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

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."

tw: suicide

[mythalenaste]

There is a slight, helpless widening of her eyes. And then, the nausea hits.

He had to say that.

Chest tight, trying to breathe through completely unnecessary panic, she peels herself from the stone and steps away from the edge. Hardly a sound comes from her, mouth open to take silent breaths as she blinks away the vision of herself plummeting, rope rippling as it unwinds above her--

It's imagination, not flashback, but it's very uncomfortable and she has to prop herself up with one hand as she bends over in case she spews.

He's ignorant, there's no way he could have known, but she's pissed because now she has to deal with this bullshit from her own mind. So she starts growling elven curses under her breath, a nice and cathartic mantra to ground herself until the nausea passes.

Nobody ever made jokes like that back home. Nobody dared.

[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.

[byblow]

Alistair understand having things you aren't supposed to talk about. He's also talked about approximately half of them, in the last twenty-four hours, so his single eyebrow raise at her protest is not particularly impressed, and on its way toward challenging, before she beats him to it with her eight fingers.

Then he's impressed, and raising both eyebrows instead of one.

"And they're so detailed," he says. He knows how tattoos work, approximately, thanks to one Zevran Arainai, so he can guess that the intricacy means they take a long time.

He raises his tankard to his mouth but stops short of drinking, as if he's had a sudden thought, which he has. He is not unaware that the elf was on her way out, but it could just as easily be because she felt alone or out of place as because she had somewhere to be.

"But I'm not sure I can trust your scale," he says, squinty and teasingly suspicious over the rim. "Have you ever been shot with an arrow?"

[serannas]

Lucky for him, she has no particular place to be, and gives him her full attention instead of looking longingly towards the door.

"Why do you ask? I hope you aren't volunteering to do the job so I can have a better pain scale." Her voice is much like his. So far, he's given her no reason to think he's an elf hater.

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."

[byblow]

Alistair looks in two directions before the right one. In his defense, he's still a bit frozen, including his ears. Also in his defense: when he gets the direction right, he only has to squint at Zevran and his actual dagger with actual polish for a second and a half before his cold, Called, very tired brain catches up to what is going on.

Kind of. It catches up to the fact that Zevran Arainai is here. The hows and whys and who gave an Antivan assassin the right to beat Alistair to the Frostbacks will have to come later.

"Zevran," he says, in a way that deserves half of a question mark and half of an exclamation mark but not a whole one of either, certainly not an interrobang, and starts toward him. Not at a run, alas, but brisk enough that his gaggle of young and/or short Wardens are not invited to follow. "You better be lying. I will leave."

[ombranera]

Many ways he has heard his name called but none quite so fondly exasperated as Alistair might manage. Now all this end of the world business feels good, feels right. Feels almost normal for all that the whole of their merry band isn't here- and that sense of certainty is more than enough for him to secret away dagger and polish with minimal flourish and to meet Alistair's pace in his direction.

There aren't many he'd approach at the same speed or with the same intent, but- this warden is special. He is a friend. Zevran does not have quite so many as to treat them unkindly.

"Alas, it is true. The last wheel fell to the Orlesains last night in some manner of melted dish. It was delicious." Approaching with open arms, Zevran? Of course!

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?"

[byblow]

"Do I still--oh. I know you," Alistair says.

He should have realized sooner. Isabela is a very memorable woman, even if he only met her once, during a very trying and Blighted period of his life. He straightens up on his stool and smiles a bit more brightly.

"If I have to wait for Kirkwall to not be a disaster to have a hat, I'll never get one," he says. "I'll play you for yours."

And lose. He's neither a liar nor a cheat and he has at least a dozen tells.

[easternseaqueen]

"Oh, don't look so surprised to see me. I can't let you have all the fun without me. And as for Kirkwall, well, you sort of have to pick and choose your disasters there," she tells him with a grin.

When she handily defeats him, she laughs triumphantly.
"Ooh, better luck next time, sweetness. Care for another hand?" She picks up the cards and shuffles them lazily. "Or perhaps a drink or two?"

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.

