[ It is only a few short days after the fall of Adamant's fortress that Neria receives word of Clarel's mistake, Erimond's betrayal, the destruction of the Warden forces in Orlais. The report isn't as detailed as she'd like, her few contacts and spies within the organization - and elsewhere - limited in scope and depth. What is clear is Corypheus' involvement, a Darkspawn, and that the Wardens nearly crumbled apart because of his machinations...and now the Inquisition has folded the remaining Wardens left into their numbers to combat the threat. She should be grateful. Perhaps, in a sense, she is.
But it doesn't stop her from feeling guilty.
Had she been there, could she have stopped all of this from happening? Had she remained at her post, could she have been able to persuade Clarel to stop, or even prevented some of the Ferelden Wardens from following her? It wracks her like a poison in her chest, feeding on self-deprecation and continued frustration. This could have be prevented. She could have done something. And here she is, researching, practicing unsightly magics to save her family when she should have been at their sides.
It takes a tremendous amount of personal persuasion not to fall back into the crippling doubt that comes with that guilt, to remain in hiding for continued months or even years in the wake of her failure. But sure enough, the force of her determination outweighs her blame, and within days, she is riding to Ferelden. From there, it is another week's journey to the mountains, following all of the other soldiers and pilgrims intent on seeing the Herald of Andraste, a trickling flow of individuals who lead her straight to Skyhold's doorstep. No one questions her, not when she refuses to wear her colors or her armor. They liken her to a mercenary, if nothing else, and it is almost embarrassingly simple for her to wander in the gates and into the great hall, where Inquisitor Trevelyan herself conducts business with sneering nobles and the guilty alike, judging and doling out commands where it suits her.
Frankly, she's impressed. A noble Marcher takes charge like one born to it, neither lenient nor shirking in what she feels is her duty. Whatever she might have felt before, whether she doubted the Inquisitor's capability or felt anger that the Wardens felt forced to take knee to her, it didn't matter. This was a leader she could respect. But she was also handling people who weren't her responsibility.
And let it never be said she didn't at least attempt to be subtle about her entrance. She waits until the other nobles and soldiers have finished conducting business with the Inquisitor to approach the throne. She pulls down the hood of her cloak as she does so and at least maintains a respectful distance. ]
Inquisitor Trevelyan, if you have a moment.
[ She gives her a wry smile, the insanity of the situation not lost on her. The Warden-Commander who disappeared - or died, who knows? - has suddenly turned up on their doorstep. ]
I heard that the Wardens had no one to lead them and thought you could use some help.
no subject
But it doesn't stop her from feeling guilty.
Had she been there, could she have stopped all of this from happening? Had she remained at her post, could she have been able to persuade Clarel to stop, or even prevented some of the Ferelden Wardens from following her? It wracks her like a poison in her chest, feeding on self-deprecation and continued frustration. This could have be prevented. She could have done something. And here she is, researching, practicing unsightly magics to save her family when she should have been at their sides.
It takes a tremendous amount of personal persuasion not to fall back into the crippling doubt that comes with that guilt, to remain in hiding for continued months or even years in the wake of her failure. But sure enough, the force of her determination outweighs her blame, and within days, she is riding to Ferelden. From there, it is another week's journey to the mountains, following all of the other soldiers and pilgrims intent on seeing the Herald of Andraste, a trickling flow of individuals who lead her straight to Skyhold's doorstep. No one questions her, not when she refuses to wear her colors or her armor. They liken her to a mercenary, if nothing else, and it is almost embarrassingly simple for her to wander in the gates and into the great hall, where Inquisitor Trevelyan herself conducts business with sneering nobles and the guilty alike, judging and doling out commands where it suits her.
Frankly, she's impressed. A noble Marcher takes charge like one born to it, neither lenient nor shirking in what she feels is her duty. Whatever she might have felt before, whether she doubted the Inquisitor's capability or felt anger that the Wardens felt forced to take knee to her, it didn't matter. This was a leader she could respect. But she was also handling people who weren't her responsibility.
And let it never be said she didn't at least attempt to be subtle about her entrance. She waits until the other nobles and soldiers have finished conducting business with the Inquisitor to approach the throne. She pulls down the hood of her cloak as she does so and at least maintains a respectful distance. ]
Inquisitor Trevelyan, if you have a moment.
[ She gives her a wry smile, the insanity of the situation not lost on her. The Warden-Commander who disappeared - or died, who knows? - has suddenly turned up on their doorstep. ]
I heard that the Wardens had no one to lead them and thought you could use some help.