howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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He could not say how long he spent in the Arbor Wilds. Nor could he say how long he spent away from their forward camp, fighting his way through to the gates of the temple. Days, certainly. At least two. Perhaps three. Bolting down potions, to lessen the effect the red templars had on him and to help him stay awake. The potions didn't provide for witnessing the sight of a few of his ruined brothers and sisters, hearing the sound of more of them hissing his name, before Cullen and his men cut them down.

A few bad gashes, here and there. (More scars for the collection.) His right side feels like one giant bruise. It was not clear why Corypheus quit the field until Leliana's agents made it in, and found Samson, and discovered the empty well. And the shattered eluvian.

Cullen was already swatting away healers -- too many of his soldiers were worse off, and he was beyond not in the mood for magic -- when word came: Charter had concluded that the Inquisitor's party, likely in the company of Morrigan, went through the eluvian. Probably back to Skyhold.

Cullen, in Leliana's company, was examining the remnants of the bodies of the Grey Wardens when confirmation of Charter's theory arrived.

Less than an hour later, bruises and all, Cullen was on a horse headed north to the next available station to swap out his mount and keep riding. Corypheus fled the field; there's no reason he wouldn't go after Skyhold; and even if he didn't Cullen needs to know what happened --

Shadows are long, and the mountains reflecting blue and gold light, when the horn sounds and Cullen rides through the sally port. A stablehand is there, to lead the horse to Master Dennet. He's not sure how his legs are holding him up, but he's not going to stop to find out. The war room, first, and then if the Inquisitor isn't there --

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"My point exactly." He gestures to Cullen with the roll. "I'd leave for breakfast and return five days later, covered in mud and scratches, possibly having fallen into a bramble bush somewhere along the line, but by the Maker I will have eaten my breakfast."

Beat.

"Five days ago, so I'll immediately have to turn around and go foraging again."

Cullen looks at the rope in his hand.

"You could just forage right here." He tosses it on top of the barrel where he was sitting. "Find something useful and you might even avoid the mud and scratches."

"What, are there more rolls in there?"

He stuffs the rest of the sausage roll in his mouth and leans to get a better look.

"Given how long this has been down here, even if there were, I wouldn't recommend trying them."

Mournful: "You're probably right."

Settling back, he peeks into the kettle. The tea's a deep, rich brown; aromatic steam wafts up into the cold room. "Tea's ready. Come have some."

Cullen tosses the rope into the middle of the room, and follows it with a fresh-looking tarpaulin.

Wandering over to the tea, he stretches, with a slight sigh. "You're in charge of defending us to the Inquisitor if we get caught doing something more strenuous than reading."

"Of course," says Alistair. He fills the teacups, pushing one of them closer to Cullen. "I'm thinking something like -- "

Affecting a look of total horror, he points to the corner of the room.

"Maker's breath, is that a dragon? And is it carrying a whole cadre of slightly smaller dragons on its back?!"

"...that would do it," Cullen says, thoughtful, and picks up one of the teacups. "A solid strategy. If nothing else, she'll pause to express concern about your well-being, which would give me time to hide."

A grin. "Dragons," he intones, solemnly. "I'm seeing dragons everywhere. Terrible affliction, she's right to be concerned. Meanwhile you can stay in the corner with the tarp draped over yourself. She wouldn't suspect a thing."

He shakes his head, takes a drink.

"I'm feeling the urge to retreat to bed before the day's properly started," he muses. "Surely that and your series of ideas are unrelated."

"Naturally." He lifts his teacup, still grinning. "I'm a delightful ray of sunshine waking and energizing all I touch."

"...who told you that?"

"No one had to tell me." Sagely. "I know it deep in my heart."

He drinks.

"Then I suppose it's no use disputing it."

There's a trunk over there that looks less dusty than the others, and it's not locked. Cullen kneels with his cup of tea and undoes the latch with his free hand.

" -- so that's where she put them. I wonder..."

As he starts going through the lengths of folded cloth: "She's acquired all kinds of banners in the field, Maker knows how. I'm sure she wouldn't miss -- there."

Cullen slips out one particular piece of heraldry in familiar colors: Ferelden.

"That should keep out a draft or two." Satisfied.

Alistair's eyebrows lift as he stares, delighted, at the banner.

"And here I thought we'd be lucky to find something that wasn't half-eaten by moths." He sets his tea aside and slips off the crate for a better look. "Perfect. Anything else good in there?"

"Other banners, but since this one's clearly the best -- "

Alistair gets a quick grin.

"Just the rug and the brazier to go."

While it would be poor form to sneak some Orlesian heraldry out of the Inquisitor's stash and use it to, ahem, power any brazier they might find, the thought does cross Alistair's mind. Oh well.

Digging through a few more crates doesn't yield any rugs -- the best Alistair can locate is a blanket so threadbare it's nearly turned to lace -- but when he heaves one of the boxes aside, he stumbles across a tangle of metal that, with some judicious poking, reveals itself to be a brazier. (Look, ten years of walking into leg traps does eventually give you a smidge of common sense there.) "Worth finding a hammer to bang this into shape?" he asks Cullen, holding it up.

It'll probably work fine how it is. Maybe. Hopefully.

Cullen squints at it. "I suppose," he says, doubtfully. "If we can get it upright and stable before we put anything in it that's supposed to be on fire."

Alistair nods. "All right. Hang on to it for now, leave it if we find a better one somewhere."

He tosses it into the pile with the tarp and rope.

Cullen regards the pile. "I suspect this is enough to be going on with for the time being -- unless you plan to carry a rug in addition to all of this?" A quick grin at Alistair. "We can go on another hunt once we've solved the problems of roof and fire."

"While traipsing up Skyhold's thirty thousand stairs loaded down like a pack horse does sound like fun," Alistair says, deadpan, "I'm all right with venturing on a second quest later. After a roof, fire, and finishing breakfast."

If Cullen doesn't eat that last sausage roll in the next five minutes, Alistair's claiming it for the Wardens. Well, a Warden. A sort-of Warden. Half Warden, perhaps.

Whatever.

Alistair's got porridge. His favorite!

"An excellent thought," Cullen says, mild, and takes the last sausage roll. It goes particularly well with tea.

Fire first. Then roof. (Easier to work when warm, and the braziers they can fix in Cullen's office, where there's no flying snow.) Then the banner on the wall. The day's tasks place themselves in logical order, leaving Cullen feeling very, very satisfied.

And hey, if the porridge proves inedible, they can always use it to glue the banner to the wall!

From the way Alistair's scarfing it down, though, that seems an unlikely fate. (The faster you eat it, the less you taste it, after all.) An empty teacup soon joins the empty bowl. The kettle itself gets shuttled over to the pile of accoutrements; it's still half-full, and until they get a fire going in Cullen's room, more warm things would not be remiss.

Hopefully it'll stay warm enough during the trek back to the tower.

On the way, Cullen sticks his nose in another storeroom -- one whose contents he's more familiar with -- and grabs a hammer.

As they enter his office: "Would you care to hit the thing with the blunt object, or shall I do the honors?"

Alistair grins. "If you're offering," he says, and takes the hammer from Cullen.

Juggling everything up the ladder takes a couple of trips -- maybe they really should rig up a pulley as their next project -- but eventually, Alistair's settled on the floor of Cullen's room, both braziers in easy reach. (The working one could use a few good hits once he's done straightening out the bad one.) He drags one of the furs off the bed to make himself even more comfortable, then picks up the hammer and gets to work.

Whack. Whack.