[IC] let chaos be undone ;; drunken conquistador && vanq && el taco taco

[El Taco Taco]

15th Drakonis, 9:43 Dragon
The Grand Cathedral, Val Royeaux

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Voices echoed off every marbled surface in the Grand Cathedral, accompanied by the drumming of rain. The cathedral glowed white and gold, a dim light in the grey that had consumed Val Royeaux for the past week. Little rivers slithered through the cobbled stones of the courtyard, rushing over mosaics of sunbursts and scenes from the Chant. Black puddles coalesced across the stones, soaking the ankles of the faithful. Thunder rumbled in the heavens, drowning out the Chant. Mother Amélie had told her once that thunder was the voice of the Maker; what did it mean, Petra wondered, that the Maker would drown out his the songs of his most devoted?

The carriage rolled to an abrupt halt. Petra frowned, green eyes tracing the rain slipping down the glass like the finest of silk. The clink of armor in the carriage pulled her thoughts from the weeping heavens. The Templar opened his door, face twisted into a grimace, striding around carriage. Petra adjusted the heavy cloak around her shoulders. Her pale fingers lifted a golden mask from her lap. The cold bite of metal against her face sent a chill slipping down her spine. Nimbly securing the mask, Petra took a steadying breath. There was something reassuring about the lace-like swirls of gold sweeping across her eyes and across the right side of her face, delicate sunbursts suspended between floral spirals. She felt like something more than herself, something powerful, behind her favorite mask and the hood of her cloak.

The Templar escort opened her door, offering an armored arm. Petra steadied herself as she swept down the steps. A crimson carpet stretched through the downpour to the audience chamber like a burning line of fire. The carpet squelched beneath her leather slippers. Releasing her escort, Petra followed the arrow to the beating heart of the Chantry. Hooves and rattling wheels echoed behind her, returning to the tower she might never see again. Petra took a shuddering breath. If the Templar noticed, he said nothing.

It was not a long walk to shelter, but the bottoms of her robes were soaked through as she ducked into the cathedral. A Chantry sister smiled wanly at Petra, hurrying forward to help with her cloak. She folded the sodden leather, spreading an arm towards a path of flickering torches.

“This way, Senior Enchanter,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly lost to the rain. Petra inclined her head, willing herself to be calm—regal, even, as she glided after the Chantry sister. Her escort was never far, his fingers grazing the hilt of the sword at his hip. But his blade was tempered by the iron fist of the Divine; his presence was more formality than anything else. In just over a year, the Templars had turned from hunters to dogs, cowed into obedience by the shifting tides of politics. Petra had never dreamt that the Order, nor the Circles, would be rebuilt. The war had been too savage, too bloody, to go back to the old ways. Of course, she would have never dreamed that a mage would sit on the Sunburst Throne.

The world had become so very strange. Perhaps the Fade had altered the laws of their world when it had spilled demons onto the land. Perhaps the dreams of a thousand souls had followed those demons and rewritten the very laws of nature. Impossibilities had flooded the valleys of the scars carved across hearts and land by the apocalypse that hadn’t been.

The antechamber was warm and well-lit. Once, Petra might have believed that it was the Maker’s warmth—now, she could only thank the hearths. It had been summer the last time she stood in this ante-chamber, nearly ten years ago. The breeze had whispered through the courtyard, her spirits as high as the voices raised in the Chant. She had thought it the most beautiful sound in all of Thedas. It had been a wondrous day, even if Divine Beatrix III had fallen asleep mid-ceremony. Today could not have been more different a day.

Petra had not believed the letter, at first. The summons to the Grand Cathedral came on the wings of a white raven, and her heart had sunk with every word. Divine Victoria had decided where to send her. The rumors had been true; Petra would go to Kirkwall.

Kirkwall. The City of Chains. The epicenter of the nightmare that had been the war, that had sparked Conclave and all the death the Breach had wrought. Petra had dropped bonelessly into her chaise, and wondered what she had done to deserve such a fate. She had spent the past month wishing it had been a dream, even as her home was packed and sold. She’d spent countless hours in Montsimmard, running her hands over exquisitely carved banisters, grieving the loss of her home.

