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

[hugeinorlais]

Varric liked to think of himself as a companionable dwarf; he was friendly, warm, and always good in a pinch. He loved his fans, meeting them was usually the highlight of his day, but he was starting to get a little concerned. He had no idea that, shit, most of the Inquisition read his books. Being famous he could handle, he loved the spotlight, but when it got to where people were whispering his name excitedly and dropping silent as he passed by, that was enough to make a dwarf nervous.

Varric Tethras was not a nervous person.

Perhaps it was because he'd been holed up so long in the Great Hall; if he sat around long enough, of course everyone was going to come to him. They were all very nice, excellent people, but Maker's balls there were a lot of them. So he decided to take a nice mid-afternoon stroll. He absolutely wasn't running away, that was absurd, just out to get some sunshine, some fresh air--okay, fine, so he was running away. Just for an afternoon. Until he could get used to the idea of being, well, surrounded.

It was a good thing he knew where to find the one person in Skyhold who emphatically did not care for his books nor his fame. The world would come crashing down around his ears before Cassandra Pentaghast twittered excitedly and dropped into nervous silence in his presence. Now, if only he could walk that delicate balance between casual conversation and her trying to stab him, he'd be in the clear.

"Woah, Seeker, if the dummies owe you money there are easier ways to get it than beating the literal stuffing out of them," Varric cajoled, loudly, from outside of the range of her sword.

[cicatrices]

Cassandra certainly has no intention of ever twittering, in Varric's presence or otherwise. The suggestion would generally be enough to send her out to beat some dummies just like this as a way to avoid the urge to beat people. It isn't necessary today; she has already been driven here by a number of less-personal irritants and less-public concerns.

"Varric," she says the dwarf's name like a curse, but she says a lot of things like that. He probably shouldn't take it too seriously. "If they owed us money I would send them to Josephine. Perhaps then we could afford more of them." She takes a half-step lunge forward and strikes the dummy along its "ribs", blade turned in her hand at the last second so that it's the flat that meets burlap and straw and thumps it against the wooden frame beneath instead of slicing through like usual.

She pauses, and wipes the back of her wrist across her forehead, though she has not been out long enough to work up a sweat, not with the crisp breeze that whistles through the gap in the wall across the courtyard. "What do you want, Varric?"

[hugeinorlais]

Ah, yes, that was exactly the welcome he'd been hoping for. Of course, he wouldn't admit that, not for every piece of gold leaf in Orlais, especially not to the Seeker.

"Just thought I'd stop by," Varric answered smoothly and, in an arc that kept him outside of arm's length, he strolled past and leaned on the wall by the storage room they'd stuffed the new quartermaster into. "See how you were settling in, find out if there were any recruits you hadn't put the fear of the Maker into yet, that sort of thing."

His smile was charming, he knew it was, he'd spent quite a long time perfecting a charming smile for situations where he was likely to get stabbed. Situations pretty much exactly like this one.

"Between you and Curly, it'll take, what, a month before they're all ready to fight high dragons?"

[cicatrices]

"Do not mock our efforts," Cassandra replies, missing the joke and assuming the worst, as usual. "Commander Cullen and I do our best, but there are scores of them and many have never held a sword before. And some do not hold swords now, either, since we lost the armory at Haven."

She punctuates this rebuke and complaint with another solid thumping of the dummy, this time three quick hits in succession, with a spin between the last two. Even at full extension he is out of range, he will not doubt be happy to learn.

"In a month they may be fit to defend themselves without stabbing each other in the process. If we are very lucky they may even stab their enemies. That is the best that can be hoped for in present conditions. If Corypheus sends another dragon and this place is not protected as Solas claims, we are sitting ducks."

She pauses, and this time levels the point of her blade at Varric's face. It's not a real threat; she doesn't seem to realize she's gesturing with it as menacingly as she is. "Do not tell anyone that I said that. We cannot stand a loss of morale, either."

[hugeinorlais]

To say Cassandra Pentaghast was agitated would have been a truly staggering achievement in the art of understatement. Varric had seen her whole Fall Collection of irritated expressions, he was pretty sure he'd inspired a few of the more vehement ones all by himself, and this one was a prize. This particular shade of aggravated gesturing was on the farther end of the Cassandra Pentaghast spectrum of anger and, frankly, a little too close to murderous for his liking.

This made, what, twice now that she'd actually shouted at him while leveling a blade in his direction?

Maker, he certainly hoped he wasn't forgetting an instance. The day he could forget being threatened, by her, at swordpoint was the day his life had officially become far too interesting for his own good.

"Hey now," Varric replied calmly and slowly, as one does when addressing an irate woman with a particularly large knife. Fortunately even Varric couldn't actually patronize the Seeker, no matter how hard he tried. He held up his hands in a gesture that was torn between 'gently placating' and 'about to be frisked by the city guard'. "Would I do a thing like that? I'm practically made out of team spirit."

For a given value of 'team' and 'spirit'.

"I'm Mr. Morale," Varric added and paused. It was a terrible idea to egg her on, absolutely dreadful, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. No one had ever accused him of making solid life choices. "But you know, and this is a crazy idea, if you're going for positive morale it might be a good idea to really emphasize the not stabbing other members of the Inquisition part."

His charming smile was still charming.

"Shit, you could even set up a reward system. Gold stars for everyone who didn't stab somebody today? It could really catch on."