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!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

{ at the medical tents }

Christine stands when the rifters arrive, because the guards are quickly spreading the word and hearing that this group of people fell out of a rift has definitely caught her attention. Of course she's heard of the same happening to the Herald, and this means something big. For the moment, however, she waits patiently, hands clasped, to see if any will be directed over to her for healing after their battle with demons.

{ examining the mark }

She's one of the mages tasked with examining the marks on the rifters' hands and she holds out both her hands, asking for permission to see.

"I won't hurt you," she says soothingly in a soft Orlesian accent. "I only wish to see if this mark can tell me anything." She'll then proceed to question the person much like the others at Haven did: What were you doing when you fell through the rift? Do you have magic? Are you feeling ill? and other such queries in the hopes of making sense of all this.

{ examining the mark }

Ellana is happy to come help the newcomers, especially when she hears rumors that they aren't from Thedas. She doesn't know how that could be, but it's exciting, because think of the places they've seen! However, she's self-aware enough to not start overwhelming the rifters with a million questions about their lives back home. Not yet, at least. She can't make heads or tails of the mark, and she'd never seen the Herald in person to even know what hers looked like, so she helps the quartermaster's assistant distribute food and clothes, a friendly smile on her face.

"Would you like some bread?" she asks, wondering if there even is bread in their lands.

{ later that evening }

Once the rifters are more settled, she makes the rounds again, asking if she can get them anything. She isn't sure what to make of them, but they're scared and confused, surely. She doesn't want them to feel like prisoners, so she tries to get them what they request or just sits to talk with them awhile, happy to fill them in on what she knows of Thedas. Admittedly, she doesn't know a lot. A Dalish elf grows up isolated in a clan, and it's only been recently that she's seen more of the world. Ellana is still learning herself. Maybe she and the rifters can learn together.

As one of those agents freshly returned from Haven, Korrin remains near the rift-folk initially in hopes of preventing any incidents...from them or others. She keeps glancing at the marks on their hands, unsettled by the echo of the Herald's power and the reminder of its cost still fresh in her mind. At least they seem to be stable, as far as she can tell, but that's not enough to reassure her completely.

The Vashoth mage will linger to answer questions -to point them to someone with the relevant information- and ensure that everyone receives aid, whether medical or otherwise. Whatever she thinks of their arrival, the fact is that they haven't proven hostile, and until ordered otherwise (with a very good reason), she'll treat them as extra refugees. Granted, these refugees will be watched, but she told them to expect as much.

Afterward, she'll make a beeline for the tavern. Bone-tired but needing to relax, Korrin will linger there as long as possible before leaving to crash. If she can vent to someone while paying for their drink, even better.

Examining the rifters

[ Mage she is not, but Maria is too interested in the results to simply sit and wait to hear them later on. She strolls through the courtyard, catching a piece of information here and there from the various conversations. Every once in a while she stops to speak to one of the waiting 'new arrivals' or one of the mages that had examined them, looking for anything that may be of use. ]

A moment?

Training grounds

[ There are no answers. No explaining the new arrivals and the only thing from the powers that be was to save keep a close eye on them. A task she can only hope everyone had planned on doing anyway, and one she will be fully participating in. Once she's had a chance to clear her mind. For now, keeping an eye on the rifters is done along side hitting a wooden dummy with a dulled blade, shoving the annoyance of not knowing yet another mystery into her blows.

Of course, living opponents are always preferable to false ones. If anyone new or old passes by the training arena (but particularly new, knowing what combative abilities these new arrivals have would be useful), Maria will call out.]

Looking to practice?

Edited 2015-10-26 00:18 (UTC)

{Mages needed}

The sudden uproar in the courtyard is a bit unsettling, watching as guards try to clear paths for new arrivals as current residents flock to see. He's thankful that they're trying to keep the peace the best they can with all the different news going around. The word about the Herald's body is most upsetting.

Regardless, Sam offers his assistance where ever it is needed. He's not certain how helpful he will be with getting answers about the mysterious marks, but it's worth a shot. There's a decent amount of mages stepping up to help besides him, but there are still only so many of them willing to face unknown people who seem... not of this world was it? His curiosity has him eager, but cautious.

There is blankets and food available.

{Looking for familiar faces}

After tending to marks and injuries, Sam makes a point in looking for the party responsible. He hasn't seen a few of them since they left and he's rather curious and worried.

{Wildcard}

It's been a long day. So many questions. Maybe a visit to the tavern? Any gossip? Have at it.

