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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Pel is good at busywork. She spends most of these days up to her elbows in grime, a bit too petite to help with a lot of the carrying and lifting but the perfect size for scrubbing in tight spaces. Her hair is braided tightly back and out of the way, nails blunt and broken and peeling, dust and dirt streaked over freckles and all over her clothes.

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.

one.
[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!]

It didn't take long before the Chargers started settling themselves down in the tavern, and Krem was no exception. He had a bottle of the ale in hand, observing the patrons as they wandered back and forth, traumatized men and women, bedraggled soldiers, apostates, templars, villagers all muttering about their individual problems. There were even a smatter of children wandering here and there, and he was paying special attention where they were concerned. There had been several that had died or come down sick on the way to Skyhold, and none of them seemed all that thrilled to be living in a drafty, half-broken fortress.

He'd have to help with the repair of and creation of more blankets for them all later.

[ On the one hand, a mage would be preferable in this particular instance. The faster he is healed the easier he can rest. On the other- their attentions are turned to those less accustomed to walking around in pain. The innocent. The young. Better to give his place and the time he'd take to someone that can't bear their injury with grace.

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.

It's one of the nights that she's knitting that he comes over to her and sits near where she is. He's grinning as he settles next to her easily, moving a chair so that he's in her space.

"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.

"Mm-mn." Even more informal. That's been one benefit of leaving the clan. She can just slump against him a bit, touching shoulders, enjoying his company. When she gets to the end of a row, she puts the project down in her lap so she can address him.

"What about you? Everything all right?"

The mood at Skyhold is strange. There's a tension in the air as various groups of people try to settle in peacefully among other groups. Ellana can feel it, but she doesn't want to let that hold her back from getting to know people. This is what she's dreamed of for so long. Well, not the war, or the recently closed Breach, or... any of the horrible things that have recently happened, but meeting people outside the clan. She's no fool; she knows there are plenty of humans who hate elves, and plenty of people in general who hate mages too, and here she is both of those things. But she hopes she can show others that she's a good person and they can judge her by her own merits, not the shape of her ears or the magic she can produce.

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?"

Korrin finally enters after a long stretch of magical repairing/exploring, intent on plopping down onto a stool and not moving for a while. She weaves her way around the incoming/outgoing patrons, catching snatches of their conversations along the way. Some of those comments remind her of other projects she plans to undertake, but she promised herself this moment. All that could wait a little longer.

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?"

[They're left and right at first, but as the days go on, the injured and ill are gathered into little pockets, areas where they can stay to be readily tended to.

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.]

[Bruce hears the sound, but he doesn't turn around just yet, being occupied with the patient in front of him. Instead he waves one hand in the vague direction of the caller telling him to wait for a minute before he goes to finish up with his current patient.]

--there. Just make sure you keep that rag on, and take the potion every two hours. You should be fine by nighttime. I'll come back and check on you after dinner.

[He gives the patient one reassuring pat on the arm before he stands up and then turns towards the caller--an elf. Well. That's not exactly common, considering how standoffish most other elves were to humans, but if one needed his help, then so be it.

Bruce takes a spare rag from his bag nearby and wipes his hands down while he addresses the elf.] What's the problem? [Everyone only ever comes to him if they need something to fix, so best to just get to the heart of the issue, as it were.]

Korrin glances over, eyebrows lifting in surprise upon realizing that someone is speaking to her. She's been around enough to stop being gawked at -except by newcomers- but the tall, horned woman doesn't tend to attract crowds regardless. The staff strapped to her back might have something to do with it, but just as likely it's more about being qunari.

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.

"Well enough," he replies but in truth it's so much more than that. He feels better than he has in a long time, but admitting that somehow seems like it's be against the Clan.

[There are always the cases where nothing will work, where all they can do is wait for death to come. Bruce tries to not focus on that when he tends to them and tries to make their final hours as peaceful as possible. There's not much he can do besides making them comfortable, but he does his best anyway. It's all he can give them. He's seen too many dead and dying in his life already.

