Without Warning

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for Varalas Mahariel ; when in doubt, describe a ton of shit[break][break]
A regular day, complete with the Frostback Mountain's special winter edition of frigid weather and dreary grey skies, found Cyrlan holed up within the throne room. It was not his regular hiding spot, that was the library, but the elf had managed to carve out a spot on the throne nonetheless. It had been a place of judgements, of decisions made in rare solemnity (save for the time he put a box on trial), but now it was simply a chair that was all too big, with the fur of some long-dead creature placed over it for miscellaneous purposes. Possibly to warm the seat of whoever sat here, considering the terrible weather that Ferelden saw day in day out. Regardless of reason, it was greatly appreciated by its current user, who was dwarfed by the throne he sat in, legs hooked over one armrest and book resting casually on his knees.[break][break]

Sheltered from the cold, he donned gear that was indisputably dalish in origin, from the dark legwraps and noticeable absence of boots, to the muted green of dyed leather and the swathes of skin visible that sacrificed protection for comfort and agility. Most prominently, the prosthetic lay unattached on a nearby table, steel glinting after a good polish. What remained of the elf's left arm stretched comfortably behind his head, ending in a smooth metal cap that marked the end of ragged scar tissue. A pair of books bearing dog-eared yellow pages, scraps of notes sticking out offering tidbits of knowledge, laid on the ground at the foot of the throne to be read later. Atop, several reports that required addressing, but everyone knew that he wouldn't touch them until long after the sun has set and he struggled to find sleep. Save for the researchers milling about the library and the curious mage children attending their lessons there (a downside of offering them such an education away from the circle), the main tower of Skyhold was blissfully quiet. [break][break]

A peaceful silence reigned, the type of silence that comprised of flipping pages and the wind howling in the distance that is, only broken by a small commotion outside. Of course, he paid it little attention, instead musing on one magical theory after another, gesturing and drawing in thin air to better his understanding. Granted, it was a fairly interesting piece of work, but part of the indifference stemmed from the fact that he really couldn't be bothered if some kid had set the kitchen on fire again, or accidentally frozen one of those puddles that seemed to escape his best efforts to clean up the courtyard. A pattering of small feet announced the arrival of a diminutive visitor, Da'sa the fennec scampering down the corridor to duck behind the throne, effectively rendering itself invisible. Cyrlan greeted it by extending a leg to pat the animal carelessly, eyes not quite lifting from the neat rows of text.[break][break]

Not until a voice cut across the hall, carrying strong and loud over an empty stretch of dark carpet to startle the mage out of his reverie. His response was an undignified scramble to right his position, a hasty straightening of his spine as he stifled a noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeak. A foot brushed against the pile of books and only now did he glance down briefly, as though he had only noticed it now. "Warden-Commander Mahariel," he greeted in like, grinning broadly but not without a note of confusion, welcoming someone who he had only conversed with in letters sent across great distances. "You know, that might actually explain why so many of them spit at me. It's terribly comfortable, though." The elf patted the ornamented hound heads that adorned the throne fondly (dog-lords, they often called fereldens, but it wasn't as if the ferelden people tried to hide it). [break][break]

"I, ah, this is quite unexpected. You might have given some of them quite the shock." This time, he laughed lightly, amused by the notion if nothing else. A guard poked their head around the door but Cyrlan waved them away casually. Only now did he untangle himself from the rug he had draped across himself as a blanket, meeting the cold rather reluctantly, punctuating his words with vague gestures. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

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for Varalas Mahariel ; the nerd is cold lmao[break][break]
"Boredom," he echoed disbelievingly. "I would hardly think action is of any shortage in your life." Still, the elf's grin was warm, albeit of the characteristic lopsided variety, no less pleased at the surprise visit of an unexpected friend. "I can try to keep it a secret as long as possible," he continued, pausing only to pull a disgusted face and issue a one-worded complaint. "Politics." Almost as if on command, a shadow flitted past on the upper gallery; no doubt a watchful scout scampering off to inform the spymaster of his wishes. It was no surprise, in all honesty, to have his every movement (or close to it) observed by some vigilant agent or another. On occasion, he still slipped past their guard, but for the most part he could hardly be bothered to. Now, however, it seemed that they were alone once more. It was a relative term at best.[break][break]

Following the warden's lead, Cyrlan perched on a seat, legs crossed and eyes regarding the other with open curiosity. Seldom were long treks across harsh terrain made out of mere boredom, and somehow, he doubted that this visit differed too much. He trusted Varalas, that much was evident, but surely there were better things to do than climb all the way up the ridiculously steep slopes of the Frostback Mountains just to offer a friendly greeting to a familiar correspondent. But until the other revealed his true intentions, whatever those may be, Cyrlan could do naught but make idle conversation. Not that he minded, of course, it was a pleasant change from holing up behind tomes upon tomes of research (some considerably more absurd than others). [break][break]

"Skyhold is more than used to a few odd animals running around, I should think. What's the worst that could happen?" The hypothetical question was posed with the type of optimism one would scarcely expect from the Inquisitor, accentuated by a carefree shrug of the shoulders. "I expect they will come to terms with the wardens sooner or later. Short of offering each of them sweet treats and flowers, I'm not sure what would help." Perhaps gifts would throw them off even more, he reflected. A hand waved away the idea even as he spoke, tone softening ever so slightly. "Don't worry about it."[break][break]

When the other started to speak on the significance of armor, Cyrlan took a moment to look down at what he wore. Within the stone grey walls of Skyhold, it mattered little - he could run around in hideous beige pajamas, or even try on a warrior's polished heavy plate and stomp about, and no one would bat an eye. There would be the chuckles and good natured sighs of residents too accustomed to their peculiar hero, but there would be nothing particularly important, no cries of outrage from kings and queens of ill representation and improper conduct. All sorts of words that fell on deaf ears. Still, he was no a stranger to such practice, and as tedious as it seemed, it was necessary. Cyrlan offered a sympathetic smile. "If it helps, you won't have to worry about political repercussions within these walls." Another sweeping gesture around followed his words. "No visiting dignitaries for a while, as far as I know."[break][break]

