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Marceline Benoit

"Speak intelligently, act politely, smile, and hide bared fangs beneath a mask."

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a character in “The Canticle of Fate”, as played by Talisman

Description

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Full Name: Marceline Élise Benoüt (MAR-cell-leen EH-leez ben-WAH)
Titles/Nicknames: Comtesse, Ambassador, Lady Marceline, Marceline will accept any of these, so long as proper respect is paid to her station. Only a select few can escape with calling her Marcy.
Age: 36 (9:42)
Race: Human
Gender: Female
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual and happily married
Class: Rogue
Specialization: Duelist

Hair Color: Charcoal Black
Eye Color: Ocean Blue
Height: 5'8"
Build: Lithe

Appearance: Nobility seeps into ever fiber of the good Lady Marceline's being, so much so that it shouldn't much more than a brief once over to realize she is a noble birth and upbringing. Standing at just above what's considered the average for a woman, Marceline nevertheless exudes an air that demands respect. She stands straight and with a purpose and does not crane her neck to look at another, either from above or below. She paints a slender figure with an hourglass shape. There is not a lot of muscle on her frame, but enough to not go without. Her build does not scream intimidating in the very least, but instead whispers grace and beauty. She takes her steps with a gentle sway of her hips and a straightened spine-- She does not bow easily.

A mane of immaculate jet black hair frames her face and falls down past her shoulders to taper off near the middle of her back. It possesses a volume to it not unheard of in Orlais, with gentle rolls that bob with each step that she takes. It's very clear that time is spent on her hair, as with her appearance as a whole. It's keeps an ever present sheen, praising the fact that she always keeps it clean, and a vague scent of lavender confirms it. She never attempts to tie it up or somehow make it seem lesser than it is. A pair of ocean sky blue eyes contrasts and complements her look. While her hair eats the light shown on it, her eyes reflect them with a spark. The glasslike orbs sit in wide sockets giving her the notion that she is always watching and that she always knows. You decide what. A beauty mark sits under one of these sockets, further reinforcing nobility.

Her face is a smallish thing, with rounded cheeks. A thin nose with thinner lips give her a petite, ceramic doll quality though she is far more expressive than that would imply. She is... controlled in her expression, much like she is with everything else. She can be found with a small smile one moment, or a thoughtful frown the next. Her eyes can go from accusing, to curiosity, to understanding in a short span of time. Anything that the moment requires. Her skin has a paleness, but not of the sickly quality, but rather that of an individual who was a stranger to constant physical activity. In fact, her skin is of a softer make and is quite silky to the touch.

She strides with a grace given to her by her station. Regal is the keyword when attempting to describe Marceline and it bleeds into everything she is and everything she does.

9:42: Moving from an established endeavor to a fledgling one takes a certain toil, and to Lady Marceline's credit she appears to be handling it very well. She uses enough make-up to cover the crow's feet around her eyes and the wrinkles beginning to form in the corners of her mouth. Otherwise, she appears to take very good care of her body.


“Grace, beauty, and strength in equal measure."


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Apparent Demeanor: Lady Marceline is a woman of many masks, masks that she chooses carefully and deliberately to fit the situation at hand. A player in the Grand Game of Orlais, she has cultivated these masks in order to further her own goals, whatever they may be at the moment. As such, she's become quite adept maneuvering and posturing herself politically. She is exactly what she needs to be in order to satisfy her agenda. Despite these masks, there are a few constants. Marceline is an educated woman. having attended college at Val Royeaux, and she speaks with an intelligent dialect with flourishes one would expect from the nobility. There's also a subtle stubbornness under the veneer of each mask, clearly belonging to a woman who always gets what she wants, sooner or later.

She's pragmatic at heart and will always attempt to take the path of least resistances, which is not to say that she is no stranger to difficulties. However, if the path available is the easiest for all involved, then it is one that she would pursue. She also possesses a tendency to "cut the knot" so to speak, if such an option presents itself. She's also a keen observer, of both body language and the smaller details. She's able to read the average person and savvy enough to use it to her own advantage. She's quick on her feet and with her tongue, and can steer a conversation toward the desired topic if need be. There's also the habit she has to research those she would meet, to know as much about them as possible. In fact, she can be considered predatory in the way she will stalk her target.

These masks can make her seem cold and conniving, and those that would call her that would not be too far off the mark. One must leave emotions at the door when they play the Game. It is dangerous to have tells, to act predictable, and to allow emotions to cloud her mind and to let others see her hand. However. This does not mean she has lost herself. There still lies a woman beneath the masks. Marceline, not the Lady Marceline, not the Comtesse, but Marceline is grounded by her husband and her son who could care less about the masks she wore. To them, she is a kind woman who would put their well-being above power and what reputation she can earn.

To those that can peel the masks back, she is a warm woman who cherishes her friendships and would do anything to see that those she would call her friends remain safe. She can laugh and joke as easily as the next person, but it's tempered. Marceline is not a woman of excess, and she is a difficult woman to anger, instead regarding the attempts with a cold ire. Even-tempered even among friends, it takes a lot for Marceline to break, whether to awkwardness, anger, or joy. She is also a devout Andrastian, though it can be forgiven to not immediately realize this. Pragmatism wins out over her faith, and she will not shove the Maker and Andraste down anyone's throat. In her experiences, debates about religion will always ignite into arguments, and arguing makes everyone look like fool.

9:42: Marceline has painted a somewhat caring figure alongside her business-like demeanor, though it is unclear that if this remains one of her masks or something more genuine. In truth, Marceline is not entirely sure herself, though perhaps it is a bit of both, glances of genuine emotion peaking out from the gaps of her masks. She has relaxed and settled into her new position very nicely, though it would be forgiven to think otherwise, considering how easy her focused demeanor returns to her when necessary. Despite that, she obtained a habit of worrying about the others in the Inquisition, though she tends to be subtle and not at all apparent about it. But she does worry for them.

Hangups/Quirks: Marceline is... Protective of her family to put it lightly. Threats to her personally are brushed off as easily as drops of rain on her shoulder, but threats to either her son or her husband with be met quickly with a cold burning fury, and the intent to see ones who made such threats no longer have the power to enact them. On the other side of the coin, Lady Marceline does not employ assassins or seek to bring physical harm or death upon her enemies. She would much rather see their station ripped out from beneath them than to see death befall them. It is a matter of pride to her, to play the Game cleanly and to keep blood off of her hands. Pride is another quirk. She has an unconscious habit to act elitist around those she would consider lesser, and there are quite a few of those individuals.

9:42: Slowly but surely, that protectiveness is starting to extend to the others in the Inquisition. This is best seen in the way she is reluctant to send the Inquisitors forth without knowing all of the facts of where they will be heading, or at the every least some of them. She is a woman of knowledge, and she does not like the idea of throwing her people into the unknown.

Strengths: Lady Marceline's strength lies in her mind, as she is both an intelligent and cunning creature. Words and information are her weapons of her choice to defeat her enemies. In the years that she has played the Grand Game of Orlais, she has cultivated a number of contacts among the nobility and elsewhere both inside and out of Orlais' courts. These dealings have made her both shrewd and canny, giving her a sort of predatory impression. Lady Marceline is ambitious and she is certain that any deal brokered benefits her or hers in the long run, and she is willing to press the envelop is she believes the reward at the end is worth it.

Make no mistake, the Ambassador is not a noble who is content to do nothing. She is a driven individual with her sights set on the end goal and has few compunctions on how she reaches them. She has a knack for reading people and she is able to be rather emphatic if the situation calls for it. Make no mistake, despite the elitist air Lady Marceline is a people person. If she weren't it would be hard to make and keep the contacts that she does, and she would be shunned at court.

Weaknesses: A chevalier, though trained by them, she is not. She is not the most combative adversary to be found on the battlefield, if she can even be found there in the first place. She is able to fight and defend herself if necessary, but her battles are fought on paper and in the court, not on a field. She is able to take on a few enemies, but she can not slay an entire unit on her own, and she would require aid from other sources to ensure she survives such encounters.

In matters other than martial, Marceline possesses a stubborn streak. When she desires something she will stop short of nothing to attain it-- just ask her husband. Pride also tends to blind her, causing her to underestimate individuals she considers lesser, of which is no small amount. More than that, however, is the disconcerting tendency she has to take on too much work and silently suffer under the weight of all the stress. It causes no small amount of worry to her family, and though the cracks are small, those close enough to her can see them. She will become a old woman long before it is her time.

Fears: Though bottled up, she harbors many fears, most of them centered on her family. She worries for Michaël's wellbeing during his tours as a soldier during the civil war. She worries that she isn't giving Pierre the time that he deserves. She fears losing everything she is and has and pulling her family under with her. Most of all, she's worried about leaving the world without making it a better place for Pierre to live in.


“When one plays the Game, they must don a mask. The mask hides the face, clouds
intentions, and prevents another from reading the next step in the dance.
One must be careful to keep this mask on at all times when playing,
lest one reveal their true self to the enemy.”



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Strength: XXXXXx | ▇▇▇▇▇ | [5/10]

Dexterity:XXXXX | ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ |[7/10]

Intelligence: XXX | ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ | [8/10]

Cunning: XXXXXX | ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ | [9/10]

Wisdom: XXXXXX | ▇▇▇▇▇▇ | [6/10]

Magic: XXXXXXXX | | [0/10]

Willpower: XXXX | ▇▇▇▇▇▇ | [6/10]

Constitution: XXX | ▇▇▇ | [3/10]

Weapon of Choice: The true weapon that Lady Marceline wields is that of words. However, even the sharpest of words will do little to scratch steel plate and there is no compromising with a blade aiming for her heart. Toward that end, the wields a pair of weapons for when words fail. A silverite basket-hilted rapier in one hand and a main-gauche in the other. The weapons a meticulously crafted and honed to a fine edge, and the metal gifts them with an uncommon durability.

Fighting Style/Training: To assume that Lady Marceline is useless in battle due to her station is foolish. Though she attempts to avoid bloodying her hands at all possible, when no other options present themselves she is unafraid to draw her blade. Having been part of a primarily military family, she has learned second-hand from both her father and her husband to be able to stand her ground. Marceline is a duelist through and through and the way she fights is both graceful and fluid, relying on precision and intellect over raw strength. She is patient in a fight willing to allow her foes to make the first step, and thus the first mistake, so that she can assess and react accordingly. She also possesses the tendency to use anything and everything she is able to gain and advantage, including but not limited to taunting foes to grant her a one one one battle or forcing them to lose their composure. While not the most physical combatant, she can hold her own if need be.


“In the right mouth, a tongue can be more dangerous than a sword.
A blade can end a life, yes, but words can end dynasties. Do not underestimate them.”


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Place of Birth: The west banks of Lake Celestine, Val Firmin, Orlias
Social Status/Rank: Comtesse of the West Banks, Owner of LĂ©cuyer Vineyards, and occasional Orlesian ambassador.

History: While not especially prolific, Marceline's past is neither a closely guard secret. Maiden name Lécuyer, Lady Marceline was born to a chevalier by the name of Lucas and Comtesse Gabrielle. She was not born far away from the city of Val Firmin, in the Lécuyer's estate on the west banks of Lake Celestine. Much of their holdings consist of vineyards and winery, and the shrewd woman than her mother was, managed to provide the beverage of choice for many of Orlais's countless salons and soirées. They are particularly known for their wide selections of both ordinary and seasonal wines. It then comes to little surprise that her mother was an apt player of the Game as well. While not particularly famous, the Lécuyer's are known. Her father, however, was a chevalier, through and through, and knew more about how to handle a shield and swing a sword than any sort of politics, so he let his wife handle most of the intricacies, and tried to not earn her scorn by doing something foolish.

Even at a young age Marceline was an intelligent child, the perfect heir to the LĂ©cuyer brand. She attended academy in the nearby Val Firmin and excelled in her studies, though she enjoyed to learn first hand than from musty books. Marcy became better known as Lady Gabrielle's little assist. Her father, on the occasions he was home, saw to it that his little Marcy wouldn't grow up to be defenseless. Though he couldn't imagine life without her now, he was initially disappointed to find that his first and only child was a little girl, rather hoping for a son to carry the family shield. Still, some of Marceline's fondest memories of childhood was the taste of ripened grapes after watching her mother iron out a trade agreement and a mock duel with her father.

Years passed, and Marcelines continued to excel at her studies. Eventually, she decided that the college in Val Royeaux was her next move. It wasn't a parting with her family, not by any means. Her family had an estate in Val Royeaux when business called her mother there, and her father, now a chevalier-commander, had a regiment of his own stationed in the capitol. She stayed at the estate during her studies. It was there she found her other half. A few years in college, her father asked her to accompany him as they watched the men train. That's when she met a chevalier named Michaël Benoßt. An incident involving him tripping an entire march because the presence of a certain woman took his eye off the task at hand. Despite the disciplining Lucas gave him, Marceline and Michaël remained in contact through letters... He was not pleased, to say the least.

Still, despite what Lucas thought about the man, Marceline proved too much like her mother and within a few years the pair was wed, Marceline taking his name. She had graduated from the college at this point, and she began to carve out a life of her own. She began as a political attendant to a Duke, where she spent a few years. Afterward she played many roles, she's been a diplomat to Nevarra and various city states of the Free Marches. She'd also given birth to her first son, named Pierre during this period. Her parents had both retired by this point in their lives, and helped take care of the child while both Marceline and Michaël were away. Marceline always made time for her family, and sent constant letter back home when she was away, and even took Pierre with her on occasions when he grew.

Now Marceline has inherited the LĂ©cuyer brand upon her mother's retirement, and even has a stake in the BenoĂźt printing press.



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“Words carry weight, mine moreso.”

So begins...

Marceline Benoit's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
It had taken them about a week from the time he’d summoned Estella back to Haven to make the trip out to Val Royeaux. The Inquisition proper was yet without horses, but the Lions were not, and an explanation to her comrades was all that was necessary to secure the required mounts, and so the three of them had managed to cover the ground a great deal more quickly. Cyrus, Estella’s twin and apparently quite the expert in magical matters, was a more experienced traveler than Leon would have guessed, and of course a Seeker and a mercenary were both no stranger to the road, so they made efficient time, more perhaps than they would have with a larger party.

Not, he believed, that this had much to do with the Revered Mother’s reasoning for recommending that the young woman rather than her counterpart take care of this. It was sound argumentation, at any rate, and something that could only help them, even if it was simply by getting more people to talk about them, to see that there was more to them than some set of anonymous shadow heretics.

Anything would help them at this point. Additionally, of course, Val Royeaux was where he was to meet his own contact, someone the Divine had put him in touch with prior to her death, via a circuitous family of connections that began with Rilien’s bardmistress and ended with a well-traveled noblewoman apparently willing to take on the diplomatic endeavors their cause would require. He had only corresponded with the Lady Marceline Benoüt via letter thus far, but he had found her to be keen of wit at the very least, and Rilien assured him that they could do much worse, in that odd fashion he had that probably shouldn’t properly count as reassurance but somehow did anyway.

They’d dismounted about ten minutes ago, and left their mounts with a stableman not too far from the gates, which they now approached. As was ordinary in the middle of the day, they were open to entrance, with a couple guards posted mostly for show. It wasn’t like any bandits were just going to march into the heart of the most powerful nation in all of Thedas.

They had taken only the first few steps inside the gate before they were approached. It was a woman, an elf judging by the shape of her ears and the wideness of her eyes. On her face she wore a mask, like most of those that resided in Orlais. It was of fine make, crafted of silverite and studded with sapphires down the right cheek. The mask cut off at the tip of the nose and bottom of the cheek, the nose of the mask curving upward and giving the mask an avian appearance.

As she approached with her hands tucked into her sleeves, it was clear she stood a few inches shorter than Estella. "Ser Albrecht?" she said with beautiful voice, pleasant and soft to the ears, "and Lady Herald, I presume?" She then bowed deeply and rose again. "I am Larissa. Mistress Marceline expected your arrival."

From beside Estella, Cyrus looked ever-so-slightly miffed, probably due to the fact that he’d just been ignored, but the expression was gone so swiftly it might never have been there at all, replaced by a smile that one might best describe as ‘courtly,’ one of those worn by people born to nobility and its subtle trappings as well as the obvious ones. A charmer’s smile, if one would.

“All these years, and I’ve never once been to Val Royeaux. Clearly, this was a grievous error on my part. Perhaps I shall take up ornithology?” There were a lot of things that could have meant, but the best guess was that it was some oblique form of flirtation.

Larissa took the comment in stride and turned to bow to Cyrus as well. "Of course milord, but may I suggest caution? Orlais possesses many dangerous genus of bird. Your studies may prove... detrimental."

Cyrus raised both brows, looking quite unthreatened, for what could easily have been interpreted as a veiled threat. “In that case, I think I shall like it here even more than I expected.” Larissa simply smiled.

Leon resisted the urge to sigh. Deeply. He’d forgotten how young his charges really were. Not that he was an old man, but he’d been a Seeker since these two were just hitting adolescence, and that did make him feel strangely ancient. “Yes, well,” he said, clearing his throat to draw everyone’s attention back to him. “While I’ve no doubt that you both have wit enough to banter for days, we do need to see the Lady Marceline, and if she’s expecting us, I doubt we want to make her wait.”

Estella shot him a look he interpreted much more easily than anything the other two said, and it was gratitude, so at least he wasn’t frightfully boring to everyone, he supposed. Really, the sooner they left, the better; his sensibilities were far from Orlesian in character, and already the city seemed far too
 ostentatious, for his liking. It was even in the architechture.

"Of course milord. If you would, please follow me," Larissa said, turning and leading the group into Val Royeaux proper. Their path took them through the city, under brightly colored awnings and immaculately kept buildings. Along the way, they passed many more citizens who donned masks much like Larissa's, but each slightly different. Music seemed to follow them wherever they went, be it from windows of the buildings, or from an adjacent street. The capital of Orlais seemed to earn her reputation.

They reached a long thoroughfare crossing what seemed to be a giant reflecting pool when Larissa spoke. "Mistress Marceline awaits in Le Masque du Lion Café in the Summer Bazaar. Please," She said, leading them over the bridge and into the bazaar. Merchants hawked their wares in the bazaar, and a turn later brought them to the café in question. It was partly open air, giving them a view of those situated with in.

It was here Larissa stopped them. "I apologize. It appears mistress is still in her meeting with Marquis DuRellion. Please be patient until their business is concluded," she told them, turning her head toward a pair of nearby patrons, one male and one female. It seemed that these were the two in question

The woman, apparently the Lady Marceline, wore a fine black dress adorned with purple accents and stitching. Her mask was also made of silverite like Larissa's, but hers was cut in the middle of the cheek. On either side, feathers were worked into the metal and raised, possessing a coat of purple flake paint. The man, DuRellion, also wore a mask, his covering the majority of his face, showing only his mouth and chin, and a mustache was carved under the nose.

Even over the ambient din of the café, their conversation could be heard.

"The Inquisition cannot remain in Haven, Lady Marceline. Not if you can't prove it was founded on Justinia's orders," the man said with his arms crossed and his back straight in the chair that he sat.

"Your Grace, you must understand, now is not the best of times. More and more flock to your town daily," the woman said in a warm and kindly tone.

The man shifted his weight in chair and shook his head, "My house lent the Divine those lands for a pilgrimage. Your Inquisition was not part of the arrangement." His brows furrowed and he raised his hand to point at her. "We were overjoyed and honored to lend Haven to the Divine, she was... A woman of supreme merit. I will not see an upstart Order to remain on her holy grounds."

Lady Marceline's lips formed a straight line, though a hint of sadness remained in them. "I understand your Grace, I truly do. Divine Justinia was a wonderful woman, and she will be dearly missed by all." She paused, seemingly out of respect for the deceased, but then continued. "But it is the Inquisition-- Not the Chantry that shelters the people who come to mourn the passing of the Divine. My Lord DuRellion, the Divine would not wish us to squabble like this, and she would not want her death to divide us."

She then reached out to place a comforting hand on the Marquis's arm, lending him a warm smile. "We face a dark time. Lord DuRellion, she would wish that we band together, forge new alliances, and face this coming storm together, not apart."

The Marquis sighed and shook his head. "I... What you say is true, she would not want us to quarrel. I will think on it, Lady Marceline."

"That is all I ask Lord DuRellion." With that, they began to stand, and that was when she caught the eye of Leon. "Before you take your leave Marquis, if you would allow me, I would to introduce you to the Herald herself," she said, leading him to the group, and Estella specifically.

"Marquis DuRellion, I present to you Lady Estella Avenarius."

Leon couldn’t help but think to himself that he should have warned Estella of this possibility. She probably thought she was coming here to talk to clerics, not nobles, and there was a brief flash of undisguised panic on her face before it swiftly disappeared, forced under what could only be a veneer of calm. Clearing her throat softly, she dropped into a curtsey. As far as Leon could tell, it wasn’t a bad one, either, though the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed her continued discomfort.

“Y-your Grace. It is good to meet you. The Inquisition extends its gratitude for your generosity in this trying time.” She smiled thinly, and Leon’s brows rose just slightly. The correct noble form of address, and more or less what he figured was the right thing to say. That had actually gone much better then expected.

“Please also allow me to present High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Lord Cyrus Avenarius, my brother.” Well, that explained it. If her brother was a lord, she must have been noble at some point in her life, right? Leon inclined his head by way of greeting, as did Cyrus, though it was hard to mistake that the latter was more interested in his surroundings than the introduction.

Behind the Marquis, what can only be described as a pleased look crept into Marceline's face.

DuRellion bowed in response and spoke, "A pleasure Lady Estella. High Seeker, my Lord," he added, greeting Leon and Cyrus in turn. "I apologize, but I cannot stay. I have matters to attend to, surely you understand. Lady Marceline?" He said, turning to the woman, "We shall speak again, I have no doubt. Until then... The Inquisition may remain."

Marceline curtsied in response and said, "Thank you, your Grace." With that the Marquis took his leave.

Once out of earshot, Marceline turned toward Estella and nodded with a satified look. "Aside from the initial grimace, you handled yourself especially well Lady Estella. Now, as for introductions: My name is Lady Marceline Élise BenoĂźt, Comtesse of the West Banks of Lake Celestine and the owner of the LĂ©cuyer Vineyards brand of wine," she said with another curtsy. "I am told that I am to handle the matters of a diplomatic nature for the Inquisition, correct?"

Estella looked immediately to Leon, and he spared her the necessity of a response. He’d been warned that Lady Marceline was of distinctively Orlesian temperament, so to speak, and he’d dealt with that before. “We have been reliably informed that it is well within your capabilities, milady,” he cut in politely. “And as I’m sure the Marquis has aptly demonstrated, it will be a task of no mean challenge, nor significance. I’ve been handling most of it myself up to this point, but I have an army to provision, and our mutual acquaintance Ser Rilien has
 other matters to handle.”

He was conscious of the fact that they were still in a public location, after all, and proclaiming for all listening ears that the Inquisition had spies and a truly impressive, if still nascent, network of information handlers was not the best way to curry favor with the public. Even if it became obvious, it must never be said.

All of it gave him a headache, quite frankly. He’d been glad to be the youngest in his family, so as to never have to deal with this kind of thing, but unfortunately, he’d had more than one encounter with politics since becoming a Seeker, and these days he anticipated many more.

"The Marquis?" she laughed, though it was a mild, even thing. The expressions she had worn with the Marquis were gone, replaced with something far more neutral. "His position is not as certain as he makes it out to be. The DuRellions are Orlesian, and despite their Fereldan relations, if he were to wish to lay claim upon Haven, he would have to petition the Empress to negotiate with Fereldan on his behalf." She frowned at this, and slowly shook her head. "Unfortunately, her Radiance is preoccupied with concerns far more larger than petty land disputes."

She shrugged and spoke again. "However, it is better to allow him to believe that it was his idea to let the Inquisition remain in Haven than to force the matter ourselves. I would far rather have him as a potential ally than an enemy."

“Really?” Cyrus broke back into the conversation, and though he didn’t roll his eyes, the same thing was implied by his tone—bored, skeptical. “With potential allies like that, will we have time to deal with our enemies? Seems better to cut rotting ropes before they snap unexpectedly.”

Marceline smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Perhaps, but there is a difference between idle complaints and a concerted effort to undermine us," the smile then fell out of her lips and something far more solid replaced it. "I will not stand for the latter."

"We would rather build bridges than burn them." It was Larissa who had spoken that time. "Shall I gather the ser and the young lord?" She asked Marceline, whom nodded her approval. With that, Larissa took her leave.

“I for one will be glad to leave the bridge architecture to you,” Leon said wearily. Maybe he’d actually be able to sleep at some point in the future, though he didn’t think it likely, for more than one reason. Well, that could all be dealt with later. Right now, they had one more matter to attend to, and that was taking the Revered Mother’s advice.

“It has been recommended, soundly I think, that we seek out some of the members of the clergy here in Val Royeaux, so as to better acquaint them with our organization and our Herald.” The one that wouldn’t scare them too much, anyway. “I was going to head to the Grand Cathedral, but if you have any more pertinent suggestions, I’d be grateful to know them.”

"It sounds as if we are to build bridges even now," she said, a knowing smile on her face. "Personally, I would suggest we pen a letter first, describing our intentions and to give us time to prepare but..." she said, her ocean blue eyes peering at Estella from behind the silverite mask. "I believe it would serve our purposes better for them to meet the Herald as she is now. We do not wish to manufacture her as something she is not."

"That and I do not believe the Chantry is in the mood to be recieving letters... So then. To the Grand Cathedral. Ser Albrecht?" She asked, gesturing for them to begin and make their way there.

Leon nodded, and turned to lead the way.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
They left the café with Leon leading the way, Lady Marceline only a step behind him. To get to the Grand Cathedral, they would have to go back over the Avenue of Reflective Thought over the Miroir de la MÚre, the giant reflecting pool that sat under the bridge. It was a beautiful piece of architecture, Lady Marceline had found, and the trek over the bridge was relaxing at worst. Unfortunately, other matters would see that they not reach the bridge. As they made their way across Summer Bazaar, a crowd had gathered.

Lady Marceline had slowed her step to investigate the cause, and stopped outright when she saw the root. The crowd was surrounding a Revered Mother who was flanked by a templar and others of the Chantry cloth. "Ser Albrecht," she said to get his attention, before she pointed toward the head of the crowd. "I believe I have found your clergy." Well, that would make finding them easier, however, she did not particularly enjoy the thought of what the crowd meant.

Crowds could easily turn into mobs, and a mob would not look too fondly upon the Herald of Andraste. Especially if provoked by the Chantry.

Though if she was worried, it did not show on her face. In fact, it was quite even, refusing to betray even the slightest of emotion.

The Revered Mother raised her arms and lifted her voice, carrying it above the murmurs of the gathered people as they wondered what was about to happen. "Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!" She stepped forward to the edge of the platform she stood upon. It was hastily erected, but effective nonetheless at making the otherwise unimposing woman rise above the crowd.

"Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naĂŻve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderers. Well, wonder no more!" She swept an arm out dramatically, pointing it directly at Estella and narrowing her eyes. "Behold, a so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell." She shook her head. "We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!" Some of the crowd looked shocked at the strength of the accusation, and all looked to the Herald and her allies to see their response.

The sudden charge, perhaps combined with the vehemence of it, seemed to catch Estella off-guard, and she took half a step backward, raising both of her hands in front of her to the level of her shoulders in a placating gesture. “N-no, please Revered Mother, you misunderstand. I don’t claim to know the will of the Maker or Andraste, only to have the desire to close the Breach. This isn’t—I want nothing else. We have no other aim.” Her tone was earnest, borderline pleading, and she wore openly an expression that conveyed the same.

Lady Marceline allowed Estella to speak without any intervention from her. Estella sounded earnest in her admissions, far more than she could muster and her agreement would more likely harm than help. She wisely chose to let Estella to continue. They needed to see the Herald, not her.

“She speaks truly,” Leonhardt said, his tone carrying about the authority one would expect of a Seeker in such a situation. “The Inquisition’s sole purpose is to close the Breach before it is too late.”

“It is already too late,” the Mother replied, gesturing to her left. Most of the heads in the crowd turned, and their eyes fell on a small group of heavily-armored men and women, most of them recognizably wearing the armor of templars. The man in front, perhaps in his mid-forties, had well-tended grey hair and more elaborate armor than the rest, whereas the woman half a step behind him wasn’t dressed as a templar at all, though the Seeker’s eye was prominent on the half-cloak that was draped from one shoulder. She was tall, taller even than the man in front, probably of a height with Cyrus, her complexion deep and her face dotted with contrasting white paint. Though the others wore swords and shields, she carried no weapons.

“The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” The Revered Mother declared this with triumph, frowning down at Estella and the others. “They will face this Inquisition, and the people will be safe once more!” As she’d spoken, the group of them had started to advance up the stairs to the platform, and the man in the lead passed in front of her as though she weren’t present at all.

The woman behind him wore a scowl, in contrast to his neutral expression, and as she drew even with the Revered Mother, she drew one hand back and delivered an unexpected blow to the cleric’s head, catching her in the other arm as she started to fall forward and tossing her limp form at another one of the assembled Chantry brothers, who caught her with a grunt, falling to his knees to break her fall. The woman’s lip curled slightly, and she shook her head with evident disdain, following the apparent leader as he continued across the stage.

From slightly behind her, Marceline could hear a smothered laugh, which quickly became a cough, and resolved itself as nothing more than a clearing of the throat. It appeared the whole spectacle was amusing at least one of the Avenarius siblings, and it wasn’t Estella. She threw a hard glance behind her before turning her attentions back forward.

The templar that had accompanied the Revered Mother, a striking woman with long, dark hair in elaborate braids, reacted with surprise to the blow struck against the cleric. Clear anger flared in her eyes, but the leader of the group of templars stepped in front of her, grabbing her sword arm quite firmly above the elbow.

"Still yourself, Knight-Captain," he ordered. "She is beneath us." The templar woman's mouth opened as if to protest, but she seemed to think better of it, pressing her lips tightly together instead, and nodding.

"As you say, Lord Seeker." Her disagreement with him was thinly veiled, but she made no further protest.

"How dare you?" Marceline stated. Her tone was not one of anger, but something far more colder. The even, icy tone continued into her next words. "What is the meaning of this? What do you hope to accomplish by striking the Revered Mother?" The only thing she saw accomplished was a degree of blasphemy unheard of, and from a Seeker no less.

The man finally deigned to react to the presence of another, and turned cold eyes towards them. “Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own.”

This seemed to stir Leonhardt to action, and he stepped forward, his brow heavily creased. “Lord Seeker, what—”

“You will not address the Lord Seeker.” That came from the tall woman, and she stepped down to block Leonhardt’s path. He looked genuinely surprised at this.

“Ophelia? You endorse this?” His tone was one of obvious incredulity, and he looked at the woman in front of him as though he were seeing her for the first time, which nevertheless he clearly was not.

