humdrum [ ashyla ]

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]"I like myself," he countered lightly, shifting his position to rest weight on one leg. "Doesn't that count for something?" Smiles were a rare occurrence for the Dalish huntress-turned-scout, their appearances brief and far apart. It was in stark contrast to the Inquisitor himself, often known to laugh readily and easily. What was the phrase? The kind lives to become that embarrassing former hero everyone has to put up with. The part about being 'embarrassing' was believable, though recent events often hinted that his part to play was not quite over.

"Besides, I'm not just showing off, I'm letting them get a feel of me," a pause, "that came out wrong. You know what I mean, anyway." A strangled cough that could have been a laugh, a momentary splutter and a dismissive wave of the hand cleared up the moment. "Hey, I'm not teaching purely combat magic! They just need to be more comfortable in their own skin." The elf tugged at a stray lock of hair, frustration welling up for just a moment before it faded. "Some of them fear even starting a campfire. I have to help them with that before everyone freezes their arses off."

The conversation took a turn for the more sombre as Ashyla went on to name a certain event that marked yet another milestone in the Inquisition's history, and his own. The grin faded to a little more than a memory playing about on his lips, the faintest ghost of an ache at his elbow. His free hand drifted to rest on the band which marked the separation of flesh from wood and steel, an unconscious movement that would not have escaped a keen eye. "We should change our name. The Inquisition - cleaning up after Tevinter one mess at a time." As quickly as that, the grin was back as if it had hardly disappeared at all. "Has quite the ring to it, right?"

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]A nonchalant shrug met her words, though it didn't take a genius to figure out that such an issue was anything but light to Cyrlan. Being both mage and elf helped little in securing the trust of the people, an uphill struggle if there ever was one. Neither did siding with the mages all those years ago help in bettering the Chantry's or Templar's opinions of him. Those that weren't already frothing at the mouth, that is. "And what they fear, they destroy." Yet again, a light tone belied the weight of his words, but his smile was now mirthless, baring his teeth in something more akin to a grimace.

"Alas, it is hardly their fault!" A theatrical sweep of the hand seemed to help him regain whatever composure he had lost, and now he gestured towards a few conveniently placed crates (exactly for such a purpose, he presumed), an invitation for the other to take a seat. "Cassandra's doing her best right now, so we can only hope that newer mages are less hesitant in using their powers." It was a given that the Veil thinned in places where mages used magic, but the littlest fire to warm a campsite was hardly going to cause demons to pour from every orifice in the earth. Unless one chose a particularly bad camping spot, but that was sheer stupidity in itself and mages could scarcely be blamed for that. For the most part, all that frequented the Veil-thin places were harmless wisps, more curious about this strange material world than anything else.

Regardless of whether Ashyla took him up on the offer to take a seat, Cyrlan moved to perch on a stray bale of straw, possibly intended for the stables (he would check later) but for now, it served as good a bench as any. It was oddly serene, almost surreal, this peaceful and idle chatter between clanmates. If he pretended that the buildings were not there, that the walls were invisible and the wilderness simply stretched on and on, he could almost imagine the blissful familiarity of a Dalish encampment. But it was a stretch of the imagination, and he finally reconciled to simply extending his legs out before him and leaning back to regard the huntress.

"Have they been slacking in their efforts to bring chaos down upon all of Thedas? Creators forbid," he chuckled, eyes glancing over the canine companion with vague interest. Why did everyone have some pet of sort? Cullen had his mabari, Ashyla had the wolf Emma, and he, for all his being the high and mighty Inquisitor, had an ornery hart who he was half convinced hated him anyway. The other half being a mild tolerance. "When the world's about to end, people like parties. The crew gets together, Bull brings a ton of alcohol, everyone gets drunk and goes to save the world." In an ideal situation, perhaps. Clearly, he was leaving out the parts of death and destruction and ever-present betrayal. A long sigh escaped the elf before he pressed his lips into a thin line, recalling the array of letters they had sent (or not sent) recently. "I think so? Going around wreaking havoc, probably. Varric's still got his hands full with Kirkwall, or so I've heard. Dorian's busy dodging assassins, Cole is just doing his thing wherever he is." A pause as nostalgia softened his expression. "I kind of miss them."