With the fact that there was no strictly political agenda for today (from what he had gathered, at least), the elf relaxed somewhat. "I still hate the cold," he grumbled, splaying the fingers of his hand out before him. The faintest shimmer of magic coalesced over them in a sheen of orange sparks before dissolving as the mage used his magic to warm himself, scooting a little closer to a nearby brazier as he did so. "There's this old enchantment, I think, around the fortress. It keeps the worst of the weather out, but does frightfully little for the cold." He was one of the few who complained regularly about the weather. The others, Fereldens who seemed to radiate their own body heat, simply went about their everyday business as though nothing was in danger of freezing off - which in his opinion, definitely was - and deemed him "oddly fragile for someone who saved the world once". To which Cyrlan would vehemently disagree: he was not fragile, simply not terribly fond of cold.[break][break]

Or so he tried to convince himself as he drew his knees up to his chin and inched closer to the brazier even more.[break][break]

"I assume that you'd prefer somewhere more private than a giant main hall?" The words were all but muttered, low enough to carry to the other but not beyond. He recalled that there had been mentions of something to be discussed in previous letters, with the type of connotation that prevented him from blurting it out to just about anyone. If he was mistaken, if on the slimmest chance this visit really was just for fun, then so be it, but he had a feeling that it was not.

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for Varalas Mahariel ; food solves everything apparently[break][break]
"We do have a Lady Cousland currently seeking refuge here, so not quite visiting but still," he corrected himself as an afterthought, "though her agenda is far from political." The woman and her children were fleeing from assassins - he could not possibly turn a blind eye to children facing such a fate. Their presence had been accept with as little fanfare as possible, wanting to avoid the search of persistent hunters. No troubles had surfaced thus far, and he doubted that any would arise after this. He offered an apologetic shrug and was quick to reassure. "She's not going to tell on you."[break][break]

The elf's eyes lit up excitedly at the mention of food and he fidgeted in his seat. "Harts are generally smoother and more comfortable rides across long distances, I think." Cyrlan clasped his hands together in a brief moment of thought. His journeys often took him across all manner of terrain, and despite a smaller horse having the benefit of maneuvering dense forests (harts were so often limited by their broad rack of antlers; impressive but prone to obstructing paths), the deer-like creatures had a ground-eating pace that, when combined with an uncanny ability to pick the smoothest paths, made travelling a whole lot easier. "Also," he continued, this time almost petulantly. "I had assumed that I would be spending the time in the library, not chased out to this." Cyrlan jabbed a finger accusingly at the empty throne. Without its regular occupant, it looked forlorn and empty, a sole object on a pedestal, warmed only by two lamps which have off a pitiful amount of heat.[break][break]

"But yes, food! I have just the thing." A cheery grin curled his lips, the vallaslin crinkling ever so slightly. "Just wait here." Within a few moments, the elf whisked out of the throne room with a little shadow at his heels - Da'sa the fennec had come out of its hiding spot behind the throne, it seemed - to make a beeline for the kitchens. Possibly one of his favourite places in Skyhold, in fact. Before long he had returned, singlehandedly carrying a tray before him with all the pride of a child showing off their most recent drawing. Arranged in neat rows (or as neatly as one could on short notice) were several tiny cakes, completely with frilly designs and a promise of overwhelming sweetness. On the side, more treats that were prepared in a decidedly dalish fashion. Cyrlan placed the tray down and hovered uncertainly for a moment. "If you want an actual meal, instead of these, I could run back down and get one - any particular preferences?" He waited long enough for the other to select something before choosing one of the tiny cakes himself, chewing contentedly. The cold seemed to be forgotten, at least for now.

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for Varalas Mahariel ; rip post quality im so sorry[break][break]
Cyrlan's liking of sweet treats was a thinly veiled secret, or perhaps, not one at all among the residents of Skyhold. He constantly dropped by the kitchen to sneak away such treats, a routine cultivated over the course of many months, years even. An odd delay would send some worried fellow scurrying up to whatever corner the elf had holed himself up into, most commonly his quarters, with a dessert of sorts. Not that it was ever confined to after mealtimes, not when those were irregular and at odd hours. He did not go out quite as often as before, but his work never ceased - if not with the small assortment of troops that the Inquisition kept, then in a warm room surrounded by a pile of books. On occasion, conversing with visitors should they prove friendly. Ones who were less so were carefully kept at arms length through countless lessons of the past, or pushed towards one advisor or the other in hopes of staving off the possibility of him saying something wrong (something that happened quite often, truth be told).[break][break]

"College enchanters," he mumbled through a mouthful of cake, making a short trip back to the throne to grab the rug, tugging it over his shoulders before returning to his seat on the bench. "If I remember correctly, they wanted a space to train some children, and borrow a few texts as well. Something about a spell gone wrong in a courtyard so they don't really have much space at the moment." Cyrlan tapped his chin lightly, thinking. "They didn't want to have to rely on the Circle, as far as I can tell." It was a common occurrence, these circular arguments. As of now, he still played the passive mediator, straying on the edge of anything resembling importance but keeping his distance still. Or trying to, at least. Somewhere in the distance, a child shrieked with laughter, followed by an adult's voice quick to chide. The only indication Cyrlan gave of this sound, alien as it seemed in a room of cold grey and solemn statues, was a subtle twitch of the ears and a quiet, answering huff of laughter disguised as a cough. "Chances are they'll make better use of all this better than I do, anyway."

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