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[Early Firstfall, 9:31; Hanamene Thornecroft]
The voyage had been unpleasant. Cullen had found it difficult to breathe below-deck and thus spent the majority of his time amongst the working crew of the vessel bound for Kirkwall. He slept little during the whole of the journey. The ship's captain seemed to appreciate his presence, for some reason. Even if the templar half-dozed where he stood, half of the time. Again, he slept little. Between the nightmares that jerked him awake and to attention and the frigid air of the Waking Sea, Cullen couldn't have slept if he'd wanted to. And he didn't want to. He wanted to be awake the moment Kirkwall came into view, because only then would he truly believe that the life he'd left in Ferelden was really behind him. Good riddance to it. And good riddance to the boy he was there. In Kirkwall, he was to be afforded a fresh start and fresh opportunity to become the man he had wished to be. He'd only recently turned twenty.
The weather turned. Not that it had been terribly pleasant to begin with, but just as he caught his first glimpse of the City of Chains on the horizon ahead of them – a wintry storm rolled in, wholly unlike those he was accustom to in Ferelden. Icy rain beat down upon Cullen and the crew of the ship, the latter were undeterred by the elements and diligently brought the vessel to its berth safely. Just in time, too, as hale soon followed. Disembarking from the vessel, Cullen sheltered himself and, briefly, another passenger using his templar's shield to deflect the hale. Gentle clinks were followed by resonant clangs, depending on the size of each pellet. Up ahead, a dark-haired woman held a shield of her own, not dissimilar from Cullen's, aloft all the same – waiting for his arrival.
"Your pardon," Cullen told the fellow, former passenger, "This is where we must part ways." The former passenger in question nodded appreciatively, if with a rueful expression, before darting out from beneath Cullen's shield and into the rain and hale. The templar turned toward the dark-haired woman, and steadily approached.
"Knight-Lieutenant Cullen?" she asked, her gaze shrewd but not unfriendly. She had a gentle voice, which he found a little surprising.
Cullen nodded. Knight-Commander Greagoir may have seen to his transfer, none too long after his return to Kinloch Hold after a brief stay in Greenfell, but Cullen was grateful he hadn't been demoted as well. The transfer was a welcome one, either way. Rumors about Cullen had already begun to swirl at the Circle. Had he been overzealous upon his return from Greenfell? Perhaps. Had he gone on a killing spree, striking down three mage apprentices? Absolutely not. He struggled with what happened to him during the Blight, but he maintained his sanity in the end. Only just? Again, perhaps.
The dark-haired woman introduced herself, extending her free hand, "Ser Agatha." She was a templar, like him. "Let's not dally in this weather," she told him, "If you will, follow me."
Of course, he would. Cullen fell in line behind her, allowing himself to be led through the streets of Kirkwall. The buildings were largely made of stone and loomed higher than he would have thought possible. It was his first exposure to the grandeur of Tevinter architecture, but the piss poor weather and Ser Agatha's hurried pace meant there was no time to stand and marvel at it like an idiot. At least, in that, he held off until they arrived at the Gallows where Cullen stopped dead in his tracks. The statues with tortured expressions caught him completely off guard. "Maker-" he uttered.
Agatha turned around to note his astonishment, telling him, "You get used to them."
"How?" he muttered under his breath while furrowing his brow and following suit of Agatha for the second time. She led him to their destination at last: Templar Hall. Cullen's heart sunk. It looked like a prison. He wouldn't allow that first impression to unman him, however. He pressed on, following the other templar.
They passed through a large set of gates to a courtyard yet exposed to the elements still. "I'm not sure which quarters you're to be assigned," Agatha admitted, "But there's a common hall just up ahead, you can rest a moment and meet more of our number while all that's being sorted."
"That's perfectly fine, thank you," Cullen said, grateful to be led from out of the hale and into a warm, firelit common hall. Both Agatha and Cullen made for the large hearth situated to their left upon entry. It was a massive stone fireplace. Again, unlike anything Cullen had ever laid eyes upon in his lifetime. A dozen souls could, and did, take their rest near it – Cullen gathered they must have likewise just come from outside, ahead of his and Agatha's arrival, in turn. He looked sidelong at the lot noting, by their respective vestments and uniforms, as many recruits as full-fledged templars.