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]"Ew, politics." The elf's dislike of such was clear, though perhaps ironic coming from someone who had helped to determine the rulers of Orlais at one point, and dabbled in the comings and goings of many other families. Those matters, after all, could only be called political, that he did not deny. He never claimed to have any fondness for all such business, that was best left for those more skilled in the art of diplomacy. Alas, the Inquisitor's ambassador had returned to her homeland, but their meddlings in politics had died down simultaneously. He was glad for the latter, less so for the former. The comment about the Chantry was met only with a thoughtful hum - as fond as he might be of the inner circle itself, the Chantry had never been quite high on his list. As both a Dalish elf and a mage, he found little reason to spare it any love.

He drew one knee up to chin-level, promptly resting his head there, giving up any pretense of formality in favour of comfort. Dark green eyes drifted to the wolf again, then to its owner. "They have that effect on people," he mused quietly, content to simply reminisce the better moments of the past. Then his gaze sharpened, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin almost playful. "I wouldn't be surprised if the recent turn of events means that we get to come together again." It would certainly be nice, everyone meeting up again to commence their wonderfully paradoxical duty of killing to bring about peace. Alas, the nature of such events prompted the return of wars fought with words, hidden daggers in the night and plenty of sneaking about. All sorts of stuff that the elf was bad at.

"Look at what you've done," he declared suddenly, transitioning suddenly to a mocking pout. "Made me miss everyone, and here I was thinking I was quite over it." A chuckle bubbled up, quickly destroying the effect, yet there was some truth to his words. The parting of ways was inevitable, that much he knew - such was the way of life, this constant coming and going. Yet few familiar faces remained, two of three his advisors, a smattering of scouts he knew best, another handful of people here and there. Most had left to carve out their own paths, newcomers were aplenty. It was in moments like this where he was acutely aware of how much he treasured his closer friends, and how desperately he simply wanted to abandon his post and join them in whatever adventures they were having. But here he was, tied down by the chains of duty itself. He would have to wait for the opportunity to present itself, then.

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]Alive, huh. A status attained and stubbornly clung to by staring death in the face, screaming loudly (optional, really, but it seemed to be the norm) and proceeding with whatever plan of action spun off the top of his head. For the most part, he could scrape through, with relatively little losses. Miracles after miracles, in all honesty. Guilt often followed soon after, if not for the 'what ifs' and 'could have beens' then for the worry he caused his companions. For most, it was thinly veiled, a gesture he was not quite sure of how he ought to react. Not that he didn't appreciate it, of course.

"Hopefully, one more war won't kill me. I mean, it doesn't look like I need to reclaim any lost land or anything at the moment." A baring of teeth that could only be described as confident. It was expected of the Inquisitor, of someone who had defeated a magister-turned-would-be-god, of someone who had ventured into the Deep Roads without the immunity of a warden and returned alive, of someone who had slain an actual Avvar god. Supposedly bearing a prowess unmatched in battle, if the songs and tales were to be believed, though Cyrlan knew it to be highly exaggerated - the only thing he was good at, it seemed, was crawling his out from between a rock and a hard place. Even then, it was not as if he could escape without a scratch.

He held the gaze steadily, tried for a smile and failed, mouth twisting downwards to press into a thin line, a rare display of solemnity. "I'll try not to die." The light tilted at just the right angle, for a moment lending him the ethereal grace that humans seemed to constantly expect of elves. A brief intake of breath, then when he spoke again amusement once more coloured his tone. "Worry about yourself too, okay? I'd hate it for my favourite ranger to meet her end after living through all of that."

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]"Yes, yes, but the world is full of idiots and those willing to kill are of no small number," he chided gently, ever the protective elder of the two (or at least attempted to be, perhaps). It would be accurate to call them equally ready to rain judgement upon whoever decided to mess with either of the two, but as of late, it only seemed that the blond elf was straying down a path of his own, one fraught with danger in every corner, and this time, with no one to guard his back. Less obvious, with the sky sealed and the only war that raged on being far to the north - though it threatened to encroach on southern Thedas with little subtlety in the near future - his battles were nowhere as extravagant as before. Dabbling (no matter how reluctant) in magics too ancient, too beyond his understanding, had left its mark on him in more ways than one.

