Asala might never have felt so out of place in her entire life. As a Qunari, there were more than a few places that she felt like she just didn't belong, but here in Orlais, in the middle of what was perhaps the most extravagant (and dangerous) party she had ever witnessed, felt like more like a fish out of water. The stares she received most certainly didn't help, and no matter how far she retreated into her shoulders, there was no way to make herself smaller to hide amongst the crowd. No, with her height, and her horns, and her gleaming dress, she stood out and she was keenly aware of it as well. Maybe it was for the better, however, as maybe she took some of the attention away from the others who had ought to be with her as well.
She had obediently followed Marceline and her husband as they reentered the ballroom, and toward the refreshments. Like everything else in the palace, the food too looked spectacular, and was provided with an obvious attention to detail. Dainty sandwiches, salads, various baked goods, vibrant fruits, and all different types of hors d'oeuvre, not to mention an entire table set aside for the beverages. Asala had settled on nibbling on a small cheese sandwich, while it appeared that Michaël was comfortable enough to take a number of the heavier sandwiches to eat.
Lady Marceline, on the other hand, hovered over the beverage table, and appeared to be eyeing the bottles of wine. "Did your mother send a shipment?" Michaël asked after politely swallowing the bite of his sandwich.
She eventually answered with a affirming nod. "She did, with our Storm Age vintage. It appears to be moderately popular," she replied, a bit of pride in her voice, and a smile at the elf who was pouring the drinks behind the table. Marceline then pointing toward a specific bottle. Eventually, a glass was poured and offered to her, which she accepted with a gracious dip. Marceline must have caught Asala watching her, because she answered the unasked question. "Do not worry, I do not plan on over imbibing," she said with a comforting smile.
Khari, on the other hand, was not eating, which given the presence of obviously-delicious food, was extremely unusual. Asala had seen her at meal times; for someone of her relatively-small size, she could really pack away food. Which made sense, given the near-constant exercise she did. If anything, though, she was a little... absent at the moment. Staring out into the room, watching the colors and people sporting them pass by with an unusually-blank expression. Like she wasn't quite seeing them at all.
It appeared that Michaël had noticed as well, as he soon diverted his focus from his food to her. He quietly watched her for a moment or two, before he finally spoke up. "How are you doing there, Khari?" he asked kindly. As if to second the inquiry, Asala quickly nodded her head in agreement.
She looked startled for a moment, as though surprised to have been addressed. Khari cleared her throat, shaking her head slightly and sending several vibrant curls askew. Even the thick braid nested a few inches behind her hairline wasn't doing a great deal to stop the artless tumble of them. “Oh, uh... yeah. Fine, thanks." She didn't sound particularly convincing even to Asala, and her smile was strained. “Kinda can't wait for this to be over, though."
"Me too," Asala replied quietly in between nibbles of her sandwich. At the very least, it gave her hands something to do. Without it, she had no idea what to do with her arms.
Michaël sighed through his nose, a noncommittal sound if she'd ever heard one. He glanced between the two of them, causing Asala to drop her gaze at least for a second. "It will not become any easier I'm afraid," he answered honestly. Asala initially thought that he was talking about the rest of the night, but after watching him observe Khari for an extra moment she was no longer sure.
Khari grimaced in response; clearly there was some other meaning to the statement, and she'd picked up on it. “Yeah, I know. It's just..." The grimace became a scowl; she waved a hand halfheartedly out at the crowd. “I know how to prove what I can do. But I can't do that if no one even gives me a chance. If they won't even acknowledge that I exist. If I was dirt, fine, but I'm not nothing." A muscle in her jaw flexed—she was clenching her teeth quite hard, but then she relaxed it and sighed. “Whatever. I'll get over it. And then I'll get used to it, if I have to."
"You'll get a chance to prove it to them," Michaël answered confidently and with no hesitation. "You are too damned persistent not to get yourself one," he said with a shake of his head. "And we both know you won't get used to it, if you have anything to say about it. You'll work at it until you drop like you do everything else. It's actually quite impressive."
"You are... tenacious," Asala agreed with what she hoped was confident smile. Confidence in her.
Michaël then gently jostled her with his elbow and lowered his plate so that she could take one of the sandwiches if she pleased. "For what it's worth, I think you got Théo to acknowledge you. Hard to ignore a broken nose," he said with one of the grins Asala usually saw him with.
