faderift | We come from the land of the ice and snow

We come from the land of the ice and snow

WHO: Open to all
WHAT: Thedas' strange new guests are delivered to Skyhold
WHEN: 25 Harvestmere (October)
WHERE: Skyhold main gate & courtyard
NOTES: This is Part I of a two-part intro event, Part II will be posted tomorrow.

A long uphill tromp through the snowy mountains ends at Skyhold, the distant fortress finally before them in all its tumble-down glory. There is time to admire the drop into the river gorge far below as they cross the only bridge into the castle; it is briefly backed up with traffic, several carts bearing supplies and visitors stalled as the portcullis is raised. Those coming to help catalog and unload the shipment and greet the guests, or otherwise present near the front courtyard, will find themselves witness to a far more interesting arrival.

Guards at the gate carry the word quickly, and more gather, though they make no move to imprison the strange people who fell out of a rift. They just line the perimeter and keep a close watch. Perhaps this adds a level of tension to this first encounter, but it also reassures the many who are unsettled by the uncertain turn of events and keeps in check those who might attack first and ask questions later. Others will no doubt soften the Inquisition's first impression, offering food, information, and other assistance.

Medical attention is available in the tented-encircled corner of the courtyard where the wounded from Haven are still treated. The quartermaster's assistant is called upon to provide spare odds and ends of clothing to those in need, and to issue blankets for all, though they are left to fend for themselves to find places to sleep.

Any mage willing to help is called in to do so and a cluster forms in one side of the courtyard to examine the rifters. They are objects of curiosity in general, but the marks on their hands are of particular interest, resembling smaller slivers of the Herald's famous mark. Despite their best efforts, no mage will be able to provide any real insight after this initial assessment. What the rifters and their marks are is a question they cannot answer today.

But one question is answered: in the midst of all the commotion, another Inquisition agent arrives from Haven, rushing in red-faced to announce that the Herald's body has finally been found.

OOC

It will be decided (partly for OOC reasons, admittedly) that the rifters will not be imprisoned at this point, but they will be watched carefully, and the guards are on alert for any strange behavior by people with glowing hands or strange attire. And of course, their freedom can be revoked at any time if they're deemed a danger. Though there are some OOC considerations at play here, you're welcome to ICly lobby for more or less freedom for the rifters, and things may change based on IC action/consensus.

Also: Part II, aka the log for the funeral/wake/etc. event, will go up tomorrow!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Martel has no real desire to linger in the courtyard.

He submits as briefly as possible to having his hand examined by a mage - politely declines any further treatment by the healers with a thin, wintry smile, moving his bloodied shirt to show the cleanly healed scar that Adelaide left him - accepts a blanket when it's given to him and finds a clean shirt that looks as if it won't split across his shoulders. He speaks quietly with one of those assisting and locates a barrel of water and a clean cloth - discards his ruined shirt and sets businesslike about sloughing off the dried blood, the sweat, the dust of the road and the lingering smell of his own bile. The scar on his chest, beneath the large silver amulet with a symbol no one here is like to recognize, approximates the rough size and shape of a broadsword, and is nothing that any man ought to have survived.

He should know; he didn't.

There are other scars, naturally, older and well-healed as well as the lingering bruises and scrapes that are nothing unusual to a man who's fought in plate armor. Scar tissue pulls taut over muscular back when he dunks his head to rinse blood from his white hair, shaking it out like a dog and rubbing his hands and the cloth over his face. It clears his head some, if not anything that feels like enough.

Damp and dissatisfied, he replaces the ruined shirt with the new one, a bit tight but a good enough fit for now, and leaves the courtyard to find the library he's overheard mention of.

Edited 2015-10-26 02:40 (UTC)

"Halt!"

A stern voice followed by telltale sound of clanking armor is heard hastily once the Rifter edges towards the courtyard's exit. While none of the newcomers are bound for imprisonment, Sauveterre feels a certain kind of way about letting these people wander about. Skyhold is still very much under construction and renovations are still desperately needed, so the Knight-Commander has his reasons for feeling quite protective of this fortress.

"Stay within the courtyard. You are not permitted to venture off just yet." He states in an authoritative tone despite the slight cold he has.

Martel half-turns, an eyebrow raised, gaze assessing. He doesn't tense, but it is very obviously a pause in his action and not the immediate cessation that Alayre is demanding of him. The development is tiresome and he makes no bones about having much time for it.

"On what authority?"

The question is genuine rather than provocative; who is this fellow and what does he want? If he's taking prisoners, Martel would rather like to know why and to what purpose.

The Templar stops a few yalms away from the newcomer and takes the time to get a good look of him. White hair? Alayre eyes the younger man with a slightly worried glance. Whatever manner of sickness this fellow has must be dire enough to change his hair as white as snow. No one naturally has such pale hair from Alayre's experience. Usually that's a sign of pestilence.

