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

[bunko]

As far as 'useful contributions to the conversation and problems at hand' goes, Scipio has none to offer. They're inside the walls (heavy cold cold stone walls), they've reached their destination--fine. Good. He sags, bonelessly, against whatever surface is nearest to him. It is a part of that wall, and it is also cold.

"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."

[offortune]

"Not a chance." Rafael is somewhat more re-energized by their arrival than Scipio, and cuffs his friend on the shoulder as he continues his swooning into the wall routine. He's not all that excited about the whole Inquisition thing but the part where they get to stop walking for a while and sleep in real beds (he thinks, poor sod) that part is definitely exciting. "You promised you'd scrub all this mud off my boots if I lent you my scarf, remember? And now it's mudsicles, and they're all yours. Besides, there's probably food here."

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."

[bunko]

"I do like food." For the purpose of snappy banter, Scipio--easily inspired but still against the wall--opens his eyes. It is unfair of Rafael to expect him to honor the promise to clean muddy icy boots, as that was a pact made in a moment of weakness by a man of less than sound mind and top-full of dire desperation.

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.)

[byblow]

Alistair talks over Scipio:

"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.

[roguishpast]

“Yes, I exchanged many a letter by raven when none of you were looking to the greatest chef Skyhold has to offer. They’ve prepared a feast.” The sarcasm is thick with this one. It’s not a kick in the shins, but it’s something. Humbling, maybe. She drops the tone shortly thereafter in favor of asserting herself, holding her head a bit higher from the comfort of her lounging against the gate. Someone has to interrupt the list of foodstuffs, lest they reminisce over their favorite recipes forever and make themselves even hungrier than they already are. Sigrun’s words are clipped, short (hah) and to the point.

“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.”

[paperwing]

They've been here less than five minutes and already Scipio and Rafael at it - she thought she was past exasperation, but apparently not. Sabriel lets out a short sigh; another fairly new acquaintance, one that showed up about the time they did. She's tired enough not to complain, just to run a hand through her hair - water, water would be nice, clean would be nice - and give them both a look. The parent look, the one that says she's got far too much to do and discipline will have to come later.

"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.

[amygdalae]

Bruce didn't miss the glance that one of the Wardens was giving over to him. It would be nice if he wasn't the one being looked at, but there wasn't exactly anyone else nearby who Bruce could pretend it was directed towards instead. Still, he hesitates on if he should approach them or not. He has nothing against the Wardens himself, but Bruce has never been good with anybody with authority, and considering all the things that came with the Grey Wardens, well.

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?"

[byblow]

"Not a Blight," Alistair says, aiming to reassure, but then he has to add, "as far as we know. We did hear that something a lot like an Archdemon was causing you lot some trouble."

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."

[offortune]

"Look at this place, Skip, it's held together with sticks and they've probably had to put the goats to work. We'll be lucky if they even have any half-decent wine."

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.

[amygdalae]

Archdemon--yes. Haven. Bruce hadn't seen the beat up close, but even in the distance the dragon's roars were something that would stay in his mind for the months to come. It was one thing to be in a Circle while the Blight was going all over the place, but to see an Archdemon with his own eyes--

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."