He doesn't notice the strange figure at first, focused as he is on his patient, but when he looks up its all he can notice. The strange figure looks quite out of place from the rest, and that hat...

He can think about the hat later.

Bruce slowly stands up and walks towards him, eyes wary and cautious, uncertain on how to react. The man he was talking to would be passing soon enough, so why was he--

It all happens at once. The man sighs, stops, and then goes still, and Bruce doesn't need to guess what happened. The shock still sets in, just a little, more about the strange figure than the man's passing.

After a beat he turns his gaze to the stranger, and his voice is somewhat wary while he asks.] What did you do?

As one of the rebel mages, Christine has been cautious since their arrival at Skyhold. The future seems very uncertain right now, and she isn't sure how long her people will be welcome within the Inquisition. But she isn't one to hide herself away, not when there is work to be done. As a healer, she offers her services to the surgeon in charge, ready to heal wounds from those who did not leave Haven unscathed. Of course, not all wish for a mage to use her magic on them, so she prepares poultices too, often needing help from others with more skill at non-magical healing than she has. Those moments leave her with lips pressed in the tight line. Her pride doesn't want to allow her to accept help. She knows what her patients need, but it's a spell and some won't accept it.

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."

[ An elf in leather armor, no less. Well oiled and tended to but- armor. Not something many of those that aren't Dalish tend to wear but Zevran had been traveling alone and being safe is far more important than being covert.

Even so the hastily stitched slashes along one side are probably obvious once the healer finishes up with his current patient. Zevran does not mind waiting. ]

I am slightly punctured in one shoulder and slashed across the ribs. The wounds are about four hours old and I bandaged them as best I could, but... [ He shrugs- his good shoulder obviously- and begins disarming himself, creating a pile of an increasingly large number of daggers he'd had hidden on his person. ] I am no healer, as you can see. You will not be terribly scandalized if I simply strip down before you, I hope?

He still wears his armor proudly. His head held high, despite those that would try to tarnish what it means.

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.

Edited 2015-10-17 03:10 (UTC)

[Yes, armor. Bruce takes note of that quickly, and runs through a mental tally of possible scenarios. Armor more often than not usually meant 'fighter', so that helps to substantially prepare himself for what to do next.

The injuries, or at least what he sees of it so far, puts a reasonable credibility on what he has to do here.]

I'll look at them first. [He says, only blinking once to his credit at the growing pile of daggers as the elf takes them off him.

At the question, however, Bruce only gestures to a wooden stool nearby.] I can't look at your injures properly if you're covered. [That's about as close to a 'go ahead' as the elf is going to get. Bruce isn't a stranger to partial nudity, or even nudity in general - he has had to face that a lot in his time of being a surgeon.]

Do try not to swoon.

[ Ah, good. Some surgeons in Antiva protested having to see that much of an elf. A human, oh no, that is normal, but an elf?

They did not tend to make as much coin as those that did the job without complaining. It seems as though this man is much the same. A blessing. Disarming himself the rest of the way takes a matter of moments, more knives, the short swords, his belt with all it's pouches, poisons, and sundry. The armor comes next and now? Now he lets some of the tension he'd been shoving down for the day ease into his posture.

Here he can be vulnerable, if only for a moment.

He piles his effects to one side neatly and sits on the stool, stripping off the long shirt he'd worn for warmth with a great deal of care. Honestly? It may have been better to cut it off for the wincing at the stretch- and for Zevran to wince? Is no small thing. True to his word there are hastily applied bandages interrupting the flow of black lines traced into his skin in a winding expanse, bound about his ribs, around one shoulder Unbinding them would come next, but a moment to breathe seems reasonable. ]

"Not yet, been sticking to the ale for now," Krem replied, moving over some where he was standing with one foot kicked back with his heel on the seat of his chair and raising his bottle to her. "You must be tired. Saw you running around to do something else every time I looked up today."

