Fade Rift Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faderifting) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2015-10-16 09:10 pm
faderifting) wrote in faderift2015-10-16 09:10 pm
Entry tags:
- ! open,
- { adelaide leblanc },
- { alayre sauveterre },
- { beleth ashara },
- { benevenuta thevenet },
- { bruce banner },
- { christine delacroix },
- { cole },
- { cremisius aclassi },
- { cullen rutherford },
- { cyril ashara },
- { dorian pavus },
- { eirlys ancarrow },
- { ellana ashara },
- { gavin ashara },
- { gorse hissera-iss },
- { isabela },
- { kas },
- { kitty },
- { korrin ataash },
- { lace harding },
- { maxwell trevean },
- { merrick },
- { merrill },
- { pel },
- { rafael },
- { salvatore },
- { samouel gareth },
- { taashath },
- { varric tethras },
- { zevran arainai }
Skyhold
WHO: Anyone & everyone
WHAT: Open post for business as usual around Skyhold
WHEN: The first couple weeks of Harvestmere, 9:41 (aka October)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Please mark any necessary content warnings in thread subject lines. Also, make sure to check out the other log posts already made!
WHAT: Open post for business as usual around Skyhold
WHEN: The first couple weeks of Harvestmere, 9:41 (aka October)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Please mark any necessary content warnings in thread subject lines. Also, make sure to check out the other log posts already made!
Far from the glamorous adventurous world-saving people signed up for, most of the hustle and bustle in Skyhold at present is cleaning. The Great Hall is a disaster, and crews are assigned to haul out the cracked and rotting planks fallen from the wide-open roof, and tear down the vines covering the walls. Ivy encrusts the main staircase outside and many of the fortress walls and is cleared in section while other groups assess or begin shoring up the stonework as it's revealed. There are scaffolding to build, materials to sort, crates to unload, tents to stitch together or set-up, and on and on and on, endless mundane chores vital to the survival of the organization.
When not hard at work, people cluster around fires across the courtyards. Many mingle freely, going about their business, running errands and messages, planning scouting missions, tallying up supplies, distributing or playing with the sending crystals that were found in a basement vault and which a group of mages have just today finished preparing for use. Once a good number have been passed around and the first Inquisition-wide transmission made messages start being broadcast; maybe you can help someone out.
The rebel mages and renegade templars mainly keep to themselves at opposite sides of the complex given the choice. Mages assist with healing and research and bicker amongst themselves about their options and their fate. Templars help train recruits in swordforms and basic combat techniques or spar with the more advanced and bicker amongst themselves about their options and their fate. Despite having all pledged themselves to the Inquisition, they still feel like separate factions and tension between them is palpable wherever they cross paths.
Like at meals, or the communal message board in the courtyard, or at the Herald's Rest. The mess hall/tavern is so new it still smells of sawdust, and its stock has been limited to one type of strong ale until today, when a shipment of West Hill brandy has finally arrived. The mood in the place is convivial in celebration of that, but there's still plenty of muttering, especially as the night drags on and the discontented get further into their cups.
no subject
You can find her here, scowling at the cracks between stones.
You can also find her darting up a flight of stairs, waving dust out of the air in front of her and declaring, "More books dowdstairs!" and coughing.
At night, she is exhausted. After washing the keep she washes herself and usually goes straight to bed.
Other nights, she takes a drop-spindle or a bit of knitting into the Herald's Rest, sets somewhere relatively still, and works on her project while the chaos happens around her. She seldom engages anyone, but can occasionally be spotted smiling privately at a joke, or a song, or a story.
no subject
"Need any help, lethallan?" he asks by way of greeting. A little too informal, but he's gotten used to the idea that she's no longer the First and can be his cousin, and, more importantly, his friend.
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no subject
So this place -- wooden and dusty and cramped and cold -- is a bit of a downgrade.
