heaven, a gateway, a hope

[byblow]

WHO: Grey Wardens & You
WHAT: A daring and not at all ragtag group of Grey Wardens has walked all the way across Orlais to inform the Inquisition--just in case it hadn't already realized on its own--that everything is terrible.
WHEN: Harvestmere 22
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: This post has: (1) A single group "we just got here, we're freezing, who is in charge, what do you mean you haven't decided yet" starter that we'd like to keep to one chronological thread. (2) Open starters for individual Wardens set later in the day/week.

OOC Note: Regarding the first starter--threadjack away! Anyone is welcome to wander onto the scene to see what's going on and wander back out at their leisure, to fall silent for a while, etc. No tagging order. But let slower taggers get a word in edgewise!

Comments

Every Warden (OTA, but one thread please!)

[byblow]

"See here? Sunny as Antiva," Alistair says. "I'm sure you feel stupid for whining now."

Or not, because the weather on the way here was only one of several problems. But it is sunny. Not warm, precisely, but warmer, like crisp, bracing early Spring mornings in the Southern lowlands (however little comfort that might bring to the Antivan and the Rivaini and the Nevarran), here within the walls of the mountain fortress that these five Grey Wardens have just talked their way inside.

It wasn't hard. Turns out the secret password to get into pretty much anywhere or anything is We're Grey Wardens, and sometimes you don't even have to say it. You just turn up in your blue griffony armor, looking a bit dire--maybe because the world is ending, maybe because you've spent the last few days climbing snow covered mountains while the Old Gods with access to your head tried to call you into their service--and people step aside.

But that was all the purposeful forward marching Alistair had in him. The fortress is huge and bafflingly hospitable, with its greenery and bustling collection of refugees, and none of them know where to go from here or who is in charge, and even if Alistair has not whined about it, his feet hurt and his socks are snow-soaked and it has been a very, very long few weeks.

So he's stopped just inside the gates to chat about the weather. As one does.

[roguishpast]

“Some more than others.”

Sigrun gives a certain duo of Wardens a pointed look, akin to the way one might stare at a misbehaving dog. No ill will, just a pair of eyes that convey you know what you did without having to say it out loud. Not that she’s been a picture perfect companion for the entire trip— Far from it. The journey has been an emotional rollercoaster, and everyone has had their ups and downs at one point or another. They are but mortal men and women, dealing with the poor hand that live has dealt them.

But this particular complaint is one that does not apply to her, so of course she’s going to rub it in.

Crossing her arms, she leans back against the gates and allows herself a deep breath. Their fight’s not over, she knows, far from it. In reality, it’s just beginning. This is a step in the right direction, however, and the walls of Skyhold offer safety that not even the mountains could provide. Sigrun hasn’t felt this at ease since before all the demon army nonsense began, and relief washes over like a cool wave, her muscles relaxing as the imminent threat of death by Grey Wardens ebbs away.

The sensation is promptly followed by an overwhelming amount of exhaustion setting in. Nothing like arriving at your destination to make you realize how long the journey was to get there. But she can’t rest just yet, not until she knows where they stand. One ankle is draped over the other, leaving her in a pose that implies she is much cooler than she actually is, before she turns her gaze towards everyone else. Time to approach the elephant in the room. Or courtyard. Semantics.

“So. What now?”

/hovers around like a creeper

[amygdalae]

For all that he is a nobody within the Inquisition, Bruce still likes to keep an eye on the goings on around the place. Although if he had to be honest, its mostly because he wanted to keep a check on the new people coming in. Sure, it had been a good long while since his run in with the Templars of his Circle, but he still had to be careful - if any of them turned up here than his place here was at risk.

So, when Bruce first spots the ragtag group of individuals coming up together to Skyhold, Bruce is instantly wary - groups were always far more dangerous to be Templars. He moves across the courtyard, from where he had been towards the giant gates, and once he was close enough he spots them wearing armor that was very much not from the Templars.

Wardens.

Bruce wasn't sure what to think about that, but one thing was clear: they all looked positively exhausted, even from where he was. Still that begged the question of what they were doing here. He hovered in the general vicinity around them, trying to stay out of sight as he studied them closely to decide if he should approach them or not. There were not only one but several of them, and seeing so many of them together like this brought a pit of dread in Bruce's gut. Just what was going on?

