faderift | it's been a long road

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it's been a long road

WHO: Seeker Malcolm (not Captain Malcolm, mind), PEOPLE IN SKYHOLD, Cassandra
WHAT: Yet another arrival, gee, they just keep coming don't they
WHEN: *waggles hand* Late Wintermarch-y
WHERE: Here. There. Look, over there!
NOTES: Nothing yet

Arrival
He rides in with a small caravan of people. His armour bears a symbol that, while probably familiar to everyone here by now, is not seen on many people these days in these parts. His horse's stride is calm and careful, trying to stay out of the way and taking his time looking around. Less like a bemused tourist and more like someone with an eye for finding weaknesses, exits, entrances. He'll have to do a thorough walkaround for integrity, but the area at least is very defensible and secure.

Malcolm gets direction to the stables and sets up his horse there, giving him a nice brushing off of the snow. The next place he heads is to whatever kennel this area might have, if any at all. His dog, a long-legged, apricot-coloured, no-frills poodle, is far from the hyperintelligent mabari he was accustomed to in his youth, but his faithful canine companion needs a place to stay as well. Though if he has to keep her with him, he has few qualms about that.

The Seeker seems very...well, Cassandra-esque. He is stern and steady and goes about his initial business quickly but with care. He might not stop to chat--it is, in fact, not generally in his nature to do so generally--but he might ask for locations.

Battlements
Seeker Malcolm makes an effort within the first few days to stride around all of Skyhold with a keen eye. The location is impeccable, with only one way to really fight through, but it could also make it easy for them to get pinned down. And more than that, he must check for himself the stability of the area, the integrity of the walls, and to be honest, it needs work. It all needs work, even the roads around the mountain pass. He's seen holes in walls and roofs! In the middle of Wintermarch in the mountains!

Up here, despite some foot traffic, it's also quieter than down in the bustle, especially after he's ducked about inside for many of the same reasons. It helps him collect his thoughts, especially now that he's no longer on the road as he has been. But he's taking notes as he goes.

Training Grounds
Also much like Cassandra, he can be found keeping his fighting skills sharp. He doesn't whack a dummy with a greatsword, but instead shows off agility, dodging, quick but precise strikes with a short sword. It is no less intense. His arrows, too, fly true. If it's even possible to sneak up on him, one would be unwise to do so. He's also up for sparring or can be found working out. ~~Shirtless. Sweaty.~~

Courtyard
There is also a dog. Was the dog mentioned? There's a dog that needs training and attention and training-disguised-as-play as much as any other dog, mabari included. While Malcolm could be doing any number of things in the area, whether gathering a feel of the troops and those that support the Inquisition, mentally rearranging the area for a more efficient layout, or finding a pleasant and out of the way area to care for his weaponry, his dog likes to be nearby. He throws sticks sometimes. It's very important work, you see. At times, he plays scent games, hiding an object and allowing her to find it, although she is much less a scent-based dog. She's also efficient. Patient. Calm.

Really. Honestly. She does not at all turn into an excited lovebug in the presence of someone willing to shower her with positive attention. Absolutely not.

Wildcard
Catch him in the great hall? Found him nabbing something from the kitchen? Listening to gossip in the tavern? In the rookery reading Bad News? Convenient location to pick a bone with him? Specifically want A Thing?

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His face turns stony. (Stonier, really.) "We haven't the luxury to be stuck in the middle of an all out war between mages and Templars, but that hasn't stopped them."

But the attack has left her nervous, or as nervous as she allows people to see. Destroying Haven had been a blow, though he had been countries away. Losing the Herald when she is needed now more than ever... Yes, while he doesn't have the whole picture, he can see one of desperation starting to form. "What kind of forces does this Corypheus wield that he forced a move and destroyed a village?"

"A dragon, for one."

Her tone is grim, as is her expression. She starts to pace again, with a glance at the sky. The implication is clear - Skyhold, with its open courtyards, its refugees housed in tents, offers no protection at all against a dragon attack. "It seemed to have been...tainted, somehow, with red lyrium. Corypheus commands it, along with a not-insignificant army." She turns back to him, taking a breath. "If we are to have any hope of defeating him, we must work together now. The mages and the templars - some of them - they understand that. They have been holding councils, working to find a solution - a compromise."

Malcolm's face blanches. "A tame dragon infused with red lyrium? At that point, the army barely looks like trouble in comparison."

Unless many more fortifications are made, preferably stonework by dwarves, then there's not much they can do about the open areas and the tents and the refugees who are trying to get away from the fighting. This place must somehow be a secret from Corypheus, or he must be injured, else why not swoop down and make quick work of them all right now, without the Herald in place?

"They are working to a compromise. I assume then that they have yet to find one." His expression darkens. "And I assume not every templar and mage within these walls sees fit to compromise. Do we allow them to run their course, wherever it may lead, or do we step in and...nudge them in the right direction?" Right by Seeker standards, at least.

Luckily for them all, Skyhold is a secret - at least for the moment. Cassandra has no plans to allow Corpyheus time or leisure to discover it.

She frowns at Malcolm's words. His meaning is clear, even if he does not say it outright, and while she understands his position, she cannot find it in herself to encourage his line of thinking. Manipulating others, working behind the scenes to shape outcomes...that is the way of the Left Hand, not the Right, and Cassandra does not care for it.