It was no dream. Petra focused on keeping her breathing steady and hands stilled. The ante-chamber was bustling, last minute jobs before her fate was sealed. Petra shut her eyes, thinking of sprawling gardens and summer afternoons in the library.

The Chantry sister was instructing her on etiquette. Petra suppressed the urge to fix the woman with a withering stare; she was not a young child, fumbling with The Game. Bow, address the Divine (and Petra would never cease marveling that the woman she had studied with for over twenty years had become the heart of the Chantry) as Her Most Holy, do not argue, offer thanks at every turn. Thanks for Kirkwall. It took all her will not to be sick over the Chantry sister’s shoes.

“It’s time,” the sister remarked suddenly. Petra opened her eyes. With a shallow nod, she straightened her robes. She moved smoothly, in stark contrast to the knots in her stomach. Her escort did not follow, and she suddenly felt quite alone.

The audience chamber was every bit as imposing as Petra remembered it. The walk felt like a thousand miles, courtiers watching, whispering witnesses to her misfortune. Petra kept her eyes straight, on the Sunburst Throne that towered over the crowd. Chantry mothers stood, watching Divine Victoria, half-terrified, half-reverent.

“Senior Enchanter Petra de Sauveterre of the Montsimmard Circle,” a herald called in a clear, high voice. She was last to be announced it seemed, almost like an afterthought. She held her head high regardless; she was a mage, and an elf, and she had not yet been ruined. That was no small feat.

She drew even with two men before the Divine, moving into a delicate curtsy, eyes cast down in reverence. Her stomach churned.

“Most holy,” Petra demurred, motivated less by faith and more by the knowledge that few could claim magical talent as great as the Divine. She settled swiftly, raising her gaze to dark eyes that pierced through her. Victoria was pristine robes and shining brighter than a flame through all the grey. Petra straightened, all too aware of how small she was here, a pawn amidst all the glittering marble. And like many pawns, the Divine would sacrifice her without hesitation. Petra’s nails curved into the meat of her palms.

The letter had not informed her of her future colleagues; gossip had filled in the gaps. A Templar from Hasmal, a loyalist—and an untested Viscount. They weren’t the worst possible candidates; Petra could only hope that they were reasonable. Reason was not a common thing these days.

Silence fell over the chamber. The Divine surveyed the gathering of courtiers and Chantry women alike. After a moment, her voice echoed through the chamber like thunder.

“We are gathered, today, to rebuild,” There was a long, reverent pause, where even the drumming of the rain seemed muted. “Less than five years ago, the actions of a few radicals threatened to tear our very world apart. I need not remind you how much blood was spilled in the name of revolution; I need not remind you how many were slain in the aftermath. And here we gather, in the aftermath of a world torn apart by maleficar and demons alike, and here we are gathered to rebuild.”

There was a triumph in the Divine’s voice that Petra almost found herself believing in. She remained placid, head bowed respectfully, heart hammering in her chest. It sounded so simple—rebuilding—as if they were merely mending a broken building.

“Rebellion began in Kirkwall and it will end in Kirkwall. Abominations demanded we tear down our Circles to suit their demands—and our Circle will rise higher than before. I have called you,” and for the first time, Petra realised the Divine was addressing the three of them, strangers charged with the impossible. “To do the Maker’s work and restore the Circle of Kirkwall. Viscount Fenmoor—I give unto you your Knight Commander and your First Enchanter.”

First Enchanter—even now, the words sounded like they belonged more in the fade than in the waking world. As a child, Petra had dreamed of one day tending her own Circle, but not Kirkwall, never fucking Kirkwall.

The ceremony concluded in a rush of voices raised in song, the chamber filling with the Chant. Petra sang numbly, the words turning to ash in her mouth. The Divine rose and a score of attendants fluttered in her wake, sweeping out of the chamber. Courtiers gossiped, their whispers deafening, and Petra was relieved when a Chantry mother broke from the crowd, sweeping towards them.

“Your lordship, your grace, Madame, we have a chamber ready for the necessary documentation. If you would follow me,” her voice was high—Orlesian, Sahrnian if Petra had to venture a guess—and she smiled ingratiatingly. Petra could only nod, grateful for the swirling gold across her face, transforming nerves to regal calm.