Khari managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere. “Yeah. Guess he probably won't be forgetting me anytime soon, huh?" She didn't look completely at ease with the thought, but she did relax a little and pick up a sandwich from the plate. “I'm gonna regret this if I have to fight later." She took a large bite anyway.
She didn't have long to finish it. Not two or three minutes later, a man nervously approached the cluster of them. Well, not a man in the stricter sense, as he was quite clearly an elf, greying blond hair not quite concealing his ears. He was better-dressed than most, though, and didn't hold himself in quite the same hunched way as most of the others around here tended to. He had melancholy features, like he was more used to worrying or fretting than letting such things go. Though this didn't make him look especially brave, it was Lady Marceline he approached, which said otherwise, in a certain way.
Sketching a hasty bow, he spoke in a low voice. "Forgive my rudeness, milady, but I'm afraid there is little time." He rose, words flowing from him rapidly as water from a cliff face. "I serve House D'Artignon. My employer requests the presence of Lady Estella, but I do not know where to find her, and the matter is of considerable urgency. Would you perhaps be able to act in her stead?"
Marceline spared a solitary glance toward their direction, before the began to speak to the man who'd addressed her. "Perhaps, but I would like a few more details than what you have given me first, if possible." She was careful with her tone, though it was clear it was guarded. She spared another glance toward them, and relented a little, "But I suppose if it is as urgent as you say, if you would prefer, we could walk as you fill us in?" She stated, as she sat her half empty wine glass on the table.
For a moment, his placidity cracked; he looked caught somewhere between exasperation and concern. "Yes, please, let us hurry. I will explain as we go." With a quick glance to confirm that they were indeed following, he spoke in an even lower voice, soft enough that Asala could only barely hear it. "The guest wing—Lord Philippe Leroy has been killed. It's only a matter of time before others discover the same, but there are... complications. Ones Lord Julien believed it would be wise for all of you to know about first."
They passed into the foyer as he spoke, moving around the edges of the crowd as fast as they could without drawing overt attention to themselves. They got a few aside glances, but nothing that lasted too long, and then the man ducked into a side hallway, thankfully not one of those off limits. They'd surely have been noticed if it were.
With another turn, they found themselves in a lavishly-appointed corridor, rich blue and gold carpet runners laid over the darker grey marble tiles. At regular intervals were luxuriant art pieces, both paintings and vases and the like. The frames and ceramics were often gilt in gold or silver, pieces of precious gems inlaid to complex, ornate patterns, many of them with floral or animal motifs. Even the end tables some of them rested on were works of art in wood: kept relatively simple so as not to compete for attention, but nonetheless striking in their own way.
About halfway down the hall, a door was open. Upon hearing the noise of their approach, a man leaned out, his lips pursing for a moment beneath his fox-themed mask. His eyes were as bright a gold as any Qunari's, but he was in any other sense obviously quite human. "Gauvain? Stel's still with Q?"
The elf inclined his head. "I believe so, my lord." It was obvious enough that they were Inquisition, though, from the masks, and the man—Lord Julien, presumably—apparently decided this was sufficient. He didn't bother to bow or anything, sacrificing such niceties for the sake of time.
"I don't think anyone else has seen this yet, but you're going to want to be the first. Come in, but don't touch anything." He disappeared back into the room, clearly expecting them to heed him.
“Stel's definitely mentioned a Julien." Khari shrugged her shoulders and went in first, brushing a bit past Lady Marceline to do it. “Any friend of hers is worth the benefit of the doubt, as far as I'm concerned."
"Agreed," Marceline noted. Apparently the appearance of the lord himself put her at ease, at least that's what Asala figured. Marceline slipped into the room on the heels of Khari, with Michaël and Asala herself bringing up the rear.
The room was even more richly-decorated than the hallway, by quite a lot. The rugs here were patterned, embroidered at the edges, and brightly-colored enough that they were surely of Rivaini make. The furniture balanced them by being mostly in neutrals like cream and taupe, sumptuously threaded with even more embroidery in close colors, making the details subtle rather than overpowering. The exception to this was the large, four-poster bed, its curtains currently pulled back and tied to the dark wooden posts.
Slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed, was a man, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his chest. A small amount of blood had run down the front of his light grey doublet, streaking it to his waist. The mask on his face was porcelain, detailed in metallic paint that probably contained actual gold and silver. The shoulder-pads of his shirt drooped awkwardly, suggesting a struggle, but the bedclothes and the rest of the room were remarkably neat, all things considered.
