Skyhold

[faderifting]

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.

Comments

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell didn't have an official duty, so he threw himself in where ever and when ever he was needed. Ferry those boxes, help lift that timber, weed that bed, he was happy to help as he could.

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.

[ombranera]

You know what was mortifying? Promising to travel the last streatch of a journey in someones company and failing to do so due to rather valid paranoia that a crow may be in the vicinity and leaving early. Without word. Or a note.

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.

[dreadinquisitor]

He stopped immediately at the voice, looking up, and over, and wincing when he found Zevran. Silk hanging from one his eyebrows.

"Maker's breath, I'm sorry!" He tucked the broom against the wall and hurried over to help brush him down. First Gavin, then Zevran. Clearly the spiders here had a taste for elves. "I didn't see you there."

[ombranera]

"Well, I am a master of stealth." He snorted, brushing the last of the silks from his face. Ugh.He was never certain what was worse- the spiders as large as a mabari or the tiny ones that got everywhere. "This does answer my concern about you making it to Skyhold or not."

[dreadinquisitor]

It was only on his hands, sticking between his fingers as he pulled bits from Zevran's hair, but it felt like it was suddenly all over him. Finishing quickly, he rubbed his hands together and then on his breeches, just resisting the urge to shudder.

(He'd face down his angry, disappointed parents, and trek into the wilds of a foreign country, but Maker put a spider in front of him....)

"I could say the same. I wondered if perhaps I smelled."

A joke, mostly. He didn't blame Zevran for losing interest.

[ombranera]

"Nothing so awful a that. I heard a rumor of a Crow Agent and did not wish to involve anyone in handling that particular nastiness." There had been an agent, they had been overconfident, they were a problem no longer.

To be absolutely certain none yet remained in his hair, Zevran unbinds the length of his braid and shakes it out, combing his fingers through it. For once? Not something done in the name of seduction- though he has been told he's terribly pretty with it out and about, hanging past his shoulders.

"After all, it is one thing to know of a man's troubles, another to be facing them in the night with daggers and venom, yes?"

[dreadinquisitor]

Oh. Maxwell's eyebrows shot up, then down again as his brows furrowed in concern. "Are you alright?" He seemed to be - certainly still one piece at any rate - and well enough to preen cobwebs from his hair (somehow Zevran made even that attractive). "Had I know, I would have helped..."

And he meant that. As simply and easily as it was said.

[ombranera]

There were a few more nits and stickling bits of web to comb out of his hair, but he has it clear soon enough. "You know..."

He combs his hair away from his face, looking to Max quite seriously. Gauging. Nobles are supposed to be quite difficult to read unless one has the training and Zevran certainly has the training. "...I actually believe you mean that."

Perhaps there's a little hero in Max yet. "I am well enough, I promise you, though I would have loved to have your help with the bandits that came after dealing with the Crow. You prepare yourself for professionals and get stuck by a fool that doesn't know how to handle a dagger. Embarrassing, really."

[dreadinquisitor]

Maxwell's gaze was roving over Zevran in turn, though less to try and ferret out his intentions than to make sure he was in fact, alright - especially after the quip about getting stuck.

"I do," he replied, almost off-handedly. The answer really needing no more thought. Zevran was a fellow member of the Inquisition, and, even more - he'd been kind to Maxwell - if outrageously so at times.

That was really all it took for Maxwell. Being a decent person.

The elf seemed as alright as he had been the moment prior, and was even joking in that sly way of his. Surely that was a good sign.

Nodding, he met his gaze again.

"It's almost the smallest cuts that hurt the most," he agreed. "It's all the indignity of it."

[ombranera]

Now that was a look he has not had on him in some time. Assessing, appreciative, calculating- yes. Concerned? Not in far longer than he might care to admit. It startled him enough in a small way to slow the casual braiding of his hair- concern was. He did not have a use for it, nor did Max seem to have much use for him aside from pleasant company.

Strange.

"My shoulder and my ribs." He offered up, remembering well how Wynne and Alistair, of all people, would poke and fuss until he said something. "Already tended to, I swear."

[dreadinquisitor]

He waited a beat, to see if Zevran would qualify his statement, then seemed to relax when he did.