[byblow]

Your Grace at first rolls off Alistair's shoulders, as easily as if he'd been called Alfred or Gruwp or any other assortment of syllables that do not actually apply to him. His instinct is to let people call him whatever they like, if they forget his name or don't know it, and not to embarrass anyone who mistakes him for someone else.

So he says, "All quiet out--"

And then realizes.

"Oh, Maker," he says, more quietly, already exasperated. "Don't do that. It's probably treason."

[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.

[byblow]

"Hello," Alistair says. (Not "hello," it's important to note. Surprised, a little. Amused, absolutely. Lascivious, no.) His gear is still gone, notably, and possibly still wet, back where he left it; the shirt he's in now is borrowed, dry, and significantly cleaner than the one he was tangled and trapped in last time she saw him.

He saw her, too. The crimson-faced fleeing bits. But don't worry. He'll never tell her so, unless they get to be good enough friends that it's funny instead of mortifying.

"I'm sure we're both to blame," he says, "but I have an excuse: I'm not very good at walking."

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."

[ungovernable]

His companion and partner in charitable acts of thoughtful assistance leans beside him, her weight on her forearms, her glass in her hand and an associated pinkness in her cheeks. She is nothing if not visibly delighted by their accomplishment - how well aimed! - and she lends her voice to the explanation, terribly earnest in the way of troublemakers the world over,

"Only we find ourselves very concerned for the sensibilities of our gentler compatriots, you understand, who are not so - accustomed to men of your..."

If he weren't covered in a (dusty, cold, and slightly damp in places) blanket, this would be the moment for a traveling, eloquent gaze. Benevenuta settles for a pause during which she regards first her wine-glass and then her companion, and finally,

"Stature. Will someone not think of the elves?"

[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.

[byblow]

"I do not," Alistair says, with a bit of a sigh. "I met some people who did, once, in Orzammar. But they were Carta, and we had to kill them." He swirls his drink. "Not sure what happened to the deepstalkers. Maybe someone took them in."

For the record, he's perfectly aware that he's being weird. He's always been aware, from the time he was a small boy screaming at the top of his lungs because the monastery got too quiet to stand to the time he told the Hero of Ferelden he was raised by dogs to--now. He would rather be weird than lonely.

Also: this is his third drink.

"Or maybe they ate each other. They look capable of it. You have seen one before, at least, haven't you?"

[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.]

[byblow]

Good evening, [ Alistair says. He's been saying it every forty-odd paces, like clockwork, to the Inquisition soldiers standing guard along the wall. Most of them don't want to be distracted, some of them only answer in grunts, but every now and then someone will comment on the sky or something and let him talk to them for a moment.

This one doesn't have to comment. Alistair stops on his own--because the man is familiar, now that he's looking, and not dressed as a guard, and Alistair probably won't singlehandedly cause Skyhold to fall to an unseen incoming force by joining him at the wall and distracting him for a moment. ]

Or I guess it's almost good morning. It's odd you can't really say good night as a greeting. We need something for these hours.

[ Perhaps hello, and welcome to being talked at for as long as you'll politely endure it. What's inside Alistair isn't liable to bursting so much as sinking and pulling him down with it into a place where he isn't himself anymore, or not only himself--

Talking helps. ]

Or we could reclaim good night. Take it back for insomniacs.

[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."

[byblow]

No better than the watch, Alistair makes a fair attempt at jumping out of his skin, and a less fair one at hiding it by leaning casually against the nearest wall. "I'm exactly the type for bawdy tavern songs," he says before he's even managed to discern who was speaking. The instinct for banter is strong. "The Chantry thought it could train that out of me, but it only made my love for them stronger."

And that one isn't meant to be sad, no, but Alistiar ignores that. It is as subtle as a shield bash to the face, probably, but once he's looked his new companion over, he makes a decent attempt at a subject change:

"Oh, it's the unimportant redhead. At Skyhold. You're continuing to be unimportant, I hope. I've heard what they do to important people here."

Is it too soon for jokes about their dead Herald? Probably. But she was larger than life, and he won't feel sorry about it until he sees her perfectly normal-sized body on the pyre.