But Dorian has been among those dedicated in the cataloguing and storing and sorting of books, which could be unkindly dismissed as an effort to get out of rougher work, but he's been as helpful and knowledgeable as anyone. It is a well deserved break, then, that has him seated in an armchair nearest the cleanest window, feet up, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he gathers mental fortitude against the dust in the air and the urge to sneeze, forever, constantly.
Then there's the sound of light foot steps up the noisy staircase, and someone shouting and coughing, something about news of even more books. There is mainly a light groan from Dorian's corner.
Give him a second. ]
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[Work doesn't stop for Bruce, even after they've reached Skyhold and have started to settle down since.
The damage sustained at Haven had been immense; there were still many people left and right who needed treatment and attention, even if the worst of cases had already passed on during their tiring trek here. That alone wasn't exactly a pleasant thought, but Bruce shouldered on and continued to do his best. There was only so much he could do as one person.
(Only if he let himself use his magic.)
There were people hurt and sick everywhere, and far too little healers and surgeons as it is for everyone. Bruce doesn't quite let himself stop working, attending to anyone that requires help - and even the ones who doesn't, as long as he can see that something's wrong.
Still, if anybody needs any help, they're free to approach him; Bruce isn't going to turn them down especially when they require it.]
two.
[In a rare chance, Bruce has managed to find himself a bit of a breather in between attending to patients. But rather than using that spare time to drink or whatever else instead he can be seen sitting under a tree with a book on his lap that he's reading rather intensely.
If anyone comes close enough they can see that its actually one of the books from the library - and that it's actually something relation to the application of magic. Surely a strange choice of reading material, considering that Bruce is very much not a mage.
Feel free to say hello, or perhaps sneak up on him. Not that Bruce really appreciates surprises.]
three.
[Wildcard! Make up your own stuff or PM me so we can hash out ideas!]
1
Finding a surgeon is a bit simpler- cheaper than magic, less chance of templars wandering about all nervous. Someone calm and unassuming- if he is to be vulnerable he'd rather it be with someone he's fairly certain won't make him regret it. ]
Pardon me- [ He raps on the nearest hard surface to attract the surgeon's attention. ] Could I beg a moment of your time? Well. It may be longer than that.
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1
There is a man here whose condition has been worsening since the arrival. Though he made it all the way from Haven despite his injuries, he is now pale and shaking. He sleeps fitfully, and moans more than he speaks.
While Bruce is tending to another patient, he may look up and see a figure crouched by the side of the delirious man. This does not particularly look like a healer — he's dressed in rags and a wide-brimmed hat, with a dagger strapped to his side.
He is holding the man's hand. A moment passes, and he leans down, seems to whisper something in the man's ear.
The man sighs. His moaning stops. He goes still.]
cooooooooooole
i am jazzed about this cr jsyk
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He'd have to help with the repair of and creation of more blankets for them all later.
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Spotting Krem after requesting her own drink, she flashes a tired smile. "I thought I saw you earlier. Have you tried that new brandy yet?"
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Ellana Ashara | prose or brackets a-okay!
As Skyhold rebuilds, she's there helping, often using her magic to energize heavy objects like stones so they can easily be moved around. But she also helps sort food, shelve books in the library, feed the birds in the rookery, and put up tents in the courtyard, though that gives her a little trouble. She's never put up a tent before. But she's available to chat with while she does all these things.
And when she's not doing any of that, she's exploring the stronghold. She wants to know what rooms have those windows, where those stairs lead; all of it. One day finds her up on the battlements, opening the door to each tower room. She doesn't understand who would put a bed in a room right outside the Herald's Rest with two other doors leading in. How could anyone sleep with people walking through all the time? Her path leads her on until she can go no further on the battlements, and then she turns to go down to the Herald's Rest for a drink. Her expression is open and welcoming, ready to talk to any who come across her, perhaps unlike most Dalish, in fact. At some point, she gets up and wanders around the tavern with her drink.
