@grar / starter call (accepting).
A warrior, Varric said, someone reliable, and Astoria has learned by now that questioning Varric is foolish at best. He tells the truth when it matters, and in this, it matters. And he wasn't exaggerating here, she's learned; Fenris' arrival was welcome, and that he's remained with the Inquisition at all, for whatever reason, is a gift. She is half desperate for allies, and there is something undeniably soothing about seeing him on a battlefield, swinging a sword that seems to be as tall as he is, and knowing at least he's not swinging that sword at us.
But there are no swords now, no battles, no blood. There is always something new to worry over, and not for the first time, Astoria stands at her war table, her hair in a crooked braid over her shoulder and a cloak thrown hastily over her nightgown and wrapped tightly around her in the cold, a new and inevitably important missive held in her hand as she reads by candlelight. It's so late it's early, and she'd only just begun to drift to sleep when one of Leliana's women rapped on her door to make the delivery with some urgency.
"I'm sorry to summon you like this." If she ever looks imperious in the daylight, she certainly doesn't now. Her voice is husky from exhaustion and she can't stifle a yawn, and for once, the thought of politics has her miserable. She's sent all the rest to bed; Cullen had tried to argue it and she'd insisted that at least one person she trusted to handle things while she slept should be well-rested when morning came. And she cannot quiet her mind long enough to get any rest herself, despite her body's desperation for sleep, and so she sits here, and she stares at the letter, and she ignores the tea someone brought her an hour ago that's gone cold beside her.
And so the request for his presence comes not from the Inquisitor in all her glory, but rather from an exceedingly tired woman who, if asked right now, might hand over her throne to Corypheus if it meant an uninterrupted night. "The Prince of Starkhaven wrote. We had hoped for his support, given his piety, but it seems he has conditions, should he extend any friendship to us." She remembers the tea, now, and she holds the cup between her hands, watching as the water slowly heats and her skin glows a pale gold. "He is, it seems, intending to invade Kirkwall, and demand Hawke and Anders be surrendered to him.
"You knew him, did you not?" She fights off another yawn, and she shakes her head. "Would he follow through on his threat?" And then, with a hint of real unease in her voice—"Hawke and Anders aren't still in Kirkwall, I can only assume. I can only hope. What danger is Kirkwall in, if he does move to occupy the city?"