Her silence was stony, but the Lord Seeker spoke up. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andrate’s prophet, to say nothing of the other one.” His lip curled, and looked to Estella as though she were something on the bottom of his shoe that smelled foul. She visibly winced. His eyes found Leonhardt again.

“You should be ashamed, for you do shame to us.”

He angled himself to better regard the crowd as a whole, for they were watching with rapt attention. Raising his voice, he continued. “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”

“This is ridiculous—” Leon was clearly not inclined to simply weather the words in silence, but Lucius shouted over him.

“You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!” He scoffed. “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

“B-but
” That was Estella again, though her tone was much more tentative. It was clear she didn’t take being lambasted very well. “The Breach, it’s so much bigger than this, don’t you see? If we don’t do something, none of the rest of it will matter.” From his former position some distance away, Cyrus approached his sister, moving up behind her and laying a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t physically intercede between her and the Lord Seeker, but his body language was an obvious message nevertheless, and though his expression was still placid, his eyes could have been flecks of stone.

A gust of air slipped past Marceline's lips, sharing what she thought of this Lord Seeker's respect. After her initial indignation, Marceline went flat, unimpressed by this thug in the armor of a Seeker. "Whatever it is you have to say, it will not matter to him," she said to Estella, "He is too blinded by his own percieved destiny to see reason."

The Lord Seeker didn't seem to care what Marceline said, reacting violently instead to Estella's words. "Oh, the Breach is indeed a threat. But you certainly have no power to do anything about it."

The Knight-Captain the Lord Seeker had addressed before stepped forward at his side. She drew the eyes of some of the other templars, but her own were leveled at Estella and her friends. "Do not think you have the authority to dictate the Lord Seeker's path. Or the wisdom to question his judgement." Lucius glanced at her, her words seeming to swell his visible sense of righteousness.

"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void," he said. "We deserve recognition. Independence!" He glared again at Estella, as though she had somehow personally wronged him. "You have shown me nothing. Your Inquisition... less than nothing." He turned to his templars at large. "Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"

He turned, and led the entire group of them away from the gathering, not once looking back. The templar Knight-Captain, while her expression was still quite stony, offered Estella a brief wink on her way out, before she confidently strode after the departing Lord Seeker.

Estella blinked, apparently surprised, and released a long sigh. “I think that actually managed to go worse than I expected it to.”

"You are within the heart of Orlais, it could always go worse. At least this did not end in a death. Only a headache," Marceline said, rubbing her temple behind the mask.

As the crowd was beginning to disperse, so too were Marceline and the others before the sight of some familiar people caught her eyes. She smiled, though this one was genuine and held a sweetness not yet seen within it. She had thought that she'd meet her family at the gate, but it seemed their distraction had held them up enough for her husband, Michaël and her son, Pierre to catch up with them.

The man was thick, nearly as thick as Leon, but far shorter and not as stout. He wore a mask of similar make and style as Marceline's, though its edges were rounded to not become a liability in battle. He wore a varient of the chevalier armor under a purple cloak, and on his back rode a child, barely a teenager, also wearing a mask. Larissa followed behind them, a clipboard under her arm as she stared at the Revered Mother who still laid on the ground.

"Uh... Marcy, did I miss something?" he asked curiously, pointing at the Revered Mother.

"Yes Micky, you did. I will tell you along the way. Come, we have a long journey ahead of us," She said, reaching to lay a kiss on his cheek. "I do hope that you all brought your coats."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Well, Val Royeaux had been
 something, he supposed.

Still, it wasn’t exactly surprising that politics had gotten no less absurd in the years he’d been away from it. All the posturing and the grandstanding far outdid any stage production he'd ever seen. If the Lord Seeker had been a rational man and could hear himself talk, he probably would have been ashamed. The only destiny that demands respect here is mine!

Good. Grief.

It was so dramatic it was funny, but then Cyrus didn’t think it would go over well if he laughed like he felt like doing. Even the one he hadn’t quite been able to clamp down on fast enough had gotten him a rather nasty look from Lady Marceline. If Cyrus had believed in the Maker, he would have thought him either insane or incredibly fond of making other people that way, one of the two. Perhaps both.

He walked close to Estella as they approached the gates back out of the city, Marceline’s family now in tow. Ordinarily, he might have engaged in joking or banter or something of the sort, but even he was not oblivious to her distress, and that mattered more to him than any of the rest of it, which meant that even his good humor about the whole thing was rapidly evaporating, and though in any other circumstance he might have liked to stay and take in the sights, right now he couldn’t put the place behind them fast enough.

Which was perhaps why he didn’t bother to disguise his scowl when someone called out from behind them, accent thick with the distinctive Orlesian lilt. “Wait, please! If I may have a moment of your time?” He turned with the rest of them, hand resting between his sister’s shoulderblades, just at the fingertips, and stared flatly at the stranger. She seemed vaguely familiar, this elf woman. Her hair was short, dark, her robes clearly those of a higher-ranked mage. At a guess, she had some pull in the Circle here.

Fiona, that had to be it. Grand Enchanter of the pitiful little thing Val Royeaux called a Circle, one of those places where Templars had far more say in what went on than blindly-faithful thugs in armor should ever have in anything academic. He was torn, as he usually was, between pity and scorn. “Grand Enchanter.” His tone was cool, bordering on chilly. “Should you not be somewhere else? Perhaps preparing your rebellion to throw themselves on more Chantry swords?” She led it now, as he understood. Even living sometimes literally under a rock, he’d heard that much.

“I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see this Herald of Andraste with my own eyes.” And indeed, they fixed intently onto Estella, studying her with interest. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are a wiser option.”

“Your people? A few smatterings of ill-trained youth and elders, smothered by a lifetime under a templar’s hand? At least the Lord Seeker has power. What do you offer that trumps that?” He needn't have to see them to feel Lady Marceline's eyes try to stare a hole deep in him. He ignored her.

She frowned at him, but as he’d suspected, she didn’t become cross. She cared too much about getting them to agree. “We have lived long under a yoke, it is true, but we hold our own even now. Beyond that, we offer the moral high ground. You saw the High Seeker. You heard him. You think he wouldn’t happily kill the Divine to turn people against us? That he wouldn’t happily do the same to a Herald?”

Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “Terms?” Their conversation was a staccato, a quick back-and-forth, undiluted by pleasantry. Perhaps a different negotiation tactic than others would take, but one he knew from experience worked.

“We’re willing to discuss this, but not here. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.” She consciously broke off their exchange, seeming to remember only then that she should probably have been speaking to Estella. “I hope to see you there. Au revoir, my lady Herald.”

She turned, apparently uninterested in giving any further details here, and departed. Cyrus scoffed. “Spineless.” He muttered it under his breath, shaking his head.

“Cyrus.” The voice was Estella’s, but the tone was hard to identify. There was a note of admonishment in it, though. “I appreciate the help, but did you have to be so hard on her? She’s only doing what she thinks is best. At least she didn’t try to set a mob on us
” She snaked an arm around his back and gave him a one-handed hug from the side, but then stepped away, her face pensive.

“Even if the mages don’t have that much power, we still need allies, and
 and we should probably try to help them. To stop the killing, if nothing else.”

He sighed through his nose. “I assure you I haven’t ruined your chances to do any of that. The Grand Enchanter, if she’s not a fool, understands how poor her position is. She’s desperate, Estella, and she would put up with far more than some pointed comments to help her people. Did you really wish to hear her try and inflate her position, or advance theories she cannot possibly support about who is responsible for what happened at the Conclave?” He shrugged. “Now she knows: we’re willing to talk about terms, but we won’t be duped into believing she’s in a position to dictate them to us. Someone else can go in and do the gentler part later.”

He might have been upset, but he wasn’t an idiot. Really now.

"At the very least, we will not rule them out as potential allies," Marcy was the one to speak, her arms crossed. Then she tilted her head toward Estella. "But we must first take stock of our resources and count our options. We should not form an alliance solely out of pity. Remember, we must also gain some benefit from the relationship as well."

Marceline then took a few steps toward where Fiona had departed, putting her back to Cyrus and the others. "Your brother does possess a point however, though he does lack a certain tact," she said, glancing back at him. "Her position is indeed perilous, and now she understands that we know it. We will have the upper hand in any future negotiations." She then turned and made her way back to the group, but not before pausing to look at Cyrus again.

"Also, please do remember that it will most likely be me that shall have to, as you say, 'go in and do the gentler part'. I would ask that you not make it unnecessarily difficult for me, if you can help it at all Lord Cyrus." A tempered smile spread across her lips, but humor appeared in the corners of her eyes.

Cyrus switched gears as quickly as he blinked, smiling pleasantly. “Wine is all the sweeter when drunk after something bitter.” But then he sighed theatrically and inclined his head. “I find it difficult to believe anything I could do could put a situation beyond your skill to salvage, milady, but I shall endeavor to remain charming henceforth.” He placed a hand over his heart.

"I will greatly appreciate it Lord Cyrus. It is all I ask for,", she said, continuing to wear the smile.

Leonhardt, who’d been silent up to this point, made a vague gesturing motion with one hand. “While this has given us all a lot to consider, I think it would be best if we made haste back to Haven, no?” His tone suggested that he was eager to depart, and perhaps in the interest of just that, he started forward again, leaving the rest of them to follow.

"Maker yes, lets go." The agreement came from Michaël, who'd watched his wife's politicking with boredom. It was clear that it hadn't been his first time seeing it. He followed Leon shortly after.

Estella did too, though the exchange seemed to have lifted her mood a little, if the lighter expression on her face was anything to go by. She wore the faintest of smiles, and tugged at his sleeve. “Come on then. Everyone else should know what we learned.”

“As you say, Stellulam.” He felt his mood settle back into baseline contentment, and his posture eased considerably. He let her tug him forward, moving compliantly back towards where they’d stabled the horses. Once everyone was mounted and back out on the road, he elected to strike up a proper conversation with Lady Marceline, in part because she seemed more amenable to it at the moment than most of the others did.

“An interesting career move, joining a movement that will take you away from court and your home.” Naturally, there were other reasons to do so, but she didn’t really seem like the kind of person who would do something which presented her with no personal advantage. Her husband, maybe; he had that knightly air about him, honor and so on. But Marceline was different, a bit more like himself, if he was picking up on the what he thought he was.

"Perhaps, but I do not believe I am leaving the court entirely. I will still be required to speak with nobility and conduct business. The only change is that I am now doing so for the Inquisition's best interests." She spoke with a gilded tone and her face betrayed nothing, undoubtly due to years spent cultivating her mannerisms to suit her purposes. It was to be expected of an Orlesian, especially one who seemed as Orlesian as Marceline.

Her head then tilted toward Cyrus and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Interesting was the word I used to describe this opportunity as well," she turned and gestured back toward Val Royeaux as it slipped into the horizon. "You have seen the petty squabbles that threaten to drown us all. The Chantry denounces anything and everything that frightens them, and, my apologies for this High Seeker," she added for Leon's benefit, "but how the Templars' righteous fervor blinds them to the real danger at hand."

Then her gaze shifted from Cyrus to behind him, at the boy that rode beside his father. Her smile then melted away, revealing the worried mother beneath. "I would see that this world still remains so that my son may live his own life within it." She looked back at Cyrus, her face quickly returning to the porcelain mask. "If we are fortunate, then perhaps our service within the Inquisition will see me rise above my current station as well."

Of course. Orlesians, always looking for some way to rise in the ranks of nobility. He didn’t even think there was anything wrong with it, really. Cyrus was fairly sure he’d met fewer than three people over the course of his entire life who would sacrifice power for anything else at all. The number who would sacrifice anything else at all for power was much higher, and that wasn’t nonsensical, since power was the means by which just about anything was achieved. One need only look at history to understand that.

“Many birds for a stone then.” He nodded, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to Leon. “Speaking of the Lord Seeker
 has he always been like that?” It was difficult to believe.

“No,” the other man replied immediately. “He has not.” For a moment, that seemed like it was going to be the only thing said on the matter, but then he sighed deeply and continued. “He has always been a zealous man, but not nearly unreasonable—I can’t fathom why he would be acting like this now. Less still can I fathom why Ophelia would allow it without protest.”

“Ophelia? The woman who struck the Revered Mother, perhaps?” He fought to keep his amusement contained, but that had been quite funny, particularly considering what the cleric had been trying to do. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been contemplating something similar himself, regardless.

"Senseless," Marceline said, shaking her head.

“Yes.” Leonhardt was quite quiet, for such a large man, and it was difficult to hear him. “She is
 she was my mentor, my instructor. She is the reason I am a Seeker at all, and the reason I fight the way I do. But she has never had the ardent fervor of the Lord Seeker—she has always tempered him, in a fashion.” He shook his head.

“I do not understand what has brought this about, but it is not something we will be able to ignore.”

“Yes, that much is apparent.” Cyrus pursed his lips. “Well, you know what they say. When it rains, it pours. Let’s hope no one minds being a little damp.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The room in which they’d laid out the table and maps had grown crowded, but as far as he could tell, only maybe two of the people in the room didn’t strictly need to be there, and he wasn’t about to insist that Cyrus and Marceline’s assistant Larissa leave, so they would have to make due.

Leon stood at the center of his side of the table, facing the side with the door. Rilien was to his left and Marceline herself his right, and as before, the other side included both Estella and Romulus, as well as Cyrus, who’d stood slightly off to the right to enable Lia to get through. She had a scout report, and he’d felt it pertinent for the others to hear it as well, thus the assembly.

For a moment, he glanced down at the map. The little bird tokens that indicated the locations of Rilien’s agents were expanding further outward as their network established and solidified, but his own troops, represented by plain shield tokens, were split only between Haven and the Hinterlands, for the moment. Marceline's tokens, identified by a quill, represented the support of the nobility, but these were few and far in between and mostly consisted of minor nobles seeking to gain renown by offering what little aid they could. Fortunately, he now felt they had the numbers and the fundamental training to begin expansion into other territory, which would enable them to begin closing more rifts, and hopefully find some clues as to what had caused the Breach in the first place.

His vision blanked for a moment, and Leon remained perfectly still, not allowing it to show. It had happened before, but it was becoming more frequent, and right on cue, he felt a splitting pain lance his head. It faded as quickly as it had come, and he blinked, raising his eyes to acknowledge Lia. “I understand you’ve been busy, of late. Please, tell us what you’ve discovered.”

Lia looked the slightest bit embarrassed, and it didn't seem to be due the presence of anyone in the room. She glanced sideways at Estella briefly, as though looking for some form of reassurance from her longtime friend. Seemingly unsure of what to do with her hands, she set them upon the tabletop, her fingers lightly brushing the surface.

"Yes, uh... there was a bit of an issue, involving a scouting patrol in the southern Hinterlands. They didn't report back. I searched with a team, and... found an Avvar, instead. He told me they'd taken my scouts hostage, dragged them off to a marsh called the Fallow Mire. I'm sorry, Commander. I should've expected them, made sure the scouts knew to expect trouble..." She looked to be taking the events none too well.

Leon shook his head. “Things of this nature happen. What’s important is that you know where they went, and that means we can get them back.” Another organization probably would have rather left a small scout party to their fate than gone to the effort it would take to recover them. It was war, after all, of a sort. But this was a war that Leon was running, and he didn’t want to do that, so he wouldn’t, and he doubted anyone here would protest the decision.

“A small party would probably work best. Do you know anything else about the area?”

"Yes, actually..." Lia continued, uncertainly. "The Avvar in question was actually quite helpful. His clan has demanded to meet the Herald of Andraste, if we want our scouts back. They... didn't say which one. I didn't ask." She winced. "He had a really big maul. But, I did follow him. I think he knew, but he didn't try to stop us. The Fallow Mire is... probably the worst place I've ever seen. The rain never stopped. The entire region has a bit of an undead problem, and the rifts have just made it worse. The Avvar have control of an old abandoned fortress at the south end of the bog. Didn't see any easy ways to reach it."

She tapped a finger a few times against the table. "There's one other thing. Before we left, I came across an elf. He was... odd. I don't know how to describe him. Sort of... regal? But definitely not, in his mannerisms. He seemed to know a lot about the area, some magical architecture or something. He said it was elven, and old, and that it could help stop the demons and the undead, but he needed a mage to make it work."

Lia shrugged. "I didn't get a reason out of him, but once I mentioned I was Inquisition, he expressed interest in meeting us. Said his name was Vesryn Cormyth, and that he'd wait for us there. Looked like he could handle himself, too." Her expression seemed to imply that this was an understatement. "I came back here right after that."

“Well now.” Cyrus broke into the conversation, his eyes having sparked to life with vivid interest as soon as the words magical architecture appeared. He was regarding Lia with an intent expression, but when no more information was forthcoming, he continued. “If it’s old and magical, I do believe I could stand to take a look at it.” Whether he had any interest in the rest of it was debatable, but at the very least he didn’t seem to mind, and he turned to Leon.

“I volunteer for this assignment, High Seeker. It is, after all, precisely the kind of thing I’m here for.” His tone was light, his face reflecting mirth, but there was an undertone of that same very serious curiosity still threaded under the words.

Leon considered all of that, and nodded. It seemed best to send a group that could handle both things. The Fallow Mire was home to at least a village’s worth of people, and if there were undead in the region that could be stopped, it was the kind of task they should be undertaking. Not only for the support it would lend them, either, though he was comfortable couching it in those terms if that was what it took. And Cyrus was quite correct, even if Leon suspected his priorities were quite misplaced.

“Very well. Since the Avvar have demanded to meet a Herald, we’ll need to send one. Estella, please accompany Cyrus to the Mire. Meet with these Avvar, and this serah Cormyth, and see what you can’t do about our missing scouts and the undead. Lia, I want you to go with them and push our stake in the area out as they advance. With some work, we’ll be able to keep some soldiers there after the two of them leave, in case this solution is only temporary.” He paused a moment, considering. He knew Cyrus was knowledgeable, but he’d never seen the man fight, and Estella was, while a professional, not enough by herself. Best not to rely on the unknown, either, no matter what he looked like.

“I suggest you take Asala with you as well. Her skills will prove useful in a pinch.”

Estella nodded her acquiescence, turning to Lia and speaking quietly, such that he only barely heard. “We’ll get them back.”

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door, and Leon furrowed his brow. “Yes?”

“It’s Reed, ser.” He sounded slightly uncertain, but Leon knew he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was necessary, so he called for the man to enter, which he did, followed by a stranger.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, ser, but we have another visitor. Of sorts. An insistent one.” He shot a look at the person behind him, but at Leon’s nod, stepped aside and allowed the newcomer to enter fully.

“Is there something I can help you with?” His tone suggested that there had better be.

The stranger who followed Reed into the chamber occupied far more room than was expected. He was a burly Qunari, sporting large horns and bulging muscles, arms folding over his chest in a casual stance. His expression, or lack thereof, was set in a permanent state of disinterest. He regarded everyone with a leveled stare, and cleared his throat, “There is. Excuse my interruption. We've heard of the Inquisition. Hard to miss it.”

The tension in his arms loosened, and he took another deep breath before continuing, “This is an opportunity. Captain Zahra Tavish wishes an audience on the Storm Coast. We're a mercenary group with a ship of our own, looking for another staunch contract. And she has valuable information.” He shifted towards Leon, and arched his heavy eyebrows, “From the looks of it, you don't have much in the means of sea-faring allies.”

Rilien stirred as soon as the Storm Coast was mentioned, moving forward to the table proper. “We have other reasons to make a venture to that location as well.” He looked down at the map for a second, his head tilted to the side, and continued in the same tone. “We’ve received news that Grey Wardens are disappearing from Ferelden, and no fewer than three of them were last known to be in that area. It is also presently plagued by a cult group of bandits calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian. I suspect these things are unconnected, but each is a reason for us to extend our presence into the region.”

Well, that was indeed several good reasons. Both this and the matters in the Mire seemed equally time-sensitive, so the logical move was clear: those who weren’t headed for the Mire would go to the Coast.

“Very well. Romulus, if you would lead a second team to the Storm Coast, we can deal with all three matters. Prioritize whatever seems of most immediate concern to you when you get there, but anything we can find on the Wardens will likely be of import. Lady Marceline, if you would be so kind as to accompany him, I believe you will be able to negotiate matters with Captain Tavish. Take Khari and anyone else you think you might need, assuming they aren’t already heading for the Mire.”

Marceline turned toward her assistant, who stood in the corner with a clipboard in hand transcribing what seemed to be notes. "Larissa, will you be able to contend with the paperwork while I am away?" she asked.

The woman looked up from her notes and nodded. "Yes Mistress. You do not have any pressing engagements, and I am able do what remains."

Marceline smiled in response, the appreciation clear in her expression. She smiled and looked toward Leon in order to allow him to continue.

He returned his attention to the Qunari. “Tell your Captain to be expecting us. We will hear what she has to say.”

The Qunari finally uncrossed his arms, and tipped his head, “I'm no good with introductions, but I am Aslan.” He clicked his tongue, “You'd know that soon enough.” He did not bow, nor offer his hand: only nodded as somberly as he'd entered. Like a wayside observer, absorbing whatever information he could. “That I will. I appreciate your audience, and we'll be looking forward to seeing you again.” Rude or no, Aslan made a grumbling sound in his throat and excused himself out of the chamber without Reed's help.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The weather was absolutely dreadful. Once the salt from the coast began to permeate the air, it started to rain and it never stopped. Ugly gray clouds hung high above them and seemed to stretch from eternity in every direction. A dark purple cloak draped over Lady Marceline's shoulders, the hood up so as to not subject her hair to the terrible conditions. Marceline was miserable but she did not allow that to play out on her face. She would not show weakness, not even to those she called allies that rode with her.

She was not unarmed, as only a fool would be when traveling through the country. A thin, silverite basket-hilted rapier tapped against her saddle as she rode, a small main-gauche waiting in the small of her back, currently hidden by her cloak.

She did not lead the procession however. That honor would go to the dalish woman called Khari, and she seemed to take to it with a certain zeal. The woman wore a mask, not unlike her own. However, Marceline was without her mask during this time, having opted to discard it upon leaving Orlais and instead show her face. The masks were an Orlesian tradition, and meant little outside of her homeland. That, and it would be better to allow the people to see her.

They had broken from the road some time ago as they approached the coast, the scent of salt on the air intensifying as they grew closer to their destination. The elements would play havoc on Marceline's hair, she knew it, and she did not know how long their venture to the coast would take them. She, however, said nothing and rode in silence.

If Khari cared a whit about what the elements were doing to her hair, she had a terrible way of showing it. Wisps of it stuck out from underneath her hood, curling into a rather impressive frizz once exposed to the open elements. Her eyes were good-humored from over the top of her half-mask, and she rode as though entirely oblivious to the conditions of the Coast.

At several points, she seemed to turn her attention vaguely southwest, though each time she did, she’d shake her head and return to navigating her horse down the slope shortly afterwards. It was a good half-hour of riding in the rain before anything changed. The Dalish crested a hill first, then shifted in her saddle to call back to the other two.

“Heads-up, you two. I think we found ‘em.”

Romulus put his heels into his horse and rode ahead, to catch up with Khari. His shield found its way onto his arm.

A great flapping flag could be seen in the distance, bright red against the miserable sky. It was attached to an anchored ship dipping and swaying near the rocks, far from the dancing figures on the beach: a battle between two groups, from the looks of it. On the outskirts of it stood a woman holding a bow, foot planted on a boulder. Her fingers smoothly drawing back and loosing arrows into shoulders, bellies, and hips, though if she was bothered by any of it, the sordid weather, the mewling cries as they stumbled onto their arses, she gave no indication. If anything she seemed delighted. Tossing her head back and laughing. She called out encouragements, and pointed a waggling finger at the mismatch of individuals grunting below.

The largest of the group—a Qunari, bashed his forehead into the nearest man's face, then grappled onto his leathers and tossed him aside. Unlike the woman, he was not smiling. There was a fine distinction between the fighters. One group wore unusual plates, garb reminiscent of Tevinter mercenaries: all human. Difficult to tell from the crest, but it was easier to distinguish the motley crew of pirates. Dwarf, Elves, Qunari, and a roaring woman. None of them seemed to notice anyone else happening on their exchange.

Khari fidgeted in her saddle, looking quite a bit as though it was physically difficult for her not to join the fight below, but her eyes were sharp as she surveyed the goings-on, moving from one fighter to the next, and she leaned forward slightly on her red horse, her head tilted to the left.

“They’re pretty good.”

"Mhm," Marceline agreed. "It is a coarse display, but that is not necessarily a terrible quality," she added, watching the battle intently. While she did not command the Inquisition's armies as Ser Leonhardt, she had been around Chevaliers her entire life and could deduce the effectiveness of the fighters. "They would not fit in with Ser Leonhardt's main body, but I am positive that they could prove their usefulness elsewhere." she added, her eyes rising to look out toward their ship. Of course, that's provided the Inquisition signed them on.

While they may have been a decent fighting force with their own ship to boot, that meant nothing if they asked too much from their fledgling organization. A deal had to come at a right price, as it was with most mercenaries, and she was there to ensure that. They would need to see what else they could offer first, and toward that end, Lady Marceline patiently waited for the battle to conclude.

It did so quickly, and none too softly. Blasts of blue shot from an elven lass's hands, sending a man tumbling head over heels. It was the dwarf who ended his cries, smashing her mallet into his skull. Stragglers were being pushed backwards, and cut down against the boulders and the skeletons of old boats littering the coastline. One particular man gurgled for the others to retreat back up the crest, and without helping any of his mates, began scrambling up the hillside himself. He jerked to a halt when he spotted horses pawing at the ground: and riders, simply watching. His mouth gawked open and the only thing that came out was the tip of an arrow, silencing whatever words he'd been trying to say. The man shivered and jerked, tumbling back down the hill.

In the distance, the wild-haired woman lowered her bow and stared up at the riders. She bared her teeth in greeting and put her fingers to her lips, whistling a sharp tone. She made another small movement with her hand, and her crew scattered amongst the remains, picking at discarded weapons. Others slumped down against pieces of driftwood and turned their attention towards the newcomers. Only Aslan walked to the woman's side, exchanging a few words, before her smile cracked into a grin and they both turned to begin their approach.

For someone so small, stature wise, she seemed to encompass a lot of space. She climbed the hillside without much trouble and stopped short of Khari's horse. Aslan rounded up at her side, crossing his arms over his barrel-chest. Although no words were exchanged, and he did little more than survey the new arrivals with narrowed eyes, it appeared as if he was just as much a weapon to her as the bow she'd already begun strapping to her back. The woman rubbed her hands together and arched her back, hands planted on her hips. Several cracks sounded and a long sigh followed, “So, this is the fabled Inquisition. I've heard good things about you, and I hope we haven't disappointed. Either way, I'm glad you could make it.”

She paused and clicked her tongue, “Right on time.” The woman motioned for them to follow her down the ridge, and towards the beach where the others were. Someone had already started dragging the bodies into a pile, pilfering whatever they needed into another one. Those who'd been injured lingered beside a scruffy-looking man, wrapping sopping wet bandages around proffered arms and legs. “I'm assuming you'd like to get straight to business. Serious bunch as you look. I'd like that too, honestly.”

Marceline nodded and swung off of the Orlesian charger's saddle in a single fluid motion. She landed on soft feet, though her black boots sunk into the sand with a squelch. Dreadful, she thought again, but her face betrayed nothing. In fact, her face was unreadable save an easy confidence on her brow. A neutral expression, this Zahra was a business woman, and would not take kindly to any air she may have put on. If she wished to speak business, the Lady Marceline would speak business.

She turned and pointed out her companions as she said their names, "This is Ser Khari, Ser Romulus, and I," She said, turning back to face Zahra, "Am Lady Marceline. And you are the good Captain Zahra Tavish." It was a curt introduction, but they were not in Orlesian courts, but on a beach among fighters and mercenaries. Social graces were unnecessary and the game that was to be played was not the Grand one, though she remained unfailingly polite.

"We were told that you were in search of your latest contract, and that you may possess some piece information that may be of value to the Inquisition," Marceline steepled her fingers and let them rest on her belly, taking on a relaxed posture. "So I shall cut through the pleasantries and get straight to the matter at hand. What is it that you are willing to offer, and, if you will excuse my forwardness, what are your terms?" She asked as a dark brow rose.

The Captain inclined her head to each new person that was introduced. Her eyes lingered on each one, then fell back on Lady Marceline, clearly unaware that her scrutiny might have come off as unsettling. She idly scratched at her chin but listened intently, eyebrows flagging when her name was mentioned. Aslan stared off into the distance, glancing at their horses and adjusting his stance, occasionally stepping out of the sucking sand into more sucking sand. Zahra seemed as comfortable as a cat stretching out across a bed. Even in the Storm Coast's miserable weather, rain pattering down her cheeks, whereas Aslan stood as still and silent as a wall. A formidable one.

“Yes, you're right,” Zahra tossed her head towards the ship, still bobbing up and down in the distance, “And much more besides. You see, we're in the business of information. We've traveled near everywhere, haven't we?” There was a boom of cheers and clattering weapons coming from her crew mates littered about. “That is to say, we hear more than rumors, and secrets are worth their weight in gold. If there are no little birds to whisper in our ears, we compensate in battle. You won't find a tougher crew than us, that's a guarantee. Front line, and fearless. It wouldn't matter where you intended to take us. Once a deal is struck, we're loyal-bound. To hell and back.”

Her mouth curved into a smile, “Did I mention we have a boat?” Pleasantries cast aside, Zahra threw her arms out wide and took another deep breath of the ocean spray, “Our terms are simple. We've both got something to gain. You and I. Strong alliances. What we're asking for is a place to stay. Food, warm beds. Gold, of course. We come at a fair price, but I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

Though she didn't let it show, Marceline's interest was piqued. If her interest bled through, then it may cost them later in the negotiations. It was safer to regard them with a nominally impressed expression. It would be rude to do otherwise. "Your offer is intriguing," she conceded, though she turned quiet afterward. She regarded this Captain, her crew, and even her ship with a critical eye. There was nothing that would refute anything the woman had said, and if what she had said was true to the letter, then it would be unwise to simply let this opportunity sail away.

However, she was not going to simply hire them on the spot. They would need to be gauged first, to ensure what they say and what they offer were up to the standards they desired. "The Inquisition is willing to offer you and your crew a probationary contract," Marceline said, an inviting smile creeping into her lips.

"If what you say is true, and we find your services satisfactory, we will renegotiate the terms of your contract for a longer period of employment, and the pay to reflect the services you provide. Of course, food and board will certainly be provided within the deal as well. The Inquisition is kind to her people," Marceline said with a nod. It was a fair offer, she felt, and there were many potential opportunities to be had with a crew with their own ship.

"Do you find these terms fair, Captain Zahra?" Marceline asked with a raise of her brow.

The woman-Captain took another deep breath and sucked at her gums, glancing over her shoulder at her gathered crew. She was silent for a moment, as if she were considering her options, though the wild brightness in her eyes spoke volumes. And abrupt as any of her movements seemed to be, Zahra whipped back towards Lady Marceline and held her hand out for a sealing handshake, mouth twisted in a toothy grin, “You have a deal, Lady Marceline, and it's not one you'll regret making.”