Asala frowned and sunk a little at the sight of the body. Corpses weren't an unusual sight, at least not in their business, but... to be so near a gilded affair. Though she knew that it was dangerous, she had not truly felt it until now. Asala looked toward Marceline, a found that she did not seem the least bit surprised. Disappointed, she'd gathered from her quiet sigh, but not surprised. However, it was Michaël who was the first to speak. He had taken up a crouched position near the corpse in order to get a better look, before glancing up to Marceline. "It appears we have found our missing Herald," he said dryly. He then took one long meaningful glance at the dagger embedded into his chest and then looked back to his wife.
"I see it too, Micky," she noted. It made Asala take a closer look at the dagger, and on inspection, it bore a black lion. "It is Gaspard's," she revealed, folding her arms across her chest. In the meantime, Asala had drawn near the body, and had just began to reach out to touch his wrist before being interrupted. "Asala. Be careful," Marceline warned. "Try not to disturb him too much," she added.
"Uh, yes. Of course," she replied, and gently pressed her fingers to his wrist. There was no pulse, but that much was obvious. What was not as obvious was the warmth that remained. She then took a look at the blood on his chest, before she nodded, deciding on something. "He was only recently killed," she stated, carefully retrieving her fingers, "He is still warm, and the blood is still fresh." She then stood back up, and took a careful step backward. The man was far too gone for her to do anything else for him.
“Uh, so." Khari remained a little further back perhaps still following the instruction not to touch anything. “I'm not exactly an expert here, but I do stab things a lot, and he probably should have bled way more than that if the stab wound was the thing that killed him." She reached up to scratch an itch on her head, frowning slightly in the process. “Makes me think he was probably stabbed after he died, you know? Blood's not moving around anymore, so not as much will come out." She shrugged, letting her arm fall back to her side with a soft thud against her skirt.
Gauvain looked rather surprised, but Julien clearly did not. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "I thought the same, which is why I asked you here. I... know someone who is much more familiar with the dead. She may be able to tell us more about the exact cause of Lord Leroy's death, but I think it's fairly clear that someone is framing Gaspard for it." Lifting one hand partway, he scratched at his chin with the side of his thumb. "This setup—luring someone into a bedroom for the obvious and then killing them there—this is a classic Bard's ploy. There'd have been more of a struggle if he was outright attacked. I'm guessing poison or something like that. Than, as you said, the attempt to frame Gaspard."
His lips thinned as he compressed them. "But it's very obvious, the dagger. Almost too obvious. Few people I know would take such a thing at face value. But if the assailant wishes us to know it was a framing... to what end? Who would care if Gaspard is framed for something he doubtless didn't do?" He sounded like he already had a hypothesis, but he refrained from giving it at this point if so, glancing at the others instead.
"Gaspard most certainly would," Marceline answered simply, which caused a brow to raise on Asala's face. "The Grand Duke is too straight forward. He is one of the few that I can think of that would mistake this attempt as the actual thing," she added with a sigh.
"Quite." Julien loosened his arms, only to clasp them again at the small of his back. "And given the fact that this wing is not restricted for the party, it is only a matter of time before Gaspard is informed of what happened here. We could try to hide it, but it seems clear to me that someone has it in for him, so to speak. Far be it from me to strategize on the Inquisition's behalf, but were I you, I would allow him to find out then have him followed. If he springs a trap, you can thereby thwart it and gain some valuable information in the process, I should expect."
“Trigger the trap we know about so he doesn't end up triggering something we don't." Khari contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged. “Seems like a good idea to me. Maybe we could get some dirt on him, too." Clearly, though, she wasn't planning to make the decision herself; she glanced at Michaël and Lady Marceline. “It's almost time for the dancing, too, so he probably won't be able to leave until after, right? The others will be back by then."
Marceline held an arm out toward her husband, which he took and used to help himself out of his kneeling position. After he was back on his feet, she answered. "That appears to be our best option at the moment," she stated, though she appeared to be a little uncomfortable about the idea. However, she must have seen it as a necessity because she did not try to offer an alternative or put up any resistance. "The others should know regardless. We are not the best suited for stealth, after all. That task will inevitably fall to some of the others."
Before they took their leave, however, Marceline turned toward Julien and dipped into an appreciative bow. "Thank you, Lord Julien, for this opportunity you've given us, and I know Estella will be appreciative as well."