Alistair (OTA) (brackets are cool)

[byblow]

Maybe the Wardens ought to stick together, but they've been sticking together for weeks now. Even Alistair is glad for the chance to talk to other people. Under other circumstances he might even have been glad for the chance to talk to no one, but then he'd be alone in his head with the Old Gods, which is, you know.

No, thank you.

The fortress is a wreck, it turns out, and none of them are noble enough (ha, ha) to warrant claim to the few available beds, but in the end they are given a safe place to store their armor--it would be a truly terrible thing if someone were to borrow it and impersonate a Warden, after all--and as free run of the place as anyone else. Alistair finds the stables straight away, naps in the hay for an hour and a half, wakes sweaty and wild-eyed from the usual bad dream, and then ventures out--to the kitchen, first, to charm his way into the stores with my mother was a scullery maid and that looks heavy, let me help, but afterwards to anywhere. Everywhere.

Anyone being particularly impressive with a sword in the courtyard may get a low whistle of approval. Anyone who drops her sword on her own foot will probably get the same. In the tavern he'll ask his nearest neighbors anything, literally anything, where can I get a hat like that or on a scale of one to ten how much do vallaslin really hurt or did you know you can tame deepstalkers? I don't know why you would, but you can, if it will get them to talk to him for a time.

And after most reasonable people have gone to bed, he'll still be wandering around the battlements, saying hello to the night watchmen he passes and humming in between them; something upbeat, maybe the song the bard in the tavern was singing about some girl she fancies, and if it segues insistently into something melancholic every few verses, he'll stop when he notices, and recenter, and start again.

battlements

[mythalenaste]

Is that shem humming a tune she knows? She's not sure where she's heard it. At a guess, something Gavin brought back after one of his forays into civilization. But it doesn't seem like one of those. Gavin tended to bring back pretty gifts rather than songs of the sort Pel would bother remembering. Wherever it's from, she hums along as he passes by, a soft, unpolished timbre in unthinking harmony. She certainly doesn't intend him to hear, but she's loud enough for it. She tugs her shawl closer around her shoulders, head bare to the wind despite the chill, sitting between two ramparts and watching the gloaming light.

[byblow]

She's better at it than he is--he's approximately on-tune, nothing wince-worthy, but also nothing admirable--and the harmony makes him sound better, too, for the whole three or four notes it takes for him to realize he has company and accompaniment. When he does he stops, startled.

At least she isn't a fire trap; he'd have walked into her just as blindly if she were.

He notices the hair first, then the ears, and decides with the benefit of hindsight that of course someone sitting on the ramparts and humming in harmony with strangers would be an elf.

"Not thinking of jumping, I hope," he says, stepping over to lean through an adjacent crenel and peer down the dark mountainside. He assumes she is not thinking of jumping, but the mood around here is quite grim--which, coming from someone who's just left a fortress full of people who think they're about to turn into ghouls planning a suicide march into the depths, is saying something. "I know things look bad right now, but they've got brandy for that."

[serannas]

Ellana is actually set to leave the tavern after having a drink. It's something she likes to do more for the environment and the people watching than because she actually wants something alcoholic. The place is busy, but for the most part, people are getting along, so the elf wears a small smile as weaves between people to exit.

But then the man asks about her vallaslin and she stops, eyes widening in surprise.

"I-- We aren't supposed to talk about our vallaslin," she says, quickly looking around to see if any other Dalish are without earshot. But truth be told, Ellana likes telling others about the Dalish. So much misunderstanding has occurred between the races, and she sees no harm in revealing some things, especially if it leads to better understanding. Quietly, she holds up both hands around waist level, pulling in the thumb and index finger on her left hand. In other words, she'd rate it an eight on the pain scale.

Courtyard

[ombranera]

And the wardens have arrived- hurrah. One last dull hope that perhaps The Warden is among them for some better sense of direction, but alas. It is not to be. They are weary and wardeny and there must truly be something beyond the blades and skill for slaughtering darkspawn they could offer.

He almost misses having a single country to worry about, a single war. Now it is all entangled-

He also almost misses a particularly familiar copper head. Tall, not quite bumbling but ever so endearing and perhaps taking point. Not charge, no, Alistair was not one to do so, but to guide rather than lead? That much Zevran can see easily. A warm, sentimental glee curls in his chest to know not only has all this strangeness not shaken the bastard's humor, but that he is here. Relatively safe.