"I would hope not, Captain Zahra," Marceline replied with a smile of her own, before taking her hand and shaking it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
It wasn’t more than thirty seconds after they shook hands on the deal that they heard a loud screech, almost impossibly loud, and a corresponding rumble. The ground tremored slightly beneath their feet, and from the east, it was possible to see the masked woman, identified previously as Khari, approaching on horseback. She must have left at some point during the negotiations, but her horse trotted back towards them, its rider holding herself high off the saddle, standing in the stirrups.

“There’s a dragon here!” Her tone was excited, almost gleeful. “A really big blue one. It’s fighting a giant over there!” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.

With little more than a handshake, the deal was struck and Zahra stood as pleased as a coddled kitten. Albeit sopping wet and forced to keep readjusting her feet in the sucking sands beneath them. She'd much prefer being inside her ship, or else somewhere dry, but by the looks of this Inquisition of theirs, with lady Sunshine bringing up the front, it appeared as if they still had business to do on the Storm Coast. She'd truly meant through hell and back again, so questions were useless. Besides, their group looked just as motley as her own. Her smile did not wane, only bellied the relentless energy swirling in her belly. She didn't doubt that they would be just as interesting.

A shriek cut through their nice little congregation. Loud enough to rattle her skull and make her ears ring. Certainly not a sound she'd ever heard before, and she figured she'd seen many things in her travels. Aslan's meaty fists clamped down across the curved blade hanging at his hip, though Zahra placated him when she placed a hand on his shoulder. The one introduced as Khari rounded up on them. Fiery-haired and pointing off in the distance, rattling on about a dragon and a giant. She'd admit to being just a little bit distracted by her hair, bright as fire. She turned the words over in her head and clicked her tongue again, “Two things I never imagined I'd see in one day.”

It seemed as if staying anchored in these parts would be both unwise, and foolish if there was a dragon circling the coastline, even if it wasn't interested in their ship. From what little she knew of dragons, and their ilk, they were damnably large and capable of felling their mast as if it were a toy. And she'd just commandeered that thing months ago, she meant to keep it in one piece. Her hand slipped away from Aslan's shoulder and she leaned closer to him, hooking her thumb towards her gathered crew mates, already springing up to see what Khari was talking about. “I'll be traveling with these guys for awhile, but I want you to get our girl out of these waters. I'll be damned if it gets torched after coming all this way.”

Aslan nodded. His voice was a gravelly pit when he said, “Where to, Boss?”

She rubbed her knuckles against her nose, and sniffed, “Head back to that little fishing village we passed. Anchor there. Feed the boys and girls. Get some rest while you can. Keep your ears open.”

With that said, Aslan stomped down towards the pirates, and gave rumbling instructions to get their arses in gear as quickly as they could manage. Fantastic crew as they were, she'd rather see them all safe on their ship. Besides, she could prove how useful their company was while they were gone. Zahra joined Marceline at her side, and placed her hands back at her hips, fingers drumming a beat, “Besides my ship and my crew, you're also getting me. I'm a good shot. They say I never miss. Course, you'll see that yourself. A sharp eye, an arrow in the dark—whatever you need of me.”

She didn't wait for her response, only slipped back up where Khari had been stationed. She saw it for herself. Two great beasts, entangled. A giant and a blue dragon as bright as any jewel. Her heart hammered in her throat, and if she didn't have any better sense, she would have crept closer.

“Well, look at that, Ginger's right.”

Marceline noticeably kept her distance with a deep frown marking her face. "If I may make a suggestion," she began with arms crossed. "I suggest we give them both a wide berth and allow them to finish any business they may have with each other." A deafening roar from the dragon caused the air around them to shudder, and Marceline's eyes narrowed. "A very generous berth," she added.

There was a glimmer in the eye of Romulus as he pulled his horse up alongside Khari. The excitement was clear in him, but it was heavily tempered, reduced down to a small upward curl in his lips, and a gaze of wonderment towards the two battling behemoths across the bay.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" he asked, the question directed at Khari.

“Only once.” Her tone was reverent, her enthusiasm for the experience more than apparent. Her eyes stayed fixed on the spectacle, drinking it in the way other people watched sublime artistic performances, or whatever it was that fascinated them in a similar way. “And not this close.” Her eyes narrowed, clearly from pleasure rather than anger.

“This is absolutely worth it.” What the ‘it’ she referred to was wasn’t clear, but the words seemed to mean something to her, anyway.

From where Zahra was standing their business may last a long time, though it looked as if the giant was faltering against the dragon's advances. Difficult to tell, really. She let her gaze drift away from the carnage below and she turned to consider the two riders at her side with much of the same fascination. She watched their reactions, took note of the small things. An upturned lip. The brightness in Ginger's eyes, leaning forward in her saddle as she was. Minute gestures, like the fluttering of fingers. She didn't think it would be very difficult to convince them that taking up their arms would be the better course of action. Then again. Perhaps, she was wrong and they were looking on in wonder and not with the tickling sense of violence and glory.

“It'd be a shame, just to bypass them,” Zahra shrugged her shoulders, and glanced back to Lady Marceline. The most sensible one, it seemed. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder how much those scales would sell for or what that giant was carrying for that matter. Opportunity could be had if they waited around long enough, but she supposed that Marceline wasn't the patient type. Already seeking out another route. Fighting off a dragon and a giant seemed foolish enough but she'd be hard-pressed to deny that her blood wasn't already boiling. Besides, she wasn't sure who, in fact, was in charge of this expedition. “I'm assuming you have some sort of destination in mind,” Zahra arched her eyebrows, “which isn't over there.”

"A pair," Lady Marceline answered. She returned to her steed and remounted it. She pulled in behind the three of them, still warily gaze out toward the dragon and giant. "Along with you, we were to make contact with a cult that goes by the name 'Blades of Hessarian'. Judging by the name they have given themselves, it is a highly religious organization. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage," Marceline added, her gaze lingering on Romulus for a few moments.

She then shifted attention to the path ahead, "The other destination is far more nebulous. We are to investigate the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. Our source says that they were last known to be in this area." Marceline looked out ahead for a moment before turning to look at the others. "I suggest that we meet with these Blades first, and should they prove amiable, inquire what they know of the Wardens and then proceed from there." With that Marceline nodded as if pleased with the plan of action.

"Agreed?"

“You can ride with me, by the way.” Khari had waited until Marceline had done all the necessary explaining before making her offer, but now she was holding an arm out and downwards, with the clear intention of helping Zahra up behind her. The horse certainly looked strong enough to take two, especially considering that the first was a fairly small person.

A group of religious arseholes, and some Grey Wardens. There it was, an adventure already to be had. She certainly wasn't complaining. Besides, Lady Marceline wasted no time explaining where they were going and that suited her just fine, though she was curious what made her tick. Surely, she wasn't all prim and proper. There must've been some fun buried underneath all of orderly business. “Fine by me,” Zahra bobbed her head. Now that she thought about it, she'd never actually met a Grey Warden before. Sounded like they'd have their pants in twist. She hoped not.

She followed the voice and was pleased to find out that it was Ginger who'd offered her a ride—not that she would have minded any of the others, though Ser Romulus was quiet enough to make her wonder whether or not he'd talk at all. Perhaps, she intimidated him. Wouldn't have been the first time. As for Lady Marceline, she doubted that she'd want to close the distance between them anytime soon. Not before having a few drinks. So, Zahra turned towards Khari and took up her proffered arm, boosting herself over the horses rump and settling in behind her as best as she could manage, “Thanks for the lift.”

“Not a problem.” Khari grinned, then faced forward, urging her horse to begin moving. The others did, too, and the small group was off, turning back towards the north, avoiding the dragon as advised. The slopes were fairly steep, but the horses seemed to be solid, hardy creatures, and not once did any of the legs under Zahra and Khari falter, the elf’s deft hand guiding him to the best places on the narrow, rocky paths.

They’d been riding for another fifteen minutes or so when something resolved ahead of them. It looked to be a small group of people, grouped on one side of the path. From the way they were all looking down towards the approaching Inquisition, it would seem that they awaited their arrival, and Khari slowed the horse down to approach with a little more reserve.

Most of them were armed, but with a few exceptions, they were women, younger teenagers, and older people, and none of them looked particularly well-fed, the hollows of their cheeks perhaps more sunken than was warranted. Still, there wasn’t a one that was bowed over or hunched; each held themselves tall, and tall most of them were, even the children. There were about fifteen, it looked like, though most of them were set back a ways from the road, sitting in a rough circle, but two stood right next to the road. One was a thickset man with meaty arms and a head of wild, copper-colored hair. He held a staff in one hand; it looked to serve as a walking stick more than anything, for his face showed age, especially around the eyes and mouth.

The other was perhaps of an age with Zahra, or thereabouts, and shared the man’s hair color and most of his height. Her armor was mostly leather and fur, and had nothing by way of sleeves, dark blue tattoos encircling her right arm all the way to her neck, the patterns foreign and strange—not Rivaini, not Antivan, and certainly not Dalish. Her skin was dark, much darker than that belonging to any of the others, but it was the way that she stood in the front which perhaps differentiated her the most.

“Hail, Inquisition. If you seek the Blades of Hessarian, you will not make it far.” The words were not a threat; indeed, she spoke them with a hint of amusement underneath the contralto timbre of her voice.

Lady Marceline bowed slightly in her saddle, more out of appreciation it seemed than greeting. "If I may ask then, why is that?" her tone wasn't one of contention, but genuine. Her eyes glanced between the other individuals before returning to the one that had addressed them.

The woman smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. “They are a strange lot, with many rules that have little purpose.” She shrugged, then raised both of her hands to her neck, tugging until what seemed to be a necklace came free and dangled from one hand. The blue color of the gem in the middle suggested serpentstone, and the rest of it looked to be made of granite and some sort of scaly hide. “Such as this: without one of these in view, your group will be attacked by them on sight, something we discovered the hard way.” There was a thread of malice under her tone, but it seemed to coexist with the same amusement that had accompanied her words thus far, making her feelings on the matter difficult to pin down.

“I, therefore, find myself in a position to make a deal with you, and that is something I would like to do.”

Marceline's head tilted to the side, but likewise she betrayed nothing, making it difficult to feel out her own thoughts. She looked at the amulet for a moment before she spoke. "Hmm," she hummed to herself, as if thinking it over. "We would hear the deal before we are to commit to anything. Know, however, that we wish to negotiate with these people." Her eyes then went to burly man beside her, and then to the rest behind them.

"We will not be able to condone any retribution you may have in mind unless they instigate hostilities themselves," She said, with a sigh and subtle shake of her head. She did not seem overly surprised to hear that the Blades were hostile to strangers, only tired by it.

The woman shook her head. “You misunderstand. Perhaps I should have been clearer.” She lowered the amulet to her side, and then glanced back at the others further away from the road, the gesture inviting them to do the same. “It is partly an insistence on retribution that has whittled us so. That, and famine, and darkspawn, and any number of other disasters over the last dozen years. The gods do not answer, and so it is I who must decide.” The man at her side shifted, but said nothing.

She returned her gaze to them. “I choose to save them, whatever others may say of my honor for it.” She smiled again, sharply, like the edge of a knife. “Retribution is uninteresting to me. My terms are this: you have the amulet, which will enable you to negotiate. You have us, who are capable survivors and hunters, when there is game to be found. You have me, and the weight of my clan’s good name, which is leverage you will not be able to get elsewhere, and will carry much meaning should you have cause to deal with Avvar. We have food, and shelter, your word that we will be tolerated outside your town, protected by your troops. That is the deal.”

"Is this what remains of your clan?" Marceline asked, indicating to the others a ways away from the road.

“It is. Once we were many, and our hold large. But hunger is an enemy that cannot be fought.” Her answer was even, but any trace of humor had vanished from it.

She looked toward them for a moment more, as if internally debating something before turning her gaze toward the woman addressing them. There Marceline seemed to internally gauge her worth. Finally, she spoke. "What is your name?"

The question seemed almost to perplex the woman, as though it seemed irrelevant and she was unsure why it was being asked. “I am Signy Sky-Lance, Thane of the Wyvernhold. This is my father, Svavar Earthspeaker, our shaman.” The older man inclined his head, politely if a bit awkwardly, as though he weren’t used to that form of greeting.

"I expect Ser Leonhardt would benefit from the scouting expertise you and your clan will bring, and the medallion you hold will see to it that our business here goes smoother than without," she said with a nod, before Marceline dismounted her horse and offered this Signy an outstretched hand. "I will have to requisition hardier tents from Ser Leonhardt, but your people will have their shelter and their food. You need not starve any longer."

Signy took the proffered hand, grasping Marceline’s forearm, then nodded and relinquished the medallion. “Then we will make our way to Haven and find this Ser Leonhardt. We will be of little assistance with religious cultists, beyond what we have already provided, and without the crest, we are no longer safe here.” She released Marceline’s arm, then stepped back and whistled sharply. Almost as one, the other members of her band stood, and she gestured them to the right.

“You’ll want to go left from here. And watch out for their leader—he’s unpopular, and for good reason.” With that, she and her father turned to depart, soon disappearing down a different path.

Certainly not what she'd been expecting to see on their travels, though she'd seen enough starving folk in her travels to understand the need for powerful allies. She only shifted sideways, so that she could properly see the unusually tattooed woman at the front. Lady Sunshine was proving be an awfully good conversationalist and so, Zahra offered no words. She hadn't been hired for that anyhow. Shamans, Avvar, Thanes and hollow-cheeked tribesmen already—things she had never encountered before.

A chuckle bubbled from her lips, and she looked much like Khari had observing the dragon and giant, “Worth it.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
The Blades of Hessarian kept their camp a fair distance inland, nestled into the steep hills and cliffs that zig-zagged along the coast. The people of the region were scarce, only a few outlying fishing villages and mountain communities, tough people that looked on strangers, especially armed ones, with suspicion. While they made their way towards the bandit encampment, or cult, or whatever it was, they preoccupied themselves with following up on some clues as to the Wardens that they sought in the area.

The people of one particular fishing village remembered them, but provided little information, for they only had little to begin with, or so Romulus believed. He was fairly good at spotting lies, and these villagers spoke none, concealed nothing. The Wardens that had passed through were a group, led by an elf, apparently. They were not received with hostility, for the locals were still grateful to them for the speedy end to the Blight, years ago. The group of Wardens inquired after other Wardens, an Orlesian man and an elven woman of the Free Marches, but the villagers could tell them nothing.

Khari led the tracking effort, for the most part. Romulus wasn't too experienced in following signs in the wild. A city would've been preferable, honestly. He was often more successful at prying information from broken fingers than broken twigs. Khari was the one most comfortable with this sort of work, and so she was best suited to find where the Warden group had gone.

It took the better part of a day to find a discarded camp, well nestled between steep rock formations on a secluded hillside. There they found, among few other things, a discarded journal, mostly soaked through, but with a few legible lines through which information could be gleaned. The camp had indeed been made by the Warden group they sought, but there were no names available, either for the searching party, or the two that they pursued. They worried over a whisper in their minds, had difficulty sensing darkspawn, and ultimately determined that their objectives had since departed the region. It could only be assumed that they themselves had left soon after, and there was no indication as to where.

The search for the Wardens having proven fruitless, they were left with one more task on the Storm Coast, dealing with the Blades of Hessarian. The camp was not far now. Romulus occasionally spied shadows moving behind bushes and trees, but none ever approached. Perhaps the openly displayed medallion that the redheaded woman had presented them with was truly enough to keep their arrows and blades at bay.

He studied their new companion, the sea-captain, as they descended down steep terrain. She handled herself well, on and off land, and carried herself with confidence. He didn't doubt she was capable, and a worthwhile addition to the Inquisition, especially considering their lack of influence at sea. What interested him more was her appearance. She shared a similar tone with him, the rather distinct features of one with Rivaini heritage. Given her own profession, and the manner in which Romulus had been told he was first found, he determined her to be worth prying into.

"You are Rivaini, Captain Zahra?" he asked, the answer obvious, the question probably more in what to call her. Titles felt annoyingly necessary when a person such as him ventured to address someone. "May I ask how you acquired a ship and crew?"

Zahra leaned backwards, slightly further from Khari, and tilted her head to examine Romulus. Her mouth curved into a smile. It pulled at the scars banded across her lips, twitching back to bare her teeth, “Perceptive of you.” She readjusted herself across the horse's rump, possibly to keep herself from slipping off as they rode. Her movements were languid, thoughtful. She drew a hand up to her face and traced her fingertips across her cheekbone, trailing it down below her eye, “And so are you. Must've come from a wealthy family with those.” A rhetorical question, it seemed. Or rather, a statement. With her, it seemed difficult to tell the difference.

“Now, that's a tale that I'd gladly share,” she clicked her tongue and raised an eyebrow, watching him as a hawk might, “but I'm not in the habit of giving without taking anything so, if you'll answer a question of mine, I'll answer one of yours. Deal?”

Romulus ignored the comment about his tattoos. He knew not what they signified, or where he had acquired them. If they were some symbol of his belonging to a wealthy lineage, it hardly mattered now. "I'll answer as best I can. Ask."

Zahra made a small noise in her throat and dropped her hand back down to her side, seemingly lost in thought. She rolled her eyes skyward. There was a pause, and only the clopping of hoof beats and rattling weapons filled in the spaces of her silence. It took her a few moments, but her eyes fell back to Romulus and held his gaze, “Alright then. How is it that you came to be with the Inquisition? I'm sure you all have your own stories to tell.”

Romulus was aware that the circumstances regarding his joining were less than ideal for the Inquisition's public image, hence why they'd been largely swept under the rug in favor of Estella's more palatable background. Briefly, he tried to catch the Lady Marceline's eye, to see if he had permission to answer truthfully. Marceline nodded her consent.

"I came from Tevinter, on orders from my domina to spy on the Conclave. Somehow, I was caught in events, I don't remember. The Breach was created by the explosion, I helped stop its spread three days later. The Inquisition requested that my domina allow me to remain and help close the Breach entirely. She agreed." It was delivered without much emotion, despite the enormity of everything that had happened. Perhaps it was because Romulus always seemed uncomfortable discussing the details of his slavery with these southerners. In Minrathous, his position was not something that was looked at twice. Many magisters had favored slaves, and he was fortunate and skilled enough to be one of them. Here, they seemed to think the idea worse than death. He did not know what to make of it.

"My question still stands, if you're satisfied. The short version, maybe. We're getting close." He could see wisps of campfires in the distance. They'd be in sight of the bandit camp soon.

Her eyebrow occasionally shot up when Romulus said certain words, though she did little more than nod her head. As abrasive as she seemed to be, she was a polite listener. Her shoulders straightened when he was finished and she seemed to consider his words. If she had any questions, she thought better of voicing them aloud. It seemed as if she had many of them, tapping at her knee as she was. Her smile simpered into a flat line. For all of her bluster, she hesitated. She followed his gaze and her grin returned, kindled like fire, “So we are.”

“Short version it is. This particular ship was commandeered. Borrowed indefinitely, you might say. If you're all for justice and fairness, you might not want to hear that story. As for my crew, I picked them all up along the way. Like I said, I've been around the world, mostly. Took some of them in. Except for Aslan. He's always been at my side. Hell if I know why,” Zahra used her hands, stroked the air in broad gestures, as if it explained anything at all. She paused and crackled a rough laugh, “But I'm sure you'd be more interested hearing it from them.”

The camp belonging to the Blades of Hessarian actually looked more like a small fort, complete with a large wooden wall, watchtowers, and a gate. Blue flags were unfurled over the towers, and Romulus got the distinct sense they were approaching a military encampment rather than a bandit hideout. Their little formation of horses left them appearing quite exposed, but even when more of the Blades came into sight, they did not attack. Those who manned the gate pushed it open upon seeing the medallion.

"You come to challenge our leader?" One asked, disbelieving. The other shrugged.

"All others have failed, but you're welcome to try."

They rode through the gate, Romulus with his hand ever on the hilt of his dagger, and already with shield in hand. His eyes watched the places an ambusher might hide, but for all their strength, these bandits seemed interested in this approach, which they perhaps saw as more honorable. It would certainly be easier than fighting all of them, he supposed.

There were many tents and little fires scattered throughout the interior of the camp, but some of the structures were actual houses, well-made and seemingly well-lived in. They had been here for some time, unchallenged. It made sense, he supposed. The Blight would have had no cause to travel through this place, and after it the darkspawn would've retreated and remained underground. The region was too far from Highever for Teyrn Cousland to do anything about it, not when darkspawn threatening more populated regions took priority. No, the Blades of Hessarian were masters of this land, and had been for some time. Removing them would not be easy. Controlling them would be more profitable.

"Who among you challenges the Blades of Hessarian?" demanded a man, standing in front of a throne carved from wood and stone. He was a large brute of a man, lightly armored and armed with a hand axe and round shield. His beard and hair were both thick and blond, in all a very Fereldan appearance. At his sides, a pair of mabari hounds clad in spiked plates of armor growled at the approaching strangers.

Marceline had dismounted her horse and stood straight as the man spoke. She was not cowed by the installation the Blades had, nor did she seem fearful standing in front of the man. As she spoke, she kept her head level and her arms crossed. A relaxed stance. "We represent the Inquisition and would ask to parley. We need not resort to violence," she said.

The rest dismounted in turn, and all approached the leader of the Blades on foot. He crossed his arms at Marceline's words, narrowing his eyes at all of them. "You carry the Crest of Mercy. This earns you the right to a challenge, no more. The Blades of Hessarian will not negotiate with outsiders, not under my command." He took a threatening step forward, his two hounds behind him drooling with anticipation. He pointed at Marceline and the others with the spike atop his axe.

"Name your two champions. One for me, and the other for my dogs. That's how this works."

When it seemed like words get them nowhere, Marceline's eyelids dropped and she stared down her nose at him. Instead of addressing the brute anymore she turned and looked toward the others to listen to their comments.

“Me. I volunteer.” It was spoken immediately, probably before anyone else had a chance to get a word in edgewise. From the way Khari sat, though, tense as a bowstring and tall as she could make herself, she’d been anticipating this from the very start. As if to match actions to words, she tossed her leg easily over the side of the horse, hopping to the ground in a fluid motion that left Zahra behind her undisturbed.

“Don’t care what, either. Those dogs look vicious and mean, but the big man looks more vicious and meaner.” Her eyes glittered, and she turned them towards Romulus, perhaps because he was, after all, the Herald here. Or perhaps just because she anticipated him being the other party, it was hard to say for sure. Her hand was already reaching back for the hilt of her sword.

Zahra sucked at her gums, and slid off the horse as well, eying the Blades of Hessarian with little more than a crinkled nose. Her fingers, however, twitched at her sides. One of them lingered slightly behind her back—closest to her bow, fingering the string as if it were a musical instrument to be plucked. Her stance bellied a readiness that was often seen in warriors, and her eyes danced not with the wariness that any of the others might have had, but excitement, “Let them have their way then. I don't doubt any of your abilities.”

Romulus stepped forward beside Khari, drawing his dagger, wordless in his intent. It was obvious what he was planning on doing, and that was volunteering. He was trained for killing important targets, mages or otherwise. Killing this man and his dogs would make killing the rest unnecessary, and would possibly make them pliable to the Inquisition's will. But, it was ultimately Marceline's duty to direct the mission, and so Romulus glanced again to her for her approval.

She looked at the three of them in contemplation before she turned back to the Fereldan and his hounds. She held them in her gaze, sizing them up before she closed her eyes and sighed, apparently having decided on something. Marceline then began to undo the clasp to the cloak around her shoulders. "Khari," she began, "If you would handle the hounds?" Once the cloak was free, she approached Zahra and handed it to her, giving her an appreciative look. Zahra, in turn, folded and tucked the cloak underneath her arm and grinned at the others, obviously pleased by the outcome.

"I shall answer his challenge," she said, reaching into her pocket to produce a length of black fabric. As she used it to tie her hair back into a bun, she looked to Romulus somewhat apologetically. "Your position in the Inquisition is far too important to risk on something I can handle myself, Lord Herald," she explained. By her tone, it was clear that her usage of the title of Herald was not so much meant for him, but for the Blades. Romulus did not move at first, looking briefly at Khari and then back to Marceline. His face was stone, more so than usual, but eventually he sheathed his dagger, and stepped back, deferring to her.

Turning back to the Fereldan, her arms free and her hair out of the way she drew the rapier at her side with one hand, and the main-gauche with the other. She held the rapier horizontally at eye level, while the dagger waited in the shadows.

"Begin."

It was probably only meant to commence the match between Marceline and the leader of the Blades, but it seemed to serve well enough as a signal for Khari, as well. She still wore her cloak, and the steel mask, as well, and the hounds leapt for her as one. She immediately jumped backwards, positioning herself a fair distance behind Marceline, but still at her back, obviously to prevent the mabari from flanking her. One of the dogs landed short, but the other had taken an extra step before jumping at her, and she was forced to block, swinging her fist around to punch it directly in the nose.

That didn’t seem to do much, perhaps due to the armor plating it had, and though it failed to get a good hold on her, it did knock her to the ground. Chances were, it weighed about the same as she did, maybe a little more with the armor, and the ground was muddy and slick. Khari fell, but she did so easily, almost as if she’d been expecting it, and she laughed as she slid backwards on the mud about a foot before coming to a stop, rolling onto her feet quickly and bringing her sword around for the next exchange.

Marceline simply shook her head most likely at what was Khari's laughter. When it was clear that it was not her that going to make the first move, the Fereldan made his own instead. With his first step forward, she took her first backward. Likewise for the second. The slow retreat seemed to have angered the man, because a scowl leapt into his face before he threw himself at Marceline.

Instead of rushing forward to meet him, and instead of retreating backward and risk tripping into the fight Khari was in, she danced to the side and out of the way, carefully watching his weapons with each step. Marceline carried herself with practiced steps and honed grace. It was becoming clear that she was no stranger to a duel. The rapier never dropped below eye level, at least until it bobbed upward, as if to entice him to try again.

Khari, meanwhile, wasn’t particularly graceful at all. She was all motion, a constant back-and-forth, push-and-pull, like the flow of the tides, and the part of the field she and the dogs occupied was swiftly becoming even more of a mud pit than it had been before, as she and her four-legged foes churned it up with the strength of their strides. It seemed to be ankle-deep, in most places, but their vigor had splashed large portions of it onto them, until the dogs were gaining a coat to their chests and Khari was just wearing it everywhere. She repelled their attacks mostly by swatting them away with large, sweeping strokes of her sword, but she never overshot, never left herself open for longer than she could recover.

One of them dove low, going in for her ankle, most likely, but she went low, too, diverting to the side and pivoting, the force of the motion carrying her through the next stroke, which cleanly severed one of its legs, just below where the armor protected. It went down on its side, so she opened up its belly with the subsequent blow, ending its life with celerity.

"It appears as if you overestimated your hounds," Marceline taunted after the hound that Khari dispatched cried aloud. The leader of the blades simply grunted angrily and charged her again. This time, she did not retreat, but she never let her eyes move away from his shield and axe. He came in hard for a horizontal swipe, but Marceline apparently had seen it coming and took a step backward to let it pass harmlessly in front her. She had also seen the backswing coming, and parried it with the main-gauche, pushing it away from her.

A fierce shield block followed, but Marceline easily dipped under it and spun away, coming out unscatched on the other side of him. She put a few steps between instead of pressing an attack, before resetting the positioning of her rapier. "It also appears as if your hounds were much more competent," she taunted again. The mounting frustrations on the Fereldan's face was visible to all, and it was easy to see that his motions were becoming more and more wild with each miss and each taunt.

In the aftermath of the death of its counterpart, the second mabari fought all the harder, seemingly confirming the rumors about their intelligence and loyalty, and it was certainly well-trained for battle. It snarled at Khari, and lunged, this time from too close for her to merely duck away, and they both hit the ground with a wet squelch. It was a bit hard to see exactly what happened after that—a great deal of rolling was involved, as both tried to get the necessary leverage to finish the other off. With a half-yell, half-snarl of her own, though, Khari hauled the dog off her and threw herself onto it, planting a knee in its chest and a hand beneath its jaw, tipping its head back too far to bite her and rendering most of its powerful muscles useless, since it couldn’t get leverage to push her off.

With a grunt, she brought her sword towards her with her second hand, laying the blade over its throat under her first, then leaning into it. Given the lack of armor there, it bit in easily, and the hound went still beneath her. She climbed to her feet, coated almost head to toe in wet earth worn proudly, almost, glancing towards Marceline and her foe, and her teeth flashed at him from under the mask, though it it was a smile, a grimace, or something else wasn’t evident.

“Waste of good dogs, on your pride.” Her tone was clearly derisive, and the jab played off Marceline’s like taunts surprisingly well, for someone who’d been wholeheartedly engaged in her own confrontation.

"She is correct, you know?" Marceline said, with a brow raised. Her answer was immediate, a rage induced yell and the Fereldan threw everything at her in his next flurry. However, even in the mud, Marceline proved quicker, stepping out of the way of errant strikes and batting away the weaker ones with her main-gauche. Despite the ferocity, it was clear that the fight was beginning to strain him. The wide angles, the wild slashes, the ferocity, even in the rain it was easy to tell the Fereldan was laboring.

She backstepped one more time before the man barked at her, taken over by his rage. "Fight Ba--urk," he was never able to finish the sentence. Marceline siezed the opportunity provided by the man opening his mouth to speak to drive the tip of her rapier into his throat. He was choking on his blood before he fell to his knees, his weapons quickly sinking into the muck beside him.

"We could have just spoken," Marceline said, the man tipping over into the mud, lifeless. She sheathed main-gauche and produced a linen hankerchief from a pocket. She then proceeded to wipe the beads of blood from the tip of her rapier, before she sheathed it as well. Turning to face Khari, she looked her up and down before she offered the woman herself the handkerchief.

Khari only laughed, waving the offer away with a good-natured grin. “Gonna take more than that, I think. Rain should do for most of it." They were quite the contrast, one of them as neat as it was likely possible to be out here and the other wearing muck from the crown of her head to the toes of her boots, but they'd both been successful.

It was Zahra who first stepped forward to congratulate them on their victories. Arms held out wide as if she might embrace them, though she did not. Instead she stood in front of Khari and settled her hands on her hips, smiling broadly, “Now that was a damn good fight. I'm glad the brute was stupid enough to challenge you.” Her eyes flicked from Khari's mud-speckled face, to Lady Marceline's sheathed blade and back up to hers, which was noticeabl cleaner, “It might've been easier to talk, but less fun, you must admit.”

Whatever her idea of fun was, it obviously lied in the more violent aspects of their journey. Her expression shifted as she looked between the two, sizing them up before she circled around Khari. Glancing over her shoulder, Zahra looked mildly apologetic as she held out Marceline's cloak, “Forgive me, but I think I'll be riding with her the rest of the way. At least until the rain does its work.” Khari only shrugged.