The chamber provided was quiet, with a handsome oak desk and several sheafs of parchment. Petra ran a hand along the wood, idling towards the longest span of parchment. The Chantry’s obsessive dedication to documenting history had been a blessing as a researcher, but to be on this side of things, to be the one within the history, not merely reading it…

“The archivist will be along shortly,” The Chantry mother smiled again from the doorway, although the expression did not quite seem to reach her eyes. Petra looked up, a flare of panic rippling through her veins, but the woman had already excused herself, leaving the three unluckiest souls in Thedas in the simple room.

[Vanq]

Not long after the letter arrived informing him of his father's demise - and his fate as the next Viscount - a letter arrived from the most unlikely of sources. Each time Ryswald read the missive, the surprise waned. The Divine was the heart of much of Thedas, especially after recent events. More than that, the new Divine excelled at the Game beyond most others in Orlais. Could he truly be surprised that before he could return home, with all the reticence that held, he would need to appear in court before Her Most Holy? Politics, the most dastardly facet of life, would plague him for the rest of his days.

He read the letter again, in the carriage that took him from the country estate he had bought for his new wife, to the audience demanded of him. Kirkwall, he knew, had lacked any sort of true leadership for far too long. Even those who had perhaps been good for the city, were forced out. Ryswald dreaded to learn just how many enemies with smiling faces waited for him at home. He had been gone so very long.

He fixed his mask into place, simple pale gold with the smallest of engraving around the edges. Over a decade in Orlais and he still did not understand the appeal of the damned things. But to appear with out it, that would seem nearly heretical. Ryswald sighed, his shoulders dropping as if under a great weight. He allowed himself that singular moment before straightening, broad shoulders squared, as the door to the carriage opened.

News of who to expect in attendance had drifted to him along the Orlesian grapevine. The Kirkwall Circle would have a new First Enchanter and Knight Commander. Kirkwall had for too long been under the thumb of a madwoman. With the Templars broken and thoroughly put in their place, he couldn't help but wonder if a city such as Kirkwall would accept the new order of things. Abominations and mages so easily susceptible were not new to his city. Not by choice, but by command - Orlesian command at that - he would bring change to a city rooted in its traditions. Just who was to fill these roles, he had heard a hundred different whispers along the way. Mages and magic did not intrigue him, magic had not run in his family for several generations unless the rumor about his great-grandfather siring a bastard on an elven mage was to be believed. The scandal of their affair alone had been enough to tarnish his views on both mages and elves even as a child.

Within the chamber, Ryswald paid his respects to the new Divine. The mask may have hid his expression, but he kept his face void of emotion regardless. It was a good speech that she gave, the mage was known for her charisma, among her many other traits. Surely it would stir the hearts of some, and the new Viscount almost wished he could be so moved. But more than anyone present, he knew Kirkwall beyond the tragedies it had catalyzed. Three outsiders would carry the burden of rebuilding. By blood, it may have been his right now, but to be given an Orlesian elf as First Enchanter for the Circle would not make his duty easier. The Divine certainly must have known that and his mind sought to untangle the why of who she had chosen.

Dismissed and awaiting the arrival of the archivist, Ryswald leaned against the wall, his arms rigidly crossed. He took in the sight of the mage and the templar before him before daring to break the silence with what he was certain they all had on their minds. The Game was Orlesian, but none of that would taint Kirkwall, the nobles played their own games,

"Either of you ever been to Kirkwall, or have the stories you've heard of my infamous city been enough?" He grimaced behind the mask, glad that at least his Knight Commander was not Orlesian if he too had to be a foreigner. His voice dropped as he glanced sideways, ensuring that the archivist was not about to walk through the door. "I have not been home in well over a decade - do not expect me to able to make your acceptance into the city any easier. We have a long road ahead of us, and an even longer one once we reach the city." Maker help me. It is impossible. The thought entered his mind again, though he was certain the maker was not going to answer his pleas.

