Yharnum Age: The Threat Remains 1
Andras wakes, his senses coming back to him one by one. First, he feels the softness of the material below his body and head. A bed? He gives the material an experimental push. He feels and hears the straws of hay cracking and giving under the pressure. He opens his eyes, moving a hand from below the covers, skimming over the rough woolen blankets. A bed, then.
His eyes take in the wooden ceiling above him and the walls around him. Someone moved him from the Temple. He's not sure if that should comfort him or worry him.
In his mind, he recounts the events leading to his blackout. The Temple and the demon. There was a Rift, and he sealed it, but not before it awakened memories…
The others. They'd seen the memories. How much did they know?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He'd need to find them, Cassandra and Solas and Varrick.
A loud thud echoes through the room, the sound of wood hitting wood.
His head whips toward the noise as a girlish voice exclaims "Oh!"
She's young, and her pointed ears resembles Solas's. An elf, then.
"I didn't know you were awake, I swear!" she says, speaking quickly as she ducks down to pick back up her box. Her nervousness is so plain, anyone would be able to sense it.
"Why are you frightened? What happened?" Andras asks, furrowing his brow. Discretely, he runs a hand over his face and along his back. Nothing unusual. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
"That's… wrong, isn't it? I said the wrong thing," the girl amends, shaking her head. She's trembling, nervous.
"I don't think so–"
"I beg your forgiveness and your blessing!" the girl says, falling on her knees.
"Wha-?" Andras replies. Of all the reactions he was expecting, it was not this. What drabble are they spewing about him out there?
"I am but a humble servant."
Andras looks at her, more confused than before. Before sealing the Breach, he'd been a prisoner: accused of murder of the Divine Justinia, the massacre of the Conclave, and the destruction of the Temple. They had him imprisoned. They were calling for his execution.
"What is this all about? Is this another prison, then?" Andras asks. It's the only thing he can think of. Inevitably, the people would still want their assumed justice.
"I… no? I mean, I don't think so," the girl replies.
"Then where am I? Tell me."
"You're back in Haven, my lord. They say you saved us. The breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days!"
He shook his head, a part of him still unbelieving. He was out three days? But perhaps he'd been dreaming again. Unless this was a new dream? "So, a trial happens now, I suppose."
"I don't know anything about that," the girl said, confusion creeping back into her voice. She took a small step back, before her eyes flared wide. She bopped herself on the head. "I'm sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you've wakened. She said 'at once'!"
"And where is Lady Cassandra?"
The girl was already at the door. "In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. 'At once,' she said!" a strange, giddy smile creeping on her face as she ducked through the door.
"'At once…'" he muses, standing up. He shakes his head as he better takes in his surroundings. That girl certainly kept him occupied otherwise.
He examined the bed. It was plain, but the linens were clean and the wool quilt was loved. He had to admit it did keep him rather warm as he felt a draft of cold from the closed window. He peeked outside and glittering snow greeted him. He should probably don his mantle before he headed out. He spied a wooden desk with some papers on it. Not a dresser, but those papers…
Andras picked up the papers, flipping through them.
Damn. Just as before, they had been written in some strange code. He moves to tuck them in his robes only to find that someone changed him while he was out. Unacceptable. Yes, they were clean, but they were not his. They just didn't fit the same.
He frowns as he searches around the room again, looking for his robes. There! Neatly folded on top of an oaken dresser sat his clothes. Quickly, he stripped the clothes he'd been placed in and sorted through to ensure they were all there. His undergarments, first. He didn't feel comfortable not knowing where the borrowed ones came from. It just didn't sit right with him. Clean as they may be, he rather preferred his own.
Then plain, simple woolen socks and sturdy black trousers. Next, he donned a shirt and waistcoat, before throwing a long grey coat over that. The embroidered edges had worn from use, but to him it was merely a sign it was well-loved. He cinched the waist with a leather utility belt, small pouches and sheathes hanging from it. Carefully, he slipped on a simple hood – especially good considering the snow on the ground – and heavy grey mantle.
There. Now he was put together. He patted his pockets, ensuring all what he had was still there, and then tucked the papers into his waistcoat. He would find someone to help him interpret them in time. One of those three, if any of them still trusted him.
At the present, though, the elf had said Cassandra wanted to speak with him. Likely about how he killed the Divine and destroyed the Temple, or some other rot with the demon. He sighed, stepping out the door and into the bright sun, its light amplified by the patches of snow on the ground.
Much brighter than the nightmare that had been Yharnum, he mused, a wry expression crossing his face.
A score of soldiers line the path, preventing a mob of people from blocking the way. Unconsciously, he tensed. He was never very good with crowds, and he'd been treated with hostility on first crossing into this land.
Upon seeing him, the soldiers bring their arms to attention. A hand goes to one of his daggers on its own accord, but he steals himself from removing it from its sheath. He treads lightly, as if the soldiers and the mobs are just waiting for him to lower his guard before they attack.
No, he chides himself. This place is not like Yharnum.
As he passes, the people are whispering. It sets him on edge, even as he deciphers what they are saying.
"That's him. That's the Herald of Andraste. They said when he came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over him," a man whispers.
Andraste? Who is she? He will have to ask Cassandra more on that. It sounds vaguely religious, and the last time he was involved with any churches, things got… weird.
"Why did Lady Cassandra have him in chains? I thought Seekers knew everything," another asks.
Someone replies in hushed tones. "It's complicated. We were all frightened after the explosion at the Conclave."
"It isn't complicated. Andraste herself blessed him," the first huffs. Andras is soon out of earshot of the rest of their conversation.
Well, at least they're having similar thoughts to himself. Still, he's not sure if he really want to embrace that… "Herald of Andraste?" That's like that one madman who declared himself the Host of Nightmares…
He passes more people on his way to the large church structure, all wishing him blessings. He is still unsure of how to process these well-wishes.
Two women are whispering furious to each other, both obviously excited to see him. He still can't imagine why.
"That's him. He stopped the Breach from getting any bigger," one says.
"I heard he was supposed to close it entirely. Still, it's more than anyone else has done. Demons would have had us otherwise," the other replies, not impressed. At least this one hasn't gone mad with hero-worship like the others. Keeping a good, grounded mindset, this one. "Still a lot of Rifts left all over. Little cracks in the sky."
"He can seal those, though – the Herald of Andraste," the first counters.
"Someone had better. You won't seal those rifts with the Chant of Light."
Then they turn to Andras, bowing in homage.
"Walk safely, Herald of Andraste," the first says reverently.
"Good luck sealing those rifts."
Andras gives a nod to the second, continuing on his way.
He passes even more soldiers and civilians, all lined up wishing him blessings and saluting him smartly. He hurries on to the church, the crowds making him nervous. He was never very good around people, not as a Hunter, nor… later. He still isn't very good with crowds. The faster he finds Cassandra, he supposes, the faster this whole ordeal will be over with and he can get down to deciphering why here – Thedas – of all places.
As he enters the church building, he passes more people whispering about him, about the conclave, and about the Chantry's stance on these issues. He's heard enough from the others that he doesn't linger. Their words, accusing before, praising now – so fickle. They're meaningless.
"Go in peace, Herald of Andraste. Maker watch over you," they say as he pushes open the heavy doors of the Chantry.
AN: for those of you who are curious, Andras' outfit is based on the Tomb Prospector kit.
I apologise for the long hiatus. School and work both got very busy and very intense, and I've only snatched some time now. I know my tenses are all mixed up and I keep jumping between past and present, but after editing for content, I'm too tired to make those grammatical changes. I know this is killing some of you, but hey – go write your own, lol.