Post by Sévere Desjardins on Mar 20, 2016 9:04:03 GMT -5
Two weeks after the Exalted Council....
Solas was gone but he would be back. That was evident. Whatever Sévere had thought of the man he would have never expected the truth. The Inquisition was not what it used to be and it was possible it would never be the organisation it had once been. All the more reason for the individual members to become more than they had once been and that needed to start with the Inquisitor himself. Back when they were all still new to this Sévere had assisted Cyrlan with instructions on close quarters combat, they had been sparring mates. Cyrlan was learning to create that magic sword of his and with Cullen dedicated to training the army proper there had been nobody better to teach the Inquisitor to fight. Now he had lost a hand and needed to learn all over again. It was time for that.
It the earliest moments of sunrise, Sévere could still see the sun cresting over the mountains. The air was cold got deep into his lungs when he took a sharp inhale from behind his red plate helm. He wore his usual armour and he carried his usual greataxe. The enemy would give the Inquisitor no respite and no mercy for being a cripple. Sévere would be the same. There would be bruises, cuts, maybe worst here and there but every bump and graze suffered in the lower yard of Skyhold would be a lesson learned that might be the difference between a parry made and a parry failed out in the field. A runner had been sent to fetch Cyrlan Lavellan.
Blue eyes ran over his surroundings, the stalls were gone though the stables where the man once known as Blackwall had made his little quarters were still standing. Today only the horses would witness their sparring. Sévere had dispatched most of the morning guard to gathering elf root, the stores were running low. Only a skeleton group remained for basic patrol.
Sometimes the place felt like an empty shell of its former glory. Blast them all to hell. No matter, the Maker was giving them a trial and they would persevere. They needed to adapt, some more than others. The sound of feet on steps announced the arrival of Cyrlan, twisting on the spot Breaker Sévere Desjardins turned to watch his arrival. Blue eyes behind that un-moving mask. It occured to him he could not recall if his old friend had ever seen his face. Orlesians found it poor form to reveal the face, so very gaudy. "I hope you have had a hearty breakfast Inquisitor, this will be a rough day." the thick Western Orlesian accent called across the yard as Sévere propped his axe over one shoulder.
Solas was gone but he would be back. That was evident. Whatever Sévere had thought of the man he would have never expected the truth. The Inquisition was not what it used to be and it was possible it would never be the organisation it had once been. All the more reason for the individual members to become more than they had once been and that needed to start with the Inquisitor himself. Back when they were all still new to this Sévere had assisted Cyrlan with instructions on close quarters combat, they had been sparring mates. Cyrlan was learning to create that magic sword of his and with Cullen dedicated to training the army proper there had been nobody better to teach the Inquisitor to fight. Now he had lost a hand and needed to learn all over again. It was time for that.
It the earliest moments of sunrise, Sévere could still see the sun cresting over the mountains. The air was cold got deep into his lungs when he took a sharp inhale from behind his red plate helm. He wore his usual armour and he carried his usual greataxe. The enemy would give the Inquisitor no respite and no mercy for being a cripple. Sévere would be the same. There would be bruises, cuts, maybe worst here and there but every bump and graze suffered in the lower yard of Skyhold would be a lesson learned that might be the difference between a parry made and a parry failed out in the field. A runner had been sent to fetch Cyrlan Lavellan.
Blue eyes ran over his surroundings, the stalls were gone though the stables where the man once known as Blackwall had made his little quarters were still standing. Today only the horses would witness their sparring. Sévere had dispatched most of the morning guard to gathering elf root, the stores were running low. Only a skeleton group remained for basic patrol.
Sometimes the place felt like an empty shell of its former glory. Blast them all to hell. No matter, the Maker was giving them a trial and they would persevere. They needed to adapt, some more than others. The sound of feet on steps announced the arrival of Cyrlan, twisting on the spot Breaker Sévere Desjardins turned to watch his arrival. Blue eyes behind that un-moving mask. It occured to him he could not recall if his old friend had ever seen his face. Orlesians found it poor form to reveal the face, so very gaudy. "I hope you have had a hearty breakfast Inquisitor, this will be a rough day." the thick Western Orlesian accent called across the yard as Sévere propped his axe over one shoulder.