[Drunken Conquistador]

For most of his childhood Kirkwall was a mere word to Pascal. The name of a far off city that the young son of a shoemaker would never see in his life and where strange things happened. When he became an initiate in the Order Kirkwall became a little more important. After all the city had a Circle and sometimes a Templar from the dreaded Gallows would visit Hasmal and give more details to the abundant rumors that circulated about the City of Chains. The saying "At least it's not Kirkwall" became popular among both Templars and Mages of the Circle as a joke and way of coping with their reality. When Pascal became a fully ordained Knight, the troubles in Kirkwall had only worsened and many looked with worry towards the place. It was no surprise to him when the tensions between Mages and Templars exploded. Nor the fact that it was a Mage that delivered the first blow. Specially when one would take all the rumors about Knight Commander Meredith's ruthlessness in consideration. What surprised Pascal was that the Mage destroyed the city's Chantry instead of striking directly against the Order.

The weeks and months following the Kirkwall purge were filled with apprehension and fear. Both Mages and Templars at the edge of their nerves waiting for the other to strike first while a hundred different rumors arrived every day. By the time the situation could be truthfully assessed, the Kirkwall Templars had indeed triumphed and now Circles all across Thedas were flaring up in rebellion, the then Knight-Captain was steeling himself for the inevitable moment when he would have to turn his blade on his charges. But the inevitable never came and the Circle of Hasmal continued to act as if nothing had changed. That's not to say that Hasmal was spared by the War, for despite their declared neutrality the Circle was still beset by hostile bands and emissaries from both sides trying to draw more manpower and resources for their sides. Besides an increasingly anti-magic population on the city itself.

Four years later the Breach opened and it somehow made things worse. The Inquisition arose and eventually closed the Breach, finally bringing Hasmal out of its isolation during the process. And amassing an incredible amount of power and influence by the end of the conflict. And that brings Pascal to the present, as the new Divine herself choose him to become the new Knight-Commander of the Kirkwall Circle. By this point Kirkwall had long stopped being a joke and turned into something to dread and abhor. The crowning example of how Circles should not be run, of how bad things could get when there was no harmony or cooperation between Templar and Mage. And now Pascal was one of the three people in charge of fixing it.

For some reason Pascal didn't felt as desperate as he would've thought. Yes, Kirkwall was a mess but the worst had already passed right? Meredith and Orsino were dead, Hawke was nowhere to be seen and now they could start again. The city was a blank slate. The Knight-Commander wasn't naive enough to think that it would be easy but he actually enjoyed the idea of the challenge. If the Viscount and the First Enchanter proved to be reasonable fellows like him surely the Circle and the city of Kirkwall would be rebuilt far better and greater than before. But that was a big if considering the two of them would probably be Orlesians elbow-deep in their dreaded Game. Who could say that they would put the well being of the city over their own ambitions. And that's not even taking in consideration the reaction of the locals at having three foreigners imposed over them.

It was with that line of thought that Pascal wrote a hasty letter to his relatives back in the city of Hasmal before taking the road along a small honor guard to Val Royeaux. Arriving in time to attend to the ceremony at the wonderful Grand Cathedral.

Not even in his wildest dreams Pascal would have been able to come up with such marvelous place. And as he was led to the audience chamber Pascal suddenly felt himself under dressed for the occasion. Even in his finest outfit, which granted wasn't anything to gasp over, and the hastily bought mask that made him feel like a character in one of the cheesy novels back home. But then again everything in Orlais was opulent and beautiful, that was clear from the moment he sighted Val Royeaux. Even the sister that guided him to the audience chamber had a strange air of sophistication and class.

The ceremony that followed would forever be engraved on Pascal's mind: The imposing walk towards the Throne. Divine Victoria shining and terrifying in equal measure in a way that made all the rumors Pascal had heard about her not seem so outlandish anymore. Her speech, to the point and inspiring. And the mass of people gathered at the chamber in such number that even whispers seemed increasingly loud. Though Pascal had to admit that the amount of masked people bothered him. He felt as if the crowd was judging him silently and he half fancied hearing derisive sneers and remarks. But that was probably just his imagination. As if someone would dare to talk while the Divine spoke.