The elf made as if to imitate the sulky pout of a child denied their favourite toy. "Fine, I promise." Yet even then it felt empty, for both knew all too well that there was no shortage of willingness to throw himself in harm's way if it meant saving another. It was a trait proven time and time again, with great hesitance at first, then as one event led to another such a reaction proved to be almost instinctual, habitual. It was not necessarily a good one. But life-threatening situations were not a stranger to either of them, or to any who had joined the Inquisition prior to Corypheus' defeat, for when the sky split open and demons crawled the earth, who was to say the next day would come?

Even then, dawn after dawn, the sun rose as per usual, they survived and they grew. For Cyrlan, it was a matter of living up to expectations, or when he could, surpassing them. Some still reckoned he was a Herald of their human goddess, though the truth, and his own vehement disagreements, begged to differ. Alas, people believed what they wanted to. And eventually, they came to accept him as a leader.

A herald, unless of the impending doom that always followed close by, not so much. A leader, that, he could try.

Tilting his head, his ears pricked forward to catch the murmured words. He knew an answer, though perhaps not what she would do but should do: deliver the news to the advisors, take no more than a moment for grief, and continue in her work. The Inquisition had grown to be a body far bigger than his own, fueled by the people's ideas, their sweat and blood. Perhaps they would stumble, meander a little, but there was no great enemy to defeat, no absolutely pressing need to gather up armies and march to war, with being a simple peacekeeping force. The Commander would likely take charge, as Cyrlan himself would have recommended (a twinge of pity for someone who had worked so long, so hard, he did so want the man to take a break and relax lest he run himself into the ground), their infamous Nightingale and her little birds would keep over-ambitious knives at bay. They would continue, without him. At least, he hoped.

It was, in itself, both comforting and unsettling. He swiftly pushed the thoughts aside, no doubt they would wander back when night fell and he found himself alone once more, but for now he did not want to even entertain such thoughts. "Don't ask anyone to resurrect me or anything, that'd be plain inconvenient," he joked weakly. A brisk shake of the head to recollect his thoughts, then he faced the other with a lopsided grin once more. "I don't suppose you're busy after this, are you? I recall Dennet complaining about the horses being restless."

But the future is forgiven, so smile

[attr="class","wildlyrics"]We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun

[attr="class","wildpost"]"Ah, so that's where you were hiding out." He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, eyes momentarily wandering in the direction of the stables. "I'll see what I can do about that. Can't have them all panicking in their stables, after all." Diya and Piren, the Inquisitor's own two mounts, had little problems with each other, though the former was considerably more skittish around unfamiliar creatures. Dracolisks, for example. The odd hybrids were all too spirited for the elf, and though they seemed to tolerate his presence, there was never quite the same connection as there was with his hart or horse. While they did not imprint on people as the mabari warhounds did, they were not as accommodating as the common equine either. Needless to say, Skyhold housed few of these creatures. What he could do about them was another issue altogether, though he supposed that with the many vacancies created by the downsized organisation, finding a separate space for the creatures would not be very difficult. Now the only thing left to do is find someone who would humor such a suggestion.

Distracted from his quiet musings by another question, Cyrlan only offered a startled blink in response before he collected his thoughts. "Nothing concrete that we know of, that's for sure." He released his breath in a loud exhale, something passing for a frustrated sigh. "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he really is involved. But if we are to simply view this as tensions between Tevinter and the Qunari finally reaching a climax, then he's not playing any big role right now." Of course, that was no telling whether their ex-comrade was busy orchestrating his own plans under the cover of such chaos. The Inquisition, or more accurately the inner circle of members (a term redefined time and time again), knew all to well that his reach was wide. They simply did not know exactly who fell into the wolf's grasps, reports had been vague at best, as if trying to hold sand through splayed fingers. "Things have been ... inconclusive, as of late." The exasperation in his voice was all too evident, though not misplaced. It had certainly been vexing, and after so long, many were starting to see it as futile and beginning to think that their leader was finally veering off the track.