"Hello. May I join you?"
no subject
But if someone wants to look past that and join her, they're welcome to it. So she smiles and nods, gesturing to the stool beside her. "Go ahead, I don't think anyone else is claiming it. I'm Korrin, by the way. And you're one of the other mages clearing areas, right? I think I've seen you around." In passing, but still.
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Christine Delacroix | prose or brackets
When not with the injured, she can be found not far away, kneeling beside the deceased with her hands clasped together, quietly praying for them.
"The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."
When she finally tears herself away from the injured and the dead, she tends to give the Templars a wide berth and stay around other mages. But she can't resist going up to the battlements and staring out over the Frostback Mountains. Life in the Montsimmard Circle wasn't as stifling or abusive as other Circles, but there were still few windows in the Tower, and she only saw the city on short excursions flanked by Templar guards. This is so freeing.
Once she comes down from the walls, she offers to help if someone is carrying a cumbersome load, or picks up a fallen item that someone doesn't realize they dropped, moving to catch up with them.
"Pardon me," she says with an Orlesian accent. "I believe you dropped this."
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He pauses and glances back at a voice catching up to him. "Hm? Oh. Yes, sorry. I believe that is mine."
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stannis baratheon | prose or brackets are okie
Stannis comes to see what the Inquisition is -- if it has broken under the death of their Herald, becoming nothing more than hollow shadows that occupy the space known as Skyhold. He sneers at the sellswords that come to the fortress, because there will always be opportunists in these times. It is a surprise that the people are working, are doing, are not allowing the death of one to define their existence.
It is what ultimately decides to offer his blade to the Inquisition, to keep the Templar that they have and still requiring hierarchy of the Order to cease hissing about like enraged felines, or some other annoying creature. He doesn't blame those soldiers. It is what has been drilled into them, what they grew up in; hard to explain to those that have never taken part in it.
So, sometimes, he is with his own -- ensuring that they are remembering their duties. It is to those people and beyond just their sword but their shield. He moves away from them to keep an eye, before he walks to attempt to find where the mages are. It may appear antagonistic, at worst, but they will always be the charges of the Templars. The people here are gathered so that one wrong move and -- he would rather not give more work to those present.
Other times, he has set his longsword to the side so that he can help with the moving of the planks, to start with tearing down the vines. His sword is always close to him -- and he is certain to pick it up to keep it nearby, before it is placed down for him to do more cleaning in the Great Hall.
At the end of the day, he finds a quiet place to be by himself. Far from Templar, from mage, from person, he does not appear at peace, however. He holds no drink in his hand, no food, but stares down at the courtyard of Skyhold. His eyes carefully watching those still milling around before back toward where he came, the way that they all came to reach this place.
no subject
"May I help you, ser?" she asks in a lilting Orlesian accent. "We are eating right now." In other words: they're busy.
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Cyril Ashara | Open to prose or action or anything else really!
He also helps with the cleaning and the re-building. He somehow manages to do so without getting dirt smudged on his face or his arms. He never complains because he's used to hard work. He really just wants to make good on the promise he and his clanmates made by coming to Skyhold.
At night he enjoys times by fire pits and at the tavern. He's very open to spending time speaking to others and can get to be a bit exuberant when he's with the right audience. Despite acting as if he's tipsy, observant people might notice that he rarely drinks. He mostly just enjoys having the excuse to put his arm around strangers to try to get them to enjoy their time.
Re: Cyril Ashara | Open to prose or action or anything else really!
"You actually going to order something tonight?"
Sam winces with a chuckle. He supposes he does have a bad habit of just ordering water and something to munch on when he comes in. Cabot never says no since Sam has helped him fix a few things around the bar, but the Mage can see that sitting at the bar and not getting an actual drink is a bit tiresome.
"Ah, you know me so well. Um... surprise me?" He's grinning, but it's easy to tell that he is completely unsure about this decision; he's not a drinker. It's only once Cabot actually leaves to get him something that Sam relaxes. Giving a huff he turns in his seat slightly to see who else was at the tavern.
