crystal;

[wroughtamiss]

FORM: Sending crystal
SENDER: Deacon
RECIPIENT: All
WHAT: Let us pray, Brother Biceps is here to offer comfort
WHEN: Current
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: He will absolutely throw down if he must 8T

[A moment of silence, a man clearing his throat and then words familiar to natives and perhaps those who've lived among the Inquisition long enough ring out in a gruff Marcher accent:]

In the long hours of the night
When hope has abandoned me,
I will see the stars and know
Your Light remains.

[Another pause, briefer, a perhaps embarrassed huffing breath of what might be a laugh--]

My name is Brother Deacon, my Revered Mother sent me to Kirkwall to offer comfort to the Inquisition, seems I came just in time. If there are those who need to speak, we can talk this way. Or if you're here, and you feel as if all have abandoned you - though they have not - then I'll be in the prayer garden. Does the mind and body good to take the air when these things come up. Bit of peace when the chapels are in towers.

[When this place has no Chantry.]

Comments

[rowancrowned]

Do you prefer the Canticle of Trials?

[wroughtamiss]

The Canticle of Trials were composed by Our Lady Andraste in praise of the Maker, they're deeply beloved by many of the Faithful. But with so many of the Inquisition lost or suffering as they are now in the same lands as she was lost, the verses seemed appropriate.

[He clears his throat, and-- well this verse is the one that has to be said humbly, might be belted out by some but now is not the time.]

Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.

[rowancrowned]

[ thranduil, in answering rhythm: ]

‘I am not alone. Even
As I stumble on the path
With my eyes closed, yet I see
The Light is here.‘

I will confess to a fondness for the Cantile of Exaltations, myself.

[wroughtamiss]

Kordillus Drakon was a holy man with a vision. [Which is Deacon both saying and not saying anything about Orlais and it's role in the Chantry, the recording of the history of Andraste. You don't get to be fifty inside the same Chantry all your life without picking and choosing your words.]

I didn't get your name serah, I would for one of the few who'd speak the Chant back to me so clearly.

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil.

[ does he need say more? his reputation precedes him in several ways, and here the other shoe will drop. probably. ]

[wroughtamiss]

[That's three of them then and it makes sense that the Dalish would have little and less to do with him. Unseen, his mouth hardens.]

The Provost. You've bothered to educate yourself more than others.

[rowancrowned]

[ behind his teeth, a quip: 'is it not suitable for the head of research to research?'.

but no. instead, naively: ]

This is my home, now. And I was- am- curious. We have no representatives of the Chantry here besides Brother Jehan, and he is oft occupied with other matters.

[wroughtamiss]

[Brother Jehan, Orlesian, head stuffed full of tales and fondant fancies.

Also the head of research is a demon until the next Divine states otherwise, which will be a fair time coming by Deacon's reckoning.]

Brother Jehan is more scholar than I am and my junior by some twenty years. I've called one Chantry home my whole life.

[If we're talking about homes then that should paint a picture. Marchers being what they are into the bargain.]

Not all would call this place their home, education has clearly been lacking.

[rowancrowned]

You possess the practical knowledge, the applied theory. I know I would benefit greatly from it, if you saw fit to share. Reading the Chant only brings one so far.

[ there is an honesty cleanliness in hard work, one that thranduil appreciates. ]

This is my home. This is my fight. So many of the rifters are young, have hopes, families. The truth is a bitter tea, let them drink it slowly, as long as they drink it.

[wroughtamiss]

I can arrange for that. If the education has been lacking and since Kirkwall lacks a Chantry proper now, as if a garden is fit enough for the Faithful.

[That all this time it's languished then the Inquisition, tainted as it very much is should make that decision galls him.

But he is to report. This one is in power. This one isn't ungrateful speaking of home and their faith or their ways as if they might sit alongside. Not yet.]

And all of you weren't a bitter brew for Thedas? Salt in the wounds of those who'd seen so much strife? Need I list all that they've gone through these past ten years or so? They've had little chance but to have it forced down their throats and this is their home.

[rowancrowned]

[ he ties the two halves of the conversation together as neatly as he can: ]

May I join you, in the garden?

[wroughtamiss]

[This is--

He's no Templar. But some of the Chantry (fractured, divided, perhaps ready to sunder itself to seat their own candidate upon the Sunburst Throne) declare them one thing.

There are times he's been in greater danger.]

I'm in the prayer garden. You'll know who I am.

[It's as close to saying yes as you'll get Thranduil. Which will be a balding, shaven-headed man, more than fit for his age folded into a pose that certainly isn't prayer that's drawn a crowd who should have better things to do than gawp at a Brother old enough to be their father in some cases.]