faderift | Skyhold

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!

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.

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Christine takes a break from her patients to gather with several other mages to share lunch. It's simple fare, but no one is complaining because they're hungry from all the work they've been doing. In her group are two young apprentices, two around Christine's age, and an older woman who sits mending, ignoring the bread and cheese Christine sets on the ground beside her. They chat quietly, until one of the apprentices looks past Christine with wide eyes. She follows the girl's gaze to see the Templar approaching, and dread settles into the pit of her stomach. Turning back, she tells everyone to stay put, and to make no sudden movements with their hands. She sets down her bread and moves to meet the man before he can reach them, leaving her staff behind. A mage doesn't need a staff to do magic, but she leaves it behind in a show of good faith nonetheless.

"May I help you, ser?" she asks in a lilting Orlesian accent. "We are eating right now." In other words: they're busy.

[Bruce manages not to make a face at the sight of the wound - its not too bad from first glance, but he definitely will have to examine it closely to be certain.

He grabs a bottle of alcohol - most definitely not for drinking here - and hovers close to the elf, already taking the unwrapped bandages and carefully placing them aside (they're all going to a fire later).]

You can talk to the smith later once you're healed. [He returns somewhat dryly, preparing to pour the alcohol onto his injuries.] Lean to the left, if you would. What's your name?

[Somewhere in the midst of that, his head tilts to one side — as if tipping his ear toward a sound of uncertain origin. His fingers worry along the scraggly blades of grass at the edge of the blanket.]

He needed the peace. The fear was holding him still.

[They're all afraid. Almost everyone here, in one way or another. Afraid, mournful, uncertain. For now, that fear seems to hold them together, but it could become pain. That's why he stays. Even though she's gone.]

Zevran, and yours?

[ It gives him something to focus on beyond the sting he knows is coming. Even so, he does not brace for it. If anything he goes liquid on the stool, moving as needed without a hint of pain or complaint.

Old habits die hard, after all. ]

[It was impossible to ignore the atmosphere around Skyhold. The loss of the Herald was a profound thing that could be felt by everyone, especially with the uncertain future looming close by. The Breach may be sealed, but there were still rifts everywhere, not to mention...

The guilt claws at him again, the possibility of what could have changed if he didn't keep all the other parts of him a secret. Maybe he could have helped but--no. He'd probably only bring more pain than comfort. That's all he's ever managed to accomplish with that. Being like this, not touching all those other parts--its safer that way.]

Hard not to imagine anybody not being afraid. [Of the future, of dying, of so many unknown things. Never knowing was always terrifying.] But everyone's just focusing on getting better now... after that, I suppose there will be questions.

[Like what will happen to the Inquisition, and how they will deal with the rifts. And for Bruce himself, how many more people will be injured and hurt. It would be a lie to say there wouldn't be any.]

Sam sighs as he flops down at one of the chairs at the Cabot's bar, giving the Dwarf a tired smile as he gives him a look. "Hey, Cabot. You're looking rather well-"

"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.

Edited 2015-10-17 04:35 (UTC)

For her part, Korrin tries not to stare in turn. She's seen elves before, plenty of them, though the Dalish are far less familiar to her. It's difficult for her gaze not to linger on that vallaslin, fascinated by such things, but her drink and the conversation help.

She shakes her head at the question after taking another sip from her mug, a wry smile forming on her lips. "No, not at all. I was already in the area for the Conclave. Some of my company -the Valo-Kas- were acting as security there. I was nearby, just in case, but it all exploded before I could get there. It only made sense to stick around and see what could be done after that."

She nods, unable to deny it at this point. "It's hard to stay put when there's so much that needs to be done, especially if I can do it faster than most." It's said matter-of-fact, not bragging. "I don't think I could pry myself off this stool even if I wanted to."

Cyril comes into the tavern a bit after Sam has settled down. He notices the dark hair and for a moment doesn't recognize the mage outright, other than he was was likely a fun new person to talk to.

When he comes over though, he feels the surprise show itself all over his face.

"You!" he says.

Bruce. [Pause.] I'm going to pour it now.