Edited 2015-10-26 01:24 (UTC)

He'd been half expecting to be put under arrest the moment they'd walked through the gates, and the fact that they hadn't been was actually a bit of a surprise. Still, he wasn't going to assume he was out of the woods there - not just yet. If whoever was in charge here decided they were going to be a problem, there was likely somewhere around here that had a cell or two or ten that could hold them. Best not to make waves, especially when he still wasn't sure what was going on.

So while he'd retrieved his own dagger after the fight, he made no moves to do anything that made it look like he was going to use it, leaving it sheathed at his side and doing his best to put up with the poking and prodding and the inevitable questions that came along with that. It'd been a long couple of days, though, and it wasn't long before he longed to do something - anything - other than just stand around, something that showed in his face when he caught sight of someone approaching the wall in the courtyard that he'd wound up leaning against.

"Look, I don't know how much good anything I can tell you will be, but if you've questions or want to look at this mark-thingy, then go ahead. But if you don't mind, do you suppose we could do it sitting down? Or over a drink? Ah, if there's any place to do that around here, that is."

[OOC: prose or action spam is fine! Will match format.]

medical tents;
After the cold hike to Skyhold when she's used to much warmer climes, she makes a beeline for the fire by the tents, stealing glances at the folk about her as she attempts to remember what being warm feels like. It shows off the mark on her hand but she's honestly more concerned about keeping all of her fingers in working order at this point than drawing attention.

Still, she makes herself smile to hide the nerves, willing to provide answers to any questions about her arrival even if she doubts she's offering anything particularly useful.

tavern;
No one can actually prove she stole the brandy. Well, maybe one or two people might be able to but brandy seems to be at the bottom of the list of things to worry about, until it runs out at least.

Not that anyone could blame her, given that she's one of the group that caused such an uproar here. Anyone who promises not to touch her hand or call attention to the fact that she's trying to hide it to see if out of sight and out of mind applies to body parts will be allowed the great honour of a share of the absolutely not at all stolen brandy.

{ Courtyard }

News about the Rifters won the attention of the many soldiers and mages of the Inquisition, especially the Templar. Alayre made his way outside towards the courtyard to see a dozen or so tents set up for the sake of giving these newcomers much needed privacy.

The Knight-Commander stalks along the walkway looking a tad grim about the whole affair. While he's typically the one to hold off from judgment, Alayre finds himself eyeing these Rifters with a very critical gaze.

"Stay vigilant." The Orlesian warns his men as he walks along the narrow stoned path. Dressed in his usual armor and steel after several days of relaxation, Sauveterre certainly makes a rather imposing silhouette. His face is as stern as ever and those impassive grey eyes are hard like iron.

"Ensure that our healers are well protected."

He cares for the well-being of their mages. The Rifters be damned.

{ The Battlements }

Now that the courtyards have quieted down a bit since earlier, Alayre allows himself a moment of rest. He wanders up towards the Battlements for the first time today for solace. Something about gazing out into the great unknowns calms him. It's not unusual to see the Knight-Commander of Pharos here, especially when he wants to be alone with his thoughts.

This is why most of the guards here don't seem to mind the grey-haired Orlesian as he sits precariously on the edge of one of the many balconies. His thoughts are clearly focused upon the setting gleam of the sun and not the obvious dangers. The Maker clearly gave this fellow a fearlessness that most men thankfully lack.

{ Wildcard }

( ooc: I'm up for whatever! )

Like many others, Maxwell headed outside to take a look, peering over the wall in the upper-courtyard and down into the circle of medical tents. He wasn't sure what to make of the new arrivals. If even half of the whispers going around the castle were true, the darkspawn magister might not be their only concern anymore. Perhaps not even their biggest.

As difficult, and troubling, as that was to imagine.

Still, as curious as he was about these strange people, his eyes did begin to drift after a few moments, looking for more familiar faces. Hoping they had managed to return safely.

1 - In the courtyard

Skyhold

The fortress, for that was certainly what it was, was very old and impressively built. While it lacked elegance, its walls had been built for strength and endurance, but without a care for artistry, it was no small thing to place a stronghold in so precarious a location. It stood, firm and strong, in the cradle of towering mountains, surrounded by a basin of staggering depth. The distance yawned beneath them as they crossed the causeway toward the open gates.

This fortress could be taken, but only at great cost. Its walls were far too tall and strong to strike from afar, and no ladder would reach the battlements from such a dizzying drop. There were two paths to conquer this place, either by this narrow bridge or by air, and nothing else. It could not be stormed with anything less than a convocation of Great Eagles or a winged dragon. As a foothold it was, truly, very impressive.

There was danger in Skyhold's security, however, for there could be no retreat from this place. Should the causeway collapse, it would be nearly impossible to repair from the fortress's side. To scale the cliffs it stood upon was madness. It could be held, but it could easily become a tomb as well.

As wary as she should have been, Galadriel was at ease as they entered the fortress.

Walking beneath the archway and into the stone walls of Skyhold was familiar to her. The sun was high and, surrounded by the peaks of unfamiliar mountains and the chill bite of high winter cold, Galadriel felt as if time had turned back. Their group was given a wide, suspicious berth and Galadriel exploited it. She moved to the center of the lower courtyard as their company trickled through the gates. The guards moved to surround them and, as she heard their armor resound off the stone, she knew there were many.

A cold breeze whistled through the fortress. It stirred the tents in the courtyard and heavy cloak she'd been gifted. It was impossible, but she imagined it carried the scent of cold stone and new dawn, that it was chased by the lingering vestiges of starlight and untainted night. Galadriel pulled back her hood and looked to the sky as she drew a deep breath. She smiled at the feel of sunlight on her face and imagined the fondest moments of distant, darker days.

She was not alone for long, little more than a few a few moments, before need and urgency cluttered the courtyard. The others gathered there as well and, at once, the group became a spectacle. The people of Skyhold were many and varied, as were their reactions to the company that had arrived. The ones who sought to study their marks were polite, if insistent. They left Galadriel to herself as she savored the sun. It was not until the announcement that she stirred; the Herald's body had been found?

She knew not who the Herald had been, but she had no doubt that their passing was at the heart of the grief in Haven. She felt for these people, truly, but this fortress provided the barest reminders of home; this place was familiar, in a distant way, and she was deeply reluctant to relinquish the comfort it provided. She would not grieve with them, but she would not hinder them either.

For now, she drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and simply basked in memory and mountain air.

2 - The Library

The courtyard could not remain peaceful forever, there was far too much work being done within the walls of Skyhold to allow for so central a location to remain undisturbed. They were not to be jailed, they had committed no crimes, but still the people of Skyhold remained wary. Galadriel had, long ago, ceased to suffer under the weight of mortal eyes, but she was not entirely without purpose. As long as she was, if only by implication, a captive guest, she saw no need to assist in either their works or progress. She would not strengthen the walls that, ostensibly, held her, but she would not be a hindrance either.

If she could not enjoy the peace of old memory, there was much she needed to learn, and there were few fortresses that lacked a storehouse of knowledge.

She found the library with little assistance and, to her mixed amusement, found it full of carefully bound tomes. The artistry that went into binding them was fine, particularly for human hands, but a problem arose as she opened the first book that caught her eye. Beneath its neat stitching and delicate artistry were hundreds of pages, each of which was scribed in letters she did not know. She flipped through the book, replaced it, and searched for another. The second was much the same and, as she examined the script, resignation settled in her chest.

It was not the first language she had ever been obliged to learn, but it was a difficulty she had not foreseen. The spoken tongue was so similar to Westron, she had not imagined that the written word would be so different.

True, it was conceivable that an elven work lived within the shelves, but she did not harbor much hope. She had yet to meet an elf who spoke even the barest Sindarin; the likelihood that the elves of Ferelden used the tengwar was beyond remote.

3 - Other

(Galadriel will be moving through Skyhold, going anywhere that is not immediately restricted. If you want your character to watch her swan through somewhere, or literally walk into her in a corridor, or what have you, go for it.)

Surely Benevenuta never drank so regularly in Nevarra City as she has done lately in Skyhold - Dorian Pavus is a terrible influence. (That is a thought needs never be repeated aloud, lest some agree too fervently.) Even so - she is fascinated by the qunari, and what better way to become better acquainted with someone than to be bought a drink and lend them a sympathetic ear? Small and grey and smiling, she prefers the brandy to the ale and her fox-shaped face arranges well into an expression of commiseration.

"You have had quite the adventure," she says, contemplative.

The Tavern

And here is the strange twist he's expected. Nothing like holes in the sky spilling demons isn't strange but the fates, he's noticed, tend to leave a bit of flair for those supposedly hopeless moments. Rescue by a witch of the wilds, mercy at the hand of a mark, armies ready despite their troubles. With the tensions high and the Herald gone, Zevran has been waiting for some new knot in the thread of this particular tale. People that fell through the rifts, or so the rumor went? Fits that neatly.

Zevran keeps to the tavern initially, the commotion surrounding the newcomers would pass and they would likely wander to somewhere they might find a meal, a pint, or information. In most any country he knows of that would be the Tavern. Most equally savvy individuals should likely thing the same. In the corner he picks at his lute, spinning light, pleasant stories or singing songs, trading out with whomever else might wish to have the spotlight. Should someone look particularly bedraggled he sidles up with a pint and a smile, promising nothing more than curious company. "You look as though you could use this, yes?"

The Stables

Later after the crowds have dispersed and he has grown tired of quite so much performing and questioning about his travels he slips away to the stable, seeking somewhere quiet where he might work on winding springs for traps or grinding poisons for his weapons. It is a delicate task best done somewhere he won't be disturbed- at this time of night? He cannot think of a better place than the hayloft. Until the hour is late the likelihood of being interrupted seems slim.

Wildcard

[ Hit me up with whatever you like! ]

[These 'Rifters', as Bruce quickly discovers, are a bunch of very strange people.

For the most part he's stayed away from them since their arrival, mostly hovering where he can't been seen and trying to understand them. Some of them could look like they belonged around here, but for the most part - majority of them just looked incredibly foreign. And Bruce had been to around to almost all of known Thedas.

Still, there's only so long he can avoid them. Whatever brought them here, it was clearly something powerful, and the marks on their hands reminded him a lot of the Herald... who was now truly gone.

It was still hard to believe, somehow.

Putting his mind to the task of trying to unravel what brought these Rifters here, Bruce started to go around and approach them. One of them was this... person who sounded like he was from Starkhaven.]

I--just wanted to see if you were alright. [He starts, keeping his words slow and non-threatening.] And I'm not a mage, but I can look at the mark if you'd like.

"Yes, please."

He can't quite help the note of eagerness that creeps in at the end. It's been a long journey, and something to eat sounds absolutely perfect right about now. The friendly smile helps, though, and he finds himself smiling back before he knows it.

His smile fades a bit as he happens to catch sight of the tents not too far away, the signs of refugees easy to spot for those looking for them. There's more people here than he'd thought, and remembering what he'd been hold on the journey here, he quickly amends what he's just said.

"Ah, if you've a bit to spare, that is. I'd not want to take any away if anyone needs it more."

Near the medical tent

He wasn't really that interested in seeking medical attention or supplies, only accepting a skin of water, he made sure it was boiled first, and a bit of bread to munch on. No, what he was more interested in was what people were saying and those wandering around. He had spotted others with a mark similar to him, though they were few and treated much like him, an oddity being coddled. He saw through the attempts at trying to sway how they viewed this "Inquisition.". The word held stigma in his mind, memories of his history classes teaching students about the infamous Spanish Inquisition rang through his mind.

For now he was going to keep an open mind and try not to do anything to gain the ire of these people. But anyone who looked closely may notice that he was on edge.

Training ground

This is a military force. That was most obvious as he watched groups of people training. His eyes calculating any corrections that may need to be made silently. Memories of missions and duties to train local forces were fresh in his mind, as if he were there yesterday. Training local militants to fight other militants, what an idea. Perhaps he could interject, giving tips here and there, but for now he would leave them to it, content with just watching for now.

Nighttime on the battlement

The night was just as unrestful as the day had been. People were still wide awake and just as active in the tavern below as they had been when he first arrived. For the moment he needed quiet though, a place to think and gather together what he had learned from the past few days. Magic is a real force here, this isn't a dream as near as he can tell, and the land is being torn apart by war, demons and some unknown force that he has yet to determine. But from what he could tell it was the same force that was responsible for the destruction of the small town he had original found himself in.

Sighing he glanced towards his glowing hand. It still hurt, but it was more of a dull ache by now. This is going to be troublesome, Walker could tell. Out from one fire and I to another. At least there's no fucking sand here. Then his ears perked up, and head turned to the sound of someone nearby. "Sneaking around?"

{examining the mark}

Lenneth held her hand out again, as she had for the woman who'd healed her just after the battle. It was oddly comforting to learn that the mark was as much a mystery to those who belonged to this world as it was to her. One thing, at least, where their knowledge was equal. It was strange to be unknown. There was not a soul in all the worlds of Yggdrasil's branches who did not know her, or at least what she was. Here she was simply a warrior.

Partway into the examination, she realized the healer was asking her questions, and shook her head slightly to clear the thoughts.

"When I fell? I was listening to the souls of my world. A kind of meditation. I touched it with my mind, and it pulled me to this world. As far as magic..." the Valkyrie looked rueful, irritated. "In my world, yes. Here, something blocks it. I thought perhaps it was a spell cast to bind me, but I can feel nothing wrong in myself save this 'mark'." She flexed her hand briefly, wincing as it reacted to her movement.

"It seems to fare better now than when I first arrived."

