Warden Commander Neria Surana ran her hands along the silverite staff balanced on her lap, its metal cold enough to burn any non-mage who dared to touch it. The staff, Winter's Breath, was a physical extentsion of her mind, and the haze of frost gave her irritation corporeal form. Skyhold's chilled mountain air drifted in through the open window and dropped the room's temperature even further. Given her affinity for elemental magic, especially ice spells, she lacked any discomfort.
The room she'd been given was comfortable yet a misfortune to look upon-unless one favored the eclectic style of the Free Marches. The rugs appeared Antivan, and she supposed they had been a lovely mix of vibrant colors a decade and a dozen dirty boots ago. The bedding was a mess of faded reds and yellows which reminded her of meat and tallow. The curtains were blue Orlesian lace, but the frayed edges suggested they'd lost the Grand Game. "I could set the drapes ablaze and call it a favor to the Inquisition," she muttered.
After propping Winter's Breath up against a wall she made her way to the room's lone window and resisted the urge to scream. Over the course of a fortnight she's wandered the keep, caught up with Leilana, bargained with a dwarf named Varric for a favor from the Kirkwall city guard, spoke to the leader of the Rebel Mages at length and she'd yet to accomplish what she had come to Skyhold to do: Treat with the bloody Inquisitor.
She'd a letter ahead of her. Rarely did she take the time to be as cordial and gracious, thanking Adaar for pardoning the Wardens and politely inquiring about the Inquisition's claim to Griffon Wing Keep. Without questioning why the head of the Ferelden Grey Wardens was interested in an Orleasian outpost, an equally cordial (or arse-kissing, as Xavin would put it) invitation arrived. It was written in an elegant script which Neria doubted could belong to a former Tal-Vasoth mercenary.
Josephine Montilyet had met Neria and her company at Skyhold's gates. The woman was skilled at her job, Neria had to admit. She'd explained the situation so adroitly that Neria hadn't been so much as annoyed. Demons, the ambassador had told her, ran rampant in the Exalted Plains. The creatures were possessing corpses and killing Orleasian soliders and being otherwise inconvenient. Inquistitor Adaar had received pleas for aid shortly after inviting Neria and, unable to fail the people, left but promised her return would be swift.
Having survived the Fifth Blight, Neria understood the troubles of a world that needed constant saving. Given her experience, she would have normally sought to be of assistance yet given her current... condition she doubted she'd be as formitable as she'd once been.
Her grip on the window sill tightened as delicate whispered notes bubbled up, effervescent and haunting, from the depths of her mind. A chill ran through her like the tip of a blade caressing her spine. Transfixed and unaware she pulled on the fade. Ice burst from her white-knuckled hands and crackled its way up the frame of the window and coated the glass.
The unbidden spell was enough to startle her and she pressed her icy hands to her now throbbing temples. She groaned, slumping against the wall to remain upright. "I'm fine," she assured the walls, speaking out of habit. She reached for Winter's Bane and clenched her fists around it. She still had more to accomplish, the song in her head be damned. Neria took a deep breath and made for Skyhold's garden.