As the three were called to a side chamber to deal with the documentation, Pascal was finally able to study the two who would be his colleagues for the rest of his life, or at least the foreseeable future. A female elf and a man. Both behaved perfectly at the ceremony, which implied that they were comfortable or at least familiar with this kind of situation. A fact that actually didn't told much about the two. Still, Pascal decided to watch himself around the two until he could get to know them better. Suspicion would harm their combined efforts but he preferred that over the possibility of being manipulated by his supposed colleagues. The Order had suffered greatly during these last years and if a Knight Commander was to be reduced to a pawn in political games the decline would never stop.

For some reason he wasn't surprised to see that the Viscount wasn't wildly optimistic either. Though Pascal erroneously figured that the man would at least be a little more happy at receiving such honored and influential position.

"No one said it would be easy." Pascal replied in a calm reassuring tone. "But we've been given a task by the Divine herself and I intend to see it done to the best of my abilities." He glanced quickly towards the elf, Petra. "As for acceptance, I think that after all that Kirkwall has been through the nobility and common folk alike won't put much opposition to our efforts to rebuild the city." Or so he hoped, but that was better left unsaid.

[El Taco Taco]

To say that the atmosphere was uncomfortable was putting it lightly. Not for the first time, Petra wondered what she had done to offend the Divine so. They certainly hadn’t been friends—sentiment was weakness in The Game—but they had never quarreled, and Petra had followed the once First Enchanter’s orders throughout and beyond the nightmare that had been Andoral’s Reach. Try as she might, Petra could not see what misstep had led her to this antechamber, to this awful moment. Maker, they asked too much of her.

The Viscount broke the uneasy silence without any pretense of grace. Petra looked up from the writings on the table, studying the man who would be her lord. His golden mask seemed out of place, but he seemed at ease in his fineries. Sensible, classic, but hardly keeping to the shifting whims of fashion in court—and the accent was unmistakably Marcher. And like those Marches, he spoke plainly; Kirkwall would not welcome them, and their one true connection to the city state was a fraying thread.

The Knight Commander spoke, and Petra’s first instinct was to gather her magic. The fingers tracing parchment tightened, knuckles flashing white, and she feared she might burn the report. Never had Petra been so grateful for the mask, guising the tension in her features. After a moment, her fingers loosened, and she released the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. The familiar burn of shame surged through her veins—it had been nearly a year since the war had ended, since the Templars were leashed and the world stopped burning, and they still put her on edge. The Divine had crushed rebellion among mages, but she had purged the Templars just as viciously. Still—Petra wasn’t sure she’d ever stop dreaming of armor with burning swords and the emptiness swirling where her magic once sparked.

“I have never had cause to visit your Marches,” Petra’s lilting voice was half delicate diplomacy, half dry amusement. As if she had ever had the freedom to travel beyond the confines of the Circle. Cumberland had once felt like an exotic journey, a fascinating new world, her first taste of Thedas beyond Orlais. She had loved those days, exulting to be surrounded by so many fresh faces. She had learned so much in that fortnight, discussing arcana and politics with the finest minds in the Circle. She had never felt so heartbroken as when she had returned to Montsimmard, knowing that there so many other wonderful minds so many hundreds of miles away from her. Those memories felt as though they belonged to someone else.

“I have no illusions that my presence complicates matters, your lordship,” Petra said after a moment’s consideration, looking from the Viscount to the Templar. An Orlesian, elven mage—it went without saying that she would draw considerable ire the moment they entered Kirkwall. She was not, she mused, the most diplomatic choice. Maker, her presence might doom this venture before it could even truly begin.

The Knight Commander sounded rather hopeful, as if he truly thought that reason might win the day. Petra studied him and his finery, his several seasons out of vogue mask, the lines of discomfort in his build. Hasmal, she wondered, making a mental note to send a raven to her contacts.

“Your optimism does you credit, Knight Commander,” Petra remarked evenly. It was a strange thing, hope, and she wasn’t sure she quite trusted the concept. “I will do what I can to compensate for these difficulties.”

How exactly she could make up for the nature of her being, Petra was not sure, but she had little time to dwell. The door opened and a thin, elderly man in an exquisitely tailored Chantry robe hobbled in, accompanied by the same Chantry mother. He peered blearily around the room, one of his eyes deeply clouded. The Chantry brother seemed amused as he took in the sight of them.