[The young man doesn't look up. Before he answers, he lets go of the hand he was holding, allowing it to fall gently to the blanket underneath.]

He knew he was dying, but he was afraid. [His voice drops a tone, the words flowing as if they belong to someone else:] Little blue dress stained with blood, coughing until she couldn't breathe. So light when she left.

I told him she was waiting, and the fear went away.

During the day, Cyril helps out where he can. He's most useful doing things like making arrows or traps for their armory. He doesn't seem to mind that people might discount his work just because it's from Dalish hands. He knows that traps and arrows have some quality and right now people are more interested in stocking up to prepare for any possible attack. They can worry about getting others later.

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.

Edited 2015-10-17 03:28 (UTC)

[As the elf undresses himself Bruce rummages through his kit, getting out the necessary items. More likely than not he would have to redo the stitches, and that's never a pleasant experience.

Once he's taken out his equipment and laid them out Bruce turns his attention back to the elf, who's gotten out of his upper armor and clothes and true to his word, looks rather battered up.]

Where did you get these injuries? [He asks as eyes the bandages. They were a little too tightly bound, but he knows from experience that it was probably for the best. He'd have to do them properly later when he was done with the wound.]

[Humans, strangely, always knew when they were to die. Bruce's seen it himself many times before, and he's even experienced it himself as well.

Though sometimes, he wishes he actually could have died. But that's neither here nor there.

He purses his lips at the words, understanding, but uncertain on how to respond. He's heard whispers of the strange boy with strange words, but hadn't ever seen him until now. At least, if this is the one in question.]

I... [He starts, pausing for a moment to decide how to go on. If anything, at least he helped this dying man - who had very honestly needed some comfort. And in a way he had gotten that, which was better than anything else Bruce himself could have done. There was only so much he could do in terms of the physical.] Thank you, I suppose. At least he had some peace before he passed on.

[His words probably don't mean much - he can't speak for the dead, after all - but he thinks at least that knowledge is a comfort, of sorts.]

Taking a seat, Ellana sets down her drink in front of her, crossing her arms on the table a moment later. She already did her staring earlier, since she's never seen qunari before. She's never seen any other race besides elves before. Being a mage, her Keeper forbade her from going out into the world for fear the Templars would capture her. But things are different now.

"Yes, that's right. My name is Ellana. A pleasure to meet you, Korrin." And she genuinely means it. Here she is, talking to a stranger! This is a different face than the ones she's been surrounded by in the clan her entire life. It will take some time for the novelty to wear off.

"Did you travel far to join with the Inquisition?"

On the road here, courtesy of bandits that will be troubling the travelers no longer. [ Despite the tense set of his shoulders he manages a quick grin, only the barest hint of something dangerous underneath. Otherwise he is a simple elf, approachable and utterly harmless.

Well.

Maybe not so harmless.

Moment of peace given he cuts the bandages away with yet another knife from- somewhere, and begins unwinding. The first few layers are fine but the further in he goes they become mottled with blood and the poultice he'd applied to ease the pain. The last few stick to his skin, blood and herbs forming a lovely if macabre glue. Brasca. The grin becomes a grimace as he steels himself and starts peeling the away from his shoulder slowly- a quick yank may reopen the wound.

The puncture itself is small but deep, dangerously close to the joint. Zevran repeats the entire procedure with his ribs, revealing more of his tattoos and two long, curving gashes along his right side- these are lightly inflamed despite the poultice, the skin reddened and tender to the touch. ]

I am going to have to find new armor. A pity, I was rather fond of that set.

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Skyhold

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Ellana Ashara | prose or brackets a-okay!

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cooooooooooole

Christine Delacroix | prose or brackets

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stannis baratheon | prose or brackets are okie

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i am jazzed about this cr jsyk

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

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i am so excited as well omg

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