It is a late enough hour that even those last few, rather unfortunate souls stumbling in and out of the Chantry were gone. Their distracting noises, such as fresh tears or mutterings of false faith, was gone. Peace settles in the absence of it, resettling like a disturbed dove, and tucking it’s head against the other who sat within its nest. Were this dove real, es would stroke it’s weary head, though es does so in another fashion: with tea. The tiny kettle set before esh boils upon flames tinged green with the Fade and barely makes a sound as es drops carefully plucked leaves into it’s depths.
The sharpness of peppermint cuts the chill that threatens to descend upon the garden, for as sturdy as Skyhold was, it has grown cold. The spirits lingering within the walls still slept, mostly soundly, even as es reaches out to them. It was most concerning! So es brews and drinks tea, to warm esalin, and to distract the chill. And perhaps, if es may be so bold, to draw those who were far too reclusive for their own good out of their dens.
To walk with mortals was not beneath him, but far from preferred.
Rising from a lack of death has proceed him before every step within these halls, the Hold filled with wary, buzzing distrust before he even entered. Then again, that was to be expected; the ones who called Skyhold their new home were fools. Distrust was pale to the fear and wariness he had once invoked in those who crossed his path. There was fear here too, but arrogance mixed within it, and those Shemlen who thought themselves grand enough to ‘intervene’ should he lose control. It was almost as if they believed their own weaknesses applied to him.
He lingers in the dark, reading and listening, for that is what best suited for him now. Rasdalelen maintains peace where he could-- but one voice is weak against the voices of many, at least in mortal terms. This was no rally, no uprising; it was a force. A force led by the child of slaves and burdened with the idiocy of Shemlen. He lingers in the basement library, reading and watching, waiting for the sun to set and the fools to tuck themselves in. Then there was only silence (a lie, for he can hear the dull roar of hidden secrets, scrabbling at dirtied stones to be known once more) to greet him; empty halls beckoning silent foot steps to lead him astray. The scent of mint tickles him before he enters the garden, for it had been led to him, and he to it.
After all, it was not wise to ignore the wishes of one who spun death.
“I am glad to see your manners have not failed you--” Yet his has, blatantly and far from mistakenly; he lowers his blow in time with his body. His staff touches the earth nary a moment before it roots itself, the wood so pure and old twining into the roots that hide underneath the grass. The fresh leaves blooming from the staff (their color pale with dark veins, as if still feeling leeched of sun after the eons spent locked away) reach towards the moonlight, basking in the calm even as his settling drags a weight into the air, and his sleeves drag pristine and silently against the ground. “Uil.”
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