faderift | 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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"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."

"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?"

"...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.

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."

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."

"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.

"You truly need to stop saying such noble and heroic things, my friend. They will get you in trouble one day." And likely he would be dragged alongside. Which could be terrible or could be marvelous, depending.

"Am I not already?" he joked, crossing his arms over the end of the broom handle as he shifted to lean against the stone wall. "I'm off to a good start then, even with the spiders."

"Let's see...friends with a devilishly handsome assassin of some renown and a part of a historical Inquisition. I suppose you are." Ah, the spiders. "Somehow I find them less distressing when they are the size of a mabari."

"There is that," Maxwell grinned. Then his head ducked slightly, the edges of his smile turning sheepish. "And I am sorry, however small they were. I'll announce myself next time."

"Join me for lunch and I will consider you forgiven." Breakfast was rife with intimate promise, dinner more romantic- lunch? Lunch was safe enough. Friendly.

He laughed, a quick, but warm sound and pushed off the wall.

"I think I can manage that. Just let me--" he slipped halfway through the door, just enough to set the broom back inside, and then he popped back out with a smile. "And I'm ready to pay my dues."

"Come now. The Herald's Rest awaits." He even went so far as to gallantly offer Max his arm- albeit in jest. A human noble walking arm and arm with an elf, even a heroic one? Scandalous and highly unlikely.

Fortunately or not for Zevran, Maxwell wasn't like many nobles. He was the man who had once all but lived with an elf, and to this day still considered it one of the best times of his life.

(Even with the latest development and the singular ache it had come with.)

And he couldn't deny a joke, when he saw one.

"Ser Zevran," he chuckled, taking the arm with nary a blink. "I am charmed."

Or not. It only served to make Max that much more charming and that much more dangerous in his eyes. Brasca. Here he stood, arm and arm with a noble, equally charmed.

How Rinna would be laughing.

"Ser Maxwell, shall we?" He rested his hand on Max's as he would for a fine Antivan lady he was to escort.

Maxwell held out his free arm, gesturing with an elegant hand. His head tipped to follow, smile pulling to one side, boyishly lopsided.

"Lead on."

Skyhold

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