“Suit yourself."

As Romulus mounted, one of the Blades of Hessarian approached. "You'll be hearing from us, Inquisition," he said, not at all in an unfriendly manner. "You've proven yourselves worthy, and earned the right of command. In the Storm Coast, your will is our own." Romulus pulled his hood up over his head, as the rain began to come down ever harder.

They were not unlike slaves, he thought. Serving without question at the whim of the most dangerous person they could find.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
It felt better than it perhaps should have to be out of the damn office for a while.

Leon was grateful, actually, that his duties included supervising the training of the troops as often as possible. The Lions' lieutenants, and, if he were being honest, even their non-officer members, were exceptionally well-trained even for professionals, and so they could do a lot of the teaching and drilling in his absence, but he refused to shut himself away in a building all day out of the reach of most of his people and pretend like being here, where they could see him, wasn’t important. He much preferred dealing with soldiers to dealing with either diplomats or spies anyway, and that was in part exactly why he had the role within the organization that he did.

Currently, he was only observing drills; he suspected he might be coaxed into some kind of informal spar later, but for the moment, it was more important that he get a better sense of how they were doing. Down in the ranks, Hissrad and Donnelly were shouting drill commands, which the men and women under their supervision followed with varying degrees of competence and accuracy. They were already looking better than they had a month ago, and he told Cor, standing to his left, as much. To his right, Reed nodded an agreement.

“Well
 they’ve been working hard,” the young elf replied, shifting his weight slightly from one leg to the other. Another thing that seemed to hold fairly universally of the Lions was that they were quick to give others as much of the credit as they could for anything, be that shifting praise between themselves or putting it at the feet of their trainees. It was an admirable sort of humility, but almost disconcerting to find so universally over what was otherwise a very diverse group of people. He wondered if they’d all picked it up from their own commander or if he’d simply selected them in the first place because they had it. Still, sans Estella, there was a quiet confidence to each of them, a sense that they knew that they were skilled and valuable, but refused to make any noise about it.

It made them incredibly easy to work with.

“They have,” Leon agreed with a smile. It was hard not to, perhaps, when the Breach was still there in the sky and no one else in the world seemed to have half an idea what to do about it. “But they’ve been instructed well, also, else their hard work would not have achieved so much.” Cor pursed his lips, but nodded with what appeared to be some reluctance.

“We’re working hard, too,” he admitted, glancing over and up at Leon. “She’s one of ours, after all; we can’t not help her. Plus, Lia’s with you guys now, and after that whole thing with the scouts...” He grimaced. It was obvious that Cor held a great deal of affection for both of his friends, and the sentiment was more than likely shared by the other two as well.

Leon hummed thoughtfully. “I know our supplies yet leave much to be desired, but is there anything in particular you think you need?”

Cor exhaled through his nose. “Help?” Thinning his mouth, he explained further. “Our squads can help a little, when they see a line-mate doing something wrong, but we don’t want to disrupt your command structure too much by having troops ordering each other around. And if you take our twenty out of the equation, there’s only three of us, some spare people with previous mercenary or military experience, and
 well, that’s it. It’s fewer than ten people running drills for what’s eventually going to be an army.”

And that was indeed where the personnel problem was hitting them the hardest: mid-level officers. Leon himself was doing most of what he’d usually have captains and up do, but the burdens of lieutenants fell on the scarce volunteers they had with command experience, and it was bound to wear them as it wore him. Thinking of that brought to the forefront again the massive migraine he could feel building in the back of his head, and he sighed. “You’re right. Start picking out troops with a knack for the drills. I at least need to promote you some sergeants.” He couldn’t ask them to keep doing all this work for the pittance he was currently able to pay them.

Nearby, Leon could hear the telltale clacking of two wooden practice swords bouncing off of each other. Not too far away, but away from the main body of troops, a man was practicing with a boy. The man, Ser Michaël, a Chevalier and Lady Marceline's husband, was sparring with their son, Pierre. Michaël bore his full plate backed by a purple and black cloak that seemed to be the Benoßt house colors. He easily held off his son with a single practice sword in one hand, while the boy struggled with two hands.

Michaël had been giving his son encouragement and guidance, but had quieted when Cor spoke. Though his attentions seemed to be held on the conversation they were having, the spar with Pierre continued, though he was still able to effortlessly hold the boy off. At least, until Leon finished his last sentence. A surprised yelp cut the air then, and Pierre's sword was in the snow, with Michaël's own pressed gently against the boy's shoulder. The man gave his son an apologetic look, before he laughed.

"I will make a Chevalier out of you yet. Come," he said, tusseling the boy's hair and shouldering his sword. His hand fell to the boy's shoulder and they finally made their way to Leon.

"Commander Leonhardt?" He asked, "If I may suggest something?"

Leon turned his attention to MichaĂ«l in full at that point, rather than half-observing the training as he had been before, and lifted a brow. “Of course, Ser MichaĂ«l. You have a recommendation?” While technically speaking, the chevalier was outside the Inquisition’s command structure, Leon had never seen the harm in a second opinion, especially one from someone well-trained in martial matters, as was all of present company, excluding, of course, the lad.

Michaël smiled and nodded before he began "Perhaps I may be able to allievate your problem somewhat. I am a Lieutenant for the Chevaliers, with knowledge of their tactics and training methods. Methods I sometime see the Lions utilize in their own regiments," he said with a warm smile for Cor. Michaël then placed a hand on his hip, and noticably puffed his chest out, though a playfulness remained in his green eyes. "I would offer my services, if you have need of them, Commander."

The boy next to him simply shook his head, and looked to Leon with a wry smile. "Please. Let him help. When father gets bored, he uses me as an excuse to train," Pierre explained. Michaël said nothing in turn, but his chest sagged in response to the comment. The sword on his shoulder then shifted however, and reached across to tap the boy lightly on top of the head, a smile on his lips the whole time.

Leon’s violet eyes picked up a glimmer of amusement at Pierre’s words, and he spoke partly to both of them. “It would seem I have little choice, in that case.” His gaze shifted up to MichaĂ«l. “In truth, I would be grateful for the assistance. As, I am sure, would the Lions.”

Cor’s smile was much more obvious evidence of the fact that he was entertained than anything on Leon’s face, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know about that. To hear the commander tell it, Ser MichaĂ«l, your methods haven’t improved much since your days of tripping in formation when there were pretty girls around.” It was clearly an inside joke of some sort, a reference that Leon didn’t have, but from the sounds of things, the Lions would work quite well with Lord BenoĂźt’s help, which, while it would not alleviate the growing pains the Inquisition experienced, would at least go partway there.

Cor's joke however, took the rest of the air out of Michaël's chest. Instead of puffing himself out, he hid his face with his hand, and rubbed his eyes. He said nothing at first, only muttering, "Lucien," under his breath. Pierre also laughed at the joke, but turned away from his father so that he could not see, no doubt lest he risk another tap to the head.

Michaël waved his hand in the air, and said, "I deny everything."

"You can try, love, but that does not mean it is not true," a voice cooed from behind them. It was Lady Marceline's, who came from the road leading back to Haven proper, with Larissa close beside her. Larissa carried a clipboard in hand, but was currently not writing anything. She was, however, laughing gently. "I apologize," Marceline told Cor as she pulled up beside her husband. "I believe I am cause of that," she added, leaning up against him.

Michaël for his part, said nothing and continued to look out over the horizon, as if trying to pretend nothing was happening.

“No fault of yours, Lady Marceline,” Cor replied easily, with a modest bow. It was clear enough that he and she had met on a previous occasion, probably through the Lions’ commander. “And it does seem to have worked out for the better, no?”

Leon’s attention was temporarily drawn away from the byplay by the approach of another, however, and he found himself straightening a little bit unconsciously. He wondered if she was here to
?

Khari, who’d been marching not unlike a chevalier herself, slowed slightly upon spotting the group, or perhaps the size of it. At one point, she almost stopped, but then seemed to think better of that and soldiered on until she was standing in front of the lot of them. There was a moment where she looked like she was thinking, and then she dipped herself at the waist. “Uh
 hey commander
 everyone.” She grinned, nodded to Cor and Reed, glanced back and forth between Marceline, MichaĂ«l, and Pierre, and then settled her eyes on Leon himself.

“I had a question: does anyone around here have like
 glassware and retorts and alembics and stuff? Like for potions? Fancier than the local alchemist, I mean?” She raised a hand to scratch at the back of her head, pulling her red braid over her shoulder on the way back. She was without most of her usual gear at the moment, which made her take up a lot less space than usual, and she seemed conscious of the fact that discounting Pierre, she was by far the shortest person in present company.

Leon wasn’t sure what the purpose behind the question was, but he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to ask. The smile on Khari’s face always looked like trouble to him, and while he was mostly sure she wouldn’t do anything damaging, there were perhaps things he’d be better off knowing about only in the event he needed to do something about them. “Rilien would have equipment like that, if I’m not mistaken,” he replied. The Tranquil was an alchemist of surpassing talent, among his many other virtues and useful skills.

A thought struck him, then, and he angled himself slightly differently. “Khari, I don’t believe you’ve met the other BenoĂźts. Lady Marceline you know, but Ser MichaĂ«l is a lieutenant with the chevaliers, and Pierre here is their son. MichaĂ«l, Pierre, this is Khari. She’s one of our irregulars.” That was what he’d settled on calling the volunteers and recruits who didn’t work inside the usual armed force structure.

At precisely the moment Leon had enunciated the word ‘chevalier,’ Khari had stood ramrod straight, her full attention clearly fixed on the introduction, and if possible, the haphazard grin on her face widened, until she may have been showing a few too many teeth. “Chevalier, huh?” To her credit, she acknowledged Pierre to a greater extent than most would note the presence of a child, but it was clear where the majority of her attention had diverted. “Bear mauls the wolves or tower in a storm? Because if you’re a tower person, we’re gonna have a problem, you and I.” The way she said it gave the lie to the last sentence; she was clearly extremely excited to be talking to a chevalier, apparently to the exclusion of taking to the rest of them.

"Bear mauls the wolves, of course. Shields just get in the way," Michaël said chuckling with a grin of his own. Then he stopped and glanced over to Cor and Leon, his face settling into an awkward look. "Er... Not literally of course. I understand the value of a good shield wall," he explained.

Pierre simply rolled his eyes and huffed, which earned him another tap to the top of the head with the practice sword.

Leon sighed softly, shaking his head and leaving the two of them to their tactical discussions, as it were. He diverted his attention to Marceline, who probably wasn’t out here in the cold to watch the troops practice. “Is there something I can help you with, milady?”

"Yes, Ser Leonhardt," Lady Marceline replied. If she seemed at all perturbed by the tactical discussion being carried on by her husband, she did not show it. In fact, by the way she carried herself, it seemed as if she dealt with it often enough. Glancing first at Khari, and then the rest of the troops, she turned back to Leon. "I would ask for access to detailed personel reports on the individuals serving the Inquisition," she said.

Larissa then went to her clipboard and began to write something, though Leon could not see what. "In return, Larissa and I will pen letters to some of our contacts in order to obtain more experienced soldiers to fill your needs," She said, glancing to the woman beside her, already hard at work.

There were far too many individuals to assemble more than basic dossiers based on the standard forms each volunteer had dictated to Reed or Tanith upon his or her entrance into the Inquisition, with things like next-of-kin information and the like, but he supposed more than that might be in order for the officers and irregulars, at least, so with some reluctance, he inclined his head. It would probably mean even more hours in the office, but the idea had relevance, and they really could use any more people those letters might gain them.

“Very well. I will see what I can assemble in the next few days to that effect. Cor, if you would be so kind as to poll the others and get names for likely sergeants, I’ll try to run a round of minor promotions within a fortnight.” The pressure at the back of his head felt like it was ratcheting up to become a full-blown tension headache, but he ignored it for now. Rilien would have something for that, or else he’d just work through it. He had before.

There just usually wasn’t quite so much at stake.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Lady Marceline had her hands full, with a bottle of wine in one, and a docket of files in the other. Not only her hands, either. Larissa dutifully kept step behind her, clipboard and another set of files in hers. She had stepped out of the larger office she had initially requisitioned from Ser Leonhardt, who'd relocated into a smaller office of the Chantry. It was required, however, she had to have the space to host visiting dignitaries... Of which there had only been a few. Most had deigned to only speak through letter, or not speak to them at all.

They would come around, however. The letters were being penned, favors were being called, and the appointments were set. The Game was being played, and Marceline did not lose. The Inquisition would have their support in due time, but first, they had to prove they were worthy. It was partly for this reason that Marceline and her assistant left the Chantry, and headed toward the tent of their Spymaster.

She knew Ser Rilien, of course, before he was the Inquisition's Spymaster. Her duties, however, had kept her away from speaking with the man, and even now, it was her duties that took her to see him. From the mouth of the Chantry, she could see his tent with the flaps open and inviting. He was not alone, though, Estella sat nearby, and a tea set spread out in front of them. She glanced back to Larissa, who wore a smile which soon spread to her own lips. "Come," she beckoned the woman and headed toward the tent.

She stood at the entrance and bowed to both Rilien and Estella, and greeted them in turn. "Ser Rilien," she said to the man, "Lady Estella," the woman. Larissa as well bowed to both, but her gaze lingered on Rilien.

"I apologize if I am intruding at all," she said, gesturing to the tea set with the hand that held the bottle of wine, "But there are things I wish to speak to you about," Marceline added for Rilien, motioning to the docket she held.

Estella looked uncomfortable for a fraction of a second, but then she glanced between Marcy, Larissa, and Rilien, frowned slightly, and then shook her head. “Um
 if it’s things you don’t mind me hearing about, you could always join us for tea?” It came out more as a question than a statement, and it was obvious why when she turned her glance back to the Tranquil, clearly seeking his confirmation. “But, if it’s too important, I can leave.”

Rilien shook his head. “It is Inquisition business. You are a Herald. In principle, there is nothing that need be kept from you. In practice, we do so only because the details are many and tedious.” He moved his attention to the other two. “You may enter.” The Tranquil paused a moment to pour two extra cups of tea, the seating already being adequate to another pair of guests, before reaching for the docket.

“What was it you wished to discuss, Lady Marceline?” His voice, as ever, indicated no interest, but also no particular lack of it, odd as that was.

Marceline smiled and nodded her agreement. There were so many things that required their attention, that if a Herald were required for each of them, they would need many more than two. Marceline and Larissa entered the tent together, but Marceline was the first to hand him her docket. "The names and information on the nobility, both in Orlais and Ferelden, that support the Inquisition." She frowned however and sighed. "There are not many, I am afraid. Though word of the Inquisition's deeds spreads, we are still largely an unknown entity. An issue I am attempting to solve," she said before turning it over to Larissa.

The woman stepped forward and passed her own set of files off. "These are the names of the nobility that may require watching, now or in the future. Likewise, the names are few, many continue to watch us from a neutral standpoint to see how our actions play out." Larissa took a step back, but still spoke. "We believed as our Spymaster, you would have use of these files, no matter how sparse," she added. Marceline caught a little gleam of amusement in her eyes when she called the man their Spymaster, though she said nothing on the matter.

"And this," she said, holding up the bottle of wine. "Is a gift from my own personal store," she explained gently laying it down on the table. The label held the emblem of a shield surrounded by vines of grapes, the LĂ©cuyer Vineyards crest, her crest. "The market value of which is measured in sovereigns," she said, with a coy smile. It was true, of course, and not just arrogant boasting on her part. The LĂ©cuyer Vineyards were very well respected for their wines, and provided for many of Orlais's salons.

"It has been quite some time since we have last seen each other, has it not Rilien?" she said, slipping out of her usual business demeanor and into something more fitting when speaking to an old acquantance. Even Larissa eased into a more comfortable disposition.

Marceline then took a seat, taking Estella's offer of tea, while Larissa hovered close to the table. "Thank you Lady Estella," she said to the woman before looking back to Rilien. "I apologize that we have not been by, we have been busy, as I am sure you understand," she said, glancing to Larissa, who nodded in agreement. Rilien no doubt had just as much work as she.

“You need not have troubled yourselves.” Before sitting down, Rilien lifted the wine off the table, checked the label, and then nodded almost imperceptibly, putting it away on one of the small, low shelves contained within the tent. “I have been quite occupied myself, and at present, I am catching my apprentice up on some of the lessons she has missed.” It was an obvious reference to Estella’s presence, though he had not mentioned her to be such before.

He took a seat in the remaining empty chair, thumbing through the dockets with a disinterested gaze that was nevertheless keen, sharp. Marceline had known him long enough to understand that he was a perceptive man, and that he missed very little, if anything. It was hardly a wonder that he walked in a prince’s shadow most of the time, and even now, he seemed to have little effort splitting his attention in several directions, however much the others might struggle with it.

“Estella, if you would begin in the minor chord again, please.”

Setting her tea down, Estella picked up the lute that had been leaning against her chair and pulled it back into her lap. Her eyes flickered a trifle uncertainly between the two guests, before she smiled thinly. “Apologies in advance if I assail your ears,” she murmured, but she dutifully arranged her fingers on the instrument, their placements quite precise, likely much to do with the fastidious nature of the person who’d taught her how to do so.

The first note was sweet and clear, and dropped into a trilling cascade of them, immediately recognizable to Marceline as one of the more popular accompaniments to a gaillarde, one of the most athletic but also precise forms of dance found in the Empire. The choice certainly seemed to suit the instructor’s sensibilities, such as they were.

Marceline laughed softly to herself. She hadn't shown surprise when Rilien had said that Estella was his apprentice. In fact, it explained why some of the small things that she did reminded her of him. When she began to play, Marceline closed her eyes and listened intently to the melody, enjoying it. Soon, however, a hum accompanied Estella's playing. Marceline cracked an eyelid and glanced over to her assistant, who gently rocked with the rise and fall of the tune. The hum added to the arrangement beautifully, and Marceline couldn't help but smile at the dulcet duet.

Rilien worked through the files quite briskly, and by the time he looked up about five minutes later, all of them were stacked neatly beside him. “I take it we’ve still not heard anything from the templars.” It wasn’t really a question the way he’d put it, and demanded no answer. “It seems our next logical move is to meet with the mages in Redcliffe, though my agents have reported little out of there.” He paused for a moment. “I know of at least two people there who may prove of aid to our cause, however, and they may be able to inform us of what has occurred since the Grand Enchanter’s proposition.”

Marceline shook her head in the negatory. "We have not unfortunately, and I have written to them on more than one occasion," she revealed. The Templars were frustratingly quiet, and apart from their demonstration in Val Royeaux she had heard nothing from them. "I have been in correspondence with the nobility, and they report the same, I am afraid." From the wording used in their letters, they were as frustrated as she was.

"I agree," she said, "the mages seem far more amiable to any negotiations, and we are able assert our position upon them easier than if we were to negotiate with the Templars." Her lips had formed a thin frown, and she was far more contemplative, the music of Estella and Larissa just a dull memory. However, it did help allieviate the stress. "However, I shall still continue to try and make contact with the Templars and speak to the other nobles on the matter. If at all possible, I would see an alliance with both, instead of just one or the other."

It would also be a catalyst to end the Mage-Templar war. If they could find the peace that Justinia was searching for before her death, it would honor her memory.

“The Templars may actually be more communicative if they believe we have already taken up with the mages.” Rilien sat back slightly, folding his hands together. “They speak the language of power, and such a substantial boost to ours may draw us closer to even with them in their own eyes, which might gain us a place at the negotiating table even with someone as unreasonable as the Lord Seeker.”

“Er
” That was Estella. The music had ended, and the girl looked a little leery of entering the conversation, but she did pipe up. “I mean, that seems very possible, but
 aren’t we also risking just making them even angrier with us? The Templars are at war with the mages right now; won’t they see us as just
 siding with the enemy?”

"Possibly," Marceline answered, "But it is a risk we must take." She crossed her arms and held the woman in her gaze, her face an even mask. "Before the Breach, the Divine wished to bring peace to both the Mages and the Templars. That was the reason of the Conclave, as you know," she gently reminded her. Estella was there after all, she had to know this. "But more than that, we may need all of their strength to close the Breach."

She sighed and steepled her hands, continuing to look at Estella. "Rilien is correct. They speak power, and if we can gain that power, they will open their doors to speak with us. Whether it is to denounce us or otherwise, the door remains open and that is something we can work with."

“And any opportunity is better than none, which is what we have if we do not act.” Rilien set the dockets aside for the moment and refocused his eyes on Estella. “Now, the ballad of the Ser Aveline, please. Do sing it this time.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus suspected that Redcliffe had seen much better days.

As far as he’d bothered to assess the situation, Arl Teagan wasn’t currently in residence, though much of what remained of the southern mage forces were. At least those organized enough to deserve the title forces, barely though they may have qualified. He’d arrived with the second group of Inquisition people, about an hour or so after Estella and her advance group, and had since been filled in on the situation. By the time they’d gotten to it, he’d not been surprised to hear the name Cassius Viridius come up—he had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on here, though if he was right, then Cassius was in fact a much more desperate man than Cyrus had previously taken him to be. Then again
 two years could change a person. They had certainly changed him.

He hadn’t left much choice for anyone when he said he’d be attending the negotiations. When the unilateral pronouncement didn’t seem to be taken especially well, he’d explained as much as he felt he needed to, which was that Cassius was formerly his master, in the tutelage sense of the term, and that he would be considerably more likely to pay attention to what Cyrus had to say than any upstart southern religious movement, which was all true, especially because there was quite a bit he could hold over his former teacher’s head in this situation, with or without revealing it to anyone else.

The inn they were supposed to be meeting him at was near the top of the central hill in the town, though still a tier below the castle and the Chantry, of course. He, Estella, Romulus, and the Lady Marceline were to be the negotiators, though he suspected that the task in question would inevitably fall to him when the good Comtesse’s kid-glove tactics proved utterly fruitless as he knew they would. Magisters didn’t negotiate the same way southern nobility did—at least not when they knew they were winning. But that was a piece of advice he kept to himself right now. It would become evident with due time.

The air still carried a chill, but he found that it didn’t bother him nearly as much as Haven did, of course, and he’d actually swapped out his cloak for a less-warm but much nicer one, in the rich indigo and sable of his house. Details were rarely insignificant when one played this little game, after all. They reached the inn’s entrance with Cyrus in front, and though he might have preferred to enter first, he understood what was necessary here, and so he reached for the handle of the door, turning back over his shoulder to glance at the others, letting his eyes fall last of all on Estella.

“Show no weakness, unless you fancy being devoured.” As if to soften the cryptic ominousness of the words, he flashed a smile, bright and fey, and narrowed his eyes. “Everyone ready?”

Romulus did not appear ready in the slightest. In fact, he looked deeply unsettled, as though he wasn't sure at all what to do with his hands, or his eyes. "Perhaps I shouldn't be here," he said. The suggestion was given to the group at large, as though he didn't want to direct it at anyone in particular.

"You are the Herald. You have every right to be present. Whether you are or you are not is entirely up to you," Lady Marceline answered. Ever since they had found out that the Free Mages were not expecting them in the slightest, Marceline had seemed to be less than happy. She turned back to Cyrus and nodded, a hard line present in her frown.

“I’d, um. I’d feel better if you were,” Estella said, her tone considerably less brusque than Lady Marceline’s. “I’m not sure I want to be the only one of us standing in front of a Magister. The last time I did something like that, the other party was insulted. Er, but
 don’t let me make up your mind.” She shook her head, her expression clearly uneasy.

Romulus was at least able to meet Estella's eyes when she spoke, and while he was clearly still in an anxious mood about everything, he managed to nod, and steady himself a bit. "Let's go, then."

Marceline allowed herself a small sigh before collecting herself. The annoyance she'd wore melted away to leave her face completely neutral, and once more made it difficult to see exactly how she was feeling and what she was thinking.

Personally, Cyrus thought it might have been somewhat wiser for Romulus to not be present, because he didn’t know what Cassius knew or didn’t know about that situation, and it was better to enter any negotiation with all the information on one’s own side, but because it was Estella’s suggestion, he offered no protest, only shrugging. “All right then. Stellulam, dear, you and Romulus should enter first. You are, after all, in charge.” His eyes glittered with contained amusement, and he grasped the handle of the door, sweeping it open with an almost-playful flourish and gesturing the others in ahead of him.

The inside of the inn was mostly unoccupied, as promised, but at a table in the back, several people were gathered. Only four, actually, which made their own number a very wise, if coincidental, confluence. Two of the men were guards, that much was obvious from the way they stood flanking the chair that faced the door. The third, also standing in a somewhat deferential position, was the former Grand Enchanter, but Cyrus could muster no pity for her, despite her obvious misery. He’d never been good at pity in general, and tended to find it even more difficult when someone else had backed themselves into such an obvious corner.

The fourth party had a bearing and a face he knew better than his own, which he supposed was the product of years of familiarity. Magister Cassius Viridius was an elderly man who looked like one, his face lined with age, but even in spite of that, he had a certain distinctive vitality about him, one that was evident in the way he moved: assured, confident, smooth and graceful. He was powerful and exceptionally aware of that power, and unafraid of letting it be known to anyone else. As the party entered, he looked up and over towards the door, an eyebrow ascending his forehead, and he reached up, pushing his hood down onto his shoulders, his bald pate catching some of the light. He was, of course, wearing those gods-awful robes that were apparently still the fashion in Tevinter, the ones that practically screamed ‘sinister mage lord.’ Cyrus had always thought they were a bit ridiculous, but everyone had their foibles, he supposed. He’d at least dressed for the occasion, in House Viridius green and gold.

“Well, well, well.” The Magister’s eyes scanned sharply over each of those present, though they lingered not long at all on Marceline. The other three, however, were of paramount interest to him, though of course they would be. “So it’s true what they say: the 'Heralds of Andraste,' one of our own, and one of our own.” His tone changed on the last words, and his eyes narrowed on Romulus.

The Herald froze entirely, as though Cassius had placed a spell on him with the words alone, though of course he needed nothing more to achieve such an effect. His hood was down, features fully exposed, and it was clear to see that he was struggling to determine what to say. Clearly his issue was that Cassius did not seem to know that Romulus remained with the status of Herald only because his daughter commanded it.

"My trusted blade," said a voice from behind them, and Romulus instantly paled even further, turning his head. "Your freedom has made you bold, I see. I will admit, I did not expect this from you." Chryseis Viridius descended the stairs from the inn's second floor, gloved hand trailing lightly atop the railing. She was dressed as her father was, in green and gold, her own robes a bit tighter about her, with clearly some modifications made for stylistic purposes. The neck was cut lower, the skirt asymmetrically shorn, and the metal covering her fingers and belt intricately engraved. Her blonde hair was done up in an elaborate but tightly wound bun. Her lips wore a confident smile.

Romulus had turned fully away from Cassius, lowered his eyes slightly, and was about to speak, when Chryseis cut him off, continuing her approach. "Do not presume to speak. I have asked you no question. I trust you have enjoyed your little escapade. It will not last forever." Romulus forced himself to meet her eyes, and apparently decided it was best to remain silent. The smile disappeared from Chryseis, replaced by a little smirk, her eyes agleam as they found Cyrus instead.

She worked her way around the group to stand at her father's side, her hand lightly touching his upper arm only momentarily before it was removed. "Cyrus. Wonderful to see you again. The runaway's life is treating you well, I hope?"

“Ah, Chryseis. I confess I have missed the rather lovely sight of your face.” Cyrus’s answering smile was every bit as sly, but it was true that her presence didn’t make him uncomfortable in the least, quite unlike poor Romulus. Of course, it was clear to him what game she was playing, with words like that—it would appear she desired her father to believe that her blade did not have her leave to be here, doing as he was doing, when of course they knew differently.

So Cyrus did something he’d always been exceptionally good at doing, and drew the attention away from someone else and onto himself. “But what a surprise, to see that the most illustrious House Viridius has joined us in the south, hm? This really isn’t the season for it, I must admit.” He made eye contact with Cassius, his smile inching wider. “Imagine, if you will, how interested I was to hear that Magister Cassius had managed to indenture most of the mages left in the region in one fell swoop. Truly a master stroke, executed with a most uncanny timing.” The emphasis he gave the last word was so delicate it could easily have been missed, but Cassius clearly did not miss it.

“What can I say? A Magister with no apprentice suddenly finds himself with a great deal of time to think down other avenues.” The old man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “And what luck, that such avenues might give him opportunity to meet with an Inquisition. I’m curious: what would such an organization wish from me?”

Lady Marceline apparently decided that that was her cue. She laid a hand on Estella's shoulder and gently guided her so that she could step forward, but she never did try to overshadow her. In fact, she stood side-by-side with the woman, a warm and friendly smile on her lips directed toward Chryseis and Cassius. "I will be frank," she began, her voice holding the same warmth her smile held. "The Inquisition did not expect to be speaking to Magisters of such... renown," she said, dipping into a low curtsey.

When she finished, she held her hands on top of each other and her body language shifted in an attempt to entreaty them. "Lord Cassius, Lady Chryseis," she began, glancing at each in turn. "You of course know of the Breach that hangs in the sky above Haven. It is... a danger if it is allowed to continue to exist as such. All the Inquisition asks for is the Free Mages' aid in helping to close it. With your permissions, of course."

She smiled again and tilted her head forward, "No doubt being the man who had helped put Thedas at ease would aid in your politics back home in Minrathous, yes?"

Cyrus suppressed a grimace, because he knew she’d said the wrong thing. Cassius’s smile only confirmed it. It was polite, indifferent, and utterly unmoved. “I fear you understand little of politics in Minrathous, milady. These mages are not free, not in the strict sense, anyway. I am afraid they have promised me their service in return for my protection, and at present, I have decided it is in their best interest to return with me to the Imperium as quickly as possible. There have always been few good places for them in these lands, after all.”

It was almost admirable, how he managed to sound like he actually gave a damn. Cyrus, of course, knew that Cassius was just as full of shit on this count as Marceline was, pretending to be pleased to be speaking to Imperial Magisters. It was almost funny to watch, but then of course he had to go and make it no longer funny at all by shifting his attention to Estella.

“I am sure that is something with which my lady Herald can completely agree, can she not? I’ve heard about Kirkwall; most unfortunate, what Templars in these regions are capable of. Utter madness, really. One could hardly blame a mage for seeking refuge where their abilities, however grand or humble, are celebrated rather than reviled.” Cyrus clenched his teeth.

“I can think of no one who would not celebrate were the Breach closed,” Estella replied, her tone careful, her face smooth and passive. “And I think that if you truly cared how mages were perceived here, you would let mages be the root of the solution.” She lifted her chin slightly, almost as if daring him to contradict her. Marceline simply continued to smile, though this time, it was genuine.