"You are too late!" He calls out from where he's polishing a dagger (actual dagger, actual polish, your mind Alistair, so filthy.) "We have already run out of cheese."

Tavern! (Like you expected it would be anywhere else)

[easternseaqueen]

When a familiar voice asks her about her hat, Isabela has to chuckle.

"Well, this one was an unexpected bonus from raiding an Orlesian freighter that neglected to be properly guarded in port, but I do fondly recall a charming little hat shop in Kirkwall's Lowtown. I should introduce you sometime assuming it's not being beset by disaster. We could get you something with a lovely griffon motif. Wouldn't that be inspiring?" She smiles with equal parts mischief and surprising warmth and takes a drink from her half-empty mug.

"It has been entirely too long, Alistair. And you look like you've been working much too hard lately. Do you still remember how to play Wicked Grace?"

Guess what time it is? Stannis' opinion | battlements

[theonly]

He had come to stand on the battlements -- watching the people in the courtyard as they retire, looking out to the scenery beyond the stone walls and wondering what it would be to see an army appear. But he pauses in his watching at the humming. His mouth curved into more of a frown as he turned to look at the one walking by.

For his credit, his eyebrows only rose rather than his voice. But he wondered how long that would last. Stannis had never met Alistair, but knew of him, of his looks. His parents supported the claim Maricopa had to the throne for what little good it did as they died before they saw him take it.

A breath in before he addressed the man. "Your Grace." Yes, he knew who was king and that he had disappeared. That left the throne to the duty of the Grey Warden before him.

[spellwisp]

The arrival of the Wardens was an impressive sight indeed. Alistair in particular caught Alfsigr's attention as he rid himself of his wet gear right in the hall. When she caught herself staring, she turned a very noticeable shade of crimson, and fled to the rotunda to stare at the half-finished murals on the walls until she forgot why she had run off.

Several hours later, as she's wandering the grounds in the dark, admiring the sky above, she's reminded. Because she walks straight into the man, being too busy looking up at stars to notice things like people in her path.

"Oh, Creators. I am so sorry. Terribly, terribly--" Once she's righted herself with her hands against his chest, she sees who it is and immediately stops speaking, her lips parted in shock.

wild card. statlerian + benevedorf.

[liberalum]

It's past high noon, but sharp, almost warming sunlight is still pouring unfiltered into the courtyard and will continue to do so for another solid hour. For reasons as yet unknown to those watching from home, there is a man down below, one with ginger chesthair and a freckly back, missing his shirt.

It's probably not due to poverty, or affliction, or a case of stolen belongings.

They didn't see fit to ask, anyway, and the most Alistair will hear before their presence is made in some way known is a very quiet, one, two, three, before the bright sun is blotted out as a thick woollen blanket flutters down from on high and lands squarely on his head.

Dorian doesn't laugh, but his smile does cut thin and neat and symmetrical in satisfaction at a throw well aimed. He leans his elbows atop the parapet, one hand gripping a glass of wine in a lax tilt.

"It isn't personal," he says, by way of introduction, only just before the as yet unnamed Grey Warden below can fully get his bearings. His voice lifts just loud enough to carry clearly from on high. "I shouldn't like you to think we don't appreciate the spectacle."

[deflocked]

It's not exactly the line of questioning he expected while waiting on his drink. He blinks in surprise, not quite sure at first it's actually him that's being questioned. It is though. Or at least the warden who spoke seems to be looking at him rather than being mid-conversation with someone else.

"I didn't, no," he admits after a beat, still no less puzzled than he was before he answered. "I'm afraid there's very little I do know about deepstalkers. Do you know someone who owns one?"

That seems the most logical reason for bringing them up out of seemingly nowhere anyway.

[amygdalae]

[Sleep has always been elusive for Bruce. These days he's much better than before, but there are always nights where the dreams get too much and the memories overwhelm him. The nights where he closes his eyes and hears not the world around him but the hum of unwanted power in his veins, bound into his body - where he smells blood and death and feels it bubbling inside, already ready to burst.

Those are the nights where Bruce knows he probably won't be sleeping much at all.

