brokendawn | In Haven

In Haven

There was something inherently surreal about being in a Chantry after being in the Temple of Sacred Ashes...and especially after being through the ruins of it.

She regarded the bare walls and the single stained glass window with some mild confusion, but no real comment. Two or three Sisters lingered in the hall but their conversations were both soft and entirely their own; they saw no need to involve Evelyn in anything they were discussing. It was just as well, really, because she had little insight to offer them and had no desire to dispel the positive will that had settled tenuously around her.

Rather than impose herself in either the war room or upon any of the lingering clergy, Evelyn settled for wandering idly between the pillars that lined the nave. She moved gingerly, favoring her right side more than she should have. It had only been a few days since she was thrown back by a Pride Demon and while most of the combatants from that fight had bounced back immediately, she had never dealt with anything its like.

She was fine, she was certain of that, but she wouldn't have regretted taking a seat in a pew. Unfortunately it seemed as though all of them were stored away somewhere and she was not so eager for company that she'd have wandered blithely into any of the rooms to find a seat.

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Probably, very likely, Solas should have left by now. An elven apostate of completely unknown origin--maybe one who tangentially helped mitigated the damage and dam the flood of demons, but he is still is what he is. Vulnerable, very much so, to the whims of those who have traditionally not taken very well to his kind.

Not only is there the equivocal mystery about him which intrigues some and oppresses others like a pall, there is the fact of what he knows. The ideas of which of he speaks, with the certainty and fervor of anyone who is keenly pious, are contrary to what most Andrastians have been taught to believe. That he incessantly meets stultifying resistance, and raises eyebrows, hackles, and heckles, really isn't all that surprising.

Still, he doesn't keep out of the Chantry on some kind of immature, foolish principle. The deism which is central and defining to the concept of the Maker is actually something that appeals to him; and, out of all the places within the too-crowded grounds of Haven, the main building is one of the only places with a regular semblance of quiet. Today, though, he's not in here for stillness and silence. He's here to turn in a report containing more detailed theories from him about how they may go about sealing up the sundered Veil. He personally is advocating for the recruitment of the magi in Redcliffe. Especially because, from what he understands of the presently ongoing mage-templar war, they are a very harried group of people who direly need help. And fast, at that. The Inquisition needs the mages, he had written, as much as they needed them.

Tightly rolled scroll in hand, he is looking for someone to hand his report off to--Leliana's scouts are apparently all out in the field at just this moment--when he comes across the Herald wandering, looking, as far as he can tell, as if she has no particular purpose in mind. He notices her favouring one side. And he wonders: how much is his magic hurting her? Need be he might be able to stabilise it some more, if it is bothering her.

As it is, he approaches her, clearing his throat to make her away of him just in case she might actually have her mind on some matter. 'Good afternoon, Herald. Are you feeling poorly?'

Evelyn would like to claim that she didn't start when Solas cleared his throat, that it was a near miss, but that would be a lie. She didn't jump far, only a scant few inches, but he moved quietly and she'd let her attention wander to the candles and prayers burning in the colonnade. She pressed a hand over her heart and tried to rein in her reaction as quickly as she could--she managed it, but it was not the smooth transition of someone with any amount of guile.

"Oh! Good afternoon," she repeated quickly, as though speed would make him forget he'd startled her over nothing.

Solas was not a slight fellow but, like all elves, it seemed he had a gift for walking softly. Evelyn smiled on reflex before she considered his question.

"Poorly--I--not expressly, no, I am just a bit sore," she admitted with only mild reluctance. It would shock no one that she was not skilled in combat and Solas, like several others in Haven, had been there to watch her flail at being a battlemage. "I've rarely had to fend off demons--" she laughed but it was a bit wan, as though she realized he might not get the joke...being that he wasn't from a Circle and had never been harrowed, "--I'll be fine, I'm sure, I'm just a bit tired. How are you? I haven't seen you since our return."

Of course, not wearing shoes of any sort, and tending to carry himself with a care to keep himself concealed from the public's gaze, and going relatively unnoticed, all contribute to his rather unobtrusive manner of moving through the waking world. Not that he's overly surreptitious, he just isn't the type to attract more attention than absolutely necessary. And for good reason: Thedas isn't a safe place for any kind of elf, much less a magical one.

