Knight-Templar Barris was convinced that the remaining clerics had picked today to host the meeting out of purely petty reasons. It was easily the hottest day of the entire year. The was sun beating down harshly on the courtyard like it was the wrath of the Maker himself. And it didn't help matters that it seemed to be refracting off of every damned piece of golden inlay on every bloody building. Neither the clerics or the nobility seemed to be bothered by it though. But why would they be? They all had servants routinely bringing them ice cold beverages, holding their obnoxious umbrellas for them, and sometimes just outright fanning them because they couldn't be bothered with the effort themselves. None of them had to stand there out in the open clad in heavy ceremonial armor, either.
You'd think whoever designed these bloody things would have taken the weather into consideration. How am I supposed to focus properly when I'm worried about losing half of my weight to sweat?
Barris groaned as discreetly as possible as he re-adjusted his posture. Not that it helped to make him any more comfortable. His orders told him to keep his position upon the make-shift stage with the clerics, and well, orders are orders.
This whole bloody thing seemed like an obnoxious waste of time, anyway. If this Herald was truly such a blasphemer, then why invite her to talk? If the clerics truly believed that she killed the Divine, then why was she not simply hauled away in cuffs?
They probably mean to make a show of it, blasted nobility.
It brought Barris no small amount of discomfort to know that he was the only templar that answered the call to come here. It all but confirmed those dreadful rumors for him: the templars truly had gone rogue—or were sequestered within loyalist circles, protecting their charges from the local mobs. There must be some loyal Knights left…perhaps he could set out to find them once this charade of justice was over with?
As the crowds began to gather around the stage, Barris kept a keen eye over the growing audience. He was the only line of defense these clerics had; it would be up to him to address whatever trouble came for them. This really was such a horrible placement, strategically speaking. Whoever decided on this spot was clearly an utter moron or willfully ignorant. He couldn't help but picture his old friend's reaction to this. Cullen Rutherford would have lost his damned mind over the stupidity of it all. He wondered for a moment where he was now…Last he heard, Cullen was transferred to Kirkwall after the fall of Kinloch Hold all those years ago…He found himself saying a silent prayer for his friend's soul, hoping that it was an unnecessary effort. He'd heard that a lot of the Kirkwall templars died when the mages revolted, he just hoped beyond hope that his friend wasn't among them. But he focused himself back to the task at hand. Pointing out all of the strategical fallacies would surely help in that regard.
Strike One: The stage had no sight line to the gate at the main entrance off the Imperial Highway.
Strike Two: It positioned clerics to have their backs turned to an alleyway that led to a lake, which could be easily exploited to spring an ambush.
Strike Three: The upper balconies housed private residences, some of which were owned by people that weren't even native to the city or Orlais for that matter. At least 2 of them were known to be very vocally anti-chantry.
Strike Four: If things did go south, there was no good place to hide the clerics. Ushering them into a far corner of the lower market seemed his best bet, and it wasn't ideal to say the least. There was a very real risk of failure should he have to resort to that.
Strike Five: Because the remaining Mothers decided it was a wonderful idea to invite the press, there were at least half a dozen newscasters filming this impending catastrophe at every possible angle. Meaning, the whole damned world now knew that the templars had truly abandoned the Chantry. Oh, and they were all about to see him fail spectacularly most likely.
Strikes 6-10: And to top it off, the Maker-Forsaken stage was sitting in direct sunlight.
Maker, if I die for this charade, please just make it worthwhile…somehow. Is it too much to hope for that the Maker's side feels like a Ferelden winter's night?
He couldn't help but let his mind wander for just a moment. It wasn't something that was a problem for him usually; he blamed this particular moment of weakness on the ungodly heat. All he wanted to think about was his home. Black Hallows used to feel like too small of a town for him. But now with this damned war brewing and the Divine's death and Maker-knows-what-else in the coming days, he suddenly wished he'd gone home to visit more often. A morbid thought crossed his mind: perhaps he should prepare himself for the possibility of never seeing his home again…this war could turn even uglier with very minimal effort, after all…
His attention was snapped back to the present when he saw the crowd beginning to part for a small group of people. He recognized that first woman. He'd never met Seeker Pentaghast personally, of course, but her heroics were legendary. You would have had to have been living under a rock for the past decade or so not to know of her at least. He had never heard a bad word spoken about the Seeker. If she were with this Herald, they couldn't be so bad, right?
He certainly didn't recognize the other three with her. A roguish-looking dwarf, a seemingly homeless elf, and then…
His mind nearly blanked when he first caught sight of her. If he hadn't known any better, he was looking at the second coming of Andraste herself. Her long, silvery-blonde hair was parted just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her bright, nearly glowing green eyes. She absently tucked her hair behind her pointed ear, revealing her face fully.
But, Maker, what was she wearing? And how was he not supposed to look? No wonder the Chantry wanted to label her a hated blasphemer. Her thinly-strapped tank top did nothing to hide the size of her chest. It was temporarily distracting to say the least, but Barris was nothing if not disciplined. She truly seemed as if she had dressed herself specifically to piss off every single cleric in Thedas.
The Orlesian Chantries specifically denounced certain pieces of attire as being completely antithetical to the Chant and the Maker…although, to be fair, most of those 'mandates' changed with the season, as did most things Orlesian. But everything she wore was a consistent and constant faux pas. Ripped blue jeans, a black leather belt that was seemingly decorated with old bullet casings (how that alone hadn't gotten her arrested yet was truly beyond him—the damned things had been outlawed for civilians along with the matching guns for a couple of decades now), and not to mention the black nail polish and the tattoo on her right forearm: a long-stemmed blue rose that seemed to be holding together a broken heart. There was a story behind that, he was sure of it.