"My authority if nothing else." He answers promptly after debating whether or not he should take this man to see a healer. "While you are not bound for a cage, I cannot permit you to wander at your leisure. The Skyhold is a fortress with many twists and turns. It would be reckless to allow you to leave here." The Knight-Commander explains evenly.

He truly means no malice on his part but he doesn't like the idea of allowing these newcomers to do as they please. Who's to say that none of these people are their potential adversaries? Nothing.

Roughly of an age with Alayre, Martel's hair had begun to grey when he was barely a man, not yet out of his novitiate; by twenty-one, it had been pure white. It had been a striking trademark in Eosia, and he was already inclined to do something about it, here - he needed nothing else to make him stand out in this strange place full of stranger yet people.

"I see," he said, neutrally. "Well. You speak to whomever it is you answer to, and you can find me in your library when they have given you leave to confine us."

Turning with military precision, he continued on his path.

A slight sound of frustration passes through the Templar's lips once the rifter turns away again. "Just because Skyhold is hospitable doesn't mean you are our guests." Alayre all but grumbles as he follows. He could just tell by this fellow's stance that he's a soldier of some kind and that makes him more wary of him.

Just how many more are these newcomers hailing from such a background? Just how could the Commander allow such people in here without a thought? Hell, one of them could possibly be a Tevinter spy or one of Corypheus's minions. Yes, Alayre really doesn't like this notion at all.

"You are far too hasty to turn away, ser." He speaks after a brief moment of silence. "You know nothing of this realm or this hold, and yet you believe you can wander about freely?"

Martel didn't bother to dignify it with an answer; he would learn little of this realm or this hold sitting on his thumbs in a courtyard, and he had little interest in engaging with some impotent fellow taking his frustrations out by trying to exert authority he plainly did not hold. It didn't escape him that it wasn't, say, one of the small women creeping about that were stopped - no, it was the large, militaristic man whose resting expression was often enough to earn him peace and quiet in his immediate personal space.

Let the fool feel threatened; hardly his concern. He didn't intend to behave like a prisoner if he wasn't one.

Had he been his fellow Knight-Commander, such disrepect wouldn't have persisted. Alayre has his hang ups about pulling rank and truly had no right to drag this man back to the courtyard. Therefore, instead of arguing he decides to lead him towards the library instead. That's why his steps speed up.

"You're going the wrong way." The Templar mutters as he walks past the newcomer. He stops at the end of the hall and gestures towards the next corridor with a subtle hint of sarcasm in his movement.

"A turn to the right, then a left."

The flicker of amusement in his expression is not kind; how quick the shift from authoritative leader to scampering about after him like a resentful servant. However tempting it is to remark upon - goodness, has he time for this? Martel is but one man and there are a little more than half a dozen of them in total, that's seven other people Alayre is failing to keep his watchful eye on - he manages to refrain.

It's entirely possible that the mild look his intervention earns and Martel simply taking his directions as if he's obviously entitled to Alayre's service with or without bothering to acknowledge him is going to be a lot more irritating than anything he might've said aloud.

Irritating is an understatement.

If all of these newcomers are anything like this pompous donkey of a man, then Sauveterre will have no qualms chucking them over the bloody damn battlements and to their awaiting demise. He has little patience for arrogance, especially from those who do not know their place. His sheer contempt for this man will last for many days and weeks most likely. May the heavens forbid if their paths cross again.

"Something foul is bound to brew from him." He nearly growls as he strolls down the opposite corridor. The Knight-Commander returns to the courtyard.

Alone, in the quiet of the library, as the footsteps behind him fade to quiet -

Martel laughs.

The situation wasn't ideal, but so far, most of the people Ariadne had met had been friendly enough. Or, well, at least they hadn't threatened her. Or seen through whatever sort of magic had changed the color of her skin.

As much as she was fascinated by the people, though, Ariadne decided that one of the first orders of business was to familiarize herself with the landscape itself. And she was doing it in a backwards sort of way. Usually, when Lysia and Amanda sent her to borrow something from a neighboring kingdom, she spent weeks and weeks poring over whatever blueprints or maps they'd managed to get.

Learning her way simply by walking was a novel experience.

After exploring the courtyard so thoroughly that she had it memorized, Ariadne crawled up into the nearest tree. Climbing came to her as naturally as walking and, in a matter of moments, she spread herself out flat along a sturdy branch. As she considered what she would do next, she noticed a white head of hair pass under her, one that she'd seen before, in the battle.

"Hello," she called down to him.

During the battle, it had not been a particularly interesting head of hair; on the ground, achieving very little other than a pool of his own blood. When he looked up, his expression was hardly more welcoming than that had been, expression neutral rather than particularly unfriendly, but little about him inviting.

He said nothing, regarding her - not expectantly, as that would connote a little too much interest in proceedings, but patient enough, perhaps. If she wanted something of him, she'd need to say more than 'hello' to hold his interest.