Though he has never been Harrowed, he has spent enough time in the Fade to know all about the supposedly secretive initiation. How awful it was for the mages, how it tested not their magical mettle, but rather their ability to wilfully block things out, how the demons--sometimes purposefully twisted spirits--were more bitter and awful than normal, often being trapped and bound within towers by humans to serve as a ritualistic punching bag. Solas understands enough of the context to know what she might mean. He shifts his weight, from one foot to the other, tilting his head slightly and regarding her hand and the magic contained within, more than he is her. For several seconds his eyebrows are drawn in concentration--he is considering, does the mark mean she will have to become overly proficient in combat? Likely a yes. He might have to instruct her, if it comes to that.

Then, remembering himself, and processing what exactly she's said, he looks her in the eye. His expression shifts to one of polite concern, with a touch of care for her personal well-being. 'Well, now you have fought them, and survived. Next time it will be easier. You will find that one fight with them will prepare you for any others you might possibly have. Such is their limited nature.'

Shaking his head, he gestures to her hand with a flick of two fingers. 'That isn't exacerbating your fatigue, is it? I can't imagine it makes fighting any easier. If Inquisition's officials are pushing you too hard, let me know. They may heed my recommendations to not overtax you.'

Solas stared at her with an intensity that was uncommon, at least in Evelyn's experiences prior to this whole Breach debacle. Cassandra's stare had shared a vein with this one, but Solas was a bit harder to read (this might've been due to the fact that he wasn't brandishing a sword at her, but it was hard to say for certain). He shifted and his gaze drifted for a few contemplative seconds to her hand before he looked back up and spoke. Of all the emotions she expected from people around here, gentle concern for her well-being seemed extremely out of place...though, she supposed, so was Solas.

Despite her nerves and the strain of everything that had happened, she found herself calming a bit in his presence. And, really, she shouldn't feel too terribly uncomfortable around him--he was a mage, after all, in a vaguely similar predicament as she. Speaking to him should have been no different than speaking to anyone at the Circle, right?

"This?" Evelyn repeated and lifted her hand. The mark glimmered in the gash that crossed her palm, but the light was dull and, well, it felt more distant than she'd have expected it to. It was no longer guttering and spitting green light or pain--but did it still bother her?

"You know I am honestly uncertain if it is exacerbating anything; it seems a far cry better than it was, but I've not had it long enough to know if there are any lingering effects," she answered in a way she felt was rather unhelpful but, at the very least, it was honest. She looked back up at him and her smile was more genuine and less nervous.

"Do you fight demons often? It sounds as though you know quite a lot about them?" He had been a deft hand as they climbed the mountain, his spells quick and his evasions quicker.

He wasn't nearly as brash at their resident Seeker, surely. He also thinks he's not as short-tempered or ill-informed, but these are more private thoughts, things which he often thinks to himself, and has only let through in more thoughtful and meaningful ways than an errant irritated observation. To both human women, he is most of the time mild and pleasant.

Such as now, as he notes some of the tension leaving Evelyn's taut, over-wrought nerves. Such easily tells--he figures she would be hard-pressed to ever successfully deceive someone. Unless something drastic and devastating were to happen. Tucking away the observation for now, he nods at her hand to confirm that, yes, that was the very mark he meant.

'Then you have all the more reason to be careful, until we can establish what is relatively normal, and what is not.'

Her two questions take him a bit by surprise in a pleasing sort of way. She's sharp enough to make inferences, and quick enough to actually ask about them. Perhaps he should not be impressed so easily, but he levels her with a smile--an amused twinge to his generous lips--and he answers her. 'You do not need to fight them often to learn a lot about them, Herald. They almost always behave in a predictable way. They are driven by base desires and instincts, so there is not much of what they can do that isn't out of the mundane.'

"Predictable? I suppose they must be; it seemed like you were countering them while the rest of us were still regaining our footing," Evelyn praised and, admittedly, felt a twinge bad about the lie. Solas had been the quickest but the others had rallied very fast. Only she had been stumbling when they began real combat.

"But it is good to think I will get better at this..." She paused and considered Solas for a moment. He called her Herald but she hadn't gotten the sense he held any religious reverence for her--she hoped he didn't, else this might become very awkward. "I know it is hardly a surprise but I dislike fighting."

She gestured gingerly to, well, all of her. She was slight of frame, pale, wide-eyed, and while she held herself with poise and grace those were simply the remnants of a noble upbringing.

"Even fighting demons is--I know we must, but killing is always a dreadful waste and fighting only ever results in killing it seems."

Prideful and self-absorbed as he may be, he doesn't particularly care for praise he doesn't think is merited, especially when it is something like this. Common sense is what he'd call it--even if fighting demons isn't something common in this Age. Shaking his head, he also gestures dismissively with his hand. This isn't about modesty, so he isn't demurring, and his tone remains the same. Friendly and polite with just enough concern. 'You'll become familiar with them, too. Sooner rather than later unfortunately. But, until then, I don't mind sharing what experience has taught me.'

In truth, he actually does find it surprising that not all humans are brutish, bloodthirsty thugs. It's nothing personal--it's just the most people are, whether they be elf, human, or something else. Even his own people had been ruled--willingly and gratefully--by malice and malevolence and brutal violence. And even when there was no ill-intent behind their actions, the exaggerated drama with which they conducted themselves often led to grand acts that caused some sort of havoc.

He considers her for a moment. A woman who prefers peace. It does not escape his attention what implications her words about fighting demons have. 'Demons and spirits never truly die. I don't know what you've been taught exactly, but a part of both of them remain in the Fade. And they will eventually reform. ...That said, I do agree. It is possible to avoid fights with them if you are patient and clever. If they realise that you cannot give them what they seek, they often times choose to move on. They do not possess the intelligence to convince us with a good argument, or a compelling crafted point. They just appeal to base desires. However, when they are pulled here dozens at a time, there's not much you can do but defeat them. Stopping them before they can cause even more chaos and harm is certainly the better choice.'

Evelyn felt conflicted for a moment; there was something both heartening and terrible about the fact that she couldn't really ever kill a demon. It put the quieter, softer side of her at ease but it planted a seed of doubt that she disliked very much. Still, it was comforting that Solas agreed with her. Her next question was blurted out without hesitation, borne of a curious mind and little tact.

"Are you Andrastian? Oddly I'm having trouble telling." Evelyn asked, a hint of a laugh in her voice. He advocated for resisting demons and driving them back, but agreed that violence was a waste. If he was, he was very pragmatic, if he wasn't, well, it would be nice to have a confirmation of that.

"That is to say--if you wouldn't mind teaching me what you know, I would appreciate it. I did not learn much besides 'resist temptation' and that's not overly helpful when the sky is rent and all the demons are here." She said plainly and appended it after a moment with: "I should not like to be more of a burden than I must."

Not that he actually thinks it, but it is better for him to be assumed Andrastian, than a pretender thrall to the Evanurius, for several reasons. His reaction is far less emotional and adamant--he actually laughs, is actually amused, at the label. It's almost whimsical how quickly assumptions are made and one of a handful of labels are brought to bear by humans; it's not surprising to him either, and, at least in this case, not as dangerous as it could be. His reaction is mild. 'Perhaps I'm an oddity, then. I couldn't be Andrastian by the criteria the Chantry or your peers have set for that term. Having seen what I have in the Fade alone disqualifies me, no doubt.'

With a measure of mirth still in his features, he tilts his head slightly to the left, and shifts the scroll in his hands. The information contained within it alone would be enough to have him shamed as a heretic if the world weren't in danger of falling apart. Maybe some mages might be interested in it, but, what would it actually be to them? Interesting speculation? They wouldn't know what to do with the truth. Once again, he is reminded of how sick this world is, and how badly he has damaged everything.

'Of course. No doubt the resistance you learnt isn't actually sufficient for what you may encounter. You have been taught out of fear, not out of understanding. It is a shame such a difference strikes some as subtle, rather than common sense.'

A little bit too bitter there? He doesn't actually care; it's the truth and he may be deceptive, but he's not set out to lie. 'In any case, are you feeling better, Herald? After I deliver this I could take a look at you if you'd like, and see if there's anything I might be able to do.'

"Better?" Evelyn repeated and after a moment's pause she recalled her own state. His laughter, in the quiet of the Chantry, had been both unexpected and pleasant--she'd almost forgotten what they'd been talking about and had entirely forgotten why he had stopped to speak with her. Evelyn leaned slightly as she glanced down at her ribs but the mild motion still sent a sharp pain up her right side. Her grimace was instant and vaguely apologetic.

"Ah! Well, better is relative I suppose," she said, "if it would not trouble you, once you are done, I would appreciate the help."

She'd gotten quite good at healing spells before the war broke out, but she'd never managed to actually get them off when she used them on herself. It was a silly problem, admittedly, but one that she could eventually right.

"But, please, I have kept you long enough and you had somewhere you were going." Evelyn motioned to the scroll in his hands and shuffled aside to let him pass into the Chantry. She had no idea where he was headed, only that it was likely behind her. "I think I will go find a chair or, failing that, a tallish rock to sit on."

Humans always seem to be in some awful, sad, or painful state. While he's not always keen to help relieve people of the tortuous burdens they are foolishly glad to pick up themselves, he's not happy to watch others suffer. And, as he's made a commitment to both the Inquisition and his own cause, he will be keeping an eye on her. It wouldn't help anyone if she were to perish because of his disastrous miscalculation. Though, given how skittish and inexperienced she seems in the world, he might truly have his work cut out for him if he's going to keep her safe.

As it is, he holds the report up to his chest to gesture with it. He nods his head slightly in a diminutive little bow, echoing her vaguely apologetic tone.

'I'll find you as soon as I am done. It should be a simple thing--I just have to turn this in. Though perhaps you shouldn't be climbing any rocks, regardless of their height.' A bit of a smirk, even though he's aware that his tone is like that of a responsible adult. Which is ironic, considering, but he doesn't often find himself all that amusing.

'The Chantry seems rather empty. I don't we'll disturb anyone if you wait here. Perhaps in the privacy you might pray yourself?' Come to think of it he doesn't actually know her personal thoughts on religious matters. She's a human, so she's probably Andrastian, but that's like saying a sun is a star. He doesn't actually particularly care about them either, so with another nod of his head he turns to go.

He was making fun of her! It was an utterly surprising revelation and one Evelyn took some time to process. It was well meant and friendly ribbing (hah ribbing) and she wasn't sure how to take it. Sure, Varric had given her some friendly guff, but Solas had been very polite and restrained--not that his ribbing was anything but polite or restrained--you know, never mind. It was friendly banter.

Solas left and Evelyn was left to her own devices once again. She preferred being alone, most of the time, and returned to her idle perusing of the colonnade. There were books there, alongside the prayers and candles, and she flipped through the first one she found. It was, unsurprisingly, a religious text and she skimmed it distractedly as she considered Solas's suggestion.

Should she pray?

It felt odd to pray when your main problem was being the Herald of the person you were praying to. Would that seem like complaining? Was it directly questioning the will of the Maker? Probably. But, on the plus side, they probably couldn't burn her for heresy if she did, what with being the Herald and all.

Eventually, her desire to take a seat overrode her politesse and Evelyn moved the books over and perched on the edge of the table. It was a little high for her tastes, and it wasn't entirely polite to sit on a Chantry table, but there was no arguing with fatigue.

In the time he's gone, Solas does do as he says he would. He delivers the report asked of him, this personal request to write down his recommendations for how to approach the problem of permanently sealing the Breach. Although not an official of any kind, his expertise is apparently important and valuable within the organisation. As he meant it to be. Prickly and emotional as she may be, even Cassandra seems to be coming around to him recently. The spymaster still has one eye on him--as she should, he thinks. She has a sharp sense and keen eye for trouble that will do much to help aid the Inquisition.

And, if she and her scouts miss a brief exchange between him and an elf as he passes through a darkened corner of the Chantry, well. It is only to be expected--she is so very young, compared to him. There's just no way she could hope to match his experience. Not when his practise in scheming was with his brethren.

He takes the information given to him and tucks it neatly away. He resumes the same mood and posture he had before. In fact he's vaguely amused at her current location when he finds her, however unsightly it might be. She's not overly fearful of her god, is what he gathers.

"Herald. Thank you for waiting. I think you could have found a more comfortable spot to sit, however." He gestures to the table. "Perhaps we shouldn't stay here quite like this? Do you mind the cold much?"

"No, it hasn't ever bothered me terribly," Evelyn replied and gingerly slid off the table. It was a bit jarring to stand upright after being balanced so, and her back and side had settled once she relaxed her posture, but she limited her hunching to a few moments before she drew herself up.

"There's a quiet garden off to the side of the building, though it's a bit sparse what with it being winter and all," Evelyn suggested and gestured off to the left of the main doors.

"If you want to go for a walk, I'll have to ask you to go slowly."

"It's not the walk I am after. More the privacy--who knows who may pass through here?" Another joke, really. There is a mirth in his eyes, shades gentler than the sardonic set he sometimes takes.

Her request is polite and certainly responsible, and he does notice exactly how much discomfort she is still in. The stiffness of her movements makes him think for a moment. Then, in a manner that's easy, seeming so much less calculated than it actually is, he reaches out and briefly, and gently, touches her shoulder. It is meant as reassurance.

"But, we can go slowly. If I had a place of my own I'd ask you there, but, Haven is quite crowded these days. A hovel is practically an estate in these parts. I would like to see your garden, however. We can talk there." Fresh air would be preferable to having to smell more incense than he actually has to.

"It's not mine, I only borrow it," she joked a bit lamely and motioned toward the side of the building. She debated offering to have Solas back to the cabin they'd housed (or more aptly jailed) her in, but inviting male acquaintances to her chambers was...unusual behavior for her.

"It's right this way," she added and started off toward it. It took a few moments of walking, and a bit of coaxing to get the side-door to open around the snow that had piled before it, but soon they were out in the private gardens of the Chantry.

The garden was small, shielded, and was likely overgrown in the summer. In winter it was a mass of sticks trimmed into the shape of hedges, skeletal and dark but not entirely without beauty. There were beds for flowers and a few stalks of heartier plants still penetrated the crisp snow. To her embarrassment, only her footprints, from earlier that day, marred the snow in the garden. They headed from the far gate, to the bench, and back again.

She made for the bench now, though more gradually than before, so Solas could have some walking before sitting about with her.

"Apparently I am the only one who wanders through here," she announced with a laugh and closed the door behind them. "It's nice for reflection."

Of course, he also benefits from not being the offered the invitation. Not only does he not have to turn it down, he doesn't have to risk raising any additional suspicions about his intentions or purpose if he were to accept. It's best if he conducts the bulk of his business with her in areas that are at least semi-public.

There is enough privacy for the place to appeal to him, however. He's always been more fond of autumn than winter, so the lack of vegetation that isn't dead or dying or dull is somewhat of a lower point, but the lack of too many others around affords a measure of peace beyond precious here in Haven.

He has not actually been here before. As he walks he takes in the sights, such as they are, and takes a few steps towards a snow covered bench. With swipes of his hand and a bit of magic he goes about clearing it off. "Strange, but I suppose everywhere does have its secrets. It makes me wonder what else might be found if we were to look hard enough."

With a pleasant teasing in his tone, he turns towards her once the stone bench is sufficiently cleaned off. He gestures with his hand for her to take a seat upon it. "After all, cultists do to tend have things they'd rather hide away from everyone else," he says, in knowing reference to the sordid, interesting history of this place.

Evelyn had heard some rumors about the temple and the town around it but, largely, only knew what everyone else did. She'd grown up in the Free Marches, far from Ferelden and its Blight, far from this place and its history, and had been locked in a tower for the majority of that time. The public story spoke of a traveling Brother who discovered the temple, through a turn of luck and the aid of the Maker, who then unveiled it to the world.

She takes the seat he has offered, but looks at him with a curious tilt of her head.

"I suppose they do," she agrees, thinking for a moment that he means Andrastians on large. There are quite a lot of secrets kept by the Chantry, she has suffered a number of them in the Circle, but she's not quite sure that's what he means.

"What do you think might be left here?"

Given the intense privacy of the people who used to populate Haven before they crossed paths with the Hero of Ferelden, it isn't surprising that this place wasn't known to her before; in fact, only recently has it been finally put on any maps. On the other hand, this place has a rather fascinatingly esoteric history with cults and odd religious practises, making it sort of intriguing to him. He has certainly had some interesting dreams here whenever he's had the opportunity to lay his head down for several hours at a time.

She knows him as the resident apostate Fade expert, so perhaps he might share some of these with her. He wouldn't mind talking about some of them. "Besides the memories left behind? Well, artefacts. There were too many tunnels left by the cultists to explore so they sealed up some of them.

"Others, which were looked into, contained some interesting things. From what I understand no-one in the Inquisition is able to read entire passages they found written on a wall."

From his tone, it's clear that he has some personal investment in seeing this arcane mystery uncoded. "Would you like to sit down, Herald? I can take a look at you as well."

The idea of tunnels, sealed and unsealed is deeply interesting and she glances at her feet on reflex. It takes her a second to recall that he'd asked her to sit and she does, a bit hurriedly, as if to compensate for her delay.

"Ah, yes, of course," she replies, eyes still drifting downward. "A whole passage? How interesting, do they have a guess what the language is?"

The bench is more comfortable than the table, by far, and Evelyn settles onto it with something near a sigh. The stiffness in her limbs and side are momentarily relieved and she settles her arms in her lap as she does her best not to slouch.

"I wonder if any of the other tunnels have a keystone that could be used to decode it."

Instinctively he reaches out a hand towards her in case she loses her balance. The rushed nature of her movements is both a bit alarming and a bit concerning. He has again the impression that she is extremely brittle, like a thin wisp of carmalised sugar; is it because she is a human, or have the Circle of Magi done this to her? It seems another reason he should be grateful for any protection from the Chantry, as well as a reminder that he needs to be careful.

"The runes are of Alamarri origin. We tried to translate them, but they are written in some sort of cipher. We're going to need additional time and resources to translate them, but I believe we will be able to."

Smiling a touch, he thinks she might find this information interesting. Andraste is known to have been a member of the Alamarri tribes. Surely she'll make the connection. While conducting this conversation, he clears out some more snow and then sits besides her on the side that seemed be giving her the most trouble. Polite as ever, he gestures towards her, obviously waiting for permission to touch her. "It's your ribs mainly, isn't it?"

"Oh the Almarri? That's interesting, but I suppose with all the Avvar about these parts, it shouldn't be too surprising," she says, almost reflexively, as she considers the very idea of the puzzle beneath the ground--but then Solas is sitting and reaching out to her in an idle, reserved way and she has to remember what they were talking about indoors.

It's almost a pity; she is far more fond of pondering puzzles and history than thinking about the Chantry and her own inability to fight, but the former is far less pressing than the latter.

"Yes, I expect I must have bruised them. I don't think anything's broken, I don't imagine one can break a rib and not realize it, but I'm not made of sturdy stuff," she explains and lifts an arm to grant him access to her side. Between her undershirt, her shirt, her jerkin, and her vest, there's hardly anything untoward about this...but all the same she's a bit glad they went somewhere private. There is nothing in this world like the disapproving stare of a Chantry Mother.

"Well, not nearly as sturdy as solid stone, at least."

He'd much rather be indulging his own intellect as well. However, he can deny himself for just a moment; sometimes he's able to get his priorities in proper order.

'An easy enough fix, in that case.' Although the culture he comes from is what it is, and surely even the most priggish of humans or modern elves would admit that direct contact in the service of healing is not prurient at its core, he doesn't actually touch her. There's no need for him to--such is just a small showing of his unknown and untold strength. He keeps his hand near her without open palm or splayed fingers coming into contact with her clothes. Magic seeps out of him, meant to make it beneath her layers and mend whatever can be encouraged mend on its own.

'No, I don't think you would be. You're not built like an Avvar. I've not had the chance to be around one of them for long, but it seems some among them can grow to be rather imposing people. It makes one wonder how some humans can end up getting so big.'

Solas is a terribly skilled healer; he doesn't even need to brush up against her to do fine work and she is in mild awe of him as the pain in her side fades and the tightness that had wracked her muscles eases. She lets out a quiet sigh of relief as her injury mends and seems more easy for it.

"I've met a few, though not many; they are all of them enormous. Almost like Qunari, but with more woad."

It's a pretty basic assessment but she is still too high on her feeling of relief to restrict her speech or feel inadequate.

"Thank you, I feel much better."

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In Haven

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