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"No," She agrees. "But if the wardens are relocated,"

Their position is already tenuous, and Anders will go wherever that shield extends. He could disappear along the journey, of course — a long trip, a rough sea, who can say what might be lost within it?

Distant from the public view, there would be plausible deniability.

But that’s only wishful thinking. Judgment has already been visited: She cannot make a move upon him, and it would be foolishness to try. There are few enough skilled healers at the Inquisition's beck and call.

Wren lifts a hand only to let it fall again, empty. There’s no easy solution. Perhaps if we dyed his hair and called him Detlef,

"He is working with a spirit once more," A terrible idea. Naturally, she’s already thrown herself into its path. If you can't dispose of danger, then keep your eyes to it. "I have concerns enough of the thinned Veil."

Without adding another possession to his score.

Before this last venture, she'd never been north of Cumberland. Reed's reach will have extended farther.

"When did you last visit?"

Edited 2017-03-23 09:12 (UTC)

"Would that judgement not have passed in his favour, that would be one less problem to work with. If he must come along, he might yet be welcome in Darktown." Just because they can hold a conversation without it turning sour doesn't mean he has a great care for the mage. Or that he is forgiven for what he helped start.

"I haven't been since Cassandra's search for the Champion began there. I might hope to take up the cause once more, but if Hawke hasn't been found now, if Bethany has heard nothing, then it might end up the wild goose chase it was before." After all, half the reason he's been around so wide and far is because of his search. "Doesn't mean we can't use the Champion of Kirkwall or the Hero of Ferelden."

The corner of her mouth twists, briefly, a bitter little sketch of amusement.

Jonas Cousland is very likely dead: Wardens are not known for their life expectancy. Perhaps a blessing in disguise for the nation — neither are they known for producing heirs.

And Marian Hawke?

"I fear we may have used up our stock of saviours," The Herald only the latest among them. In practicality, Wren must admit she's been of more use to them dead; a ready martyr for the cause, stripped of all her more troublesome interests and obligations, of the rigidity of a noblewoman's history. This is not a war that will be won in isolation. "But should they stroll by tomorrow, I shall be grateful."

An even look,

"Do you propose that we leverage the association?" They've Bethany Hawke, they've a few veterans of the Fifth Blight in pocket. Perhaps it is not so difficult to imply approval from their absence.

(If he searches, she will aid it as she may — if he will have the help. The idiocy of an errand hasn't precluded his own offered assistance.)

"There's no reason why we shouldn't," he says with innocently raised brows. They might stretch the truth somewhat, but it wouldn't be much of a lie. Even if it were, it would be one in their favour, so there's no reason not to. A few implications by associations--get some of Cousland's friends to say a few words, and Bethany's mere appearance should be enough before her wedding. He's not sure if speaking of the Herald will do much good; the atmosphere of Kirkwall is at times unpredictable. They might not take to her. Maybe introduce that part last.

"We need every foothold and scrap of advantage we can get. We've the likes of Cassandra Pentaghast and Warden Alistair on our side, the blessing of the Divine, the metaphorical spirit of the Herald of Andraste guiding our way. We've Templars and mages working side by side without exploding into a pillar of light. The associations practically write themselves."

Her brows raise in return, as close as she'll come to come to an open smile at that.

"Propaganda has done well of the South." Until Halamshiral, at least. As privately as she might cheer Gwen's little fuck-you screed, it's been less than helpful. "The Lady Seeker's face will continue to carry us far."

Nevarran or not, no one quickly forgets the Hero of Orlais, a Dragonslayer, the Right Hand of the Divine. Especially when she looks like that.

"We must tread more carefully with the Wardens. The Hawkes' ties buy them some goodwill, and the refugees shall love them. But the locals ..."

Twelve years on, several catastrophes in, and it's difficult to say how one might define a true Marcher. Wren knows only that there are those who will try. The question is one of numbers: Of how much xenophobia has been absorbed by a shared economy, by a mutual tragedy.

"... Well. They'll love the damn gryphons, at any rate. I shall see what can be done among my contacts."

Thorn's coterie are already pressuring preachers, may as well forward talking points. A sole point of worry, at that, memories of that other Herald —

— If they do this, they need to be certain. Wren glances away once more, eyes close just a beat too long. Just one: It's gone again. She breathes out.

"Bergier."

Who's changing the subject? Certainly no one in this room.

Edited 2017-03-27 08:13 (UTC)

Malcolm makes a sound of acknowledgement about the Warden concerns. Like with Templars and mages, opinions on them could go either way. They have, as a group, done a lot of damage.