He inclined his head in a gracious nod, offering the barest trace of a smile. "I aim to please." The words were heavy with something—irony, maybe—but they seemed genuine enough. "We'll take care of this in the meantime. Tread carefully, Inquisition. We're well and truly in the deep end now."
She had obediently followed Marceline and her husband as they reentered the ballroom, and toward the refreshments. Like everything else in the palace, the food too looked spectacular, and was provided with an obvious attention to detail. Dainty sandwiches, salads, various baked goods, vibrant fruits, and all different types of hors d'oeuvre, not to mention an entire table set aside for the beverages. Asala had settled on nibbling on a small cheese sandwich, while it appeared that Michaël was comfortable enough to take a number of the heavier sandwiches to eat.
Lady Marceline, on the other hand, hovered over the beverage table, and appeared to be eyeing the bottles of wine. "Did your mother send a shipment?" Michaël asked after politely swallowing the bite of his sandwich.
She eventually answered with a affirming nod. "She did, with our Storm Age vintage. It appears to be moderately popular," she replied, a bit of pride in her voice, and a smile at the elf who was pouring the drinks behind the table. Marceline then pointing toward a specific bottle. Eventually, a glass was poured and offered to her, which she accepted with a gracious dip. Marceline must have caught Asala watching her, because she answered the unasked question. "Do not worry, I do not plan on over imbibing," she said with a comforting smile.
Khari, on the other hand, was not eating, which given the presence of obviously-delicious food, was extremely unusual. Asala had seen her at meal times; for someone of her relatively-small size, she could really pack away food. Which made sense, given the near-constant exercise she did. If anything, though, she was a little... absent at the moment. Staring out into the room, watching the colors and people sporting them pass by with an unusually-blank expression. Like she wasn't quite seeing them at all.
It appeared that Michaël had noticed as well, as he soon diverted his focus from his food to her. He quietly watched her for a moment or two, before he finally spoke up. "How are you doing there, Khari?" he asked kindly. As if to second the inquiry, Asala quickly nodded her head in agreement.
She looked startled for a moment, as though surprised to have been addressed. Khari cleared her throat, shaking her head slightly and sending several vibrant curls askew. Even the thick braid nested a few inches behind her hairline wasn't doing a great deal to stop the artless tumble of them. “Oh, uh... yeah. Fine, thanks." She didn't sound particularly convincing even to Asala, and her smile was strained. “Kinda can't wait for this to be over, though."
"Me too," Asala replied quietly in between nibbles of her sandwich. At the very least, it gave her hands something to do. Without it, she had no idea what to do with her arms.
Michaël sighed through his nose, a noncommittal sound if she'd ever heard one. He glanced between the two of them, causing Asala to drop her gaze at least for a second. "It will not become any easier I'm afraid," he answered honestly. Asala initially thought that he was talking about the rest of the night, but after watching him observe Khari for an extra moment she was no longer sure.
Khari grimaced in response; clearly there was some other meaning to the statement, and she'd picked up on it. “Yeah, I know. It's just..." The grimace became a scowl; she waved a hand halfheartedly out at the crowd. “I know how to prove what I can do. But I can't do that if no one even gives me a chance. If they won't even acknowledge that I exist. If I was dirt, fine, but I'm not nothing." A muscle in her jaw flexed—she was clenching her teeth quite hard, but then she relaxed it and sighed. “Whatever. I'll get over it. And then I'll get used to it, if I have to."
"You'll get a chance to prove it to them," Michaël answered confidently and with no hesitation. "You are too damned persistent not to get yourself one," he said with a shake of his head. "And we both know you won't get used to it, if you have anything to say about it. You'll work at it until you drop like you do everything else. It's actually quite impressive."
"You are... tenacious," Asala agreed with what she hoped was confident smile. Confidence in her.
Michaël then gently jostled her with his elbow and lowered his plate so that she could take one of the sandwiches if she pleased. "For what it's worth, I think you got Théo to acknowledge you. Hard to ignore a broken nose," he said with one of the grins Asala usually saw him with.
Khari managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere. “Yeah. Guess he probably won't be forgetting me anytime soon, huh?" She didn't look completely at ease with the thought, but she did relax a little and pick up a sandwich from the plate. “I'm gonna regret this if I have to fight later." She took a large bite anyway.