"We are Seekers, not templars," she reminds him sharply, a hint of warning in her tone. "Our role is not to guide the Order, but to protect it from those who would see it corrupted. There are leaders among both the templars and the mages working with admirable effort to find a solution. Make no mistake, Malcolm. Should intervention become necessary, the Seekers will step in. I will do what is needed to keep order, and I trust you will do the same. But until that point..." She shakes her head. "We serve the Inquisition now, and not the Chantry. Our goals, our purpose, have changed. Remember that. We must ensure that neither the mages nor the templars pose a threat. But it is equally important - vitally so - that we stand united as a single force against Corypheus. For now, a working agreement between the mages and the templars is more important than what form that agreement takes."

The Left Hand of the Divine is still of the Divine. But it's not his place, and while he isn't a boy who shies away from that kind of tone anymore, he still lets himself feel shame. Perhaps not too terribly much, but he understands that it was improper to suggest it as he did.

And it's true enough that, while he still has his loyalties to the late Divine and her wishes, her instructions, and his loyalties to the ideals of the Chantry, they no longer serve the same purpose any longer. It pains him to know the Chantry strikes down the Inquisition so. There's too much splitting and dividing among the major groups, and now it's all in-fighting and civil war. Distracting.

His understanding and agreement of her terms goes unspoken, because it need not be said. So he moves along another line, thread of thought crinkling between his brows. "The balance between the mages and the Templars was always going to come to a head someday," he starts thoughtfully. "But everything's falling apart now. Was Corypheus biding his time to strike when things began to happen, or do you suppose he's behind some of this? Orchestrating sides behind our backs? It's almost too convenient..."

Too much division and infighting indeed. Cassandra agrees, and she regrets the chasm that has emerged between the Chantry and the Inquisition, but there is nothing to be done. They cannot slink groveling back to the Chantry like a whipped dog, not while Corypheus is yet a threat, and neither can they force the leaders of the Chantry to stand beside them.

She shakes her head at his musing, not in denial or dismissal but in uncertainty. "I suppose it is possible. But we cannot say for sure. And in the end, it makes no matter. The threat is the same, either way." She pauses, considering. "Perhaps it is not coincidence. Perhaps it is the Maker, testing us."

"In the long hours of the night when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains." He tilts his face toward the ceiling, a moment like silent prayer, before continuing. "Whether it's the Maker's test or not, if we're worthy enough to defeat this enemy, then we will. I can't say I'm a fan of failing tests, though."

Though it makes him curious. Hesitant, trying to decide if to ask or how to ask, but curious. He'd never had a chance to meet the Herald, far and away on his own tasks. "Do you believe she was really the Herald of Andraste? It isn't by shard of Fade alone, else we're surrounded by various heralds."

Cassandra smiles gently. "You have walked beside me down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me," she murmurs quietly.

But her smile vanishes quickly, replaced by a sober expression. "I...I do not know," she admits, bowing her head. "There are still those who swear they saw Andraste herself, reaching from the Fade. That she touched the Herald's hand. But..." She shakes her head. "Why would the Maker's Bride send her to us, only for Him to take her to His side so quickly?" A new thought occurs to her, and she turns to Malcolm anxiously. "Are we truly so unworthy? Have we already failed Him?"

"Be at peace, my Lady," he says almost before she's through asking. "So long as there are those that sing the Chant, so long as some carry the Light, we are not forsaken."

Only then does he give himself a moment to collect his thoughts on the matter. It's partly a line, a script practically, but he believes in it no less. His shoulders roll, then set firmly, letting out a slow breath. "The world does seem to be falling apart around us. There's no denying that it is bleak. Some might even see this as the end of days. We are here," he continues evenly, "to keep that from happening. We stand here to push back the darkness and keep the end from swallowing us whole. We do not give up without a fight, and indeed we will fight until our breath is gone, until the Maker Himself tells us we may lay down our arms. If we seem unworthy, then we will work to prove otherwise."

This he knows. This he is certain of. But he doesn't grudge anyone questioning. If there's anything he's picked up on from what he's been taught, it's that not only is it fine to question, it is almost imperative. To simply do as one is told, mindlessly, without thought, without reflection, is to be brainwashed and made stupid. Doubt and faith do not contradict one another; they go hand in hand.

If this truly is the beginning of the end, then he's going out swinging, not hiding under a rock praying until another building falls on him.

"Tell me, even if you were told here and now with no uncertainty that we have failed, even if the Maker turned His back on us, even if Andraste wept for this world, wouldn't you still fight?"

That question is easy, because she had answered it for herself long ago. The Maker had turned away from the world before Cassandra was ever born, and yet His absence had never shaken her faith. To lay down arms, to give up the fight - she cannot imagine herself doing so for anything less than the Maker himself commanding it.

What else does she have, but this?

She takes a deep, steadying breath. "You are right," she says, with more conviction than she had felt a moment ago. "It is as it has always been. If we are yet unworthy, then we will strive and fight until we are not. We must make ourselves better. We must prove ourselves deserving of the Maker's grace." She gifts him a rare smile. "Thank you for your comforting words, Malcolm. I - apologize for my lack of faith."

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it's been a long road

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