He's slowly meeting people - he waves at a few he works with at the blacksmith - but there are still so many he doesn't know. Normally, he would go off and mingle to change that, but today he's just feeling tired. Particularly in his shoulders.
A quick drink. That's it.
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Gorse Hissera-Iss | Starting in Prose can switch to brackets if that's how you roll
The plan was, eventually, that Skyhold would have a garden in which to grow the herbs the mages and healers needed. Gorse had been gathering seeds every time he went out for just such an occasion, but as it stood there was still a lot of work to do. The walls around the chosen area needed much repair, the pathways overgrown with weeds and vines and brambles. Until that got cleared away they still relied on the scouts to bring back what was needed, so as Gorse returned to Skyhold from one such a mission he had about fifteen lists in his hand from requests various agents had made - putting to use that Gorse was literate which was apparently not a common thing in the big wide world - and a full pack of resources that needed delivering.
Problem, he was still new enough to this place - well they all were, really - that he knew he was going to get turned around.
"Alright, let's see here... these from the healers, these from ... mage tower probably... ah shoot which one was the mage tower?"
2.
Speaking of that Garden, it wasn't going to weed itself.
Having returned to Skyhold late enough that there wouldn't be another mission out until at least daybreak the next day, Gorse made his way to the area that must have been some kind of garden in better days.
'Better days' being the nebulous time possibly an age ago when there was last someone to take care of it.
It was hard work, and the sun would be setting soon to leave Gorse without light to work with, but while it was still there he could be found stripped to the waist dragging fallen branches into a pile of debris and wrangling thistles under control. And swearing. Well, Gorse's version of swearing, which seemed to involve a mix of qunlat and common and no actual swear words in either language. Boy does he make 'blackberry' sound severe when he says it the right way, though.
2
Something to be said of the Qunari in all their stoic grace- or not so stoic in this instance- they were finely made and the language quite beautiful, if severe. "Perhaps a rest would be in order once you have shown that branch the folly of it's ways?"
omg Zevran
yes, best response
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Cullen | prose or brackets are okay!
Up with the dawn, mornings have Cullen with the troops. He prefers to see to their training personally, especially the newer recruits, especially those who feel timid around a sword. They wish to fight, wish to lend their lives to the Inquisition and he will do whatever it is necessary to help them along. He spends time walking among the ranks as they train against each other and against the training dummies, pointing out tips and tricks to grip their sword better, how to thrust properly, how to land a better blow.
Of course, there are also those who think that they are obviously better than others, and Cullen's also quick to knock them down a peg or two.
Then there are times when he stands back and observing, shouting out commands as he needs to. "There's a shield in your hand, block with it!"
[Afternoons]
Cullen is definitely a busy man. Afternoons find Cullen going over reports of the repairs going on at Skyhold, making sure the workers have what they need and prioritizing what needs to be repaired first. Outer walls, defenses. Granted, incoming dignitaries may scoff at the shabby state of Skyhold's interior, but they will have to deal. A clean interior will not offer any protection if outer defenses are lost.
Most of the time, he's down at the bottom of the stairs in Skyhold's lower courtyard, going over the day's reports and speaking with guards and troops as they go in and out of the castle. He works late into the night like he always does, hardly taking any time to himself.
[Wildcard! Approach him for any reason.]
no subject
He didn't notice that the Commander was approaching until he was almost right in front of him, which caused him to look fiercely embarrassed, clamber upright, and give a completely wrong salute, which he'd never quite mastered, even before Haven.
"Ah- Commander. How - ah - That is, everything here in order, Ser. For the most part, anyway. How can - er - is there anything I can do for you?"
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afternoon
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evening
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wildcard - approach
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Afternoon
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wildcardish
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Eirlys Ancarrow | Prose or brackets both fine!
She spends much of her time in the courtyard, administering potions and changing poultices on the wounded.
She can also be found in the garden, planting the seeds of some of the plants she'd brought with her, hoping to cultivate a more lasting stock.
