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

[ombranera]

"I am not accustomed to staying in one place for so long, let alone to be doing all but nothing at the same time." He no longer needed to heal but weeding, building? Not his style. He could and had for quite some time but he could be doing so much more. Now that he had his health and a decent set of armor? Going out and getting things done for the Inquisition held it's own appeal.

"Oh? I am, as we elves like to say, all ears."

[hugeinorlais]

Varric let out a huff of laughter at that, and thumbed through his stack of letters. He didn't usually mix correspondence like this but, seeing how he intended to throw all this Orlesian complaining into the fire as soon as he'd replied to them, he wasn't too worried about the few questionable pieces getting away from him.

"Now, it's not polite to go naming cartels in mixed company," Varric replied in a tone that was certainly not anything as suspicious as whispering but definitely not loud enough to easily overhear.

The letter he finally extracted from the pile was unmarked and banal in every way it was possible to be. He held it up and offered it to the elf over his shoulder. It was unsigned and short. Except for some unspecified complaining about delivery men and blatant attempts to extort truly exorbitant fees out of him, the only information was a note Varric had scrawled on it earlier. It wasn't particularly incriminating, not as far as intentionally vague notes on undoubtedly illegal documents went, just the name of city on the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks.

"But, if you're interested in something challenging...there's a middle man who's holding onto some goods I arranged delivery for. He's actually trying to charge me import tariffs! The nerve of some people."

[ombranera]

Ah, a task. Better even than a contract- those had limitations and expectations and guidelines that tended to cramp his style. A favor and a task had vague expectations but no one truly cared so long as the deed was done. He could be as efficient or creative as he saw fit. Considering he'd been quite bored while healing up? Zevran intended to be quite creative.

He took the note and read it once, then read it again to see what wasn't being said. For all that he'd been questioning the legality of what Zevran intended earlier, he had no qualms about handling his own business.

Zevran had to respect that.

The note was folded and tucked away somewhere on his person, all but vanishing from his fingertips. "Well you know what they say- there are but two constants. Death and taxes. As he is so fond of the one, perhaps he should be reminded of the other."