Cyrus did not bother to conceal his own. She was absolutely brilliant, she really was. It was so very perfect, really—no one could have managed to make that sound so genuine except for her, he was certain, and Cassius was left in the rather unenviable position of having to admit he didn’t care about the mages, or that he wanted the Breach to remain open, which was an intriguing possibility that Cyrus filed away for consideration. He suspected both were true. Of course, admitting the first would cost him considerably less, but he’d no longer be able to pretend to the moral high ground. This would be seen for exactly what it was: an opportunistic power-grab.

That appeared to be the route he’d chosen. Cassius’s polite smile vanished, replaced with a stern expression Cyrus knew all too well. It was the expression he’d usually received when his master was about to commence ignoring him until he’d gained command of whatever he was supposed to learn that week, which meant he was extremely displeased. “I’m afraid I’ve little concern for such affairs. I am not the one with an Inquisition, after all. Unless you can offer me something worthwhile in exchange for my loan of my servants, this discussion is quite over. We will be in the castle for a while longer—perhaps you shall devise some new terms in the meantime.” Cassius stood, gesturing to his guards and Fiona, who all fell in step behind him as he made for the exit.

Chryseis remained behind, her back leaned gently against one of the inn's wooden supports. Her expression had not changed as her father's had, instead showing a hint of amusement as her eyes followed Cassius until he was out the door with all of his personal guards. When the door was firmly shut behind him, her eyes fell to Estella, her smile still in place. "Words well chosen. But make no mistake, you are all in great danger by being here. A danger I believe only Cyrus can understand the magnitude of." The smile slowly faded.

She stepped away from the wooden support, coming a little closer to them. "I must remain in my father's presence until night falls, to avoid suspicion. Meet me in the Chantry tonight, if you will, so that we can... catch up." She flashed a smile briefly at Cyrus, before walking around the side of the group and lightly grabbing Romulus by the chin, between her thumb and forefinger. "I know you at least will follow my wish." She released him, and Romulus immediately averted his eyes downwards.

"Domina."

"Until tonight, then," she said, striding towards the door. "Take care, Inquisition."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
As the door closed behind Chryseis after her departure, Marceline's smile left her lips as well. What replaced it was an even line to her lips, though it was clear to the others that she was not enthusiastic about what had transpired. She had felt ill prepared and most of all, foolish. She did not enjoy those feelings, and took any and all precautions to ensure that she never felt them. She could not fault any of them for it, she knew. None of them had expected how this would turn out when they left Haven. Marceline thought that they were to deal with vulnerable mages, not a Tevinter Magister and his daughter.

Before the others attempted to exit the inn, Lady Marceline held up a hand to beckon them to stay. "I would kindly ask that you two please remain for a moment longer. I believe we have things to discuss. Lady Estella, if you would be so kind to join us?" It was a polite way of ordering them to remain. Marceline strode toward a nearby bench and indicated that they should all take a seat.

Cyrus didn’t appear to have any objections, given the way he shrugged indifferently and took a seat on the opposite side of the bench, leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. It was relaxed rather than defensive, though he did cock his head to one side. “I didn’t know they were going to be here, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The table near his elbow contained a few leftover glasses, likely from before the inn had been vacated for the meeting. He brought one to his nose, sniffed, frowned, and set it back down again, further from himself than it had been before. “I hadn’t seen either of them in a couple of years, actually.”

"I didn't expect this either," Romulus said, taking a seat at the far end from Cyrus, leaving a space for Estella in between them. He placed his elbows upon the table, lowering his head into his hands, and rubbing his scalp for a moment. He looked a little less wound up now that Chryseis had left the room, but his anxiety from before was seemingly just replaced with a different variety now. "Even after we learned Cassius was here. My domina... I knew she had an interest in the south, but this is not usual for her. She does not often directly assist her father with anything. I believe we should meet with her in the Chantry, as she said. I, at least, must go."

Marceline shook her head, "No, I am not so unreasonable as to believe either of you would intentionally have kept this from us," she said. She wasn't angry, nor was she even frustrated with them. She was frustrated at the situation, and she would see to it that next time she would not so unprepared. She too reached for a glass, and upon looking into it, turned her nose up and set it to the side, far out of her way. The tastes in this part of the country left much to be desired, she decided.

She then turned to Romulus and nodded in agreement, "And we will, but first, we need to discuss some things." At that, she turned to Estella and wait for the girl to take a seat before she finally seated herself.

Estella did so, though she seemed a bit like she wasn’t sure what she was still doing there. Settling herself between Cyrus on one side and Romulus on the other, she laid her hands flat on the surface of the table. “Uh
 what things, exactly?” She actually looked as though she had some guesses, but if so, she kept them to herself.

"Everything that they are able to tell me about both Cassius and Chryseis," she told Estella, before glancing at both Cyrus and Romulus. Had she the time, she would have had Larissa look into the Magisters while she asked around the nobility. But time was not on their side, it seemed. "The next time we speak with them, I will not be caught unawares," she said with a rather firm tone. It would be the only hint at the frustration she felt. With that, Marceline cradled her hands into her lap and looked to Cyrus, her eyes level with his.

"Cyrus, let us start with Cassius. What can you tell me of the man?" she asked. "Aside from the clear fact that he is an opportunist." Marceline would have been impressed that he was able to snatch the support of the Free Mages had she not been personally invested in their wellbeing.

Cyrus blinked, the everything in his expression languid, easy, and entirely missing the urgency that Marceline was expressing. His arms loosened, and he moved one of them to the table, drumming his fingers against it in an absent rhythm. “Lady Marceline, the man was my master—my teacher—for almost ten years, though he’d put the number closer to fifteen.” He fixed her with his eyes, and smiled slightly, arching a brow. “Had I the inclination, I could write you his biography. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be much more specific.”

Marceline accepted the answer and nodded, "Then, would you know why he would press the Free Mages into servitude?" she asked, "What would his plan for them be? He is a powerful man, even without the mages' support, that much is clear. What does he hope to gain by doing this?"

He shrugged, as though it should be obvious. “He wants what everyone wants—more power. House Viridius is very old and very well-respected in the Imperium, but fortunes can change very quickly even for an Altus house. He recently found himself with a collapsed investment, and he needs a way to make up the difference as much as possible, as quickly as possible. Indenturing the remaining southern mages to his servitude is a very good strategy, considering his position. They wouldn’t count for much in Tevinter—their training is obviously inferior, but that can be rectified with time. More importantly, he’ll be the first magister in a very long time to so successfully undercut the southern Chantry, which almost all magisters disdain at the very least, and his cleverness and daring will be the talk of Minrathous.”

Cyrus appeared to consider something for a moment, then added: “And I suppose in another five years or so, he may well have the largest conglomerate of mages over which he commands direct loyalty. Mages can be servants or slaves, in Tevinter, but not so many usually are. There is advantage in that, I’m sure you can see.”

"Am I incorrect in assuming that you were the collapsed investment?" Marceline asked.

“People as capital? My, my, you’re thinking much more like a magister now, Lady Marceline.” Cyrus’s eyes were narrow, though it was impossible to distinguish whether mirth or malice did it. Perhaps both. “But you are correct. An apprenticeship is a significant institution, in the Imperium. It binds two houses together in a way usually only superseded by blood relation or marriage. He instructed me, and I was expected, in turn, to ascend to the Magisterium and act as his stalwart ally, and, if the occasion called for it, an extension of his will. He put a lot of effort into making sure I’d be very good at it.” He smiled without humor.

“You southerners have this quaint idiom for that
 something about eggs and baskets?”

Marceline could not help but smile at that. "I shall take it as a comfort to know that Cassius' investment is the Inquisition's gain," with that she nodded, "Thank you Lord Cyrus." The fact that Cassius' former apprentice worked with the Inquisition, or the very least, his sister, should vex the magister, even by a small amount. Marceline could not help be feel a little gladdened by that.

She then went into thought for a moment. It appeared that she had misunderstood Minrathous politics after all, a revelation that came with no little sting. "So he gathers strength and public support with a single act in binding the mages to him. Shrewd," she said, sounding a small bit impressed. It stung, yes, but she could not discount the man's cunning. It would only reinforce the point that she need to be careful in any further dealings with the man.

“He has always been that, yes.”

"Does he have any habits or weaknesses we could exploit? We can not simply allow him to return to Minrathous with the Free Mages," she said.

“Pride, of course, though it’s likely to do you little good.” Cyrus crossed one leg over the other, glancing down past Estella at Romulus. “What should interest you more is that Chryseis has not seen fit to inform him of the fact that she has licensed Romulus to be here. She’s always had her own mind, quite apart from his despite their relation, and here it would seem that she’s being subversive about it. You’ll want to find out why.”

"I intend to," Marceline said, referring to the meeting to be held at the Chantry, but first, she turned to Romulus, "But first, I would like to know more of the woman. Tell me, Romulus, what is she like? Personality wise, of course. If I am correct in my assumption, what we had seen from her initially was a mask. I wish to know of the woman behind the mask," she asked, quite curious to the answer. "Anything you can tell me will be helpful," she added.

Romulus didn't seem prepared to speak about her personality or behavior, his mouth hanging open somewhat foolishly for a moment before he swallowed, sitting up a little straighter. "She is..." He paused, struggling for the correct words. "She's always calculating. Making estimations of people. Learning about them, predicting them. She isn't prideful like her father, but she is idealistic. It was always something that put the two at odds with each other." He scratched his head again, clearly uncomfortable about broaching the subject, but this was nothing new for him.

"We've known each other since adolescence. She has changed since then. Her tutoring from her father, her marriage, her husband's death, her own ideals drawing the ire of others in Minrathous... she's grim under her mask, as you say, but stubborn. She is here to help herself, not her father. If the two were one and the same, she would've told him that I remain loyal."

Marceline brought her hands to her chin, where they rested. She listened to Romulus before she nodded. "That is something we can work with then," Marceline said. If Chryseis was there to subvert her father, then perhaps she would continue to aid the Inquisition in a more direct manner. Though Marceline would not offer the woman her complete trust. It would be foolish to do so, it was as Romulus said. She was there for her. Not them, nor her father.

"Do you know what she would hope to gain here, if she were to aid us?" Marceline asked. She had already helped by allowing Romulus to continue to act as Herald, and if that was any indication, she would continue to aid them. Though at what price she wondered.

"I can't claim to know what she wants," Romulus admitted, shrugging. "But I doubt she would openly aid us, not until it suits her. Maybe this has more to do with her father. They are still family, after all. Cassius is not an easy man to dissuade, especially through peaceful means.” His daughter, as Romulus had described her, was much the same, in her own way.

Marceline went quiet for a bit before she shook her head and began to stand. "There is nothing else we are able to do at this time. We will wait until nightfall and then meet with Chryseis at the chantry. I suggest you all rest and prepare yourselves until then. Romulus, Cyrus? Thank you, this has been most... enlightening," she said with a smile.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Despite all the personal ties to the mission they'd found themselves in, Romulus continuously reminded himself that this wasn't, in fact, personal.

Chryseis was here because her father was, not because he was. That part was merely an uncomfortable coincidence. Regardless of what happened in the aftermath of their trip to Redcliffe, the mission there remained the same: sever the link between Cassius and the Free Mages, and secure their aid for the Inquisition. The rest was of no consequence. He wondered if he could make that true by repeating it enough.

The same group that had attended the initial tavern meeting with Cassius was headed to the Chantry, with the addition of Khari. In truth, Romulus didn't want her to come along, but as usual, he felt he had no place in telling her to stay behind, and hid any form of displeasure behind his stony features when they made their way, armed and armored, for the Chantry. The streets cleared out nicely at night, and there was a sort of tenseness to the chill in the air, as though the village knew that its fate would be decided sooner rather than later.

The way to the Chantry was clear, but as they approached the steps leading to its doors, several clergy members in varying states of undress burst out from within, terrified. From the brief moment the doors had swung open, Romulus could hear the familiar sound of a rift, and see the ominous green light reflecting off of the ceiling. They hurried inside.

The rift had appeared right in the center of the main hall, spewing forth shades and wraiths. A hooded woman in Tevinter robes, clearly Chryseis, was the only one currently battling them. The bottom end of her battle staff was sharply bladed, and she stabbed down into the shoulder of the nearest shade, causing it to roar in pain. Before it could move any more, runes along the handle of the staff glowed a bright, hot red, and suddenly the shade exploded from within in a fiery blast. Chryseis pulled her hood back, and looked to the newcomers.

"I could do this all night," she twisted, leaning back from a slash, and stabbing her staff's blade into the chest of the next shade, "but I'd really rather not!" The runes turned an icy blue, and then a massive chunk of jagged ice burst through the shade's body, shattering against the back wall. It slumped to the ground, with the large hole clean through its chest.

Romulus charged forward without hesitation, his shield and blade immediately in hand. He absorbed a magical projectile from one of the wraiths in the back, the attack bouncing off his shield. His blade was cutting through the offending demon before it could charge up another.

Khari wasn’t far behind him, splitting off from his trajectory near the end of the run to lunge into another shade, her cleaver slamming into the area between its neck and shoulder, the telltale crunch of its bones breaking within the containment of its flesh. One of them, what might have been a clavicle on a human being, punched through the skin, exposed to open air as it fell, and then she was off in pursuit of another, a bloody trail following behind as ichor dripped from the blade of her sword.

The distinctive crackle of lightning was audible even over the din of the rest of the battle, and Cyrus seemed to materialize on the far side of the rift, the glowing blue blade belonging to his spatha erupting from the chest cavity of a shade even as the one immediately to his right went down in a bright conflagration of flames, turning its dark flesh black and filling the air with the stench of burning meat. Ripping his sword out to the left of the first shade, he cast again, lightning arcing from his fingers to lance into one of those at the front, headed for Estella and Marceline.

“Don’t tell me you’re not having at least a little bit of fun, Chryseis!” His reply was lighthearted enough to be at serious odds with the situation, but then again, he seemed not at all perturbed by the enemies present.

One of the shades pushed itself as quickly as it could along the floor towards Chryseis. She lazily flicked a few fingers in its direction, and ice sprang up around it, freezing it solid. "Everything's more fun with you around, Cyrus," she said, with a hint of a smirk. "But you already know that, of course."

The ice at her fingertips suddenly sparked into flame, and she casually tossed an explosive spell beneath the new ice sculpture. It ignited a moment later, sending small fragments of frozen shade body raining down onto the Chantry floor. It appeared to be the last of the demons. Chryseis turned her head towards Romulus, pulling a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "Go on then, blade. Show me your new power."

He nodded, and lifted his shield arm towards the rift. The arc of green energy snapped into place, building and intensifying until the rift exploded. The air where it had been appeared scarred momentarily, but soon cleared altogether, as though the portal had never been present at all. Chryseis smiled in wonder. "Fascinating. And you do that on instinct, then? Do you command it to close?"

"Maybe, domina," Romulus answered, head bowed. "I don't know if will is a part of it. It closes rifts in proximity, when the demons are dealt with."

"And that alone makes you an immensely valuable asset, my dear. You've no memory of how you acquired it, though?"

He shook his head. "No, domina."

"And the same for you, Estella?" she asked, turning away from Romulus. "Nothing of the Conclave?"

Estella sheathed her sword, which had clearly seen some use, if not perhaps a great deal, and stood a fraction straighter, folding her hands behind her back. “No, milady,” she replied, her tone quiet, but not timid. “I can recall why I was there, but nothing that happened during the Conclave itself.”

"Shame," Chryseis said, frowning, "the knowledge of how to recreate such abilities would be immensely powerful, in the right hands." She held the thought a moment, before shaking her head, and returning her focus to the group at large. "No matter. We're here to stop my father, before he accidentally ends the world. At least, I'm hoping it's accidental. He can't be so power-mad as to intentionally jeopardize the stability of time itself." She seemed to realize the gravity of her last sentence, and glanced up at Cyrus.

"That's how we arrived here so quickly, of course. By distorting time. Makes me glad I didn't often see what the two of you got up to while you were his apprentice."

Lady Marceline simply sighed a short distance away, polishing the last of the ash off her rapier with a handkerchief.

Cyrus’s smile was enigmatic. It didn’t seem to be a particularly pleased expression, but nor did it qualify as sheepish. It was unclear if he were even capable of the latter. “Yes, I rather expect it does.” He looked up at the place where the rift used to be, and his expression became obviously calculating. “I hadn’t thought he’d attempt such a large-scale use of the magic without completed stabilization formulae, but I suppose I hadn’t counted on his desperation reaching quite these heights, either.”

He took a moment to brush off the front of his tunic-styled robe, which had acquired a bit of dust, from the look of it, before he moved forward again, descending the stairs to properly join the group, his hands clasped at the small of his back. “Now. I do believe you expressed an interest in stopping him; have you some specific method in mind?” From the way he asked, it seemed he expected that she did.

"You might first want to know what he's here for," Chryseis said, the first words that left her lips that could be described as uneasy. "I'm afraid it's far more than a powerplay in the Magisterium. He's gotten himself mixed up with a cult. Tevinter supremacists, a group called the Venatori. Sadly, I'm little more than an honorary member at this point, despite my cozying up to them. Father's not so easily swayed by me anymore."

She turned to gaze at Romulus, instantly making him uncomfortable. Conversations between his domina and other Tevinter mages were things he was only ever meant to listen to, not become involved in. "What I do know, is that all of this madness, unraveling time, has been to get to you." He looked up only long enough to know that Chryseis indeed meant him with her words. Her eyes then flicked to Estella. "And you. He's become very interested in both of you, that much is clear."

Estella frowned slightly, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck, and rocked back on her heels. “If the cult and his interest in us are connected, it’s probably a safe guess that what they really care about is the Breach,” she said, her dark brows knitting together. “And since we’re already working to close it, a reasonable guess would be that he—or they, rather—want it to stay open, if he went to so much trouble. Do you know why that might be?”

“Well, if these Venatori are in fact a Tevinter supremacist cult, then they want it to stay open because they believe it serves Tevinter.” There was an obvious thread of disgust in Cyrus’s voice as it lilted over the word cult, one that remained at slightly less emphasis throughout the rest. “I can think of half a dozen reasons they might surmise as much, and in each of them is a motive for wanting the two of you out of the picture
” He seemed to drift out of the present for a moment, as though his thoughts were carrying him elsewhere, but then his eyes cleared and he shook his head.

“But none of them would be enough reason for the Cassius I remember to do something quite this
 extreme. Gaining control of the southern mages is one thing. But the use of incomplete time-distortion magic to do it—that suggests something much larger at work.”

"Somehow I doubt the Venatori are the ones behind the rifts, or the Breach. But they're strong, no doubt about that. My father doesn't lead them, but whoever does knows what they're doing." She crossed her arms, brow furrowed in concern. It was not often that Romulus witnessed her displaying concern over another, but he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The bonds of family were difficult to break, even in an environment as strange and caustic as the Magisterium.

"Domina, if I may," Romulus said, gently. Pulled from her thoughts, Chryseis met his eyes.

"You have something in mind?"

"Knowing your lord father intends to remove the threat of the Heralds, we can turn his plan against him. Appear to fall into his trap, only to spring one ourselves."

A small gleam of a smile appeared, and she turned to face Romulus in full. "I'm intrigued. Go on."

Romulus folded his hands together before him, lowering his gaze once more. "Magister Cassius has retreated to the castle. Requesting an audience will seemingly place us in his hands. While one party enters the castle directly and absorbs his attention, another infiltrates the fortress and eliminates the danger before it becomes an issue." Chryseis hmmed in thought, before shaking her head.

"And you would lead this infiltration? No. I'm confident you could, but for once your absence would be noted. Father would suspect something, and Estella would be lost before we could reach her."

"I would go with Lady Estella, domina. Both Heralds before your father's eyes. Choose another to lead the attack, and seek information about the castle. A Revered Mother now with the Inquisition, Annika, once served Arl Eamon. She may know of a weakness in the castle." Chryseis studied her slave, her blade, for some time, her smile growing the longer she did so.

"I could see if anything can be done about my father's magical defenses. He has fortified the castle in other ways by now. But this could work." She turned to the others. "Thoughts?"

“Magical defenses, if there are any, won’t be an issue.” Cyrus said as much with obvious confidence, as though it were simple fact, rather than an estimation of how their magic would fare against Cassius’s. “As for who should lead the infiltration party
” He turned to Estella. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Stellulam. That teacher of yours, the Tranquil. He’s quite inclined to moving about unseen, is he not? And perhaps your lovely little scout-captain, as well.”

Estella nodded. “Rilien and Lia are both quite good at that sort of thing, yes. If we wanted to spring a trap within the trap, they could certainly accomplish it.” She didn’t seem to doubt that in the slightest. Her eyes moved to Marceline, though, an obvious question there. “But that’s only if the three of you would commit the resources to this.”

"We have no choice," Marceline relented. She had since sheathed her rapier and had seemingly listened to the conversation being had with Chryseis. Now that she was addressed, she spoke. "I shall have Larissa seek out a weakness in the castle walls for Lord Rilien and Lia to exploit, and I will speak to Mother Annika personally." She paused for a moment and thought pensively before continuing. "I will also speak to Leon about drafting a contingency in case we have need of one."

"Then it's settled," Chryseis said, with no small amount of excitement. "We'll dismantle this madness, and Father will return to his more sensible schemes. Blade, remain for a while. The rest of you had best be off. Much to prepare for, yes? I shall eagerly await your arrival at the castle."

For the first time in the entirely of the conversation, Khari drew attention to herself, though whether it was purposeful or not was hard to tell. She had quite clearly been content up until that moment simply to listen, rather than speaking, but now there was a look of something distinctly disgruntled on her face, and she made eye contact with Romulus, frowning slightly before she shook her head, as if to herself. “See you later, Rom.” She gave half a smile, then turned to exit with the general stream of departure.

Cyrus lingered slightly longer, saving his own departure for after the others had taken theirs. “While I am sure you have machinating of your own to do, and that your father expects you soon, should you find yourself with some spare time, I would very much enjoy catching up, Chryseis.” The slight smirk on his lips and the ambiguous tone of his voice could have meant any number of things. He bowed at the waist, though it was playful rather than truly reverent, and winked as he turned to leave.

"Likewise, Cyrus," Chryseis said, returning the smile in kind. "Minrathous is hardly the same without you." Once all had left save for the magister and her slave, she turned and planted a finger under his chin, her smile carrying some small amount of amusement. "Rom, is it?"

"Merely your blade, domina." The words were delivered with no emotion, something he found especially easy to pull off around her. Her smile faltered for a brief moment, as her eyes fell down to his chest, where she placed her hand.

"Good. You remember." Forcefully, she shoved him towards an open doorway in the back, and Romulus took the hint, leading the way inside.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella swallowed thickly, pulling in a breath and trying to loosen the constricting feeling winding around her heart like climbing ivy, and push down the rising taste of bile on her tongue. She was nervous, for a lot of reasons. First among them, of course, was the fact that they were planning to spring a trap on a magister, one cunning and powerful enough to have taught her brother, regardless of whatever Cyrus thought of him now. It was a serious risk, and she understood that everyone here was taking it, just by entering this room. But even that wasn’t it—she knew that Rilien and Lia and the others with them, including Zahra, if she understood the plan properly, were capable of doing what they’d decided to do.

She wasn’t even especially concerned that she would fail, exactly, because in the end, her role in this was simply to be present. That, and not give away the plan by revealing what they knew of Magister Cassius’s intentions too soon, or letting herself look at where she knew the ambush party would be. She could do that much, she knew—she’d been hiding her thoughts from people more powerful than she was practically since she had any thoughts worth hiding. But more than any of that, this was making her remember things best left forgotten, and there were parts of it that were strong in her memory, things dredged up in response to who the Magister was, and where she knew he was from.

Part of Estella had never left Tevinter behind, not even after six years of physical distance.

Watching her brace herself was indeed an act of perception: she straightened her spine, eased the expression on her face until it was nearly blank, settled her shoulders back, and tipped her chin up slightly, because it defaulted to let her eye the floor, something she should definitely not be doing as part of the Inquisition in an audience with a Magister. They could smell weakness, and fear, and Estella was both weak and afraid. The trick was pretending she wasn’t well enough to fool him. Glancing to Romulus beside her, she offered a thin smile and nodded, pushing the door to the throne room open, allowing the two of them and their company—Cyrus, Vesryn, Lady Marceline, and Khari—to enter.

A red carpet runner guided a straightforward trajectory to the dais on which the throne sat. The path itself was flanked by columns on either side, and in front of each stood one of the magister’s guards. There were about two dozen in total, which was a large number, but not entirely unexpected. He probably had more troops, hired or brought with him, elsewhere, else he likely would have had difficulty holding the castle for long, magical defenses or not. She was reluctant to put her back to any of them, but that was required to advance far enough for an audience, and so she put her trust in the people behind her and kept moving forward.

The throne itself was occupied, and Magister Cassius looked quite comfortable upon it, one ankle crossed over the other knee, and his jaw leaned on a fist, the corresponding elbow braced on the armrest. If anything, he seemed a bit too put-together for the accouterments of Fereldan nobility, which were generally much more rustic than those one would find in older lands like the Imperium or Orlais. His daughter stood beside him, and it would seem he’d been in conversation with her before the party entered.

When they stopped close enough for an audience, he smiled slightly, the expression deepening the existing lines around his mouth, the whole of his face thrown into sharper relief by the intermittent torchlight of the chamber. It gave him a more hollowed-out aspect, so that for a moment, his face appeared nearly skeletal, until the flames shifted again and he regained the aspect of an older, but still very much living, man. “Inquisition, welcome. I take it from your presence here that you are still inclined to bargain. Perhaps your terms will be more
 agreeable, this time.”

Estella knew that all she really had to do here was stall for time, and not give away the fact that she knew this was a trap. She also knew that it was usually true of people in power, people with egos worth talking about, enjoyed hearing the sound of their own voices more than anyone else’s. So ideally, the best way to go about this would be to get him to talk, with as little input from her or anyone else as possible. Suppressing her nervous tendency to chew her lip, she put on a small smile, one that couldn’t have made it even halfway to her eyes, but looked convincing enough for someone in what her position was supposed to be.

“That is my hope, milord,” she lied softly. “I’m afraid that, considering the brevity of our last meeting, there was little opportunity to ascertain which terms you might find agreeable. You know what it is we need—what is it you would want in exchange?” She chose her words carefully, framing him as the one with all the power in the situation, and they as the ones who were in need of something from him. It wasn’t far from the truth, though this was not the method they’d chosen to get it, in the end. With a little luck, she’d stroked his ego and prompted him to speak at some length with a few sentences, but she didn’t trust much to her luck, in truth.

The Magister was intrigued at such an open question, it was clear. He leaned farther forward, his brows arching up towards the edge of his hood and a slight smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “A question with a great deal of relevance, my dear.” He did indeed appear pleased at the situation, not entirely unlike a cormorant, full-bellied but still hungering voraciously, more out of habit than necessity. “What I propose is simple: I will release the southern mages from their indenture, provided I receive two things in return: firstly, my daughter’s slave returned to her.” He made a careless gesture with his free hand at Romulus. “Hardly asking for much, I should think, considering she owns him already anyway.”

He sat back then, and the smile grew, a deep satisfaction evident. “Secondly, a trade: all the mages now in my service for just one—you.”

It was Marceline's turn to step forward. A far cry from the saccharine smile she wore during their last meeting, Lady Marceline's lips were drawn in a tight line, and her face wholly unreadable. She held her arms crossed and her elbow propped, her hand gingerly rubbing her chin. "A sound trade," Marceline agreed, looking down upon Estella, then glancing back at Romulus for a moment before returning her gaze back to Cassius.

"You are correct, what Lady Chryseis owns is hers. We are more than willing to relinquish him," she said, her head tilting to the side. She spoke it with no emotion, only a matter-of-factly demeanor as one would use during a business discussion. "The Inquisition would also find the trade agreeable, the mages for Lady Estella. However, I would ask what you had in mind for the young woman," Lady Marceline asked, a look of curiosity seeping into her features. "Out of pure curiosity of course," Marceline said, before a smile slipped into her lips and she allowed herself a light laugh.

"It sounds as if we are getting the better deal, after all."

Cassius raised a brow, then shrugged lightly. “Who knows? I’m sure I’ll find some use for her. I’ve had great success with one apprentice from the family; perhaps one who cannot leave will prove even more beneficial.” From the way he said it, his tone light, careless even, it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was being serious, though a fair guess would be that he wasn’t. “There would be much interest in the mark, of course, but once the research possibilities were exhausted, well
” He paused, looking Estella over dispassionately, as a buyer at an open market.

“A face that exquisite will always draw its own brand of interest, no?”

Though she couldn’t say she was unused to being talked about like she wasn’t even there, she had managed to forget exactly what it felt like, for the most part. Estella wound up doing what she’d always done in such situations before—she tried to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else, and did her best to deaden her feelings to what was being said. She couldn’t let herself lose focus entirely, however, and she knew this was actually a good thing. For every moment Magister Cassius availed himself his considerable advantage over them without actually springing his trap, they were a moment closer to being in position to turn the tables.

So really, the implication that she’d be sold into a brothel or private ownership or something wasn’t bothering her as much as it could have. Especially considering that, in the absence of other options, she likely would have agreed to it anyway. She only prayed that Cyrus would be able to hold his temper in check long enough to get through this conversation. She knew her brother, and knew he wasn’t taking any of this conversation very well, though his face didn’t change much.

Marceline's eyes dropped and she sighed heavily. It was as if she expected something of the like, because didn't display a moment of surprise. When she looked back up, her eyelids were at halfmast and any emotion she may have allowed to show were long gone, replaced entirely by her matter-of-factly demeanor. Instead of responding immediately, Marceline's hand fell on Estella's shoulder, and patted it encouragingly, almost like a mother would a child. "Tell me, Lord Cassius, as a man with a family of his own," she began.

Her gaze then went from Estella to Cyrus, the frown tight on her lips. "How do you believe her brother will take this news?" she asked, the curiosity remaining in her voice. "And what do you intend to do about him? she finished, looking back to the Magister.

"Out of curiosity. Of course."

Cyrus was doing a rather impressive job remaining blank-faced, but something in his eyes was very hard, almost crystalline. Cassius laughed. “I know better than any one of you what that boy will do for the sake of his sister. In fact, I’m rather counting on it.” He seemed to shift his demeanor, however, and raised a hand, waving it in a lazy motion. “But enough talking. I grow bored with this charade. I will have the Heralds, and I need not give up anything to obtain them.”

At the signal, the guards posted around the room were immediately at attention, drawing their swords, spears, and axes almost as one unit. “Capture the Heralds, and my wayward apprentice. Kill the rest.”

It would seem that Cyrus could contain himself no longer, and the first thing that happened was a massive bolt of lightning flying from his fingertip, crashing with a thunderous rapport into the shield Cassius had conjured, shattering it, but also expending the spell. He summoned a familiar blue sword to his hand, and ran right for the dais.

“Finally!” That was Khari, who ducked under a horizontal swing from another guard and swung her cleaver, which bounced off his shield with a forceful clang. She pressed forward, however, and her next hit was delivered from inside his guard, punching into a spot beneath his protective chestplate.