In the evening she'll be on the topmost floor of the tavern, sitting cross legged and peering down to the ground floor, watching the people come and go, laughing and singing and drinking and patting each other on the back and trying to absorb a little of the buoyant camaraderie from her lonely perch.
In the garden
He clears his throat to announce himself whilst doing his level best to appear harmless. "There are some beautiful blossoms yet in the garden, I see. I suppose the flowers are nice as well."
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Tavern
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fellow healer people unite /o/
\o\
~o~
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no subject
At least he had been paid well, but he didn't have a home to get back to or anyone waiting for him. Skyhold was good enough for now - and there seemed to be less of a stigma here about being qunari. Apparently some mercenary was around with a band, which explained some of it.
So the warrior could be found in the courtyard most of the time, studying the trainees and helping with some heavy lifts now and then.
Eventually he had been invited for a spar, which ended up sweaty and messy. Walking over to the stables, Taas dipped his head in one of the water troughs and stood up again, smoothing water from his eyes with a pleased grin.]
no subject
I do not think I have seen anyone quite that viciously efficient in combat for...well. Roughly a decade to be perfectly honest. [ Sten had been many things- but frivolous in combat? Never. ] Its marvelous.
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The Courtyard | .prose and brackets allowed.
"Orlais wasn't built in a day." He mutters silently to no one other than himself. Still feeling quite spry, Sauveterre takes to training in his lonesome. The Knight-Commander unsheathes his two swords and gets to practice. Seeing a Templar amidst practice isn't so much of a rarity but a dual-wielding one? Some of the others look on with mild fascination while the mages cringe at the thought of such. Sauveterre is unaware of the stares at first but soon he becomes aware once the wooden dummy he's been practicing against is in tatters. It's then that he realizes how obnoxious he must seem and sheathes his swords.
Sauveterre mumbles his apologies to the nearest person before retreating towards the courtyard with great haste.
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The apology, though, confuses him. "Wasn't me you ripped to shreds."
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[ There is one little ray of sunshine in this place, and it's the little dwarf girl behind the bar.
Kitty can't say, honestly, that she's delighted to see the state of this place. She'd sold her few meager possessions to buy a pony and a merchant's cart and a meager stock of trade goods, to provide cover as to why she was coming to Skyhold; she'd made a lot of exclamations, upon arrival, about how much safer it seems here, how she's so much more comfortable staying put behind these big thick walls. But the Inquisition is far from the proud, world-changing force she'd anticipated. They're dysfunctional and squabbling. She'd come here to investigate whether this was the avenue for changing the world that she'd hoped for, and she's finding...
Well. It's early days, yet. She needs to find out more. Listen more. And so for all outward appearances, Kitty the Barmaid, simple topsider who doesn't even have a last name, is nothing but cheerful to be here. She is a listening ear and a quick hand pouring drinks and ladling up stew. She is quick jokes and quick laughter. She calls out to the newest entrants - ]
Hey! You there, get over here. You need a drink, don't you.
B. In amongst the books
[ She's a different sort of creature when she's off work. At work in the tavern, she's cheerful, outgoing, energetic, engaging. Out on the grounds, she's quieter. Not unfriendly. She doesn't skulk about, exactly. She just moves quietly, doesn't engage with anyone. She walks with purpose, nods only cordially and then moves on.
Her destination is one that would make this whole expedition worthwhile even if the Inquisition comes to naught. They have books. Kitty hasn't been able to find out where they're from - if they were here when Skyhold was uncovered, or if they were brought by the scholars and the mages. But oh, there are so many, and they're just free for anyone's perusal. They're not for the high-caste, they're not for the wealthy, they're not for the laetan and the altus, they're just for everyone.
And so, when she gets to the library, she pulls a book down off the shelf. And for a moment, she just stands, touching its cover, face twisted in far too much emotion for someone staring down at On the Care and Breeding of Messenger Birds. ]
B!
