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heaven, a gateway, a hope
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.
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!
Every Warden (OTA, but one thread please!)
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.
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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
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?
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"But not quite as warm, I'd imagine?" Not that she's even been to Antiva, but snow is a companion she wish she hadn't got to know so well over the march to Skyhold. Alistair is right, though - it is warmer here, though only slightly. She doesn't feel the need to read for the bottled fire, at least. That says something. She's also willing to engage in banter, which says anything thing about the relief at the fact they've made it. Maybe she'll actually be able to sleep in a bed tonight.
But not yet. At Sigrun's question, she looks around.
"We find someone who looks like they're in charge." There are a great deal of people, and some have stopped to watch the bedraggled group of Wardens, but others stay out of their way. Their plan had been to get here, but now they were here, that was a whole other problem. The news they had was not one most were going to like; the five of them understand, but what if the solution proposed is not one they want? She exhales. No, first things first. Maybe the in-charge bit in a courtyard is optimistic. "Or... anyone who is willing to listen to us, or point us in the right direction. Maybe there's someone one of us knows, here..."
Not herself, in that equation. Too much Circle.
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"Nmfh," he says, miserably, "can 'the right direction' have a fire nearby to it? And a glass of-- of something. Something restorative. Do they have health restoratives, in-- in--"
This place. Skyhold. Cold City. Ice Kingdom. Scripio cracks one eye open. It is, actually, far less snow-covered than other places have proved to be. And there is sunlight, which he turns his face up towards, appreciatively. Mother Sun. Has anything ever been so sweet as the kiss of her warmth? Trick question. More kissing of warmth would be sweeter.
People are looking at them. Scipio is used to being looked at (looked through, key distinction; a con man must remain so remarkable as to be unmemorable, in order to see success). He leaves his cheek pressed to the cold wall. The sunlight will thaw him free if need be. Blindly, he gropes backwards for Rafael, who is probably nearby, if he didn't die of cold on the way through the gates.
"You can leave me here to die," he offers aloud, charitably, to both Rafa and the others. "I don't mind."
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There is food here, right?" This to Alistair, most likely, though he's looking at Sigrun as well. Sabriel a little less: she's newish too even if she's wearing it better than these two, so she doesn't have to answer for this whole blighted rigmarole the way the two more senior Wardens do. He looks from them to the courtyard of Skyhold before them, and the set of his brows is... unimpressed.
"Actual food, I mean." He is so unimpressed he feels the need to be very clear, lest there be confusion about this the way there was apparently confusion about what a real, powerful organization with a real fancy stronghold castle implies. "Roast and mash, or maybe a stew with actual meat in it? And wine. Or ale, we could live with ale. But not just crusts or hard crackers or something. If you dragged us all the way across the world just to sit in some drafty half-broke castle and eat crackers...." Well. They should all just imagine the trouble these two can cause when they're feeling crossed and not just annoyed.
"Not as warm," he confirms, "At all. Isn't the whole point of being Wardens that the important people all jump when you snap? Let's find the kitchens first and send for whoever's in charge there."
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But he does, as he has noted, like food.
"Stew, or pie. Pigeon pie. Plenty of wine. Wine is the greatest restorative. Hare. Mutton. Meatballs. Fritters. Rice, and tiny peas, in that sweet cream sauce... and more wine... Ooh, Rafa, do you think they have spicy goat? On a stick? They ought to, if they don't, real warm-up food--"
He peels away from the wall and pats his stomach, lost under the layers of capes and cloaks and armor. "Maker, I am hungry. What do you think, ladies, I think Rafael has the best plan." As always. Reasonably, miraculously healed, he surveys their careworn group. "Surely we can all agree with that. Food."
(It's easy to talk over him. Go ahead.)
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"That is not the whole point of--"
And a sigh, abandoning that sentence midway through Scipio's list of foods. He is not giving up forever, but he may give up for now. For today. For the period if time between now and when he's had a nap and, yes, food.
But there are more important things. Sabriel is right--Alistair gives her a grateful sort of look, then Sigrun a look that darts from her to the two younger men and tries to say kick them in the shins, as she's best placed for it, but may just say help.
"We need to talk to someone first," he says, "and if we're allowed to stay, you can all go drown yourselves in cream sauce."
He steps away from them--not far, just a few steps, to try to catch someone official-looking. Maybe to give Bruce a squinty once-over, while he's at it.
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“Of course there’s food. Food that will still be there once we’re done talking.” A beat. A moment of consideration as her stomach protests. “... Or maybe during talking. I wouldn’t mind that. Compromise.”
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"The first thing we'll ask after speaking to someone about everything is where the kitchens are." Maybe they'll bring them food whilst talking, as Sigrun said.
That's as much as she says on the matter before stepping after Alistair. "Food in exchange for bad news," she says softly, not much louder than a mutter. Some Wardens they were. But she swallows it, looks to the nearest crowd of people who haven't fled, and raises her voice. "Pardon our interruption. Can anyone spare a minute?"
Even as she says it, it sounds far too dignified for such a gathering, but it'll have to do.
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He's still debating about it when one of the other wardens stepped out and spoke aloud. And of course, at this point, there's no way Bruce can quite ignore them now.
Taking a breath, Bruce steps out from his spot and moves towards the band of Wardens. The wariness is on his expression and in his body language, but he does his best to be as polite. "...I can spare some time. What brings a group of Wardens to the Inquisition?"
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Trouble. Wrecking their village. Killing their Herald. It all seems a little distant, still, to him, when the Calling and the Wardens' plan has had so much of his attention. Still does. But he probably shouldn't make light of other people's equally serious problems, when this fellow has been kind enough to step forward and talk to them despite their armor and collective obnoxiousness. He checks himself and turns down the force of his determined cheerfulness until his smile is regretful instead.
"I'm afraid we might be here to cause you more."
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Rafael snaps his fingers and points to Sigrun once he's done dousing his friend's hopes. "That's the ticket, compromise. I knew I liked you. And not you." His glare at Sabriel is exaggerated (he doesn't actually dislike people this easily) but the sourness isn't all insincere. "Compromise," he repeats, "Eating and talking-- Shades, fine! Have your chat, it's not like you need the two of us for that. We'll go... do a patrol!" Yes, a patrol, brilliant idea. He's backpedaling away from the group as he speaks now, a hand reached out to hook Scipio and drag him after. Bruce is here now, to be talked to and provide distraction. Nobody will miss them.
"Reconnoiter the castle. Bring back intel. Lay of the land, ear to the ground, all that nice stuff about hard work and dirt. We'll regroup at half-past." Half-past what is for him to know and them to find out. "Aye aye, senior Wardens, sir. And madame." He gives a flourishy bow to Sigrun that does not require him to stop walking away.
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But the Warden who replied said it wasn't a Blight. If it wasn't about that, then...?
His thoughts derail for a moment when two of the Wardens apparently decide to make a move first, and he stares at them for a moment before the apparent leader of this ragtag group spoke up again.
More trouble, he said. Well. That never bode well, especially in these couple of months.
"I'm probably not the person you should be speaking to, then." He was just a surgeon, after all, nobody fancy or important like Seeker Pentaghast and the other heads of the different parts of the Inquisition. "If you want, I can probably try and help you find somebody who you can talk you. Seeker Pentaghast or the Commander are probably your best chances."