Romulus passed by on her left, blade drawn, running right through glowing orange magical glyphs that had been quickly inscribed upon the floor by a white-clad Venatori mage. They were triggered by his step, a burst of fire engulfing Romulus, but he came out the other side unscathed, the flames washing over him like so much wind. His blade found the mage's throat, and painted his white robes a bright shade of red.

Vesryn had his helmet down over his face, the tallhelm giving him the visage of a man made mostly of steel, save for the proud white lion on his back. His tower shield was locked in front of him, and soon a pair of arrows clattered off of it. He lowered his spear and awaited the first attacker to step forward. "Always running off, these people!" he shouted, mostly for Estella and Marceline to hear. "Bloodthirsty and angry. Stay behind me! Watch the flanks."

Estella honestly wasn’t sure any of them had experience fighting as part of a unit. Khari might have, but then, with the way she tended to fight, she probably had to break ranks usually anyway. Cyrus had certainly never been part of an army or anything, and Romulus was, as far as she could tell, a solo agent, so in a way, she understood why they acted as they did. She, however, was quite accustomed to group tactics, and so she took Vesryn’s right flank, the harder one to defend, given the absence of the shield.

Indeed, the majority of those who tried to get at the three of them came for her, at least when they could get around behind the spear-wielding elf, but she had expected that, and to the extent the could be, she was prepared for it. The first two came in as a pair, and there wasn’t really room for any more than that at once, a blessing she noted gratefully. The first swung, and she parried, angling her sword quickly to force his off it. Her mobility was reduced by the tighter quarters, so she’d have to rely a lot on angles and the geometry of a fight, since her ability to dodge was considerably hampered.

Reacting more quickly than her foe coming off the clash of blades, she drove her own forward, seeking and finding his throat, which she sliced across with a neat stroke. The arterial spray that resulted informed her she’d found the mark, and just in time to twist herself away from the incoming axe the second had aimed for her shoulder. It clipped the very edge, biting into her leathers, but tore away without meeting her flesh. She swung low, slashing at his thigh, where another vital blood vessel was located, this one not known to as many people, by any means. That one hit, too, and he collapsed beside the other, still alive, but barely. Estella grimaced, and thrust her sword down, puncturing his windpipe and ending his life quickly.

From over her shoulder behind her, Estella could not see Marceline on Vesryn's left flank. However, every now and then the noble brushed up against her to remind her of her presence. There was the sound of flesh being pierced, and the gurgling of someone getting stabbed in the throat before armor clattered to the ground. Though no warrior, Marceline sounded as if she held her own.

Meanwhile, Chryseis observed the approach Cyrus was making, and immediately readied a swift entropy spell in her hand. Rather than cast it at him, she instead aimed down at her father, immediately to her left, the sleeping spell leaving her fingers even as she drew her bladed staff into her other hand.

The spell was met midair by another, a dispel magic, from the way both fizzled out upon mutual contact. Cassius turned slightly to regard his daughter, an almost sad smile upon his face. “While I can’t say I’m surprised, Chryseis, I am rather disappointed.” The Magister drew his own staff, several of the white-robed Venatori breaking off from the main assault to assist him. “Don’t kill them. Render them unconscious or bloody if necessary, but do not kill them.”

Two of the cultists turned to face Chryseis, while two more and Cassius himself went after Cyrus, attempting to bring him down before he could close to melee distance, which would no doubt provide him with a tremendous advantage. A volley of fireballs flew in his direction, but he pulled himself into the Fade, and they struck only afterimages of where he had been, a trail of them between his former position and halfway up the stairs, where he wound up. Another quick spell from Cassius landed there, but he brought his spatha around, the low thrum of it sounding as he used it to slice clean through the stonefist, the halves of it flying off to either side of him.

And that, as far as Estella could tell, was how the fight generally proceeded. Cyrus and Chryseis put heavy pressure on Cassius and the most elite of his Venatori, while herself, Lady Marceline, and Vesryn weathered the storm at the center. Khari and Romulus ranged more freely around that center, their aggressive styles keeping too much from concentrating on the center. The problem was, there were a lot of Venatori and guards, and probably unless the ambush team arrived very soon or Cyrus somehow managed to get at Cassius himself, they would simply be worn down by sheer numbers.

She’d acquired several wounds by this point, but they were mostly minor, and thankfully her stamina wasn’t failing her just yet, but it was growing tedious, and she knew that this was the part of the fight where she risked serious injury, because if her focus flagged, she might make a mistake. So she did her best not to let that happen, keeping herself aware of Marceline behind her, Vesryn to her side, and as much as possible, the positions of her enemies and other allies.

Her arms were burning with the effort of fending off multiple blows from people of superior strength, but she raised them again for another necessary parry, hoping they would stand up to the force with which the next guard swung his axe.

A bugling roar came from Zahra's mouth. And her hands moved remarkably fast as soon as the ambush began, though it appeared as if she'd been ready the entire time. She plucked arrows from her quiver and loosed them as quickly as she notched them back across her cheek. Several whistles could be heard as the arrows sailed through the air, more so over Estella's shoulders, and bit into their marks.

Her arrows were marked with brightly colored feathers, speckled with blood as the shafts sunk into gawping holes in Venatori faces. She danced around the meaty portions of the ambush, away from clanging swords and flashing fireballs. It appeared as if she were concentrating her attacks on those who were having trouble, causing her own version of chaos by crippling and maiming the opponents her companions faced.

More arrows came from Lia, fearlessly throwing herself into the mix, as the Inquisition scouts and agents flanked the Venatori force on either side, throwing the previously desperate fight's outcome into doubt. Chryseis and Cyrus had nearly broken through to Cassius, when a shield bearing guard surprised Chryseis from the side, slamming her to the ground with the heavy metal plate. From her side she unleashed a blast of arcane energy, sending him staggering back. Romulus appeared behind him, opening his throat and spilling his blood down his front, allowing Chryseis the needed time to get back to her feet.

The scouts freed up Vesryn to make some moves of his own, and began a bit of an advance, burying his spear in the guts of a Venatori mage who had been forced into the center of combat by the pincer attack of the Inquisition. "Push!" he shouted. "We'll have him! Don't let up!"

Recovered from her near-miss, Estella figured Vesryn’s advice was good enough, and pushed. Now that there wasn’t quite the same need to simply weather, her mobility was back to providing the lion’s share of her advantage, and she utilized it, keeping herself light on her feet and darting between opponents in an attempt to reach the front of the room, where the fighting was beginning to concentrate as more and more of the guards and Venatori closed ranks on their leader, in an attempt to shield him from the wrath of his own former apprentice and his child as well. The magic flew thick and heavy through the air, enough so that even Estella tasted it on the back of her tongue, the tips of her fingers tingling with a familiar, but long-suppressed itch to dip into the Fade and claim some of it for herself.

An empty promise, if ever there were one.

She dashed past a guard, flaying into his sword-arm on her way, causing him to drop the weapon he was holding and clutch at his wound, which made him an easy target for those behind her. She wasn’t far from the dais now, and mounted the first step, blocking an overhead strike from one of the guards, nearly brought to her knees with the strength of the blow before she managed to angle it away, forcing another step forward and up and burying her saber in his neck. Blood gushed down the blade to her hands, but she stepped to the side before his body could fall atop her, gaining another two stairs before she was made to halt again, her hip clipped by a fireball that left her armor smoking but her flesh thankfully only mildly burned.

By this point, Cyrus was basically dueling Cassius, though with several bodies in the way, which prevented him from closing range. The magic was especially dense in the air between them, and it seemed almost that each of them was casting several spells simultaneously, to keep the volume of fire and earth and ice so thick, to say nothing of the shields and Fade cloaks and the rest. The spell-volley was interspersed with more raw blasts of force, though those were issuing only from Cyrus, and it was hard to tell if they were intentional or not, as they tended to arc away from their initial trajectory, doing more damage to the throne room's furniture than anything. One of them crashed into the stairs, chipping several large chunks of stone off the dais, a pair of them careening into some nearby Venatori and crunching bones with their momentum.

Cassius was clearly tiring faster, whatever the reason, and when he turned to see the others approaching the dais, abandoning the effort to focus on his apprentice for just a moment, he paid for it, a glistening bolt of raw lightning slamming into his chest. He lurched for a moment, then threw himself into a Fade-step not unlike the ones Cyrus so commonly used, reappearing on the other side of the fight, behind everyone pushing for him, both arms outstretched.

Not far from where Estella, Chryseis, and Romulus fought, an almost deafening ripping sound issued from the air, the ground beneath everyone’s feet trembling as the space over their heads seemed to twist and distort, at first like heat waves and then like a window opening to some other place. The pull towards it was strong, almost like it contained its own gravity, and the three nearest the tear were lifted from their feet, pulled upwards toward it.

“Stellulam!” Cyrus’s shout reached her at about the same time he did, his shoulder slamming into her with almost enough force to break a rib, the space she occupied clearly the end point of his own Fade-step’s trajectory. She was knocked a dozen feet backwards, and out of the range of the tear, which picked him up instead, pulling he, Romulus and Chryseis into it within seconds, before the sound crescendoed to an almost agonizing pitch, then ended abruptly, as the tear closed.

But the three it had taken did not reappear.

Estella hit the ground hard, rolling several times before she came to a stop in just enough time to watch three people disappear into the rend in the air, both like and entirely unlike a rift, and though she was forced to cover her ears, she regained her feet as she did, such that by the time it stopped, she was standing again.

For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.

But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus
” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.

“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when she remembered who was responsible for this. Surely, if Magister Cassius had caused this, he could put it to rights. Estella clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her saber, and whirled around to face him, lunging into a sprint. She’d have to get all the way back across the room, and through all the fighting, but honestly, the plausibility of that was the furthest thing from her mind right now.

All she knew was that if she could get to that Magister, she could get her brother and the others back. There was no need to think about whether she could. She simply must.

"Estella!" The voice was Vesryn's, from behind Estella, and soon a strong hand had clamped down on her upper arm and wrenched her backwards. Vesryn pulled himself in front of her, another arrow clattering loudly off the face of his shield, the projectile originally aimed for the Herald. The elf's eyes were wild, bewildered, but he seemed focused enough on keeping her close to him.

"We have to get out of here!" he said, trying to hold her back. Perhaps due to the fact that the Venatori were simply more prepared for such a stunning feat of magic than the Inquisition, they had instantly turned the tide again, and several of the flanking force had fallen in pools of their own blood. Lia struggled frantically with a Venatori swordsman on the ground, having abandoned her bow in favor of the knife. Rilien was juggling a trio of opponents, but they were slowly backing him up against a pillar with their shields.

“What? No! We can’t just abandon them!” She referred to her brother and Romulus and even Chryseis, of course, but also to anyone else they’d be leaving behind in such a retreat. Those who couldn’t disengage fast enough, or the injured. She tried to tug her arm free, but his grip was too strong for that. Gritting her teeth, she slashed at a guard who went in low for her unprotected side, kicking him square in the chest where she’d cut him. That would keep him down for a while, at least.

"We have to leave! Else we risk everything!," Marceline barked over the din of battle. Her hair was disheveled, and the fatigue was quickly seeping into her face. Her rapier and main-gauche flashed in her hands as she fended off a Venatori swordsmen, her back pressed up against Khari. "We must get back to Ser Leonhardt!" She called, her rapier biting deep into the shoulder of the Venatori. It stumbled him for a moment, but he replied with a backhand and opened up a cut under her chin. Her rapier went for the killing blow at his neck, but he batted it away and pulled back to drive his sword through her.

Not before she drove her own main-gauche into his belly, disemboweling him. "Now!" she demanded. Vesryn released Estella's arm, out of necessity more than anything, but still stood between her and Cassius.

Not more than a beat of time passed after that before Cassius gathered more magic to him. This time, the spell was a firestorm, recognizable as such only for the faint scent of brimstone on the air before flaming rocks began to crash down upon them from the ceiling. Each landed in an almost-explosive burst, clearly a very advanced and very powerful version of the spell. With almost casual ease, he threw a bolt of lightning right for where Vesryn and Estella stood, summoning a shield in another and then detaching it from his hand, letting it orbit freely around him. It caught half a dozen arrows with precision, and more importantly, left his hands free to hurl spell after spell at them—his ability to do so seemed almost inexhaustible, and his forces were clearly drawing from his apparent superiority and control of the field.

“Escape is beyond you!” He shouted the words over the din, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Help is beyond you! The Elder One rises! Surrender the Herald, and the rest of your Inquisition may yet live to see tomorrow!”

Vesryn locked his shield into the ground, angling it up, and crouching low, so as to get himself somewhat under it. "Get down! Or get out!" he called, as the spells rained down around him. Powerful lightning spells blasted against his shield, little arcs of electricity snapping through the air around his body, until he was shaking violently with the absorption of it. When it became clear he could take no more, he flipped the grip of his spear in his hand, stood, and hurled it at Cassius. One of the shields deflected it aside, and the next bolt of lightning hit the elf square in the chest. He flew back, smashing into Estella along the way and tumbling to the ground face down and unconscious.

Vesryn in full armor was quite a lot of weight, and easily took Estella to the ground as well, where she slid on her back for quite a distance before she ran out of momentum and tried to scramble to her feet, only to be hit by an ice spell, one that pinned one of her legs to the ground. She attempted to lunge out of it, but it held fast, creeping up the length of her leg to her waist, locking her joints. A second one followed, striking her square in the chest, and try as she might, she couldn’t fight free of it.

Within moments afterward, she was surrounded by Cassius’s guards, who leveled weapons at her, one ambitious lance even flirting with the skin of her throat. She couldn’t so much as lean away, able only to glare at the Magister as he advanced towards her. This was it—she was in his custody now, at his mercy, and she knew far better than to expect him to have any of that to spare for her, or her comrades.

If only Cyrus were still here, instead of her, he could have stopped this.

It was the last thought she had before one of the guards cracked the haft of his axe over her head, and she fell into unconsciousness.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella hit the ground hard, rolling several times before she came to a stop in just enough time to watch three people disappear into the rend in the air, both like and entirely unlike a rift, and though she was forced to cover her ears, she regained her feet as she did, such that by the time it stopped, she was standing again.

For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.

But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus
” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.

“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when someone answered.

“Now, now, Stellulam. No need to shout; I can hear you just fine.” From one of the sides of the room, her brother himself, alongside Romulus and Chryseis, stepped out from behind the line of columns to the right. He wore a broad, almost triumphant smile, and that and the glint in his eyes was rather rare, because it seemed tempered by something, not as haphazard as such expressions had been before. With an almost lazy flick of his fingers, he blasted away the few Venatori standing between themselves and her, and then crossed the intervening distance with a quick Fade-step.

“Cy? What—?” Estella had no idea what had happened, but it would seem that in any case her unvoiced prayers had been answered, and she sent fervent thanks to whoever was listening to begin with. If it hadn't been the middle of an armed confrontation, she’d have hugged him, and she wanted to anyway, but restrained herself for the sake of necessity. She did smile at him, though, shaking her head faintly at his usual lofty mannerisms and his very unusual expression alike.

“Remind me to tell you how I did this, when it’s all over.” His tone was light, but his expression was not, and it was easy enough for her to tell that something was really getting to him. This was clearly neither the time nor the place to discuss it, however, and he turned his eyes towards Cassius, where he stood now near the entrance to the room.

“You’ve failed, old man. I’ve outdone you. Again.” What under other circumstances could have been anything from factual to arrogant to possibly even lighthearted sounded much graver, in the sonorous modulation he used to deliver it, and Cyrus stepped slightly away from Estella, materializing a weapon in his left hand. “Call off your dogs. There need only be one more death here.” It wasn’t hard to guess whose he meant, either.

At the sudden reappearance of those he’d banished but moments before, Cassius seemed to know he was defeated. The strategy had been a good one, unfortunately thwarted by the ill luck of his former pupil being caught up in it instead of the second Herald, but it was clear that he had less left than he needed, that opening the tear had taken a good deal out of him. The Venatori were dying around him anyway—the reappearance of their Herald and his allies had put the wind back in the Inquisition’s sails, and they were rallying, regaining the advantage that had been theirs with the ambush.

And yet despite the obvious disadvantage this had put him at, Cassius was apparently reluctant to surrender. In the end, however, he did. “All right, then. Have it your way, Cyrus. You always did insist upon it. Cease!” The command, he shouted to his men, who were trained and obedient enough to do just that, abruptly stopping and sheathing their weapons, though they were generally prevented from doing much more than that by the equally-trained blades of the Inquisition, which predictably did not see the need to trust the Magister at his word, and reinforced the Venatori submission with edges and points skirting throats, backs, and similarly-vulnerable areas.

It was now, effectively, a hostage situation in addition to a near-rout.

“Give me one reason, Cassius. One reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.” Cyrus’s glance shifted to Estella for only a moment, but then he tightened his jaw and moved it back to his teacher.

“Don’t.” The response, swift and sure, came not from Cassius, but Estella, who reached forward and laid her right hand on Cyrus’s left forearm, a gentle and entirely surmountable barrier to him raising his sword. Despite that, she believed he’d stay his hand if she asked him to, assuming she could ask in the right way. He seemed particularly intent on this, and she didn’t know why. “Cyrus, there’s nothing else he can do. You’ve defeated his magic, and the Inquisition has defeated his soldiers. We came here to free the other mages, remember?” She hoped the reference to his own accomplishment would put him in a better frame of mind—for lack of a better phrase, she was playing to her brother’s ego, hoping that he’d take it as enough of a victory that he’d done that much.

She would have thought it’d be unquestionably enough—Cyrus liked to win, of course, but she’d never known him to be a violent person. She could only assume that something was really bothering him, which meant that if he acted from that now, he’d regret it later. Besides, there really wasn’t any reason to kill Cassius, not really. All he’d done was try—unsuccessfully, now—to indenture some people with terms they’d agreed to, and then attacked the Inquisition, which was admittedly part of what the Inquisition had come here prepared to do to him. Looking at it that way, she wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong, whatever his intentions might have been.

“Please.”

“You haven’t seen what I saw.” His reply was soft, perhaps even hollow. The arm under her hand slowly relaxed though, and he let her guide it back down to his side, the Fade-weapon flickering a few times before it disappeared entirely, leaving him empty-handed. Cyrus shook his head slightly.

“Do what you will, Stellulam, but do not underestimate the danger he still poses you.”

That was well enough for him to say, and she was relieved that he’d apparently abandoned the notion of actually killing Cassius, but what exactly they should do with him instead was still a pressing question, and not one she felt qualified to answer. Instead, she turned to Lady Marceline and Rilien, expecting them to have a better idea than she did of what should be done. Chryseis observed the exchange with obvious interest, from where she stood nearby. She'd visibly relaxed when Cyrus had refused to decide her father's fate himself, but if she had a strong desire to sway the Inquisition's decision, she clearly wasn't acting on it.

Lady Marceline, tucking her bloodied hankerchief back into a pocket, raised a hand and signalled for Lia. When the woman approached, Marceline spoke. "If you would be so kind as to fetch Ser Leon and a contigent of guards, I would see Lord Cassius placed into our custody for the time being." As she spoke, her clean rapier rested on her shoulder, Marceline appearing uncomfortable with the idea of returning it to its sheath. "Agreed, Ser Rilien?"

Rilien, who’d already tucked his knives away at his lower back, nodded in the sanguine fashion typical of him. “For the moment.”

Cassius himself seemed disinclined to resist, perhaps even a little relieved now that his immediate death seemed to have been taken off the table, though there was no mistake that the look he shot Cyrus and Estella was one of calculation. “As you wish, then.” His tone was carefully neutral, almost as bled of emotion as Rilien’s own. Cyrus’s lip curled, but he protested no further.

Chryseis exhaled, stepping over towards Marceline. "I appreciate your ability to remain sensible, Lady Marceline. This is not a decision to be made so close to the heat of battle." She turned, nodding briefly to Estella. "You as well, Estella. Your brother and I went through... a great deal, to return here." Romulus, having finished wiping the blood from his blade, returned to her side. The look in his eyes was enough to confirm her words, if nothing else. It shared the same hollowness that Cyrus carried.

Another reference to the fact that something important had transpired while they were gone. Estella wasn’t sure she could make sense of it—though the moment had seemed to stretch for minutes to her, it hadn’t really been that long. Then again, it was time magic of some kind—she had no idea what might have passed for them while so little did for her. In the end, she only smiled thinly and nodded. “It’s, ah
 don’t mention it.” Her mouth thinned, her eyes flickering to Romulus, before a noise from behind drew her attention, and she turned to see Leon entering, with a contingent of Inquisition troops. They must have already been on their way up, to be here now. Perhaps he had anticipated something going wrong, or perhaps they’d simply taken more time than he was comfortable waiting.

Whatever the case was, it didn’t take much more than a few minutes before Cassius was being led away in irons by the troops, with particular attention paid to the bonds so he couldn’t cast, though from the look of him, she wasn’t sure if he had the energy left for that regardless.

Also among those who had entered was Fiona, who looked around at the room full of dead Venatori and blanched slightly. “You’re, um
 well, you’re not indentured to Magister Cassius anymore,” Estella explained, though maybe that was already obvious.

Fiona recovered quickly, to her credit, and nodded. “I
 yes, thank you. But this does present a new set of problems. I doubt very much the king will allow us to remain in Redcliffe after a Magister chased out the Arl. We cannot stay here, either.” She made careful eye contact with Estella, who sighed under her breath, but inclined her head.

“Well, ah
 with regard to that, I believe the Inquisition is in a position to give your people somewhere to stay, if you’re willing to help us close the Breach.” Honestly, she was inclined to offer as much regardless, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over too well with, say, Lady Marceline.

"It is not as though you possess any other option." Marceline still had not sheathed her rapier, instead she held it point down into the throne room's stone floor, her hands resting on top of the basket. Her facial expression was even and hard, that of a woman who would get what she desired, no matter the cost. She glanced at Estella, whom she held in a gaze for a moment, before returning to Fiona with a hard stare. "The mages will recieve room and board in return for aid in closing the breach, as the Lady Herald said," However, there was an implied but at the end of the statement.

"However, considering the quality of your recent judgements, the Inquisition will take command of the Free Mages. You shall be relegated to an advisory position," Marceline said with authority. Eventually, her stoney exterior cracked a bit with a sigh and a tilt of her head. "I can assure you, the Inquisition is fair in its dealings, and the mages will face no such mistreatment from the rest of our forces. It is a much better option than your previous employer." A polite term for master.

"Agreed?"

“It is as you say,” Fiona replied, heavily. “We have no choice.”

As if the end of the matter were some kind of signal, Cyrus slumped heavily against Estella’s side, a soft groan escaping him as he struggled to keep his feet under him. Whatever had been propelling him up until this point had obviously run out, and now that the immediate danger had passed, he was in clear danger of collapse. His eyelids fluttered, but thankfully, he didn’t quite pass out, having apparently enough strength yet to aid her in supporting his weight.

“Are we done, then?” He muttered it almost incoherently, quietly enough that probably only she could make out the actual words.

Estella immediately pushed back on his weight, solidifying herself under him, maneuvering one of his arms across her shoulders, and wrapping one of her own around his waist. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of magic it had taken to reverse Cassius’s spell, but still his state was alarming to her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him look so utterly spent before, and felt a spike of worry spear its way into her chest. When she spoke, though, she kept her tone gentle, reassuring.

“Yes, Cyrus. We’re done now.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus found it difficult to just set foot back in Redcliffe, in the time that he remembered, after seeing what he had, and living in it. It felt not unlike a horrid dream, despite it having been entirely real, and only erased by the skill Cyrus had in magic. The thought that he could've been trapped there haunted him. As did the fact that a similar future could await them still.

His normal stony demeanor was replaced by a bit of a daze as they cleared out from Redcliffe castle, which stood empty awaiting the arrival of the Arl back into his domain. The Inquisition would be clearing out soon, but since they were now directly responsible for the mages taking shelter here, it would take a bit of time to organize. Time that was sorely needed for many of them to rest. And while none needed it more than Cyrus, Romulus was plenty exhausted himself.

He was only allowed a few hours, however, before Leon's man Reed arrived to summon him, letting him know that the commander required him for a debriefing. With Cyrus out of commission, and Chryseis still ultimately remaining a third party, it seemed the duty of relaying what had happened fell to the slave. Ignoring the soreness already setting into his limbs, he forced himself up from his cot.

He was allowed an opportunity to scarf down some food quickly, and fully planned to return for more when this was done. A few of the soldiers looked at him as though he were a ghost, and he wondered if he might actually be. He'd simply been erased from time for some of them, those that had been watching, before he reappeared. Romulus did not claim to understand how magic like that even began to work, but he could at least understand why the others might look at him differently. It was the second time he'd walked out of a place no man had a right to return from.

Reed opened the flap of the command tent for Romulus, and he proceeded inside, finding the Inquisition's military, diplomatic, and espionage leaders all assembled and awaiting him. Folding his hands together behind his back, he bowed his head in greeting, and left his eyes gazing down towards the table. Some things would not be changed, even by time-traveling.

The tent was quite a large one, with space for all three of its occupants to have clear working room of their own, plus a smaller version of Haven’s map table for each of them to use when necessary. Rilien was currently standing at that, quite intently focused on something or another there, while Lady Marceline was at a desk, shuffling through a stack of parchments, a quill and inkwell at the ready beside her. Leon, on the other hand, was sitting in a chair, on one side of low table, which was covered with what looked like some kind of food service for the three of them, it was hard to say exactly. Mostly it was all very mobile pickings, nuts and fruit, that sort of thing. There were a few other spartan chairs arranged around the space, and when Romulus entered, the commander stood, offering him one with a gesture.

“If you wouldn’t mind sitting, Romulus, I’m not sure how long we’re going to be here, and I expect you’re rather tired, if our resident magical expert’s condition is any indication of what you’ve been through. You’re also welcome to eat, if you like.” The Seeker himself resumed his own seat thereafter, ignoring the food in front of him and smiling mildly.

“I do apologize for how soon this is, but I’ve always found that memory is best committed to paper as soon as possible, lest some details get scrambled in the intervening time. If you’re up to it, I would like to hear from you what happened today.” Nothing he said was phrased as a command, nor even delivered with the tone of one.

Romulus sank into the offered chair, his posture perhaps not the best, and despite the rest, he still seemed, and felt, quite tired, the kind of tired that a simple night's sleep would not cure. As for Leon's prompting... he was almost tempted to laugh, as the commander couldn't possibly know what he was asking him to describe. Romulus shifted an elbow onto one of the chair's armrests, propping his head briefly upon his hand, before he seemed to think better of it. He still stared somewhere beneath the table they worked at.

"Cassius aimed a spell for Estella and I, meant to remove us from time. If Lord Cyrus and my domina had not confirmed it as such, I'd have thought I was under the effect of some nightmarish horror spell. We determined ourselves to be roughly one and a half years into the future, at which point the Inquisition had nearly been crushed, by the forces of something the Venatori called the 'Elder One.'" He narrowed his eyes at the thought, half-wishing they'd interrogated those they'd found in the future about the Elder One, to learn more of what exactly that was.

Finally, he looked up at the three before him. "Is there anything in particular you wish to know? We escaped from that future, and now a different one will come to pass instead."

There was a moment of silence at that; perhaps the three others simply needed time to digest the information. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one commonly encountered after all. In the end, Rilien spoke first, looking up from what he was doing to meet Romulus’s eyes. “If that is so
 were you able to ascertain a narrative of what happened? It is possible that whatever this Elder One accomplished early on in that future is identical with what it plans for ours. Were we to know these things, we would be better prepared to face them.”

Romulus shrugged. "Perhaps." Sitting up a little higher in the chair, he exhaled heavily, raking through his mind for the information they'd picked up. The words were so much less memorable than the images, in all but a few cases. "The Inquisition suffered a crippling loss, with one Herald presumed dead, and the other captured. We acquired no allies, and lost our ability to close Fade rifts. The Venatori revealed their full strength, and allowed the Inquisition no victories. Cassius did not lead them, someone else did. We didn't get a name." It hadn't even occurred to them to care about most of these details that suddenly appeared important. None of it would have mattered if they couldn't get back at all.

His eyes shifted to Marceline, taking notes. "You escaped from the ambush, but were assassinated some time later, along with a great many others from Orlais. The Elder One apparently established a puppet, dethroning the most powerful nation in Thedas without being revealed." He looked to the spymaster next. "Many others were killed or captured in an attempt to rescue Estella from the Venatori. You were among them, Ser Rilien. You... were shot down trying to free Estella from... her pyre." His eyes could no longer remain on them, and fell to the ground again.

"The Inquisition still existed, when we arrived from the spell, but it was little more than a desperate resistance led by Commander Leon. The Breach had split across the sky. There... wasn't much of a world left to save."

Lady Marceline's quill quit its scratching for a moment as she looked up to Romulus. A coy smile then spread across her lips as she shook her head. "Assassinated, you say? I can not say I am terribly surprised. It is suitably... Orlesian, wouldn't you say, Ser Rilien?" She asked, glancing at Rilien.

"Fortunately, we still have you and Lady Estella, and with the mages, we have grown in strength as well," she said, returning to the notes she had been writing. "I shall send letters to prominent Orlesian nobility to warn them of such a possibility, and keep an ear open for any opportunistic occasion for assassins to strike." She then frowned again as she continued to stare at the notes laid out in front of her. "Did you discover which nobles were assassinated in particular? she asked.

"Those of greatest importance to stability," Romulus declared, somewhat simply. They were among the few names of dead people in the future that he had no connection with, but he remembered the titles. "The Lord-General, the Crown Prince, and the Empress herself." He swallowed. "I heard this from Khari, after we freed her. She'd been captured in the attempt to rescue Estella."

Leonhardt folded his hands together underneath his chin, his elbows propped on the armrests of his chair. He regarded Romulus less keenly than the other two did; it was clear they were thinking tactics in this very moment, but it would seem that, beyond the initial summons, he was not especially inclined that way himself. He looked vaguely troubled by what he was hearing, but had thus far been silent, apparently content to let the others do the questioning. Now, though, he did speak up.

“You met some of us, then, in this future. How was it that you were able to return? As I’ve heard it told, barely a minute passed as those in the throne room perceived it.”

How long had it been? An hour, perhaps two? Maybe less, Romulus supposed. Every moment in that hell had been agonizingly drawn out. Marceline seemed to find it amusing, though he could hardly read a woman like her, that she'd been murdered. She and the Tranquil were thinking tactically of this, or coldly, as it felt to Romulus. Leon was the one that Romulus at least felt slightly able to relate to. It was real, what had happened, as difficult as it was to imagine. In fact, what they were experiencing now was probably less real than the things he'd missed... but Romulus had no desire to think on any of that.