She seemed uncomfortable as she wordlessly followed the Seeker. And if the way that she was rubbing at her palm was any indication, it wasn't just from the situation. She took a place beside the Seeker, leaving the other two to stand behind them. She took a deep breath and finally looked up towards the stage…
When her eyes landed on Barris, she was clearly shocked. Her eyes bulged; her mouth hung open just slightly. She seemed to realize what she'd done and quickly removed her obvious reaction. A flush crept up on her cheeks, an awkward, almost painful smile formed over her lips.
Mother Hevarra began her pre-rehearsed spiel without delay, thankfully drawing both of them out of whatever madness had taken over them momentarily there. Barris tuned the Mother out in the beginning. She'd practiced this little speech quietly with her peers over and over for the last hour now.
Instead, he tried to judge the Herald's reaction to the accusations. To her credit, she seemed genuinely upset at first. But the more Mother Hevarra talked, the more and more outraged she clearly got. Barris hadn't missed the fact that her clenched fists had formed an icy aura around them. Something her companions seemed all too content to ignore, surprisingly. Knowing that she was a mage now, changed things. Breathtaking as she was, he couldn't let her do anything drastic here. He gripped his tower shield, readying himself to block or dispel whatever magic she'd throw at the Revered Mother, especially knowing what she was about to say next.
"…This is a false prophet! The Maker would send no elf in our hour of need!"
This was it, he thought, Mother Hevarra was about to get an icicle to the face. The Herald glared so harshly at her that Barris actually expected for her to conjure an entire blizzard instead. But she didn't. He found himself silently praising her for having such restraint.
"And do you know everything the Maker commands?" She discreetly flexed her fingers as the frosty aura faded from them. "I alone can seal the Breach and I am doing everything in my power to do so."
It was a bold claim, that much was true. But what could any of them really say against it? Barris had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. Trusting his instincts had saved his skin on more than a few occasions. But this was the first time that his instincts were completely contradicting his orders. He wasn't here to reason with or question this Herald, but he found himself fighting the urge to do so with every second that ticked by.
He at first tried to tell himself that it was simply because he didn't want to believe that such a beautiful woman was some evil villain. But no, it was more than that. In his experience, a villain was typically overconfident, arrogant, and openly spiteful. This Herald was none of those things as far as he could see. Whether she actually was sent by Andraste was still in question for him, be he couldn't stomach painting her as this purely evil demon intent on dismantling the Chantry and overtaking the world. His commanders often said that his ever-questioning mind was a detriment to him, and a large reason behind the fact that he'd never been promoted. If something didn't add up, he was the first one to ask for clarification. It never mattered who it was or how embarrassing the question might be or how public the venue. He mused for a short moment that the clerics had very clearly picked the wrong person to be their yes-man.
He impatiently waited until the Revered Mother was done degrading the Herald and her companions before stepping up next to her on the platform. "Excuse me, Mother Hevarra. I've a question for the Herald, if I may?"
The cleric sneered deviously and nodded in agreement. "But of course! Ser Barris is an exemplary knight. Let him serve to show that even the lowest ranking Templars look on in disbelief."
Well that was a back-handed insult if I've ever heard one. Barris forced on a polite smile, suppressing the urge to make a snide comment about those ridiculous hats. He steeled himself as he locked eyes with the Herald. She seemed nervous, flustered even. He made a mental note to take it easy on her. He got the feeling that these circumstances were perhaps more unnerving for her than anyone else. "I was always taught that Andraste favors all of the Maker's children. Not just humans. She may very well have sent an elf, who are we to decide? Andraste is known to be merciful, kind, and protective. I cannot believe that she would be content to watch recent events unfold without extending a helping hand. Why wouldn't she send someone to fix the world and save the faithful? But proving this is a difficult task—too difficult to even attempt, I wager. Even our lady herself did not have the power to perform miracles out of thin air. So, I ask this instead: If Andraste chose you then why? What made you so special?"
A look crossed the Herald's face that could only be described as 'Well, shit'.
Seeker Pentaghast appeared disturbed by the question. She took a half-step in front of the Herald. "She does not have to justify—"
"Cassandra, It's alright…" The Herald gave her a reassuring smile when she turned to her. She waited until the Seeker returned to her place beside her to continue. "To be totally honest, I've asked myself that over and over since I got this damn thing. And I seriously don't know. I am so not special. I'm not strong, or virtuous, or wildly intelligent. I grew up in an alienage. Andraste and Maker were names you used as a curse, not a prayer. I had no faith in a higher power of any kind. I was a no-named waitress, serving drinks to the important people in the Conclave. I have no idea how I survived when every other person died. Or how I got this Mark…But the only thing I am so positively certain of is that Andraste had a hand in this…I don't expect anyone to believe me. I don't want to be worshipped or famous or anything like that. All I want—All the Inquisition wants—is to fix that damned hole in the sky. This Mark can do it, but I need help."
Damn, he thought, hard to argue with that…what if the clerics really were wrong?
He wouldn't get to ask any further questions. When the Lord Seeker showed up with his contingent of brainwashed templars, everything went to shit. He tried to protest but he was clearly out numbered. There was little he could do without openly defying the order. And he simply couldn't do that, not yet at least. He had to see it for himself. If there was any way that the order could be salvaged, he'd have to try. Even if it was only him fighting for it. He shared a sympathetic look with the Herald as he left. Throughout that long trek to Theirinfall, all he seemingly did was pray. For the Order, for the bloody world, and for the Herald. He hoped beyond hope that she really was what she said she was. If there was one thing the world desperately needed right now, it was a damned miracle from Andraste herself.