He slides the one on top onto the shelves, then stalls over the next one. Rubs a finger over the etched lettering on the cover. Adjusts his hold on the lot of them. Leans back the couple of inches required to let him peek around the corner, over--and very down, nearly two feet down--at his overcome neighbor, then further down at the title in her hands. ]
That one should come in handy.
[ The ravens above them are very noisy. ]
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A
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will match your formatting/tense preference.
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His hand rests on the pommel of his sword as he sucks his teeth. He remains as long as he can before he lets his hand drop so that he can easily walk forward toward the one he has come to greet. Or rather, the one that he has sought out. ]
Lady Benevenuta. [ There may have been a pause. He glares at nothing in particular. ] A few words and you can return to your bookkeeping.
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two
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wild card ish.
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1.
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And when he wasn't being asked directly, he busiest himself with small, odd jobs he knew needed doing.
Which was why he was down in the basement with a broom, sweeping over the walls and poking high up into the corners, catching cobwebs. Whenever his broom was full - looking like a gray, dirty cloud at the end of the handle - he took it outside and beat it enthusiastically against the stone, dragging it clean again.
He shuddered occasionally, as he worked, muttering to himself about the beasts that had managed to spin all that silk.
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And then running into bandits, not crows, and being stabbed for it.
And then running into the person you had promised to travel with while being buffeted by scraps of cobwebs and spider webs proper.
And possibly spiders as well.
This is what he gets for weeding downwind. Clearly. "I know I left without saying goodbye, but there is no need to be quite so cross!"
He called, scraping the worst of the mess from his hair. Lovely. He'd just oiled it the other day too.
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whichever format you would prefer!
Harding is not a stoneworker, a healer, nor a Chantry sister, and her height does little favours in a place as grand as what Skyhold must have once been. The fortress is a brief visitation, for she's gone within a day, a select few agents sent back out into the wilderness - back the way they listlessly marched not days before. She hadn't forgotten that march; she hadn't forgotten the attack on Haven and the loss they had faced. But as much as the Inquisition had lost, there was so much more they would lose if they did not rally together, if Skyhold didn't become defensible.
Harding was, after all, a scout. She is not what the fortress needs, not directly; but she could find those that were.
It was after circling the slopes of the mountains - for survivors, pilgrims, refugees, supplies and abandoned cargo, anything at all - and the first week of Harvestmire had passed before she returns.
She does her rounds; delivers reports, reunites wayward companions, is the bearer of supplies - perhaps you're one of the people she goes to see. She stops at the tavern for as much respite as she allows herself, mingling with the patrons - perhaps you bump into her, and perhaps it's literal. And it's not long before the agents begin to mass for one last sweep of the immediate mountains, just in case, just in case some poor soul yet lives, just in case - perhaps you're a companion-to-be.
Or maybe it's somewhere inbetween that you find the somewhat infamous Scout Harding, with no first name to speak of. Rest assured it will be far away from any edges or potential heights.
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So it's probably understandable after acquiring her drink, she doesn't think to look down and bumps right into the dwarven scout, spilling some of her eagerly-awaited ale in the process. That brings her to a halt, and her eyes widen in surprise and mortification, all the more so as she recognizes the one before her.
"Oh, I'm so sorry--"
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\o/
friendship!!
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She might also appear in front of people as she seemingly drops from the sky, jumping down from whatever perch she'd managed to climb up into.
A few times, she'd take a break by perching in a tree and watching other people. She seemed fascinated by the way the mages and templars willingly separated themselves, and the palpable tension between the two. If Corypheus had any brains, he'd work to slip a spy in here, and take advantage of the tension. This place was a powder keg, a few wrong words to the right people and the entire thing would explode.
It would be pretty funny to watch, really. If this powder keg wasn't the only thing stopping a darkspawn magister from attempting to claim godhood.