She didn't have long to finish it. Not two or three minutes later, a man nervously approached the cluster of them. Well, not a man in the stricter sense, as he was quite clearly an elf, greying blond hair not quite concealing his ears. He was better-dressed than most, though, and didn't hold himself in quite the same hunched way as most of the others around here tended to. He had melancholy features, like he was more used to worrying or fretting than letting such things go. Though this didn't make him look especially brave, it was Lady Marceline he approached, which said otherwise, in a certain way.
Sketching a hasty bow, he spoke in a low voice. "Forgive my rudeness, milady, but I'm afraid there is little time." He rose, words flowing from him rapidly as water from a cliff face. "I serve House D'Artignon. My employer requests the presence of Lady Estella, but I do not know where to find her, and the matter is of considerable urgency. Would you perhaps be able to act in her stead?"
Marceline spared a solitary glance toward their direction, before the began to speak to the man who'd addressed her. "Perhaps, but I would like a few more details than what you have given me first, if possible." She was careful with her tone, though it was clear it was guarded. She spared another glance toward them, and relented a little, "But I suppose if it is as urgent as you say, if you would prefer, we could walk as you fill us in?" She stated, as she sat her half empty wine glass on the table.
For a moment, his placidity cracked; he looked caught somewhere between exasperation and concern. "Yes, please, let us hurry. I will explain as we go." With a quick glance to confirm that they were indeed following, he spoke in an even lower voice, soft enough that Asala could only barely hear it. "The guest wing—Lord Philippe Leroy has been killed. It's only a matter of time before others discover the same, but there are... complications. Ones Lord Julien believed it would be wise for all of you to know about first."
They passed into the foyer as he spoke, moving around the edges of the crowd as fast as they could without drawing overt attention to themselves. They got a few aside glances, but nothing that lasted too long, and then the man ducked into a side hallway, thankfully not one of those off limits. They'd surely have been noticed if it were.
With another turn, they found themselves in a lavishly-appointed corridor, rich blue and gold carpet runners laid over the darker grey marble tiles. At regular intervals were luxuriant art pieces, both paintings and vases and the like. The frames and ceramics were often gilt in gold or silver, pieces of precious gems inlaid to complex, ornate patterns, many of them with floral or animal motifs. Even the end tables some of them rested on were works of art in wood: kept relatively simple so as not to compete for attention, but nonetheless striking in their own way.
About halfway down the hall, a door was open. Upon hearing the noise of their approach, a man leaned out, his lips pursing for a moment beneath his fox-themed mask. His eyes were as bright a gold as any Qunari's, but he was in any other sense obviously quite human. "Gauvain? Stel's still with Q?"
The elf inclined his head. "I believe so, my lord." It was obvious enough that they were Inquisition, though, from the masks, and the man—Lord Julien, presumably—apparently decided this was sufficient. He didn't bother to bow or anything, sacrificing such niceties for the sake of time.
"I don't think anyone else has seen this yet, but you're going to want to be the first. Come in, but don't touch anything." He disappeared back into the room, clearly expecting them to heed him.
“Stel's definitely mentioned a Julien." Khari shrugged her shoulders and went in first, brushing a bit past Lady Marceline to do it. “Any friend of hers is worth the benefit of the doubt, as far as I'm concerned."
"Agreed," Marceline noted. Apparently the appearance of the lord himself put her at ease, at least that's what Asala figured. Marceline slipped into the room on the heels of Khari, with Michaël and Asala herself bringing up the rear.
The room was even more richly-decorated than the hallway, by quite a lot. The rugs here were patterned, embroidered at the edges, and brightly-colored enough that they were surely of Rivaini make. The furniture balanced them by being mostly in neutrals like cream and taupe, sumptuously threaded with even more embroidery in close colors, making the details subtle rather than overpowering. The exception to this was the large, four-poster bed, its curtains currently pulled back and tied to the dark wooden posts.
Slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed, was a man, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his chest. A small amount of blood had run down the front of his light grey doublet, streaking it to his waist. The mask on his face was porcelain, detailed in metallic paint that probably contained actual gold and silver. The shoulder-pads of his shirt drooped awkwardly, suggesting a struggle, but the bedclothes and the rest of the room were remarkably neat, all things considered.