Ariadne frowned. And for a heartbeat longer than was comfortable, she waited, expecting some kind of reply. But none came. She'd met plenty of laconic people before. But never someone who'd stopped to acknowledge her without actually saying a word.

It was puzzling.

Unless...

"Do you not speak Common?" she asked. So far, everyone she'd met seemed to, but she supposed it was prudent to expect more variation. With precision, she immediately started to rattle off the word 'hello' in about a dozen languages.

Martel waited for her to run out of languages, and then, blandly, "Did you want something, girl?"

Prickly. Or perhaps he was making some kind of joke at her expense. Humanoid humor was surprisingly difficult to understand. But Ariadne preferred to expect the best of people.

"Oh, no," she said, eagerly and politely. "I was just saying hello. I think I saw you earlier. You came through the Rift--that's what they're calling it--like me, didn't you?"

Pleasantries -

It's not that they weren't his strong suit. When he exerted himself to be charming, he did an excellent job; his mother had been a courtier, ambitious, a great white shark of a woman who had expected greatness from her only child, and he had been taught well. His manner was courtly, but

'gentleman' had always been a misnomer for the type. He'd be the first to point it out.

"If that was all, then," he said, briefly, turning.

Her forehead crinkled a little bit. "Yes. I guess so." Ariadne's first instinct with people like that was to try to cheer them up. Because, obviously, something was bothering them.

Except. Well.

It was perfectly obvious what was wrong. He was just as displaced as she. And there was certainly nothing she could do about that. If she could, she'd be back in Valeria by now.

"I'm sure they'll straighten it all out eventually."

[For as strange as all the Rifters were, Bruce couldn't really just leave them alone. Not especially one who had so many scars to show.

Bruce has never been best in dealing with things he didn't know but at least he could be professional about it. Armed with the necessary supplies Bruce makes his way over to the Rifter known as Martel - it wasn't hard to find him, considering the stark whiteness of his hair.]

Um--sorry, but if you have a moment...?

( martel straightens, his hands flat on the barrel, and there's a moment where he sets his shoulders and exhales and decides how to respond to this interruption. a man like a caged animal, he can be unpredictable and unpleasant, but bruce's hesitant approach gives him pause enough that when he turns, though he couldn't be called friendly, whatever impulse he had to dismiss him at once has been quashed.

at least he sounds as if he has a purpose. )

It seems I've nothing but time. What do you want?

( it could've been worse. )

Edited 2015-10-26 04:13 (UTC)

[Well it doesn't seem like he's going to do anything terrible, but the brusqueness of his voice does have Bruce feeling uncertain for a moment.

He gets over it quickly, though, putting on what he hopes is an encouraging smile.]

I know that your wounds had been looked over, but I'd like to give it a check, if you don't mind. [A pause.] Most of the other healers tend to rely on magic, so I want to make sure that everything is alright.

( he doesn't quite bare his teeth, but the slight curl of his lip is a near thing, and unlikely to reassure bruce that his intervention is in any way welcome. )

I am standing, am I not?

( this is not a good measure of a man who has always had trouble accepting when it's time to let his body rest - they don't know him well, here, but that he is unlikely to be the best of patients is probably not something it takes a great deal of acquaintance to divine. he's nothing if not stubborn as a damn mule. )

The wound is healed enough.

[Yes, well. Bruce may be unsure, but he's not afraid. He's had to deal with worse things than an unwelcoming stranger... no matter how much of a stranger he may be.]

The mark on your hand could be interfering with your recovery. [He tries to be as reasonable as possible, since that's usually the best way. Hopefully the same applied to these rifters.] I just want to be sure you're healing up well.

A man put a broadsword through my chest and I died.

( --is perhaps unnecessarily blunt, if a perfectly accurate (so far as it goes) accounting of what had happened immediately before he was hurled through a rift and spat out bleeding. his tone is flatly matter of fact, and there is little sense of patience to him.

people waste less of his time if he cultivates an air of having very little of it to give, he has found. )

For reasons I can only guess at, a woman here healed what your rift had not and now, I am healing quite well, I assure you. I have no need for any further assistance, presently, I will hasten to your side if that should change.

[Oh.

Well.

To Bruce's own credit, the only way his surprise is evident is with a blink. He gets over it quickly, though, doing his best to not let it faze him.

(He wonders how intrusive it would be to ask how death felt like, how it was like to lose yourself from a life you didn't want to live anymore.)]

If the wound had been so fatal, its probably all the more important that I should check it out. [He says it quietly, insistent but not wanting to push. If he really is so insistent, then Bruce will leave him be.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

We come from the land of the ice and snow

martel | open. yes, currently, his hair is still entirely white.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

guess whoooo also i hope brackets are fine

ALL GOOD WITH ME SUGARBUTT

\o/

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject