faderift | heaven, a gateway, a hope

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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.

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!

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"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.

Edited 2015-10-22 04:04 (UTC)

“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?”

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?

Another fortress - it seemed her life had become long marches from one impressive landmark to the next, but Sabriel was past complaining about it (in comparison to two individuals, she had practically been a saint). This one, at least, looked strangely homely in comparison to the many nights they'd spent in caves and abandoned buildings and sometimes just on the ground in the rain with a fire that refused to light until she cast magic on it.

"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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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."

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?"

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.

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."

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?"

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.

Edited 2015-10-22 19:14 (UTC)

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."

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.

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!

"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.)

"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.

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."

Edited 2015-10-22 20:31 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2015-10-22 19:49 (UTC)

"Riiight," Alistair says. That might sound insensitive, too, but it's quiet, subdued, spoken to himself rather than to her--more obvious by contrast when he raises his voice a notch and extracts himself from his crenel to focus on hers. "That was obviously the wrong thing to say."

He raises a hand toward her back, curved forward over the wall, but stops short of touching her. He's not an idiot. He'd just like to be prepared if she does pitch forward.

"Oh, no, of course not," he says. "I'm not much of an archer. If I were going to do anything like that, I'd have to stab you, and then there's all the blood, and the washing-up."

He takes that drink, finally.

"I'm only looking for common ground. What about dog bites? Have you ever been bitten by a dog?"

“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.”

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Page 1 of 14

heaven, a gateway, a hope

Every Warden (OTA, but one thread please!)

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/hovers around like a creeper

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Alistair (OTA) (brackets are cool)

battlements

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Courtyard

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

Guess what time it is? Stannis' opinion | battlements

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tw: suicide

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