Asala frowned and sunk a little at the sight of the body. Corpses weren't an unusual sight, at least not in their business, but... to be so near a gilded affair. Though she knew that it was dangerous, she had not truly felt it until now. Asala looked toward Marceline, a found that she did not seem the least bit surprised. Disappointed, she'd gathered from her quiet sigh, but not surprised. However, it was Michaël who was the first to speak. He had taken up a crouched position near the corpse in order to get a better look, before glancing up to Marceline. "It appears we have found our missing Herald," he said dryly. He then took one long meaningful glance at the dagger embedded into his chest and then looked back to his wife.
"I see it too, Micky," she noted. It made Asala take a closer look at the dagger, and on inspection, it bore a black lion. "It is Gaspard's," she revealed, folding her arms across her chest. In the meantime, Asala had drawn near the body, and had just began to reach out to touch his wrist before being interrupted. "Asala. Be careful," Marceline warned. "Try not to disturb him too much," she added.
"Uh, yes. Of course," she replied, and gently pressed her fingers to his wrist. There was no pulse, but that much was obvious. What was not as obvious was the warmth that remained. She then took a look at the blood on his chest, before she nodded, deciding on something. "He was only recently killed," she stated, carefully retrieving her fingers, "He is still warm, and the blood is still fresh." She then stood back up, and took a careful step backward. The man was far too gone for her to do anything else for him.
“Uh, so." Khari remained a little further back perhaps still following the instruction not to touch anything. “I'm not exactly an expert here, but I do stab things a lot, and he probably should have bled way more than that if the stab wound was the thing that killed him." She reached up to scratch an itch on her head, frowning slightly in the process. “Makes me think he was probably stabbed after he died, you know? Blood's not moving around anymore, so not as much will come out." She shrugged, letting her arm fall back to her side with a soft thud against her skirt.
Gauvain looked rather surprised, but Julien clearly did not. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "I thought the same, which is why I asked you here. I... know someone who is much more familiar with the dead. She may be able to tell us more about the exact cause of Lord Leroy's death, but I think it's fairly clear that someone is framing Gaspard for it." Lifting one hand partway, he scratched at his chin with the side of his thumb. "This setup—luring someone into a bedroom for the obvious and then killing them there—this is a classic Bard's ploy. There'd have been more of a struggle if he was outright attacked. I'm guessing poison or something like that. Than, as you said, the attempt to frame Gaspard."
His lips thinned as he compressed them. "But it's very obvious, the dagger. Almost too obvious. Few people I know would take such a thing at face value. But if the assailant wishes us to know it was a framing... to what end? Who would care if Gaspard is framed for something he doubtless didn't do?" He sounded like he already had a hypothesis, but he refrained from giving it at this point if so, glancing at the others instead.
"Gaspard most certainly would," Marceline answered simply, which caused a brow to raise on Asala's face. "The Grand Duke is too straight forward. He is one of the few that I can think of that would mistake this attempt as the actual thing," she added with a sigh.
"Quite." Julien loosened his arms, only to clasp them again at the small of his back. "And given the fact that this wing is not restricted for the party, it is only a matter of time before Gaspard is informed of what happened here. We could try to hide it, but it seems clear to me that someone has it in for him, so to speak. Far be it from me to strategize on the Inquisition's behalf, but were I you, I would allow him to find out then have him followed. If he springs a trap, you can thereby thwart it and gain some valuable information in the process, I should expect."
“Trigger the trap we know about so he doesn't end up triggering something we don't." Khari contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged. “Seems like a good idea to me. Maybe we could get some dirt on him, too." Clearly, though, she wasn't planning to make the decision herself; she glanced at Michaël and Lady Marceline. “It's almost time for the dancing, too, so he probably won't be able to leave until after, right? The others will be back by then."
Marceline held an arm out toward her husband, which he took and used to help himself out of his kneeling position. After he was back on his feet, she answered. "That appears to be our best option at the moment," she stated, though she appeared to be a little uncomfortable about the idea. However, she must have seen it as a necessity because she did not try to offer an alternative or put up any resistance. "The others should know regardless. We are not the best suited for stealth, after all. That task will inevitably fall to some of the others."
Before they took their leave, however, Marceline turned toward Julien and dipped into an appreciative bow. "Thank you, Lord Julien, for this opportunity you've given us, and I know Estella will be appreciative as well."
He inclined his head in a gracious nod, offering the barest trace of a smile. "I aim to please." The words were heavy with something—irony, maybe—but they seemed genuine enough. "We'll take care of this in the meantime. Tread carefully, Inquisition. We're well and truly in the deep end now."