ever seen, with snowballs to the face for whoever is found first. In the camp, a refugee girl with her hand wrapped in a green scarf chases other children around the tents, shouting raaar, I'm from the rifts!

Comments

[ungovernable]

There are a great many things here in Skyhold that she might describe as quaint before even a Free Marcher - for the time being, she laughs, delighted, at the more familiar steps. At his skill, which as promised she keeps any surprise about to herself, sparing him only a sly glance up from beneath her lashes as she falls into the rhythm of the dance, easy as breathing.

Observe the civilized North, doglords.

(She would never.)

(...out loud.)

[judgemewhole]

Well, come on. They were in Fereldan. Everything was more quaint here - not to mention smelling heavily of dog. His only response to that sly glance was a faint smirk of his own which is stilled into an expression of absolutely seriousness.

The movements precise, the dance courtly and telling all at the same time. Fereldans had passion, but they never really mastered precision.

(He wouldn't either.)

(Probably.)

[ungovernable]

In the steps of the dance, they make a well turned out couple, fast footwork and the flattering sweep of her gown, her air as light-hearted as ever in contrast to his solemnity. When they come to a stop, she performs a gracious curtsy and does not, however tempting it may be, begin to slowly applaud him.

She did promise not to be surprised.

"Well, Knight-Commander," she says, instead, "I shall remember you if I have need of a dance partner in future."

[judgemewhole]

Norrington dipped into a formal bow in turn, before his lips twitched up at the corners at the applause. He straightened, offering his arm to take her off the floor.

"And I shall remember the honor, Councilor. You are incredibly graceful."