"We recovered Vesryn, Khari, Zahra, and Asala from the dungeons of the castle. The Venatori were using it as a base. The others were... tortured. I will not describe the details. They aren't important." Perhaps Vesryn had some secret he was hiding from the group, but Romulus would not be the one to force it out of him. If there was anything he'd demonstrated in that future, it was that he was willing to give his life for their cause. Cyrus could pry answers out of him later if he so chose to.

"Together we reached the throne room, and Cyrus killed Cassius there. He then prepared the spell that would transport us back. It was never certain if we would be able to return. The Elder One arrived with some kind of creature, though we never laid eyes on the threat. Venatori advanced ahead, and since the others could not be allowed to return with us, they held them off to give Cyrus enough time. I watched all of them die." He'd seen, and done, more than his share of terrible things, and many of them refused to leave him, but somehow he suspected visiting that future only briefly would outlast them all.

“I’m sorry,” Leon said quietly, though it didn’t seem to be as much an apology as an expression of honest sympathy. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure the details of the magic involved will go over my head, but I’ll ask Cyrus about it at a later date anyway, to see if it’s anything we still need to be worried about. For now
” He paused, apparently searching for the words he wanted, pursing his lips and shaking his head faintly.

“For now I also wanted to ask something else. I admit I don’t really have a grasp of the details, but
 Lady Chryseis is still present, and as I understand it, she was of help in
 what happened. We have no cause or grounds to interfere with her if she wishes to leave and return to the Imperium. But from what you have said, it appears painfully obvious to me that the Inquisition needs its Heralds—"

"Both Heralds," Lady Marceline clarified.

“—and that the world needs the Inquisition. What do you want to do from here, Romulus? I want you to know that you have our support, should you be inclined to make use of it for any reason.”

Romulus was silent for a long period after that, threading his fingers together in front of him and placing his chin upon his knuckles. In the end, the immediate course of his life seemed obvious, and when he spoke, it was for once with confidence. "I want to close the Breach. Whatever that takes. I believe, after what we went through, my domina understands the importance of that as well. I believe she will keep our arrangement as is." Despite everything that had happened, nothing had really changed. Chryseis had even admitted she'd come to Redcliffe for her father, to protect the world from him, and perhaps to try to protect him from himself.

"After the Breach is closed... I still intend to do as she commands. If that means returning to Minrathous, and disappearing, so be it. I won't ask you to understand. If that puts the Inquisition at risk... then I'm sorry." His relationship with Chryseis was not something that was at all easy to comprehend. Despite the things he'd done for her, and as a result the things he'd done to himself, he did not, and could not resent her for any of it. For he knew that since her husband had been killed, no other person understood her quite the way he did.

Leon smiled a little wider. “I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, if it’s what you want. So long as we close the Breach, I’ll not complain.” He glanced to the other two briefly. “Unless Rilien or Lady Marceline has a further question, I believe we can conclude here. Please, enjoy some well-earned rest.” Rilien shook his head in the negative.

"None," Marceline agreed.

"Thank you," Romulus said, rising from the chair. After nodding briefly, he turned and exited the tent, forcing himself to think only of a large meal, and a long sleep to follow.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

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#, as written by Talisman
"Ahh, welcome back Chancellor, I do hope your travels found you well," Lady Marceline replied as politely as she could. However, despite whatever message she had written on her face, speaking with Chancellor Roderick would be the furthest thing from enjoyable. As it stood, she had awaited outside the double doors of the Chantry for the arrival of their local corsair, whom she'd sent Larissa to fetch not too long ago. Instead, now she had to deal with Roderick, who'd made it quite clear of what he thought of their Inquisition.

Or rather, heretics in his words. "I'm curious ambassador," he said, pulling up to Marceline and crossing his arms. The appearance of the Chancellor and the way that his voice seemed to carry had drawn the attention of some of the Inquisition's forces, as well as a few of the mages. "As to how the Inquisition and its Heralds will restore the order that you've promised." Marceline's lips remained in a tight, even line that's become her default.

"Of course you are, Lord Chancellor, however I unfortunately find myself asking the same of the Chantry. Tell me, has the Chantry sent you back in an effort to offer aid in closing the breach and recovering the peace we seek, or is it to just denounce us as heretics and heathens," she asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity. She already knew the answer, it was the only thing the Chantry had done since the conclave. The Inquisition seemed to be a unifying force, for both the right and wrong reasons.

Chancellor Roderick guffawed at the notion, "Offer aid to the rebel Inquistion and the murderers you call the Heralds of Andraste? I think not!" There was a grumble among the crowd, and it was not in favor of the Chancellor's viewpoint. The Inquisition had heard about the selflessness of Lady Estella, and they respected Romulus's efforts. To hear their Heralds called murderers did not sit well with them, and Marceline could not blame them.

She narrowed her eyes and her chin lifted as she looked down on the Chancellor. "Those two murderers as you say, have done more to restore order than the Chantry has even attempted," she said coolly.

Roderick returned her stare with one of his own. "Careful ambassador. What you say is blasphemy. Order can never truly be restored so as long as this rebellion is allowed to fester."

Lady Marceline simply allowed herself a tight smile and nodded. "We shall see about that Lord Chancellor. Personally, I am quite fond of our chances," she said, ending with a look at the gathered crowd. There were more grumbles, this time of agreement with Marceline's sentiments. She then tilted her head and curtsied, keeping ever polite. "Now Chancellor, if the Chantry decides to do something other than cry heresy, please. Allow me to be the first to hear." It would be immensely difficult to march upon the Inquisition without soldiers after all.

"As you all were," she called, turning to the crowd that had formed. Eventually they began to disperse as well, leaving only a rather upset looking Roderick glaring a hole into Marceline's forehead.

It was only then when Zahra showed herself. She'd been in the crowd, only revealing the wild-haired captain when they began dispersing back to their duties, or lack thereof, anyhow. Her expression spoke volumes, though it seemed to direct itself at the Chantry's representative. Her eyebrows were pinched together, hooding livid eyes and a bared scowl that could've tickled itself into a grin at a moment's notice. She took a few leveled steps towards him and turned on her heels, perhaps thinking better of it, though she clicked her tongue, in disgust rather than amusement and faced Marceline instead.

“Well. I'd say that went rather well, even without Mr. Dour's cooperation,” her comment might've held a bit of humor, but it was obvious that she held some sort of reservation towards the pious old man. She flagged an eyebrow, and glanced over her shoulder, leveling the Chancellor with a glare of her own, in order to force him to finally look away. A crooked laugh sounded as she placed her hands over her hips, and faced Marceline once more, “Shall we? I'm sure you've called me for a reason, and as much as I'd like to say that we're in good company...”

Larissa stepped out from behind Zahra and gave Marceline a nod before she stood beside her with her hands resting in her sleeves. Just like Marceline, she wore the same impassive face as she watched a vein on Roderick's neck grow in size. "Thank you, Larissa. If you would be so kind as to see to the Chancellor, I shall discuss our business with our good captain here." Larissa looked at Marceline with a slightly raised brow. She'd certainly have to make it up to the woman later, dumping the Chancellor off on her like that, but she doubted he'd approve of the business she was to discuss with Zahra.

Eventually, Larissa nodded and turned to Chancellor, and simply settled in. Marceline allowed an apologetic look to pass over her features before she turned to Zahra. "Come, we can talk in my office," she said and turned to enter the Chantry. They passed through the double doors and passed through the main hall, passing Michaël and Pierre along the way. Pierre sat on one of the benches with a book on Orlesian history in hand, his father watching over his shoulder. As they passed, both men looked up and waved, Marceline smiling at them genuinely and returned the wave.

They took a left and entered the small office that Marceline basically lived out of now. A desk sat in the middle of the room, full of scrolls of parchment and sheafs of paper in varying stages of being written. Marceline offered Zahra a chair that faced the desk as she went to a corner of the room that sat a small table that held a bottle of wine and accompanying glasses. She already began to pour herself a glass before she offered one to Zahra "Can I offer you a glass as well? It is a pinot noir, just arrived from my winery back home."

Zahra followed Marceline, matching her pace, in relative silence. She seemed awfully comfortable in it anyhow. A small smile played on her lips as they walked. Her bright eyes flicked across the main expanse of the building and seemed to be picking apart the tapestries, and the neat line of candles scattered against the walls. While she made no comment, her curiosity was obvious. When Marceline led them both into one of the side chambers, she immediately dropped down in the proffered chair. It was only when there was an offer of wine that her attention perked up once more, drawing her lidded gaze to the bottle she was holding. “You know how to steer your way into my heart. Of course, thank you.”

Marceline smiled and continued to pour the second glass as well, and when both were full, she crossed back over the room to hand Zahra the glass. Instead of moving around her desk to take a seat behind it however, Marceline instead chose to lean gently against the corner. "Forgive me if I do not sit with you, I have sat for far too long and I wish to stretch my back," she said, gesturing to the pile of neatly stacked parchments. "With the support of the free mages, we are starting to be taken seriously, and I find myself fielding inquiries from many inquisitive sources."

At that, Marceline put the glass to her lips and took the first sip of her wine. The taste held a sweet warmth with a tart ending. Upon swallowing, Marceline swished the glass and watched as the liquid spun around the bottom. "But we have come to speak business yes? It is because of the mages that I asked to speak with you today." She halted the spinning of the liquid and cupped the glass with both hands on her lap, straightening her back in the process. The sheaves of paper would make her into a bent old woman long before she got there naturally.

"To close the Breach, we are bound to require a large amount of power. The mages are only but a step in that direction. I have already set up a number of legitimate lyrium supply lines, but I am aware that you are, shall we say, a woman of resources, no? The Inquisition requires every advantage we can afford you understand?" She was dancing around the word smuggling of course. She did not intend to ask Zahra the details of the matter if she was in fact able to procure another source of lyrium.

Zahra accepted the glass gracefully and held it close to her nose, inhaling before taking a sip of her own. From the expression on her face, it certainly was a well-chosen vintage. She swished the contents a couple times, and took a much larger mouthful, closing her eyes for a few moments. When she opened them, she appeared mildly apologetic. “Swimming political currents, and still keeping up with the paperwork,” she noted with a curled lip, eying the piles of parchments tidily stacked across her desk, “I don't envy your duties.”

The captain bobbed her head in a curt nod, indicating that Marceline could continue explaining why she'd been called down here. Her eyes, half-lidded and perpetually amused, drifted away from the rim of her glass, and settled back on Marceline's face. Zahra's countenance changed at the mention of business, taking on an air of earnestness. Like an eel coiling for an opportunity. Her smile simmered down to an inquisitive line, though her eyes lit up with bright-eyed interest. “You've the right of it, Lady Marceline,” her voice had a tickle of laughter in it, though she disclosed no reasons as to why, “Say the word, and your mages will have another lyrium supply in their services.”

She tapped two fingers against her chin and tilted her head to the side, cradling the glass of wine in her lap, “Though I'll have to ask if you've any wagons to spare. And horses to draw them. I'm afraid a boats all I have, and unfortunately it isn't able to sprout legs.” Zahra finished the wine and leaned forward to place it back onto her desk, “That's all I'd require to do as you ask.”

"That is unfortunate," Marceline agreed with a small laugh of her own. Afterward though, her lips set into a thin line and she began to process. "You need not worry about the wagons, they will be supplied. I shall speak to Ser Leonhardt about requisitioning them, and also to Master Dennet to gather the horses to draw them." Marceline paused for a moment before she leaned backward over her desk and plucked a scroll of parchment expertly, bringing it back and depositing it into Zahra's hands.

"It is a map of the land between here and the Waking Sea. If you would indicate the routes you believe to be most efficient, I will send letters to the local Banns to ensure that the roads are safe to travel. I would not put anyone in unnecessary danger if I can help it," she said, though she neglected to reveal that she did not want the supplies to fall into the hands of bandits.

Zahra waggled her eyebrows, and fanned her hands out wide, “With both our efforts, what couldn't we achieve?” Even without the mirthful tilt to her tone, she appeared pleased by the prospects. She lounged back in her seat and crossed a leg over her knee, taking up the scroll of parchment Marceline dropped in her hands and smoothing it across her lap. She hummed a soft tune and traced a finger across various lines, where roads and smaller villages lied. An approving smile crossed her lips, as she looked back to Marceline.

“And I'll have Nuka accompany our little caravan to ensure the supplies reaches its destination all proper-like,” she added as she rolled the piece of parchment back up and tapped her knee with it, “So, this concludes our business. Seems to me, no loose ends that needs tying. Is there anything else you'd like of me?”

Marceline shook her head, "No, I do not believe so. Thank you for assistance Captain," she said with a grateful nod. Before she could stand and see Zahra out, however, the door opened behind them and Larissa stepped inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, the serene and even look she wore broke away into a furrowed brow and scrunched nose. It was clear that her time spent with the Chancellor were not altogether enjoyable. Marceline offered her an apologetic look before the elf spoke first. "I know many songs and stories, and even I was unaware of how many ways it is possible to call someone a heathen," she said. Marceline found it somewhat difficult to stifle a small chuckle.

Quickly, Marceline coughed to cover herself and spoke, "I apologize for putting you through that Larissa. You have the rest of the day to yourself. Mother sent a package from home, you are welcome to it," she said, indicating to the package that rested in the opposite corner of the room. Larissa's eyes alighted on the package and went to it, curiously checking the contents. Eventually, she produced a book, Hard in Hightown written extravagantly on the cover.

"Ah, give Lady LĂ©cuyer my thanks."

Zahra did little in the means of containing her laughter, though she had enough decency to offer her own apologies, “Who else could stave off his insults so easily?” She'd already risen from her chair and lingered closer to the doorway, peering curiously over Larissa's shoulder when she fiddled with the contents of the package. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes when she held the book aloft, and the quirking smile broke into a full-blown grin. “Lovely book, that. Best enjoyed in a quiet space, if you take my meaning.”

"That is the plan, Captain," Larissa answered with a smile.

Lady Marceline sighed, but a smile was on her lips as well. The poor girl deserved it after dealing with the Chancellor.

"Captain," Marceline nodded and stood to see the woman out, before turning to her desk to resume her work

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.
—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11
Image

Leonhardt leaned back in his chair, setting his knife and fork down on the half-full plate that held his lunch. He was dining today with the Lady Marceline, and though he was expecting the conversation to be exclusively about business, and it mostly had been, it wasn’t quite as bad as he was anticipating, in terms of news. Both of them had made significant strides in terms of pulling their respective sides of the Inquisition together. The military now had low and mid-level officers, mostly those trained up to the point since they’d joined, with input from the Lions, MichaĂ«l, and Vesryn on who was likely to handle command well, and who was simply better suited following orders instead of giving them. There was a certain balance to be struck between that and a person’s combative abilities straightforwardly, but he thought between the lot of them, they’d done a fairly good job at it, and the system for bringing newcomers up to speed was much more efficient now than it had been in the beginning, which was fortunate since the volume of volunteers had drastically increased in parallel.

On the diplomatic side of things, they’d received a considerable boost in interest once it was clear that the free mages of the south of Thedas had thrown in with them, as well as a large number of the former rebel forces in the mage-templar war. It meant, in effect, that any mages who had not died or taken to the roads for pure banditry were now quartered with the Inquisition, and, though their numbers were small, they were quite formidable. Doubtless, that had spurred the nobility to take greater interest. Hopefully, it would actually result in some support, both ideological and material. They were short on almost every conceivable sort of supply, though not yet dangerously so. Reed had informed him it would only be a matter of time, though, especially if their forces continued to swell at this rate.

That left the spies, and whatever his reservations about working with someone he had absolutely no read on, Leon could not deny that Rilien was effective at his job. Almost worryingly so, considering what that job was. In any case, their scouts and agents were the most up-to-muster portion of the Inquisition at the moment, perhaps due in part to the fact that they’d been more or less established before the Inquisition itself even began.

“And how is your family finding Haven, Lady Marceline?” Business discussion had been ongoing for the better part of an hour; he shifted the topic largely out of a desire to put it aside for a while. Leon had always much preferred doing to speaking in such matters, even if the latter was necessary. “It’s
 quite different from Val Royeaux, obviously, and likely from your holdings as well.” He believed she had ancestral property near the water, on fertile ground, not at all like the snow-battered mountains.

Marceline dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief and likewise leaned back in her chair. She did not seem averse to the change of topic, in fact she seemed to welcome it. She ruminated on the question before she nodded. "It is, yes. We do not see much snow on the banks of Lake Celestine," she revealed. "Regardless, Michaël has settled in nicely now that he has something to occupy his time. He tends to grow bored if left to his own devices, and Pierre is usually the one to suffer because of it," She said with a jovial smile.

"Pierre..." she said, thinking about her son for a moment, "I believe snow was novel for him at first, but I believe it has since worn off," she said with a frown, before it quicky turned upward into another smile, "Though Larissa did reveal that she witnessed him and Asala sledding down one of the smaller foothills outside the village recently, so not all is lost," she said with a soft laugh.

She nodded and continued, "The lodgings are smaller than what we are used to, but we have settled in. Larissa, Michaël, and myself have seen to Pierre's studies so he is not missing his education, and my mother and father are running our business back on the West Banks. All is well from what I understand," she said easily. "How about yourself, Leonhardt? I hope Haven finds you well," she asked politely.

He smiled, the expression a tad wry. “As I’m sure you can guess, I’ve lodged in places both better and far, far worse. I expect I’ve seen much of Thedas by now, save the obvious outliers.” Tevinter and Par Vollen, that was. “It’s never places anymore. It’s people, usually, and events, on occasion. What we do is worth doing, and I daresay the rather odd little assortment of misfits we’ve assembled makes it enjoyable at times as well.” When he wasn’t bored near to tears by the drudgery of paperwork, he quite liked being here, serving a worthy cause with worthy and diverse others.

Their meal was interrupted by a knock, and as soon as Marceline had given permission for entry, Reed opened the door and stepped over the threshold. “Sorry to interrupt ser, milady. But
 there’s someone here to see you. And I couldn’t exactly tell her to wait.”

Leon’s brows rose, conveying his degree of surprise that his stalwart aide was deferring to status. Their guest’s importance was confirmed when a dark hand found Reed’s shoulder and steered him slightly to the side so that another person could step through. Marceline knew her as the woman who’d been accompanying Lord Seeker Lucius in Val Royeaux, the extremely tall one Leon had called by name. Leon knew her as his teacher, and once, his friend.

Indeed, he stood now, clear surprise etched over his face. “Ophelia?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded once, curtly. “I bring a message, from the templars to Inquisition command.” She produced what must have been the missive in question from somewhere under her cloak, and handed it over to him. Leon took hold of it, but he did not make any attempt to remove it from her hand.

“Ophelia, what is going on? You must—”

She shook her head emphatically. “Do not presume to instruct me, child. I brought this message to you personally. I suggest that you answer it in kind.” She held his eyes for a long moment, then turned from him, nodding once to Lady Marceline, and then taking her leave as abruptly as she’d entered. He was half-tempted to run after her, but if Ophelia had no intentions of telling him more than she had, no amount of persuasion would move her. She was solid and stubborn as granite that way.

Instead, he resumed his seat, looking a bit flabbergasted, and handed the message to Marceline wordlessly.

Marceline was likewise wordless for a time after Ophelia's departure, the message resting limply in her hand. "She is certainly a curt woman, yes? And quick to the point," she finally managed before turning her attention to the letter in her hands. "Regardless, it seems as if we have finally garnered the attention of the Templars." With that, she opened the message and read it, which did not seem to take long.

Marceline spent only a moment reading it before she looked back up to Leon. "I seem to be correct in my initial assessment of our messenger," she added, handing the message back to him. "The Templars are at Therinfal Redoubt. Come prepared," she said, reciting it from memory.

He wasn’t surprised by the brevity of the message, nor its vagueness. Ophelia had always liked making him figure things out for himself. She had guided him only when absolutely necessary, in all things. In retrospect, he knew that this had given him strength to do things he would not otherwise have been able to accomplish, because he had learned how to work with little to achieve much. It would seem to be a skill he’d be needing again now.

“This isn’t official. There’s no seal on it—not from the Lord Seeker, nor from Ophelia. I think this means we should not expect him to expect us. Which means if we want in the door at all, we’re going to need to bring people he can’t simply turn away. Can you find anyone like that who might support us?”

"Several, in fact," Marceline answered simply. She shifted in her chair and opened a drawer in her desk and back to shift through papers. As she was searching, she continued, "There are those in Orlais that see the rise of the Inquisition as an opportunity, and not, as the Chancellor would have them believe, a heretical rebellion. I believe that they think that would win status if they were to ally themselves with us, and we were to succeed."

Marceline paused for a moment and produced a number of papers and piled them to the side on her desk. "The Grand Game, Ser Leonhardt," she said with a coy smile, "I will save you from the majority of the details. I shall speak to Rilien and we will win or convince a number of influential houses to walk with us. I can assure you, the Lord Seeker will not be able to turn us away, lest he risk incurring the wrath of Orlais in the process." A rather devious look seemed to settle into her features, and for a moment, to even become predatory.

Leon knew a fair amount about the Game, actually—one did not become a high-ranking member of the Chantry without at least a bit of exposure. The Seekers were based out of Val Royeaux, after all. Still, he was perfectly happy not knowing or needing to care about the details of it, and so he simply nodded. “We’ll need to send one of the Heralds as well, I’m sure. Probably Estella.” She was the more diplomatically-inclined of the two, though considering Romulus’s disposition, that wasn’t saying much about her, really. Still, if what he’d seen in Val Royeaux was anything to go by, she had a certain earnest forthrightness that would do better than most, though he did worry about her personality being trampled over by people with more domineering disposition.

“If she goes, I suspect Cyrus will want to as well.” Not that he was against it. They couldn’t go with too many fighters, but the other Avenarius twin was easily capable of more destruction than several men, if that proved to be necessary. Ophelia had said to come prepared. He took that to mean prepared for anything. With that in mind, it would make the most sense to pick people who packed as much punch as possible, and limit their number so as not to draw attention to them as anything but an honor guard. Some level of discretion would also be best, which immediately excluded at least one person he could think of.

“And
 you, myself, and Vesryn. Any more is a risk, I think.” They had to leave one of the three heads of the organization behind, and Marceline would be better suited for the diplomatic side of things than Rilien would, whose reputation preceded him in a very particular way. “I’ll leave the negotiations to yourself and Estella as much as possible, but with my own connections to these matters, I may have to step on your toes a bit.”

"Completely understandable," Marceline accepted. She seemed to acknowledge his relationship to the Templars and Seekers, but otherwise made no other mention of it. She then steepled her fingers and leaned forward as she thought. Eventually, her eyes tilted toward Leon and she spoke, "About Lady Estella," Marceline began, "What do you know of her experience with nobility?" she asked, before she continued, "On occasion, I have witnessed her handle a few such situations exceptionally. No doubt some of it is due to Lord Rilien's instruction, but otherwise..." she trailed off.

"The nobility we are to encounter will certainly wish to speak with the Herald of Andraste, and I do not wish to simply throw her into a den of lions unprepared..." She said, before closing her eyes and subtly shaking her head, "If you will pardon the expression."

Leon huffed slightly, amused by the turn of phrase, but then gave the question some consideration. “I understand that the Avenarius family is noble in Tevinter, or were, I’m not sure. But I don’t know to what extent either of them were raised with it. I gather she’s attended court at least a few times, either with the Crown Prince or as part of her work with the other kind of Lions. I don’t know any of the details, however. You may wish to inquire of her personally, and address any glaring issues before we expect her to negotiate with the Lord Seeker. He’s
 an aggressive man. He was even before all of this.” That said, recent events had likely only made matters worse in that respect as well as many others.

"I remember," Marceline said, obviously referring to their run-in with the man in Val Royeaux. She then straightened in her chair and crossed her arms, nodding. "And I intend to," she said on the matter of Estella. With a subtle tilt of her head and a softening of the lip, the predatory appearance she had moments ago bled away and she appeared to soften when she thought about the girl. "I am positive she will be fine, she is a much stronger woman than she seems," Marceline said before shaking her head.

"We should get to work then, yes?" she said as she stood from her desk. "We should have these lunches more often Ser Leonhardt. I enjoyed it," she said with a genuine smile.

Almost to his surprise, Leon found himself smiling back, and nodding as he stood. “As did I, Lady Marceline.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit

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#, as written by Talisman
Marceline sat on the edge of her desk in her office, a folder of papers held by the spine in one hand, and her polished silverite mask hanging limply from the other. The dossier she was currently reading contained reports on all of the noble houses that they were targeting in order to march on the Templars holed up in Therinfal Redoubt. The names that the dossier held were those of Orlais' most influential houses-- Marceline did not intend to give the Lord Seeker the chance to turn them away without causing a major incident. They had already gained the committments of some of the nobility already, but the others required a little more convincing. Favors would needed to be traded, information would have to swap hands, and promises would have to be made, but Lady Marceline did not forsee any complications.

With a flick of the wrist and a twist of the thumb, Marceline moved on to the next page. Not all of the nobility were that difficult, and for that, Lady Marceline was thankful. Some understood the importance of the work that the Inquisition did. Before, they could only offer their vocal support, as it would be foolish to support an unknown entity that had very little to offer but the bare minimum of a plan. Marceline understood, and accepted it then, but now that the Inquisition had demonstrated its ability to stand on its own two feet, that vocal support soon became some more physical.

It had been a great deal off of Marceline's mind now that she had something to work with. Discussions and opportunities were beginning to open themselves up to the Inquisition. Apparently, now that that weight was gone, she'd seemed to relax somewhat, as Larissa herself mentioned it. Marceline glanced upward to the door for a moment before returning to the file in her hand. She'd sent the woman out moments ago in order to fetch Estella. She intended to follow through with the desire to inquire of her experience with nobility, and to prepare her for the negotiations that were to come.

She had faith in the girl, Estella had instilled it in her when she handled herself first with the Marquis DuRellion in Val Royeaux and Cassius in Redcliffe. Still, she did not desire to throw the poor girl at them without at first preparing her. If at all, she'd like to make it as easy on her as possible, though with the label of Herald of Andraste stuck next to her name, things could only go so easily.

Apparently, Larissa had little difficulty locating her, because she returned not more than ten minutes later, Estella in tow. From the way she was dressed, in durable but plain clothes, her hair pulled well away from her face and evidence of recent activity in the flyaways that stood away from her scalp, she’d recently been engaged in some kind of strenuous physical activity, and her breathing was still slightly elevated. Given the time of day, it was likely that she’d been receiving instruction from Rilien.

She made some effort to straighten herself up as she entered, though, smoothing her hair back with her hands as well as she could and pulling her maroon tunic down to tug out the wrinkles and set it straight of any dishevelment. There were a few spots of blood on it, actually, though they were hard to see against the color, and the empty glass vial in one hand still had a few drops of pearlescent red potion at the bottom of it.

“Good afternoon, Lady Marceline,” she said in her usual subdued tone of voice, coming to stand a few feet back from the desk, folding her hands behind her back and standing with her feet shoulder-width apart. She didn’t look to have made any conscious decision to do so; perhaps it was simply an ingrained reflex at this point to stand at attention when in an office of this kind. “Larissa said you had something you wanted to ask me about?”

"Discuss is perhaps the better term," Marceline said with a smile. "If you would like a drink, please help yourself. There is water in the pitcher," she said, indicating with her mask to the small table that held a bottle of wine, the pitcher, and a number of glasses. Meanwhile, Larissa weaved in behind Estella and went around Marceline's desk, taking a seat in her emtpy chair. With a ruffle of paper, she produced a length of parchment and prepared an inkwell and quill. It seemed almost wasteful the amount of paper they went through.

Estella took the opportunity offered, tucking the bottle away in some pocket or another before heading over to the side table and pouring herself a glass of water. She downed half of one before refilling it the rest of the way and returning to her spot, standing in a slightly more relaxed fashion now. “Thank you,” she murmured, half-smiling. “I think Rilien sometimes forgets that not all of us are capable of his level of endurance and focus.” The words, while they could have been interpreted as a criticism, were delivered with an unmistakable affection, and a faint hint of amusement.

“What shall we be discussing, Lady Marceline?”

Marceline gave one last glance to the dossier in her hand before she closed it and placed it down. She then crossed her arms and studied the woman in front of her for a moment before she tilted her head to the side inquisitively. "From what I understand, the Avenarius family name holds some reknown in the Imperium," Marceline began. "Though I do not know if you have been privy to court politics of your homeland," she continued. It was possible, of course, that Marceline could have found the answer on her own by inquiring a few of her contacts in the Imperium, but it felt more of a matter that should be discussed personally, and not behind her back.

"Regardless," Marceline added, "I do understand that you have accompanied both the Crown Prince and Ser Rilien to court on occasion, though you were perhaps not the focal point..." With that, Marceline studied the woman again as she tapped her silverite mask against her arm. She was quite for a moment after, leaving space for Larissa to speak up from her position behind Marceline's desk. "What milady is attempting to figure is your knowledge and experience on dealing with nobility and general negotiation. That is why she called you here today."

Marceline nodded her agreement and passed an appreciative look toward Larissa, who responded with a kind smile. "We are to meet with nobility outside Therinfal Redoubt, where we will then attempt to negotiate with the High Seeker and the templars. Negotiations that will no doubt feature the Herald of Andraste heavily. I simply wish to understand your experience in such matters and prepare you accordingly."

Estella took in a deep, audible breath, and from the way she flinched, just slightly, she wasn’t especially keen on talking about this. Nevertheless, she nodded slightly. “Right, well
 as to the matter of House Avenarius, there are two things you’ll want to know. Firstly, they’re noble, but they’re Laetan, which isn’t quite the same as being Altus. It’s a bit like
 being a Baron, or a Bann, and one with a small holding at that, or if you’re really lucky, a Comtesse.” She inclined her head, apparently well-aware of Marceline’s own title.

“The second thing is
 I might not actually be licensed to use the name. It’s very
 complicated.” She grimaced, looking reluctant to speak any further.

The news caused Marceline to tlt her head to the side somewhat and a frown to grace the even line of her lips. "Complicated? How so? If you would be so kind as to explain," she asked.

Estella shifted her weight, taking most of it on her left foot, turning up the right one and drawing a line with the toe of her boot on the rug. She didn’t seem precisely aware that she was doing it. “When Cyrus and I were born, our mother died. We, ah
 we’re bastard children, you see—and so there was no saying who our father was. My grandfather took it
 badly, and gave us to the Chantry. Cyrus was adopted back several years later, but I never officially was.” She pursed her lips together, her brows furrowing.

“My brother’s head of the house now, and of course he acknowledges me as family, but because of the timing, I’m pretty sure no official paperwork to re-adopt me was ever approved. That’s, well, that’s the basic problem, anyway. I use the name, but I’m not sure it’s legally mine.” It was clear that what bothered her about this wasn’t the technicality of the issue, but she left the details of the rest untouched.

“Needless to say, none of my diplomatic experience—little as it is—came from that.”