[It's all the warning he gives before he goes ahead, tipping the bottle and letting the liquid pour over the wound to cleanse it. Bruce pulls back after several seconds once the most of the poultice is rinsed off, taking a clean rag after that to gently dab away the remainder, critically examining the wound as he does so.]

It's not very deep, but the inflammation is an issue. [Hums.] I'll have to redo the stitches for you so that the skin heals up properly, then apply something to ease the burn before bandaging it back for you. [He glances up to the puncture wound then.] I'll look at your shoulder later, so that you can stay still and not jostle anything.

[With all of that said Bruce glances back and grabs a small surgical knife specially fashioned for removal of stitches. He places a hand on Zevran's side, below his injuries, a silent request to stay still before he gets to removing the stitches as quickly as he can.]

"Let me know if you'll need help getting back to your quarters," he offered, reaching up to pat her shoulder. If he couldn't lever her off it, he knew a few people that could help.

After a long day of patching up his wounds, finding new armor, finding somewhere safe and defensible enough for his paranoid sensibilities, finding a reputable source of herbs or his poisons- Zevran finds he is wanting for a few simple tripwire traps to set around his chosen living space and is, alas, fresh out of wires and springs to do it himself. Because traveling such a long way means traveling light and he had not had the room to spare.

Marvelous.

Some questions asked here or there lead him 'round the camps at word of a Dalish elf crafting what he needs. Knowing well the quality of such things he'd rather check this particular vendor before hitting the more human smith. Hunters must be inventive and stealthy- and he's bought Dalish before. Fantastic work.

Nearly as fantastic as the elf himself, Zevran thinks, as he comes close enough to pick him out among the detritus of his work. He normally isn't one to think much of Vallaslin, the designs hold no true meaning to him but- Maker if they do not do something lovely to this elf's eyes. "When I heard someone was selling traps I had expected a grizzled hunter with as many wrinkles as he had scars. Color me pleasantly surprised."

That gets Korrin to chuckle, and she grins at the offer. "Warning you now, I probably will. And thank you in advance. I'd rather go with that than wake up to find out some random ass has drawn on my face." Not that many people here would dare, probably, but with alcohol all things are possible.

"Your face is safe, trust me," Krem replied with a laugh of his own. "Long as that's the worst you can expect around here from people, I think you'll be fine."

Pour away.

[ It stings- of course it stings. That is because it works and like most flashes of pain he was long trained out of reacting to- Zevran doesn't flinch. Doesn't tense up. Doesn't twist away. He exhales a long, slow breath as though it was a particularly difficult knot Bruce was massaging away rather than what it truly is.

Crow training at it's finest. ]

Mm. I suppose the Elfroot for that particular poultice wasn't the freshest. 'By Orlesian' they said. 'It heals faster' they said. This is what I get for listening to farm hands.

[ Speaking of hands- Bruce's was large and warm and- normally a hand so close to an injury- even that of a healer, is cause for tension. Fear. But the touch is a slow, soothing warmth against what would be a tense and uncomfortable situation. Combined with Bruce's relative unassuming nature and the distinct lack of any large blades, it's enough for Zevran's mouth to run.

In Antivan, of course. ]

Spostare la mano un po 'a sinistra e un po' più basso e ti spingono oltre il mio braccio.

Sam smiles pleasantly at Cabot as he returns and nods at the Dwarf when he drops the drink off in front of him. He knows Cabot is waiting to see him take a drink, but Sam just continues to smile. After a while the Dwarf sighs and leaves, going off to tend to another customer. Alone, Sam frowns and looks at the mug sitting in front of him. He cannot tell what he's gotten by just looking at it, but it isn't very pleasant on his nose. "Ugh."

Before he can even think about taking a drink someone behind him yells "You!".

Startled, Sam jerks back. "Wh- GAH!"

A bit too far back apparently because he finds himself flat on his back on the floor. There's a moment where his entire body is tense and a low hissing noise leaves through between his teeth. Once the initial pain leaves though, Sam gives a groan.

Cyril is likewise impressed by the vision in front of him. Zevran is older than he is, certainly, but that just adds to the appeal. He is, without a doubt, extremely alluring. His accent doesn't help matters either, nor the way he opens with such a line.