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And then she jumps, because yet another elf just drops down from above. Are they targeting her on purpose? By now, she has to wonder. "Andraste's tits, why does this always happen to me--oh. Beleth, right?"
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Merrick Ashara | any format
During downtime, he takes the opportunity to spar with anyone who might show an interest. He's quick with his daggers and moves like an acrobat, and uses several dummies as target practice for throwing knives. He isn't afraid to scrap, either. Anything to work out his boundless, restless energy.
Even though he's exhausted at the end of the day, he still feels restless. He came here for a damn adventure, not a slightly modified version of the life he'd been leading up to this point. Here at the tavern, he can hear the mutterings of folks just as discontent as he, which grow louder as the night goes on. He feels his own tension grow, and tosses back more brandy before attempting to get the barkeep's attention. When he isn't heard, drowned out by much louder voices from people much larger than he is, he suddenly draws his dagger and buries it deep into the bar's wooden surface.
"Another."
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"Though I suppose there are worse things you could stab."
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Re: Merrick Ashara | any format
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They wouldn't exactly let him out on any kind of missions yet, having no training, but that didn't mean he wasn't 'scouting' the entire damn fortress, ending up in the oddest places while climbing ramparts, opening doors into different rooms and even finding his way into the library, curiously watching the Tranquil work.
That, and the frequent visits to the kitchen. In fact, so frequent that the kitchen maids were starting to chase him off as soon as he stuck his head in. That was fine, one of them usually snuck him something to eat later, anyway. Rail-thin as he was, having access to food was a dream come true.
Of course, then there was the people. That he was less used to, social skills lacking heavily. Every time he ran into someone or opened a door to rooms occupied, all he did was curse and back off without apologizing.
Sorry about that.]
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This was pretty much one of those times, which is why Bruce had taken to one of the ramparts in order for the peace and solitude he so craved. It was easier to concentrate up here, and perhaps now he could finish the book he had borrowed from the library--
A sudden thump broke Bruce out from his thoughts, the sound soft but also loud against the quiet of the general vicinity. He looked up to see--a qunari? There were quite a number here, yes, but this particular one was quite young, from what he could tell.]
...hello? [He starts hesitantly, feeling a bit foolish after he had spoken. That wasn't exactly the best way to start things off, he knew.]
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The ill are many and their needs great. Even though the hike had been a long and difficult one as soon as Adelaide and her charges arrive they find a space among the mages and healers to pitch a tent and commence grinding herbs for poultices and brewing potions. Soon the Orlesian mages have a system going- picking out the lighter injuries from the line and tending to them on the side while the worst are sent up to Adelaide.
Asking for coin is a formality she ignores, far more concerned with preventing death and illness. Each patient she tends to leaves her that much more tired, but each has the whole of her attention. Curt but not cruel, impatient but gentle with her hands, Adelaide spends the bulk of her afternoons and evenings treating the injured. With glowing hands and an arched brow, she makes it through the line each day as best she can. It might not be enough- but will have to be.
The Garden
The mornings before the hold starts to stir and the refugees and troops have need of healers Adelaide spends in the garden meditating. It's relatively warm, quiet, peaceful- and a fair way from most of the templars in Skyhold. The less time she spends around them? The better. Here she finds somewhere in the sun, sitting with her sleeves rolled up and frost gradually blooming from her fingertips to cover her arms before it melts and pools again in her palms. It's a simple focus exercise, controlling the spread of frost, occasionally forming intricate shapes with the ice before allowing it to melt and doing it all over. Sometimes a horse, sometimes a flower, sometimes a replica of part of the hold itself. Until one of her charges comes to fetch her for the line at the healing tent, she remains.
The Tavern & Hold
Evening sees her to the Herald's Rest for a glass of wine, a meal, and some leisure time for those she minds. They haven't been out of the circle long and never so often in a tavern. While they talk, listen to stories, make up a few of their own and generally live as any their age ought, Adelaide settles a table over with a bottle of wine and a book. It may be noisy in the Tavern and there may be templars- but no one seems to be troubling them for the moment. It's as close to normal as she's had in some time.
