Irving

Irving sighed, cracking the knuckles of his right hand as the left set aside the last bit of paperwork for the day. He liked to think his mind was still sharp- one didn't get to be First Enchanter without some measure of skill in the arcane and political arts, and it took a keen intellect for both. But today...had not been the best of days for an old man, if he was honest. First the late night Harrowing, then the news that a Warden-Commander was on his way, and now... this. He glanced back at the last paper he had signed, frowning beneath his grey beard.

He was a moderate, as far as the fraternities went. Extremism on either side of the sensitive issues regarding Chantry involvement in the Circle got a man attention, but not the right kind. Nor did it keep the peace. Whether held down under the Divine's jackboot or driving a knife into it- both tactics led to the destruction of the Circle and those in it. He had been around long enough to figure that out, and with his guidance the Aequitarians had become the predominant party in Ferelden's Circle. Even those who disagreed, such as Uldred, worked well under the fairly neutral arrangement.

This, however... he had never quite gotten used to, even after all these years. The Rite of Tranquility. But Greagoir was quite certain. He'd received enough barking yells and pointed fingers to ascertain that point. He sighed again, this one driven more by exasperation than fatigue. The man was forever at his throat for something, and leniency towards a blood mage would hardly improve his mood. The arrival of the Warden- no doubt to ask for more troops at Ostagar- already had the senior Templar's blood boiling. He felt for the boy, surely. Freedom was a dream of many of the young and old alike. But in the Circle, the rules were as they were- for mage and templar alike. It was foolish for him to have become involved with an initiate in the first place. Irving allowed himself to chuckle at this, a dark humor behind his raspy laugh. Jowan had a weakness for forbidden trysts of all types, it seemed.

He stood then, shaking his head at the familiar sound of clanking boots and brusque shouts at passersby that neared his door yet again. If he had been in the Tower for a lifetime, so had Greagoir, and he imagined both could recognize each other's approach with their eyes closed. The chuckle came once more from his lips before he met the Knight-Commander at the door, ready to once again begin their careful dance of conversation, sniping, and a strange mutual respect.

"Greagoir," he said dryly, raising his eyebrows as the templar barged in the door. "Has an apprentice loosed a demon in the tower? Or is this purely a courtesy visit?"