Rather than staring, though, Cyril feels his body relax into a more flirtatious stance. He openly lets his eyes scan over Zevran. "Hopefully a good surprise," he replies. "I've never had issue with grizzled hunter types, but I find attractive elves tend to be more inspiring." He might easily be talking about himself, sure, but it sounded much less like a boast and more like a compliment.

[Bruce manages a small snort, knowing full well than to trust peddlers at the side of the road for things like these. Medicinal things were always harder to make than it seemed - a fact Bruce knows all too well from personal experience.]

The one I'll be putting on will be more effective. [He remarks, continuing with his task of getting the old stitches out. He manages to to the last few ones before Zevran then starts to speak--and Bruce's Antivian isn't exactly the greatest, but its enough for him to get the gist of what he's saying.

He rather wishes he hadn't understood that.

To Bruce's credit, he only really pauses for half a second, blinking once, and then going on as if he hadn't heard anything at all. He gets the last of the stitches and then pulls away (pointedly removing his hand in the process). The remains of the stitches goes with the used bandages, and after taking a moment to wipe down his hands he gets a bottle and brings it over to Zevran.]

Drink this; it'll ease the pain while I do your stitches.

Cyril's eyes widen a bit and he moves swiftly to Sam's side to help him up. He hadn't meant to shock him that way. "Fenedhis," he cursed lightly. "Sam, are you okay?"

At least he remembered Sam's name.

Young and fair and, apparently, of a mind. He shouldn't do anything too vigorous because of his stitches- but that does not exactly cut down on the options as he is both quite creative and highly dexterous. He lets his smile go from merely appreciative to positively inviting, all hooded eyes and casual smirk.

"The best I have had thus far. But the night is young, I may yet be surprised in more pleasing ways." Voice warm and thick, like honey on leather as he makes his way close enough to get a better look still- at Cyril's work, of course. "Pretty elves are lovely enough- pretty and capable elves? Are a treasure."

That voice was enough to make even the strongest man melt, and Cyril felt himself moving a little closer to Zevran before he could even think of doing it. He liked closing that distance though.

"I suppose you'll have to see just how capable I am," he said. "I have a feeling I'd enjoy being treasured by you, at least for a night."

[ Alas, he is now bereft of that small comfort. He thinks nothing of it, the man is working and he is more than a little invested in not moving when he shouldn't or outwardly showing any pain. The draught he takes with good humor, lifting it in a toast to Bruce. ]

Per le mani costanti e gli occhi belli.

[ He drinks- it is no Antivan brandy but if it will help with the pain? He will take as much as recommended. ]

My thanks.

"I thought you're only supposed to fall out of your chair AFTER drinking," he jokes lightly, though his face is anything but amused. He gives another grunt as someone grabs his arm and helps him up. He is vaguely aware that the person knows his name.

Fergus? No. The voice was too light for the other blacksmith. Who else did he know? Crap he was bad with names.

With the help Sam is able to grab the stool and uses it to get himself back onto his feet. Rotating his arm a bit, Sam gives a huff. Chuckling at his own clumsiness he turns to look at whomever helped him up.

"Sorry bout that. Thanks for help... me..." his lips move a few more times, but there aren't any words that come out. His eyes widen and for a long time he just stares dumbly at the Elf standing next to him.

Edited 2015-10-17 05:29 (UTC)

The traps could wait- well. Yes, yes, they could wait. It had been longer than Zevran would like since he last had anyone- longer still since it was an elf, longer still since they were equally eager for the seduction, and almost a decade since all this and Dalish.

Something about them was sweeter to him- he couldn't say why.

Closing the distance was easy- the familiar steps of a habitual dance, made more enjoyable by an equally engaged partner. He raised his hand to cup Cyril's jaw, leaning in to murmur. "Shall we find somewhere more private so I might treasure you properly?"

Cyril makes sure he's up and that there isn't any sign of injury. He keeps a hand on Sam's arm for a moment longer than he probably should have.

Then he gives Sam a small half smile as the mage stares at him. "Oh, I do like it when I leave a handsome man speechless."

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Skyhold

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Re: Cyril Ashara | Open to prose or action or anything else really!

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