But that's all he offers. All they can do is try and put a good spin on everything once they're there. The rest is in the Maker's hands. Malcolm perhaps is staring too hard at her, his eyes squinting just a hint at her. He's noticed, but he does her the favour of not asking. She'll notice that he's noticed, and that in itself is enough.

They are both subtle people when they want to be. And apparently they both want to be most of the time.

"You said you found his brother. Has he said anything of particular note yet?"

Do they teach them the squinting? Or is it part of recruitment procedure?

Courwin used to manage that same sharpness, the small rebuke of scrutiny — but that was when he had two inches and twenty years on her. Abstracted of its context, it’s almost funny: this tidy little man wearing the face of her old lieutenant.

(Lambert, Lucius. It's not.)

"He was frightened enough to desert," Young men do all manner of stupid things. With so many voices in Skyhold that mistake their orders for a pleasant suggestion, is it any wonder some might decide to up and leave?

But he’s not hers to advocate for. What obligation she owns is to fact. And the facts:

"They were in contact."

Treason. Had he known all along, what he'd been doing? Or did he only look up one day, to realize how deep the waters over his head?

"Then he may well be willing to part with whatever he knows without any coercion at all." If they were in contact and he deserted. "He might want to end his brother's misery. Or beg us to save him. Could even recruit him, if things go well."

They won't, of course; they both know that. He's not an optimist, he just voices the opinions of one when none of the usual suspects are around to do so. (Charles, Andraste protect him, had been so exceedingly optimistic in the face of near certain doom; maybe some of it just barely rubbed off on him. He'd been right about rescue, after all.)

"Have you recruited anyone else into this hunt of yours?"

"No." The others haven’t asked details, haven’t pressed her purpose. No point in spreading those where unnecessary. "Ser Norrington is aware of my broad interests in identifying troops. I was referred to the prisoner Samson upon that count."

"I gave him four names, Bergier among them. My questions were vague and personal in nature — those of a grieving officer." A small shrug. "He may guess ulterior motive, but lacks detail of our suspicions."

The man’s clever. He’s also deeply ill, and has proven somewhat distractible.

Reed’s position within the Inquisition will serve them more finely than this token optimism. He’s already a witness. Sketched in the right light, he might be made to seem an advocate. Reassurance for the foolish.

"If you’ve volunteers you would suggest," Shaking down a scared teenager, they can handle themselves. But red templars run in packs. If they’ve any luck of this, they’ll need to bring others in on the next stage. "This is unlikely a task for two."

Edited 2017-04-07 06:19 (UTC)

His expression shows his clear distaste for anyone referring anyone else to Samson of all people. "I wouldn't take anything the prison has to say for anything other than bluster. He's got little left to lose, and honestly, killing him would be a mercy at this point."

If anyone gives a command, he doubts he'd even be the first in line to do the job, but he'll damn well race anyone there. And yet mercy is not exactly what he deserves. He barely deserves a pot to piss in. Maker knows what will happen to him, if he stays in Skyhold or somehow makes the move to Kirkwall. Maybe someone can lose him overboard in a tragic accident.

"I could give you some names, let you see for yourself if you care to bring them in. It's your operation," he reminds, though knows he doesn't need to. "More Templars would be sympathetic to the job, but we might see about others slightly less susceptible to the corruption and temptation from their tainted brothers."

No one, of course, is immune. They know this now. Not even dwarves, at least so far as the storyteller Tethras says, at least not fully. Foolish, he suspects, to think himself and his own ilk to be so far above the rest. The Maker has granted them many gifts, but this is a step too far.

"We'll talk to the brother, send a few scouts if we can spare them depending on what information we get. We can start asking about fellows to assist once Kirkwall is more set up; it's going to take a lot of energy and concentration as it is."

The convenient thing about Reed is that as often as he's competent, dutiful, decent; he's also, unflinchingly, an asshole.

Others less susceptible to temptation. As though he might understand it. As though he'll ever know what it is that her boys chose, what it is to make that choice, each day over.

(This hurts you, A dead man tells her, as though she’d somehow overlooked the pain.)

He's an asshole. It makes him easier to deal with — birds of a feather, as it were — and she's aware that it comes from a place of concern. However pragmatic its nature, however detached its interests.

As it should be. If you don't keep a layer between yourself and the work, well.

They both know how that goes.

"Very well. When your schedule allows. If there is nothing else, Seeker?"

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