“Well,” he chuckled, his voice like dust. Fereldan, Petra decided. She stepped aside as he and the Chantry mother approached the table. His wrinkled hands withdrew a quill and ink from his heavy robes, which his trembling fingers placed gingerly on the oak. “Aren’t you three a sorry sight to see? Kirkwall! Mother Genevieve, some chairs if you please. This will take some time. Titles and Divine right are messy business, I’m afraid.”

Paperwork, Petra marveled, both horrified and deeply amused, The misfortune never ends.

[Drunken Conquistador]

Pascal flinched internally as he noticed tension how the First Enchanter reacted to his words. The Knight Commander had to control himself to not reach for a sword that wasn't there anymore. Pascal couldn't blame her for it however, the scars of the Mage-Templar War were still raw in the minds of many. And maybe they would never heal. But as Knight-Commander of Kirkwall he was determined to rebuild the confidence and respect that the Order once enjoyed. Show the world, and specially the Mages under his care, that the Templars once again would stand as a bastion of peace and security. Maybe it was a lofty dream, but he would try his best. Pascal wouldn't let the confidence that the Divine placed upon him go to waste.

"I'm sure you will love it." Pascal remarked when the First Enchanter revealed that she never had visited the Marches. "I've never been to Kirkwall myself but despite everything said about it I've heard the city is beautiful." And he immediately regretted speaking. Even to his own ears it sounded silly and out of place. That wasn't a good way to give a first impression to his peers, lest they think of him as some addled fool. Damn his nerves. And now the mask was starting to feel uncomfortable, though he didn't dare remove it. Pascal had no idea if it would be considered an insult and decided not to risk it.

Pascal was about to point out that the Kirkwall Circle had an elf as First Enchanter for years. But fortunately he shut his mouth. The new First Enchanter probably wouldn't like being compared to Orsino. Besides, she had a point. As much as he wanted to believe that their arrival would be unopposed they couldn't simply count on hopes and dreams. Someone would probably use the bad memory left by Orsino's last desperate actions as propaganda against an elf in a high position in the Circle. And the fact that the new Viscount had spent years living in Orlais would also be a strong arguing point against them. After all, two of the three most influential people on the city being Orlesians, or at least considered such, would anger the independent-minded folk of the Free Marches.

The Knight-Commander realized that by bringing with him several Templars from Hasmal would also do little to earn them any good graces with the locals. His intentions were only to put people he trusted and knew were competent in positions to support him. But now he perceived that he would also essentially be limiting the influence and power of the locals. There was nothing that could be done now, he couldn't just return to his retinue and tell them to go back to Hasmal. Nor he wanted to do that. Besides, it would take a while to recruit and train a satisfactory number of new initiates anyway. The presence of several experienced Templars, even if not from Kirkwall, would surely help while he worked to reestablish the Order in the city.

"I'm sure you will." Pascal replied even as he wondered if her first remark was an insult or compliment. "After all, the Divine choose you. It surely means that you at least have the necessary potential to make this work." He added in a reassuring tone. Though by what he had seen since arriving in Val Royeaux, there was probably something else at play here. Shaking his head slightly Pascal decided that it was something to think about in the future. Now they had other priorities.

The Knight Commander silently brought a chair closer to the desk. Paperwork was good, it was something -relatively- simple and Pascal was good at it. Sometimes he even found himself enjoying the mind numbing effort that accompanied the mountains of parchments the Templar officers had to deal with from times to times. And as the new Knight Commander of Kirkwall he would probably be dealing with much more of the sort for the rest of his -hopefully long- tenure. So it was a plus that he was at least used to it. Except for casualty reports, those he could do without for a multitude of reasons.

"Do you need anything from us? Documents, declarations or the sort?" Pascal asked as he tried not to fidget with the clasps of his mask. "I've brought copies of several documents from Hasmal. They're probably with my Templars." Thinking of it, Pascal realized that his people were probably awaiting for him near the entrance. The fact that they hadn't be allowed to enter the ceremony too gave the Knight Commander a short moment of panic before he controlled himself. It was just a question of ceremony and decorum, if the Divine had any desire to harm Pascal he would've been purged with the rest.

OOC: Out of curiosity was there any mention of what happened to the Lyrium statue that Meredith turned into?