stop being so defensive i am just trying to hit you with weapons

[cicatrices]

WHO: Cassandra Pentaghast + whoever
WHAT: Anything
WHEN: The third week of Harvestmere (October)
WHERE: Around Skyhold
NOTES: Open to all! Feel free to pull from the top post or start something totally different. I may be slow to respond sometimes as mod work cuts in, and may have to prioritize plot-related threads at some points to make sure I don't hold others up, but hopefully not too much.

Cassandra isn't a difficult woman to find.

Most of her hours are spent training the Inquisition's recruits, often with Cullen or several of the other more senior soldiers, many of whom are greener than the Dales. She demonstrates sword forms, corrects stances, and insists on the importance of shields even though half of them are still using wooden planks with straps on the back because a merchant cancelled a shipment when they heard about Haven and despite the quartermaster's frantic scrounging there aren't nearly enough to go around.

Time to herself is spent in what is already her usual spot, beating the padding off of the dummies near the quartermaster's tower or sparring in the ring, sword flashing in Skyhold's unusually-present sun. She's methodical here, too, each strike fast and strong but also well-placed. She's not a very graceful fighter, motions too jerky and abrupt, but what she lacks in fluidity or creativity she makes up for in power and precision, and it's considered a great feat among the soldiers to have ever come close to getting past the constant guard of her shield, thankfully not one of those lost in their hasty flight into the mountains.

She takes most of her meals in the hall with the rest, even if she usually spends them sitting at a far corner of the table, methodically putting away her food with neither a recruit's grateful hurry nor a noble's dainty manners but a perfunctory low-level annoyance at the necessity of it. Occasionally she'll speak to those around her, particularly if they're other members of the Herald's inner circle, but nothing about her manner invites conversation from strangers.

It's partly intentional-- she's not very good at small talk-- and partly an artifact of her upbringing that has left her bearing both imperious and dangerous even when all she's doing is sticking a fork into a bite of potato. The effect is multiplied when she has what looks to be a letter in hand, brows lowered into a skeptical frown as her eyes scan the page. When they reach the bottom she snorts, and begins folding it back up, uncaring when she accidentally flicks a spot of gravy onto a corner.

Comments

[cicatrices]

"Another casualty of the funeral brawl?"

Cassandra approaches from the direction of the chapel, a tiny shrine that was one of the first non-essential spaces in the castle to be renovated. It is still barely larger than a glorified closet, but it sees constant use, packed with candles and worshipers. Cassandra has avoided it, particularly since the Herald's death, packed as it has been with the most conspicuous displays of mourning. Mother Giselle and the several sisters present give small services throughout the day, but she exits some ten or fifteen minutes after the last group departed.

Stepping out of the cloister and into the sunlight she squints, a hand lifted to block the sun from her eyes. It's like perpetual fall here in Skyhold, but she has never been the type of person to have strong feelings about weather and this is no exception. She continues squinting until her eyes adjust, taking up a stance beside Dorian, arms crossing against her chest as she looks down at his staff, and then at those being clacked together across the way.

"I hope such exercises expend their energy for fighting instead of encouraging them to begin more. We cannot allow this conflict to tear the Inquisition apart from within."

[liberalum]

Dorian focuses on a fiddly knot evading his fingertips rather than look up right away. He turns the staff over in his hand, inspecting it, running a fingertip over the hair-line seam splitting the wood. It gleams gently blue, almost undetectable in the bright sunlight. "This was already on its way out by the time Haven crashed about our ears. The only weapons I brought to that embarrassment were a few choice words and one righthook."

Now, arms folding lax over his knee, he tilts a look up at Cassandra, squinting slightly in the sun. Thoughtfully; "When dealing in excess magical energy in a battle, there's a chance it will lash out and hurt your colleagues. Rather than simply expecting it to go away, you redirect it elsewhere, preferably at someone deserving.

"They'll either fight well or they'll fight badly," he observes, glancing back towards the rebels practicing their motions. "And fight they will, regardless of either. By the time they have a real enemy they can fling a fireball at, you'll want it to be the first one, yes?"