Now, this is an elf of the like Pel has never seen. The Dalish could be wild animals sometimes, but they were like the halla: small, usually peaceful, keeping to themselves, and generally plentiful. They had constantly dirty feet, trouble keeping bedding dry with the weather, and daily had to think about food and water.

Comparing the Dalish to an elf like this would be like comparing scampering squirrels to a majestic lioness, beautiful and terrifying.

She is tall, first of all--well over a foot above Pel, with the most extraordinary hair she has ever seen, sunlight and moonlight combined. There is a light to her, an effortless perfection, something no amount of Orlesian pampering could achieve over any lifetime. The poise Pel breaks her back trying to achieve is nothing compared to the silent, relaxed grace of this creature.

Pel approaches in awe, though she checks multiple times to make sure her mouth is shut. She can't approach too close without permission, since it doesn't feel right, somehow. Someone like this lets you know when you can come close.

"Ara seranna-ma, hahren. I must examine your hand."

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)

He kept his distance, at first, unable to entirely figure out what he thought, or felt, about her presence. No one was locking them up (which was good), or seriously claiming they were demons (which was better), but it still felt awkward in her presence and so, for the most part, he avoided it.

Or, well, he tried to.

You see - he didn't tend to sleep where he was supposed to. He was supposed to sleep in a bedroll, in the assigned quarters in his barracks, but instead he ended up sleeping in trees, or under pews in the chantry, or wedged in between toppled pieces of tower. This time he was snuggled in against one of the pillars in the pagoda, which stood in the middle of the courtyard. It had been unusually busy during the day, and even the night. But now the first morning light started streaking across the sky, a careful herald as the sun lay still beyond the mountains.

And when Gavin opened his eyes, he saw a figure that would be forever unmistakable to him.

He blinked, blearily, and then pulled himself up, stepping over towards her carefully.

"... Lady Galadriel?"

Training grounds

[Idleness was not something Lenneth could understand, let alone relax into. From the moment she'd been awoken and called to service by Odin, she had moved from recruitment to training to purification of the land to recruitment and training again. Once she'd been released from examination, she'd stood aimlessly for a long and horrible moment, like a fish gaping silently on the land.

And then she heard the welcome sound of wood being punished by metal, and her steps found purpose again. The invitation to join in was beyond welcome, and it showed in her voice.]

Please.

[Swiftly, the Valkyrie unbuckled her blade, stood it against the wall beside the practice racks, and began to test the weight and balance of the dulled practice blades contained therein. Once she found something satisfactory, she took a couple of test swings, nodded, and paced to join the other woman at the pells.]

"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.

Bruce wasn't say he was good at reading people, but he was good at telling when people was on edge. Maybe it was a result of his own life on the run, or just his own paranoia, but it was just easier to tell when somebody was more liable to explode.

So with this particular person Bruce tries to take it slow. He makes sure to have himself be noticeable as he approaches the strange Rifter, keeping his movements slow and non-threatening. In his hands were some food he had managed to get from the kitchens, and slung over his shoulder was his bag of supplies and materials.

"Hello," he starts, slow and steady, keeping his movements cautious as he approaches the other.

Brandy, it is. Korrin will go with Chasing sack mead, herself. She's tried the brandy and enjoyed it, but right now, her preference is for something strong and a little bitter. Granted, what's strong for humans affects her somewhat less, so she won't be inebriated for some time, if she decides to go that far. It hasn't been decided yet.

She takes a swig before replying with a tired chuckle. "Maker's balls, what an understatement. I knew something was going to happen when we returned to Haven. Stray demons or stray refugees, something like that. I just didn't think it would be both at once, and both from a damn rift, and with all those...marks. Like she had." The Vashoth woman stares into her drink for a moment at that, expression softening as she recalls the news of her earlier.

Korrin's had a drink by now, but one isn't enough, not for what she's been through. As one of those returning from Haven, she's had to answer her fair share of questions by now, at least outside the tavern. In it, she's been quieter than usual, exhausted but not willing to crash until she's had at least some time to relax.

Upon realizing she has company, the Vashoth mage glances up with a weary but accepting smile. "You have no idea how much I need that right now, but yes. Thank you."

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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 30

We come from the land of the ice and snow

Christine | OTA

Ellana | OTA

Korrin | OTA

Maria Hill (AU) | OTA

Samouel | OTA

Jamie McCrimmon | OTA

Araceli; ota

Alayre Sauveterre | OTA

Maxwell| OTA

Galadriel | OTA (Brackets or Prose are both fine)

no subject

Zevran | OTA

derp i hope this is ok

examining the mark

Martin Walker || ota

Re: Christine | OTA

no subject

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

3

Re: Training~

no subject

near the medical tents

no subject

no subject

no subject