The night air is chilly as always but Bruce makes do with a tattered cloak one of the refugees had given him after he had helped to treat their illness. He had been reluctant to take it but they had insisted, and Bruce was always bad at saying no. But he had to admit it helped, as he pulled it tighter around him while he took the familiar steps up to the battlements.

At the the sight of the mountains stretching around them was no less impressive as they had been in the day. Bruce stands near the walls and stares into the distance, letting his mind wander for these few moments. Seeing sights like these always had a way of making him feel... small. And that was a strange thought to dwell on, sometimes.]

[taiyny]

"Didn't take you for the type for bawdy tavern songs," she says from the shadows where she's lurking. The nightwatch aren't the only ones strolling the battlements. Natalia feels more at home out here at night than she does anywhere else in Skyhold, and tends to only sleep in the wee, grey, hours of the morning.

Natalia's on her way back to the Rookery from the tavern herself, a small bag of dried food for her to eat as she works on gathering information for the Inquisition from her contacts in Orlais and Antiva. She sticks to the shadows when she walks, partly out of habit born from paranoia, partly because she likes seeing if the watch can spot her. They never do; she might have to tell the Commander about that someday.

"Although I don't think that one is supposed to sound that sad."

Sabriel (OTA, whichever format you would prefer!)

[paperwing]

Sabriel is the last to drift away when given free reign of the fortress. It's not that she doesn't want to get to know it; it just feels a great deal like not doing anything - they're safe, but who knew how long that safety would last? - but she swallows that frustration. In what had been a constant push, now they had to wait. Waiting had become as much a foreign concept as all the years she'd spent in the tower, effectively waiting for the day of her conscription.

Thoughts for another time.

She doesn't get a bed, but she gets a change of clothes, and clean water. The blue tunic is pulled tight over an undershirt several sizes too big, but it'll do. The sword sits against her hip, a weight and reminder of many different things. She near sticks to her fellow Wardens and returns to them immediately after freshening up, but that's habit - she's spent the better part of her life with several dozen of the same people. They haven't. Besides, they all need time. Perhaps it'll really sink in what has happened. Perhaps she'll just be kept awake the same as always.

Despite the exhaustion, she wanders. The last time she entered a tavern is when she was young, and she's not bold enough to start now, and skirts clear of it, takes to watching the Templars and soldiers training in the courtyard with her arms folded, as one would when they were committing every movement to memory. She walks through the beginnings of a garden, of something that will become grand someday if well kept and tended to - perhaps what her estate once looked like, years and years ago - and watches the sun through the leaves. It's cold, but it's tolerable. The sun is always a welcome sight.

As night approaches, she retreats indoors, finding her way to the spiraling rotunda and it's humble supply of books, touching familiar tomes and eyeing ones of interest. She rustles up some paper and ink from somewhere, and writes, writes for near an hour, focused and without pause, only frowning and crossing out the words when they've become a chant to match the rhythm in her head. Focus, focus, focus keeps it at bay. Later still, she's on the battlements, her fingers warming the stone beneath her as she sits against the wall, but still she shivers, missing friends, missing being alone, missing her father. Later still, when Skyhold is at its quietest, she reads in the library, scribbles sums and nonsense on parchment, and then she passes out in a nook.

She's awake again long before the dawn.

[gatheringstorm]

In the evening, Korrin's taking a break from her usual stop at the tavern. She needs a change of pace, and a night's break away from hearing the same people complain about the same issues in earshot. So, she's at the rotunda library, idling perusing the stacks and trying to settle on some night reading that isn't one of Varric's books yet again. She enjoys those, but tonight--something different.

When someone approaches, Korrin speaks up. "Better watch out, the railings are less sturdy than they should be. I've spoken up about it, but--" And then she finally gets a good look at the woman approaching and just stares. It's been a long, long time but she remembers that face. At least she does if her mind isn't playing tricks on her. "...Sabriel? Is that really you?"

Long Before Dawn

[salvatore_underfoot]

Salvatore has been up most of the night. Part of it is because sleeping is uncomfortable and drafty and cold, and he hasn't found a way to make it better yet. The other part was that, while tossing fireballs and setting things on fire is all fine and good, he's not altogether fond of some of the looks he gets when he tries to work in a little necromantic magic training as well. He's been taking time at night to practice away from judgement.

So he's not quite focused as he shuffles up a curved stair and up into the library. He bed isn't here, but it's a fair bit warmer than the corner he scraped up for himself into another tower. And closer.

He acknowledges the other mage with a heavy nod, not entirely surprised to find someone else here, or awake. He takes a handful of steps before stopping and shoving a hand against his face. His head hurts. She's ... familiar?

[amygdalae]

[It feels a bit like sneaking, but Bruce likes to visit the library at night, when most of Skyhold is quiet and the usual hustle of activity isn't around. Without as many people around Bruce feels a greater sense of freedom, and he can better peruse the things he wishes to read without constantly having to look over his shoulder. As much as he can make excuses, there's only so long he can keep up the tale of not being a mage if he's constantly seen reading up on magic.

Although for this particular night Bruce isn't really aiming to read any particular book. He had heard that some more books had come around and just wanted to see what were the new titles in stock, as it were. So here he was, up in the library, wandering around more than anything else.

It doesn't take long before he notices the young woman, her focus all directed towards her writing. Bruce doesn't pry into what she's writing, of course, but he recalled when was the last time he saw her and--he would feel bad if he didn't at least ensure that she was alright.]

If you write any harder into the paper, I think you're going to puncture your quill right through it.

scipio (guest appearance by rafael) || OTA || whatever format, whatever!!

[bunko]

Scipio reenters the world only after his toes have thawed and he's stretched all twenty-one of his socks out by a fire to dry. Only then is he ready to deem everything pleasant.

Well, nearly everything. True pleasant sets in after he has found his way to the tavern and a mug of hot spiced wine, which lends everything a warm glow. No directions were required for him to reach this spot. He's been whiling away free hours in taverns for years and years and years. "And years," he's saying, to someone sat at the bar, "half a year, once. Sleeping under the bar. Well, we had to, you know. It was that, or risk capture, or worse. Price on our heads-- Rafa can tell you all about it, it was his idea-- Rafa!"

He turns to summon his friend, and slams his elbow into a tray born by a passing barmaid. She stumbles sideways into a portly patron; the tray falls to the floor with a clatter, and the mugs-- do not fall, because Scipio has caught them. One mug in the palm of his hand, thumb and forefinger shoved into the top of the other two, pinching them together by the rims, and not even a drop spilled. Impossibilities of impossibilities. Sheepishly, charmingly, modestly: he smiles, and flips the tray up with the toe of his foot, catches it neatly between elbow and hip.

"Sorry."

She takes the tray, he reloads it, minus one mug, which he hands to the fat guy and refills from his own mug, with a flourish. Chuckles all around. The man drinks, the barmaid goes on her way, and when Scipio turns around again, he's got a coin between his fingers, plucked right out from under the man's nose. Just for fun. A good slight of hand that no one--hopefully--saw, except for maybe Rafael.

Later, he wanders. This is a sad and paltry sort of freedom, but it's better than what he was going to be faced with. Life can be enough, breathing clean (cold) air, looking at interesting sights, and meeting interesting people. He talks to anyone he comes across, restored to health by food and drink and good music at the tavern. Still wrapped in two cloaks, with his lute still strapped to his back and his better dagger tucked into his belt, he climbs up to a decent vantage point so he can laugh at it all. Appreciative laughter.

Oh, yes, it's all very monochrome compared to Antiva City, but it's something. Enough to keep him walking about. A rugged tumble-down castle, like something out of a story. Scipio examines architecture and chips off loose stone with his thumbnail and strolls battlements, looking out across a landscape more robust than picturesque. He hums, and when he isn't humming he's whistling, and he only stops to blow on his fingers every once and awhile. Not half as often as he did while on the road.

"Good views, though," he remarks, cheerfully, to no one. Or to Skyhold at large. He's friendly like that.

Tavern

[ombranera]

It's another easy night in the tavern, picking at his lute in the corner, minding the mood. Since the little spat with Merrick things seem to have cooled down just enough for the spirits to be high. The arrival of Grey wardens would do much- especially with a hero in tow. No reason not to use that and spin a few tales, stir up a little pleasant emotion. He'd told snippets throughout the past few weeks here but now? He spun it in full with musical accompaniment. It's a thrilling story, after all, and rife with artistic embellishment.

He's taking a break between Redcliffe and the Circle tower when he hears an oddly familiar voice.

But they had been in...

He turns, blinking at the blond brigand as he flips up the tray and flourishes a coin. He knows that trick. He used that trick ON them in Antiva City. It wasn't a coin he'd been palming at the time but a ladle but-

The point is-

"YOU!" His voice cracks through spaces between conversations and heedless of what is actually on the nearest table, Zevran hopped up to have a clear view of his target and the door. And his partner, he had a partner somewhere.

[paperwing]

He's not the only one on the battlements. Sabriel stands, arms folded, mind preoccupied, for once not with the voices in her head. There's something about Skyhold, something that's been nagging at her since she got here, something amiss - like a door that will always squeak no matter how much you grease it, or a book that seems unfinished. She's just about summed it up as her sensitivity to death, given the age of the place, but it's not really that, either. Just... something.

She hears Scipio before she sees him and has already turned to glance in his direction but she really registers he's there. She almost doesn't move, goes the other way - but either she's a glutton for punishment or she cares or she wants to help or she's actually charmed, or all of the above, so she approaches instead.

"How are you feeling?" Silly question. She continues, "With the weather. How many socks was it last?"

[amygdalae]

[The Wardens may be here now, but work hasn't changed much at all for Bruce. He continues with his usual duties of caring for the refugees and sometimes the soldiers, even as a good number of them were whispering and wondering around the presence of not one but five Grey Wardens within the Inquisition. Some of them asked Bruce about it too, but he didn't give any answers. Why the Wardens were here Bruce did not want to claim anything, but from the little he had discerned...

He supposed if they were to know, they would be informed eventually.

So he maintains his usual work, never stopping, only finally managing a break around dinner time. The refugees and such all gathered in their usual spots with food and drink, but Bruce himself was settled far away from the general crowd, sitting by himself as he slowly ate the meagre meal of stew and bread. It wasn't much, but it was enough - and enough was all that Bruce needed.]

:')

[rathercommon]

Kitty has certain advantages in life, and certain disadvantages. An advantage: at this height, you only have to worry about hips and waists bumping into the trays you're carrying, not hands and elbows. And hips and waists tend to be far less chaotic and unpredictable, and they tend to be smaller weapons (especially here, in the Inquisition, where nearly everyone is either trimly athletic or struggling to come back from starvation). So her tray wasn't the one that had gotten flipped by the smug-looking Warden: even if she'd been in range, she'd have been able to save the drinks herself, thank-you-very-much. Helped along by another advantage, natural dexterity, and the powers of observation that would keep her from getting in the range of that tow-headed raconteur.

And now a disadvantage: the name she's chosen for herself, Kitty, is very easy to chant over and over again. Her birth name, Khalena, which has not been uttered since she was cast out, doesn't lend itself to repetition in the same way. Too many syllables, and topsiders can't ever get the kh right; it always trips them up. Kitty, though, is easy to just do in a loop, Kittykittykittykittykittykittykittykittyplease-please-please, over and over again, until finally Kitty hisses "Fine" at Drea and sets down the tankard she's cleaning with a heavy sigh.

She makes her way over to the blond Warden, her hands on her hips, annoyance written on her face. And without any preamble, she says to him, "What's your name?"

sigrun | ota

[roguishpast]

For as many disadvantages as Sigrun’s height gives her, it is not nearly as bad as she claims it to be. It gives her some pretty unique advantages, too, ones that she is well aware of and uses at any given opportunity. One of them is the ability to fit into small nooks and crannies. Another is the tendency to go unnoticed. She uses both of these stone-given skills in conjunction to undertake a very important quest, a mission that is deeply personal to her. Not anything sneaky or underhanded, in this rare instance. No, this is far more noble.

The quest for sleep.

The Calling makes sleeping more difficult than it has any right to be. She has nightmares. Nightmares! As a dwarf! It’s downright blasphemous is what it is. And it’s seriously impeding her ability to do her job. (Whatever her job is at the moment, anyway.) So she ends up taking her bedroll and attempting to sleep approximately... All over Skyhold. She tries the stables. The castle walls. The second-floor ledge in the Great Hall. Under a table in a tavern. In a corner on the ground outside.

Sigrun can be found in any of these places and more, fitfully sleeping or staring at the ceiling/sky despondently or being yelled at by someone for sleeping somewhere she’s not supposed to. What a pesky dwarf.