"Good," he said, concern shifting to a careful smile. "Next time, feel free to ask. I'm not really in the habit of letting people get stabbed if I can help it."

[ombranera]

"It's been some time since I've last had the luxury of being able to call on someone and trust they would come." The last time had been- well. The Blight. It'd been a strange thing for him to call for Alistair, for Morrigan, for Jonas and find the flank covered.

Find himself sheltered by Shale or Sten, revived by Wynne.

"You have my thanks."

[dreadinquisitor]

"It's the least I can do." Which was as honest from him as everything before it had been. Though his mouth did pull then, that boyish smirk curving his lips and flashing a small dimple. "You did take my requests... and I did shower you with spiders."

[ombranera]

Maker preserve him from men with dimples. They were a weakness. "When I much rather would have liked to be showered by your affections. Alas."

Hand to chest, his most woeful expression turned upon Max in all due seriousness. Complete and utter sincerity. Truly!

[dreadinquisitor]

Even knowing it was all teasing flattery, Maxwell couldn't help but laugh softly. It was felt nice. A little fun, something like friendship.

And considering...

"Be careful, you might just get it, and then you'll be sorry."

[ombranera]

"Oh no, whatever shall I do? Forced to endure the romantic affections of a handsome man. Truly my life is suffering." Dry and wry and said with a grin- this was nice. Light.

Easy. He had missed easy.

[dreadinquisitor]

"You laugh now," Maxwell warned, eyes flashing with humor despite the complete and truly serious set of his mouth. "But just wait until I start writing you poems. My rhyme scheme is atrocious."

[ombranera]

"My friend I have been subjected to a talking tree that only spoke in Rhyme. I think I would be able to endure any sweet nothings you would pen for me." So sweet, and very much nothing as the casual flirtation goes.

[dreadinquisitor]

He leaned on the broom handle with a laugh, grin wide and honest.

"Seriously? I've never heard that part of the story."

He wasn't sure which part he found more fascinating, that it talked at all, or that is was only in rhyme. Maybe it was more horrifying.

"How does that even happen?"

[ombranera]

"Probably because we all agreed never to mention it again. Even Leliana thought it beyond the scope of belief, and she joined us because she had a vision from the Maker." When she said something was too far? Zevran tended to believe her. "The Great Oak. Or grand oak- it was a sylvan. A large, living tree in the Brecilian forest."

[dreadinquisitor]

"So why did it speak in rhyme?" he asked, sounding infinitely more curious rather than doubtful of Zevran's sanity.

The sky had a hole in it, what was a talking tree anymore?

"Is that something all trees would do, if given the chance? Or was that one particularly - quirky?"

[ombranera]

"...You know. We never did ask? We were a bit preoccupied trying to find a cure for the werewolf curse and dealing with ancient Dalish ruins while trading riddles and baubles with a madman who said he could lead us to the answer- which was actually the talking tree's lost...acorn? Or something? I- I must confess I spent a bit of that trip slightly drunk. The water wasn't clean, between the blight and the werewolves it seemed safest to drink wine. Then the whole situation was so mad that- I wanted only to drink wine." Also, realizing that living wasn't half bad and maybe he'd wasted a perfectly good chunk of his life being a fool.

That would drive anyone to drink.

[dreadinquisitor]

His mouth pulled, that handsome dimple flashing again as he smiled gently, chuckling.

"I suppose I can understand that." He glanced up toward the sky, that flash of green on the horizon. "I'm certainly enjoyed my fair share lately."

[ombranera]

Again with the dimple. Max was trying to tease him. Or...completely unaware of it's effect on Zevran. Which made it worse. "'If we must face the end of days, we may as well do it well pickled.' Something Oghren said. I never thought I would agree."

[dreadinquisitor]

"If this is all we have left, we should try to make the most of it," he agreed, eyes pulling away from the distance scar in the sky and moving back to Zevran. "That's why I'm here."

He smile went a little wry, slanting more to one side than the other.

"I wasn't going to sit in Ostwick, miserable, when I could be doing something."

Still a little miserable, the kick from the previous day still sore, but helping, at least. That was already better than home.