The voyage had been unpleasant. Cullen had found it difficult to breathe below-deck and thus spent the majority of his time amongst the working crew of the vessel bound for Kirkwall. He slept little during the whole of the journey. The ship's captain seemed to appreciate his presence, for some reason. Even if the templar half-dozed where he stood, half of the time. Again, he slept little. Between the nightmares that jerked him awake and to attention and the frigid air of the Waking Sea, Cullen couldn't have slept if he'd wanted to. And he didn't want to. He wanted to be awake the moment Kirkwall came into view, because only then would he truly believe that the life he'd left in Ferelden was really behind him. Good riddance to it. And good riddance to the boy he was there. In Kirkwall, he was to be afforded a fresh start and fresh opportunity to become the man he had wished to be. He'd only recently turned twenty.
The weather turned. Not that it had been terribly pleasant to begin with, but just as he caught his first glimpse of the City of Chains on the horizon ahead of them – a wintry storm rolled in, wholly unlike those he was accustom to in Ferelden. Icy rain beat down upon Cullen and the crew of the ship, the latter were undeterred by the elements and diligently brought the vessel to its berth safely. Just in time, too, as hale soon followed. Disembarking from the vessel, Cullen sheltered himself and, briefly, another passenger using his templar's shield to deflect the hale. Gentle clinks were followed by resonant clangs, depending on the size of each pellet. Up ahead, a dark-haired woman held a shield of her own, not dissimilar from Cullen's, aloft all the same – waiting for his arrival.
"Your pardon," Cullen told the fellow, former passenger, "This is where we must part ways." The former passenger in question nodded appreciatively, if with a rueful expression, before darting out from beneath Cullen's shield and into the rain and hale. The templar turned toward the dark-haired woman, and steadily approached.
"Knight-Lieutenant Cullen?" she asked, her gaze shrewd but not unfriendly. She had a gentle voice, which he found a little surprising.
Cullen nodded. Knight-Commander Greagoir may have seen to his transfer, none too long after his return to Kinloch Hold after a brief stay in Greenfell, but Cullen was grateful he hadn't been demoted as well. The transfer was a welcome one, either way. Rumors about Cullen had already begun to swirl at the Circle. Had he been overzealous upon his return from Greenfell? Perhaps. Had he gone on a killing spree, striking down three mage apprentices? Absolutely not. He struggled with what happened to him during the Blight, but he maintained his sanity in the end. Only just? Again, perhaps.
The dark-haired woman introduced herself, extending her free hand, "Ser Agatha." She was a templar, like him. "Let's not dally in this weather," she told him, "If you will, follow me."
Of course, he would. Cullen fell in line behind her, allowing himself to be led through the streets of Kirkwall. The buildings were largely made of stone and loomed higher than he would have thought possible. It was his first exposure to the grandeur of Tevinter architecture, but the piss poor weather and Ser Agatha's hurried pace meant there was no time to stand and marvel at it like an idiot. At least, in that, he held off until they arrived at the Gallows where Cullen stopped dead in his tracks. The statues with tortured expressions caught him completely off guard. "Maker-" he uttered.
Agatha turned around to note his astonishment, telling him, "You get used to them."
"How?" he muttered under his breath while furrowing his brow and following suit of Agatha for the second time. She led him to their destination at last: Templar Hall. Cullen's heart sunk. It looked like a prison. He wouldn't allow that first impression to unman him, however. He pressed on, following the other templar.
They passed through a large set of gates to a courtyard yet exposed to the elements still. "I'm not sure which quarters you're to be assigned," Agatha admitted, "But there's a common hall just up ahead, you can rest a moment and meet more of our number while all that's being sorted."
"That's perfectly fine, thank you," Cullen said, grateful to be led from out of the hale and into a warm, firelit common hall. Both Agatha and Cullen made for the large hearth situated to their left upon entry. It was a massive stone fireplace. Again, unlike anything Cullen had ever laid eyes upon in his lifetime. A dozen souls could, and did, take their rest near it – Cullen gathered they must have likewise just come from outside, ahead of his and Agatha's arrival, in turn. He looked sidelong at the lot noting, by their respective vestments and uniforms, as many recruits as full-fledged templars.