After the lot is carried and herded to one of the few rooms that didn't have a hole in the wall (one in the ceiling to the floor above which they tacked a canvas flap over, sure, but not in the walls) and a sturdy door that they've claimed for themselves. Her charges slip inside to sleep and Adelaide? Sits in the hall, back to the door, and rests as best she can that way. Staff tucked against her arm, focus drifting between the book in her lap or those that pass by. It's a solemn, silent vigil- but one she keeps unerringly.
The Garden
On this particular day, at this particular time, there are no gardeners at work. But there is a young man passing through, walking softly, but with purpose, toward the patch of land where they have done the most work. He is carrying a wooden cup, with his palm held firmly over the top.
When he gets to his destination, he crouches down, and tips the cup, takes his hand away. A half-dozen spiders crawl — or fall — out, and skitter away over the dirt.
One spider remains, having been on the young man's palm when he drew it away. Calmly, he turns his hand and tips it toward the dirt, and the spider crawls down over his fingers onto the soil.
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The Healing Tents
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The Hold
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Healing Tents
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Varric | Open, prose or brackets, have at.
No, in this instance, his other talents were far more valuable. Much as he groused at Cassandra for dragging him out here against his will, he'd stayed and, terrible idea that it was, he planned on remaining for the duration. As such, it was in his best interests to make sure nobody set Skyhold on fire or went on a smite-and-stabbing-spree, so Varric started calling in favors.
He hated calling in favors; if they didn't owe him Big with a capital B, they always feigned ignorance, so getting anything of value took at least three letters and, thus, a solid week or so of his time. Minimum. If he was owed a really Big favor, well, it just seemed like a shame to cash those in for something like "an additional crate of hammers and they'd better be the hardened kind the mining caste uses, not that nug-shit you sell to the Ferelden farmers."
Still, if he knew people, and he really did, a dozen little things that made their day easier or their jobs less grueling? That was worth about double its weight in lyrium and, all in all, would probably cut the likelihood of spontaneous gruesome murder in half.
So, for the first--Andraste's Ass how many days had it been?--long while in Skyhold, Varric pretty much existed exclusively in the Great Hall. He'd claimed a corner with a table and chair and spent basically all his time and ink writing out letters to people he hated (who no doubt felt the same about him) asking for (demanding) various basic amenities. It was tedious, boring, and he was starting to get a twinge in his wrist, but it helped.
After a long day of writing letters, reading letters, or occasionally signing for something and arguing with the merchants who actually made it up the mountain to Skyhold, Varric retired to the tavern. The new booze wasn't terrible and, on the whole, the Inquisition was lacking in skilled card players--it was about as close to fun as it got, up here, and Varric enjoyed it for all he was worth.
Sure, it meant he usually read the morning correspondence with a hangover, but such was the cost of life. Also, it wasn't like the letters were going to be pleasant if he was sober, so who cared?
(Feel free to run into Varric in the Great Hall, Tavern, or in the Courtyard angrily reading letters.)
;lasdkjf sorry this is tldr
Nor did she expect to spot Varric from afar, watching as he made his way out of the main building, but she gasped and dropped the linens she was carrying. Oh, right into the dirt-- not the best, but she found she didn't actually care. She would later, sheepishly, but for the moment she picked them up and draped them over some scaffolding before she darted after where she'd seen him last.
It must be him, it couldn't be any other dwarf-- doubt settled in, but the excitement in her chest kept her moving. Where had he gone...? The tavern, likely. She smiled at the memory of the Hanged Man, bittersweet, and stepped in to the warmth. She spotted him quickly, recognizing the sling on his back he used to carry Bianca. With a grin she nimbly took a seat across from him, trying to contain herself.
"Good thing I spotted you. I almost ran out of twine."
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Great Hall
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the beginning of fan-ship. i mean friendship.
6 of one, half a dozen of the other.
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