Marceline nodded and mentally filed the information away for a later date. "I doubt that you will be required to use the name in any official capacity, fortunately. Your title as Herald is what is important, and what these nobles will rally around," for better or for worse. She did not envy the girl for having the title thrust upon her. She glanced behind her and met Larissa's eyes for a moment, before both wordlessly nodded. "Now, your experiences with the Crown Prince and Ser Rilien," she began, "I do not need a transcript of each step you took with them. Only your thoughts on the matters of court, and please. Be frank." She finished with a comforting smile.

"Oh, Lady Estella? You can take a seat if you wish. This is by no means an official review," Larissa said as Marceline nodded along. "We just simply wish to make the process as painless as possible for you."

Estella sighed, altogether too deeply for the subject matter. “Frankly? My experiences at court were challenging, and difficult, and made me wish I’d never have to go back.” She contemplated a chair for a moment, but in the end, she elected to remain standing. “That’s the predominant impression, anyway. There were parts of it I didn’t mind, people I met that I liked.” She smiled slightly. “The Antivan Ambassador, Lady Costanza, and her husband Sabino were extremely kind. I worked a bodyguard job for them, once. That was probably the most direct interaction I had with court functions proper. Most of the matters I attended to with Commander Lucien were just business things: meeting clients and discussing terms, delivering reports, the occasional social function with people he considers friends.”

She appeared to consider something, then tilted her head to the side. “Ah, Lady Marceline
 these nobles, the ones accompanying us to Therinfal. Do you know exactly who they will be, yet?”

"A few, yes. We are in the process of convincing the others, and with the aid of the previously mentioned few, they should come to support us as well, but I will not tire you with those details," Marceline said with a smile. No doubt she did not wish to hear the intiricies of the game they played. "But yes, you are already familiar with one of the houses in question," Marceline said, with a coy smile as she brought her silverite mask to her eyes. The purple flake on the feathers worked into the metal sparkled in the candlelight. "I intend to represent house LĂ©cuyer as well as the Inquisition's ambassador."

"Otherwise," Marceline said, allowed the mask to fall away from her face. "I have also been in contact with Lord Esmeral Abernache. While perhaps a bit long winded, and I would not sign my name to anything that he offers, I believe him to be a man with his heart in the correct place."

"He is also very reliable when it comes to gossip," Larissa noted behind them.

"Mhm," Marceline agreed and continued, "It is he who is aiding us in collecting the support of the other nobility. He will probably wish to speak to you, but I would not worry. He is on our side."

Estella’s posture seemed to ease, though why that was would have been difficult to pinpoint. She smiled when Marcy lifted her mask. “I’ll do the best I can,” she promised, taking a deep swallow from the glass of water in her hand. “I usually know enough not to say anything outright insulting at any rate, and I do have at least a little familiarity with how nobility works. But if there’s anything else specific about any of our supporters I should know, I’d be glad for the help.”

Marceline smiled and nodded before it slipped away into a frown. It was not the nobility that she was concerned with. The nobles would be with them under a single purpose, and she did not see any trouble that would come from them. No, it was not the nobility Marceline was worried about, "The Lord Seeker however, is another matter entirely," she said with a sigh. "I admit, I do not know much of the man himself. You have seen him yourself, in Val Royeaux... I would prepare myself accordingly. Perhaps speak to Ser Leonhardt for advice on the matter."

The young woman nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. I have to say, I’m very glad you’ll both be there.” Her expression was rueful, and she downed the rest of her water, keeping hold of the empty glass. “Thank you, though, for the warning. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do, so I won’t linger too much. Milady,” she inclined herself slightly at the waist, an informal bow, then straightened, dipping her head to Marceline’s assistant as well. “Larissa.” Estella moved her eyes back to Marceline, clearly awaiting permission to depart.

With that, Marceline pushed herself of the edge of her desk, and Larissa too stood from her chair. "Lady Herald," she said, giving her the permission to take her leave. As the door shut behind her, Marceline turned to face Larissa. "She is correct, there is still much we must do."

Larissa simply smiled and took the seat behind the desk once more, her hand moving toward the quill that rested in an inkwell. "Then perhaps we should begin, yes?" Marceline only smiled in response.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
The approach to Therinfal Redoubt was a rainy one, and a bit of a slog uphill, once they’d left the horses and the majority of the travel supplies they’d taken down at the bottom. If all went to plan, they’d be housed within the castle itself for the duration of the negotiations, and no doubt the nobility here were expecting that, considering how poorly they’d bothered to provision themselves despite what Leon would consider an overabundance of luggage. Still, the Inquisition’s one cart contained a number of tents, just in case. He wasn’t exactly expecting this to go to plan, after all—in fact, Leon was rather unsure what he was expecting.

Perhaps that was for the best. He’d found that most often a healthy dose of wariness served him well.

Presently, he was just cresting the hill up onto the approach to the fortress, alongside Estella, Lady Marceline, Larissa, Cyrus, and Vesryn. The deliberately-small number of other Inquisition personnel that he’d asked to accompany them had been purposefully left with the supplies; in keeping with his instinct to go with few, but mighty compatriots. The rain was undoubtedly a nuisance, though the hood of his cloak—the black one emblazoned with the emblem of the Seekers of Truth—kept most of it out of his way.

It wasn’t long after they’d set themselves on the road to approach that they were joined by a nobleman, dressed in the fashion that highborn Orlesian men favored lately, he believed. Leon had never really claimed to understand such things, nor their proclivity for hiding their faces, at that. “Ah, the Herald of Andraste!” His voice was elevated over the general volume of the procession, which gave him a sort of unfortunate bombastic aspect that he probably thought lent him some impression of authority. Leon simply wished he’d project instead of shouting.

“Lord Esmeral Abernache,” he introduced himself, the majority of his attention focused on Estella. A steward walked behind him, but said nothing. Abernache folded one hand behind his back at his waist, the other hovering around his sternum. “Honored to participate. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales.”

Estella, who’d looked more comfortable than Leon had expected up until that point, paused perhaps a moment too long. She recovered, though, smiling thinly. “If you’ll permit the nuance, milord, I rather hope it will be kinder than that.”

Leon struggled to contain his amusement. Whether because someone had actually understood the obscure historical event to which he was referring or because the Herald had the gumption to gently disagree with him, or perhaps some combination of the two, Abernache looked just a little bit floored, and unsure exactly what to say, which likely didn’t happen to him often. “Ah
 yes well. Divinity puts you above such things, I suppose.” Clearing his throat, he returned to the matter at hand.

“The Lord Seeker is willing to hear our petition about closing the Breach. A credit to our alliance with the Inquisition. Care to mark the moment? Ten Orlesian houses walk with you.”

Estella shifted, moving her hands to secure her hood more firmly over her head. “The Inquisition is grateful, Lord Abernache. It is our hope that the templars come to see what the rest of us have already: that the Breach is a danger too great for dwelling on our differences.” Leon nodded, glancing towards the front gate. Honestly, the sooner they got there and took care of this, the more content he’d be. Something sat ill with him—many things, really, but some of them he couldn’t quite identify. He felt
 uneasy.

Lord Abernache seemed more or less oblivious. “Oh yes. Ghastly-looking thing. The Lord Seeker can’t think we’re ignoring it.” With that, the procession finally got moving, and though it was still entirely too slow and processional, at least it was movement. “Speaking of which,” Abernache continued, falling into step beside the Herald, “I don’t suppose you’d divulge what finally got their attention? Rumor will, if you won’t.”

Estella’s brows drew together, but it was Leon who replied. “I don’t take your meaning, Lord Abernache.” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it much when he did.

“The Lord Seeker won’t meet with us until he greets the Inquisition in person. Quite a surprise after that spat in Val Royeaux.”

"The Inquisition only asks that the Lord Seeker lend his Templars to aid us in the closing the breach," Marceline answered. She wore her silverite mask with a hood drawn over her head to keep the rain away. Her mood had seemed to dip with the weather, and she could be found frowning more often than not. Even under the hood, there was evidence that her hair had been immaculately styled in anticipation of meeting with her countrymen.

She walked behind the Lord, Larissa keeping step beside her, her hands resting in her sleeves. When Marceline spoke the Lord tilted his head and regarded her before his expression broke into a warm smile. "Then it must have already been arranged by your ambassador," he said, turning back to Leon. "Let the diplomats work their magic, if you trust them," he said with wink in Lady Marceline's direction. She simply smiled in returned and inclined her head.

"Between you and I, the Chantry never took advantage of their templars. Wiser heads should steer them."

Leon wasn’t quite sure what he should make of that statement, and apparently Estella was still contemplating it as well, so for the moment, it went unanswered. Thankfully, they reached the bridge immediately in front of the iron gate in short order. Abernache leaned forward, peering to the other side of the structure, and clucked his tongue. “It appears they’ve sent someone to greet you.” As the group moved forward, he spoke—largely, Leon presumed, to everyone who wasn’t Marceline. “Present well. Everyone is a bit
 tense, for my liking.”

“The Lord Seeker seems to have changed his mind about us rather quickly,” Estella pointed out, quietly enough that Abernache, walking ahead of them, was unlikely to hear. “I wasn’t under the impression he was known for that.”

“He isn’t,” Leon replied firmly. There was a great deal to be distrusted about all of this, but he had little in the way of concrete evidence to point to in order to back up his suspicions. “Please be careful, all of you. It is no paltry force that quarters here.”

The first iron gate was open to any who wished to proceed inside, allowing them to pass through what in time of war would serve as a gauntlet, that long, thin, empty space between the two outer gates, where the attackers would be showered upon by their enemies with far more than just light rain. Currently, only a few low-ranking templars observed from on high, the rest somewhere deeper in the old fortress. Those that watched looked down upon Therinfal's guests ominously from beneath their full-faced helmets.

At the second gate ahead was one of Abernache's serving men, his herald, currently standing beside a female templar, unhelmeted and looking disgruntled to still be standing beside such a man. Some in the group might potentially recognize her as one of the templars seen in Val Royeaux departing with the Lord Seeker. Her long, dark brown hair was elaborately tied up in braids, clearing away from her face, which was marred by several scars, the most noticeable ones across her lips and one of her eyebrows.

The herald stepped forward to greet his lord and the Inquisition's party. "I present Knight-Templar Ser SĂ©verine Lacan, first daughter of Lord CĂ©dric Lacan of Val Chevin." She seemed irritated by being introduced in so formal a manner, and took an aggressive step forward past the man, just as he was about to introduce his own lord to her.

"For all the good it's done me," she grumbled quietly, but soon stood at attention and offered the Herald of Andraste and her company a respectful, if brief, bow. "I'm glad you came, Inquisition, even if you did it in rather... irksome company. You received my message, then?" The question sought the eyes of Leon.

Leon blinked. He certainly recognized her, but he wasn’t sure exactly to what she referred. “I cannot say we did, Ser SĂ©verine. If you attempted to send a message to the Inquisition, it never reached us.” Although
 given just who had reached them, he had a fair guess as to what had happened to it in transit, and his expression set into something even grimmer. “Would you perhaps be so kind as to reiterate its contents now that we’re here anyway?”

"Wait..." SĂ©verine said, struggling with Leon's words. "What? How are you here, then? Who told you where the Lord Seeker had taken us?"

“High Seeker Ophelia did, though with what motive, I cannot discern.” It was possible she was here now, but then, it was also possible that if she were, no one would know. He had no idea what his teacher was driving at with all of this.

"Ophelia? Shit." The curse was hissed quietly, and SĂ©verine exhaled, shaking her head. "Well, you're here now." Abernache, apparently feeling left out of the conversation, crossed his arms and inspecting the Knight-Captain.

"Lacan, was it? Minor holdings, your father has. And you are the second child, are you not?" He scoffed, turning up the bronze, pointy nose of his mask. SĂ©verine narrowed her eyes as though looking at an annoying child who knew not when to close his mouth. Ignoring the masked man, she looked back between Leon, Estella, and Lady Marceline.

"There's something very wrong here. The Lord Seeker has not been himself for some time. He's become obsessed with his status. His ego only grows, even as the Breach lingers. That, and..." she glanced up, to see if anyone was still watching. None were, the few recruits from before having filed off. "There's something going on with the other officers. They've been taking this new kind of lyrium. Even some of the lower ranks have been allowed to ingest it. I fear for the Order's future."

“This lyrium.” The new voice belonged to Cyrus, who continued after a moment. He looked vaguely perturbed by something, and shot a glance further inwards past where they stood before moving his eyes back to the others, SĂ©verine specifically. “It wouldn’t happen to be red, would it?” It was a pertinent question, and if the answer was affirmative, would certainly provide a link between the templars and the events at the Conclave, however tenuous. There had been quite a bit of red lyrium there, too.

"It is, yes. I haven't seen it's like since... well, since Kirkwall." The city's name left her tongue as though the memory tasted somewhat foul.

Leon grimaced; this was shaping up to be worse than he’d thought, which was rather saying something. “The Lord Seeker now says he wishes to meet the Herald personally,” he said, shaking his head. “I suspect we will discover what all of this means in short order.” He was a breath from inviting SĂ©verine to lead the way inside when Abernache spoke up again.

“Don’t keep your betters waiting, Lacan. There’s important work for those born to it.” Leon felt keenly the temptation to remind him just who was actually in charge here, but took a deep breath and refrained.

“We’re grateful for the warning,” he added, keeping his tone mild.

"Think nothing of it. The other officers already hate my guts. But I won't let the templars fall to ruin quietly." She gestured towards the inner gate. "Come. I'll lead you in."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Red lyrium. It did not bode well for whatever was happening among the Templars. Marceline had read the reports from Kirkwall, of Meredith's madness and the presence of a red lyrium idol. Not only that, but the reports from the site of the Conclave likewise spoke of veins of it rising from the ground. Whatever it was, it seemed as if it followed disaster, and the news that it was now among the Templars sat ill with her. Marceline did not let it reveal on her face however, the only hint of her wariness a glance at Larissa. There was an imperceptible nod, and Larissa's eyes tilted upward behind her avian mask to the tops of the fort's walls, keeping an eye out for any unseen danger.

"Lady Herald," Marceline said, signalling that Estella be the first to follow behind SĂ©verine. She nodded, breaking from the roughly even line they’d had before and stepping into place behind their guide.

The templar woman led them inside, the cramped and purposefully uncomfortable space of the path between gates opening up into a much wider courtyard. The rocky paths paved between the structures in the fortress were mostly overgrown by grass and weeds, though a clear training area had been carved out, with practice dummies for archers along the base of the walls, and sparring rings set aside. Currently they saw only light use, as most of the Order were clearly on edge, besieged as they were by an army of frills and fancy masks. As they drew further in, a small group of templar recruits and scribes began to gather, to observe the scene.

"The Lord Seeker has a request, I'm afraid, before you are to meet him," SĂ©verine said, her tone already apologetic. She led the group to a row of three wooden cranks set into the ground, each one placed before large red flags affixed to the inner face of the stone wall. The left flag depicted a sunburst, symbol of the Maker, the center flag a lion, symbol of the people, and the right flag a flaming sword, symbol of the templars. "He would like for the Herald of Andraste to complete the Rite of the Standards. My Lady Herald is to raise the flags, each to a different level, so that the Lord Seeker might know in which order you honor them."

Estella looked immediately uncomfortable, eyeing the standards with apprehension. Her posture seemed to deflate slightly, which was saying something considering how modest it was to begin with. “I’m supposed to
 rank them? Will he refuse to see us if the answer is wrong?” Her brows knit over her eyes, her mouth turning down into a pronounced frown.

SĂ©verine shook her head immediately. "There's no wrong answer here. Obviously all three of these are of great importance. Among the templars our choices vary greatly. It simply offers insight into the mind, shows a bit of who you are. Supposedly." By her tone, SĂ©verine did not take the greatest of stock in this Rite. Still, she did not seem disrespectful of it, simply not reverent.

"Do not worry, Lady Herald," Marceline began firmly. "Simply answer as you would ordinarily. The Lord Seeker would dare not turn us away," she said. Though she personally found the rite to be silly, they should not risk offending the Lord Seeker and his Templars by refusing to complete it.

Estella’s lips thinned, but she nodded, returning her attention to the standards themselves. Watching her gather herself was a visual process composed of obvious stages. With a breath inward, she straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back. When she moved forwards, it was almost assured in appearance, though someone with eyes as practiced as Marcy’s knew false bravado when they saw it, and it was clear that the young woman drew it around herself like her cloak, even as she reached up and pushed the hood of her physical one down.

She paused in front of the cranks, apparently contemplative for all of a moment before she shook her head, dismissing whatever internal suggestion she must have posited to herself. Unerringly, she reached for the center crank, lofting the standard of the people to the highest position. It would seem that no two of them were allowed to remain on the same level, because the one belonging to the Maker slid to the bottom, while the flaming sword of the templars remained in the middle. After a moment, Estella turned back around.

“That’s it. That’s the order I choose.” Her voice was soft, but a thread of firmness kept it from qualifying as meek by any stretch.

SĂ©verine nodded in return, not displaying any obvious judgement of the Herald's decision. "It's tradition for any participant in the Rite to explain their choice to the witnesses. It is, however, a choice and not a requirement."

Estella’s eyes dropped to the ground for a moment, but she forced them back up again. When she spoke, it was loud enough to be heard by those that were paying attention, though no louder than that. “I know only a little of honor,” she said, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth, as though she remembered something fondly. “But what I do know is that it is service by those who can do what needs to be done, freely given to those who cannot. It is, I think, the Inquisition’s duty and its honor, then, to act in service, first and foremost of those without our resources and our strength.”

The fleeting smile faded. “And the templars are people, too. Fewer, and perhaps more capable of defending themselves, but people nevertheless. If what we are meant to do is protect and serve those who must be protected, well
 I hardly think the Maker should need our help, and whether we honor him or not is nothing I can decide.” The explanation, brief as it was, seemed to exhaust her present reserves of courage, because she ducked her head and returned to the group of the others immediately afterwards.

"The honesty's all well and good," Abernache put forth, his arms crossed, "but no thought given to impressing the Lord Seeker? Why bother at all? We're here to bring these templars to heel, are we not?" SĂ©verine's glare at the man could've cut glass, but thankfully his mask cut off his peripherals enough for him not to notice. Her irritated sigh, however, was quite audible.

"I thank the Maker the Inquisition has a bit more heart than its noble support. I trust the Herald's intent here is more than just rounding up swords for an army." Abernache turned, stepping forward to be face to face with the woman.

"My intent is to deal with people who matter. You armored louts are wasting the Inquisition's time, and mine. Unacceptable!"

SĂ©verine took a carefully controlled breath, obviously reminding herself not to bludgeon the man. "You need not worry about impressing the Lord Seeker, regardless." She stepped around Abernache, carefully, as though she did not desire to accidentally make contact with him, and drew closer to Estella and the others of her party. Though her focus was centered on the Herald alone.

"You should know that the Lord Seeker seems only to want to meet you. Not your Inquisition. You. By name. I know not why, but he's been utterly fixated on you since your lovely horde of nobles arrived."

A soft laugh echoed from under Vesryn's helm, from where he stood at Estella's side like a sentinel, shield and spear in hand. The elf had a proud visage when fully armed and armored, and indeed, it wasn't actually clear at all that he was an elf at the moment. "Seems you've got an admirer." There was an undertone of sarcasm to the words, evidence that he didn't find the development all that amusing, or pleasing to hear.

Estella scoffed softly at that, half-amused, before returning her attention to SĂ©verine, whereupon she shifted awkwardly where she stood, shaking her head. “That
 can’t be right. Maybe he’s just surprised we have so much support? I mean, I’m kind of
” she gestured vaguely to herself, then pulled her hood back up over her hair.

“The face of our present effort, yes.” Leon at least seemed to have little trouble deciphering what she meant, and she looked quite grateful for that, nodding. “As skilled as he’s always been at getting to the heart of things, the Lord Seeker would not have failed to notice as much.” He appeared to be thinking quite hard about something, but whatever was going on in his head, he did not share for the moment.

Cyrus had taken up a scowl at some point during this part of the conversation, and wore it openly beneath his own hood. It wasn’t terribly difficult to guess what part of this made him look so, but he kept his thoughts to himself as well, eyeing the path forward and inner parts of the castle with wary disdain. His hands disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak, removing another set of tells as to his intentions.

"Just thought I'd give you fair warning," SĂ©verine said, nodding. "Come on, we've delayed long enough. I'll take you to him now."

Marceline said nothing and kept her own features guarded, though she did offer a smile to Abernache when they met eyes for a moment. He may have been brusque in his approach, but the message he sent was loud and clear. The Inquisition and its allies would not be turned away. However, Marceline still made a mental note to speak with him after all is said and done. She glanced behind her to Larissa who pulled her eyes down from the rampart to give a curt shake of her head.

Soon, SĂ©verine led the small procession into a room with a table, no doubt where the negotiations were to take place. Lady Marceline chose to occupy a spot beside the Lord Abernache in order to better guide his furor. She took the moment to pull the hood away from her head and brush the few drops of rain that remained from her hair.

Estella also pulled her hood back down, though her hair was in nowhere near the neat state Marcy’s was. Clearly, the static and the weather had combined to thwart any attempts at looking especially put-together on her part, because several strands had slipped the grip of her plait, and stuck out in places, especially around her ears. She hesitated before stepping forward so as to be at a level with Lord Abernache and Marceline, appearing reluctant to stand too far in front of the other four and maintaining a distinct five feet from the nobleman. “I’m
 not actually going to have to meet with the Lord Seeker by myself, am I?” She grimaced. “I really doubt I’d be able to convince him of anything.” The question seemed to be directed at Marceline.

Marceline shook her head in the negative, "No, we will be with you during the negotiations," she answered. Though how much use they would be remained to be seen. From all that she had heard, the Lord Seeker seemed to be focused solely on the Herald which appeared strange, considering how easily he dismissed them in Val Royeaux. Perhaps their recent alliance with the mages changed his mind on the matter, and their newfound power managed to catch his eyes... Though that did not explain the focus on Estella.

"But you must remain strong, the Lord Seeker will notice if you flag," Marceline gently reminded. A man such as him could smell weakness, and he would not be afraid to press his advantage.

Estella nodded, her face resuming a relatively impassive expression. Before anyone could speak any further, the clank of armored boots followed by the sound of a door opening drew their attention to the left, where a man in armor more ornate than SĂ©verine's, including a prominently-winged helmet, had just entered the room, flanked by two other Templars. “You were expecting the Lord Seeker,” he said without preamble. “He sent me to die for you.” It was a strange turn of phrase, and Leon straightened perceptibly when it was uttered, his eyes narrowing.

"Knight Captain," Abernache said, attempting to approach the man. He only managed a step, however, before a gentle tug on his sleeve from Marceline bade him to keep his place. Like Leon, Marceline did not particularly enjoy how the situation was playing out, and she most definitely did not like the knight captain's body language. "Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored," he continued with a bow, though at a much safer distance. "It is not unlike the second dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales." Marceline coughed, but said nothing.

"No doubt rank puts you above such things. A pity more people don't understand that," he said with a sharp glance at SĂ©verine. Apparently the Knight Captain's more ornate armor suggested to him that he was of a higher rank than SĂ©verine. Marceline made no move to correct him, and though her face was impassive as always, her hand rested on the hilt of her rapier.

The Knight-Captain chuckled, but the sound carried not even a faint hint of genuine mirth. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?” He turned his eyes from Lord Abernache, clearly uninterested in dealing with him, and swept them over the rest of those assembled. Even behind the helmet, it was easy to tell that his gaze landed heavily on Estella.

There was a slight tic in her jaw, but she looked right into the eyeslit of the helmet. “With respect, Knight-Captain, we understood that we were to be meeting the Lord Seeker.”

“Yes, let me also extend my hand to the Lord Seeker, Knight-Captain.” Though now held back from approach by Marceline, Abernache seemed otherwise oblivious to the tension permeating the room.

Outside of the room, a dull roar started up, one that sounded like the din of an armed clash of some sort. Estella’s eyes went wide, and Leon took a half-step forward before the Knight-Captain raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Herald ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent.” Cyrus stepped in front of his sister, and the telltale flicker of a barrier forming appeared in front of the hand he raised to chest-level.

“What’s going on out there?” Leon completed the motion he’d begun, moving to the side of the table. Perhaps it was only the fact that he drew no weapon that prevented any from being drawn on him.

“They were all supposed to be changed. Now we must purge the questioning knights!” It took no more than that, and Leon surged forward, knocking the Knight-Captain to the ground by slamming an elbow into the space between his helmet and his breastplate. An arrow clanged off his armor, and the archer who had fired it took up the invective.

“The Elder One is coming! No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”

A low ranking templar attempted to run SĂ©verine through from behind, but she had her blade drawn and whirled about in time, blocking the sword aside and grabbing the young man's arm to twist. He shouted, at her mercy despite his flails. "Maker, you can't be serious," she said, looking under the recruit's hood. Red veins criss-crossed over his face, and his eyes were an even darker shade.

"The Elder One will--" His threat was cut off by SĂ©verine's sword slashing across his throat, and he collapsed to the ground. The Knight-Captain readied herself for the next that would attempt to purge her.

"No. The Elder One will not."

The gentle grip on Abernache's sleeve turned firm, and Marceline threw the Lord back and out of the way of an incoming arrow. "Larissa," Marceline called out as she freed her rapier from its sheath. "See to Lord Abernache," and wih that, the woman took a grip on the Lord and backed away from the rapidly ensuing melee.

Marceline for her part slipped in behind Vesryn, and more importantly, his shield. "May I borrow you for a moment?" she asked as she placed a hand on his shoulder and hunkered down behind him as she watched his flanks.

"As long as you need, my lady," the elf answered easily. A templar rebounded off of his shield, the blow met with perfect timing, and Vesryn's spear found the red-lyrium tainted woman's gut in the ensuing opening, dropping her to the ground in a heap.

"My thanks," Marceline said, her rapier slipping under the helmet of a templar who'd tried to approach them from the side.

Leon was surprisingly quick over ground, and had left the dropped Knight-Captain in favor of breaking an archer’s nose over his knee within seconds of the initial attack. The man howled, at least until the Seeker gripped his head in both hands and twisted, silencing him. He was midway through a lunge for the next when Estella called out over the noise. “Commander, behind you!” Apparently following up the warning with action, she drew her sword as she ran, clearing the table with a flying leap and bringing the saber down with both hands.

A ringing sound issued from contact with what had once been the Knight-Captain’s arm, though it was scarcely recognizable as such anymore. The outer half of each forearm was coated in red crystals, faintly glowing, and more jutted out from each elbow, like blades almost. More of it had grown in over parts of his neck, and his breastplate had cracked from the inside, half-useless now but hinting at more of the lyrium underneath. His eyes were a luminous, menacing red, and he backhanded Estella with speed not commonly found in ordinary men, and clearly more strength still, because she went from having rather solid footing to rolling on the ground half a dozen feet away, regaining her feet in a recovery maneuver.

She’d kept him busy long enough for Leon to readjust, however, and he grabbed for one of the Knight-Captain’s hands, twisting him around into what must have been some kind of joint-lock, placing himself behind the man and kicking out his knees from behind, taking him to the floor.

A cluster of the remaining templars to the right lurched under the force of a chain lightning spell, given no time to recover before Cyrus was suddenly right next to them, hacking into weak spots in their armor with a humming blue sword. His first hit nearly took the head right off one of them, but he didn’t bother hacking twice, adjusting his feet fluidly and shoving the blade into the next one’s armpit, the arterial blood making a faint hissing sound as it came in contact with the weapon. The third, recovered perhaps too quickly for the obvious impact of the spell, took a gout of fire to the face before she could prepare her smite, and fell with her compatriots.

“At least we don’t have to wonder when they’re going to try and kill us anymore.” His tone was exceedingly dry.

The sound of a rapid barrage of blows followed, though the table blocked sight of everything in that direction save Leon’s head and shoulders, which moved vigorously enough to suggest that he was the cause. A great deal of cracking followed, and then the Seeker drew back further, his gauntlet speckled in bits of red stone, and slammed a fist down one last time, producing a deeper crunch, before he pushed himself back into a stand. It seemed to take him a moment to regain his bearings, and he shook his head a few times, blinking rapidly before refocusing on the rest of the group. Given that the rest of the templars that had been in the room were dead or close enough, he started picking little shards of red lyrium out of his armor without looking at them.

“We need to find the Lord Seeker. With apologies, Lady Marceline, Lord Abernache, it seems that the diplomatic portion of this venture is over.”

Marceline took a glance at the carnage around around with a distasteful look in her eyes before she shook her head and turned toward her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to escort the good Lord Abernache safely away from this place?" With a nod, Larissa took a gentle hold onto Abernache, who still seemed to be in a state of shock, and began to slowly guide him out.

"It does indeed seem that way Ser Leonhardt," Marceline said, her rapier lightly resting against her shoulder. "The Lord Seeker has much to answer for."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
It was hardly the first fight in which Estella had been of almost no use at all, but she was keenly reminded of how far she still had to go in moments like this. Frankly, she would have dwelled on it, had it not been for the much more pressing need to continue forward, to find the Lord Seeker and stop all of this, somehow. She hadn’t seen a person afflicted with red lyrium since Kirkwall, and even then, it had only been one. Meredith was fearsome enough, though Estella had not had to confront her directly. She still had nightmares about the events of that day, sometimes—so much death, and such desperate conflict, all in service of something she couldn’t begin to understand, a madness that this substance had brought on.

It made her feel faintly nauseated, though that was more than likely at least partially due to the lyrium itself. She suspected a better mage, like Cyrus, felt it even more keenly than she did. She’d be surprised if the others were oblivious to it, either. Leon may be able to brush it off, but she knew that they really shouldn’t be touching it, if what she’d heard was true.

Not desiring to linger here, she followed the Commander out of the room. They headed deeper into the barracks first, SĂ©verine giving directions whenever they came to a turn or door, since she knew the area by far better than any of the rest of them. The fighting didn’t seem to have made it this far out, and though they occasionally ran into a small pocket of the lyrium-infected templars, none of those groups were even as large as theirs, which meant short work, considering the prowess of the others.

After the first such bout, Estella could swear she heard something. It was perhaps no more than a whisper, but in something close to the Lord Seeker’s voice, as though he were standing right over her shoulder and speaking into her ear. “Come to me, Herald of Andraste.” She shuddered, reaching up with her free hand to touch the nape of her neck, and glanced over her shoulder, but of course all she saw was those of her allies who walked in the rear. Biting her lip, she faced forward again and kept going, reaching the outside—and another fight—with the rest of them.

She was just shaking some of the blood off her sword from her last opponent when the whisper sounded again. “You will be so much more than you are!” It was more emphatic this time, more sudden, and she jumped, dropping the blade in surprise.

“Can
 can anyone else hear that?”

Cyrus approached, stooping to retrieve her blade and handing it to her hilt-first. His concern was evident in his eyes, which had always been his tell, if nothing else was. “Hear what, Stellulam?”

"Whispers," Vesryn said, from Estella's side, where he'd situated himself for much of the fighting. "You mean the whispers, right?" He glanced between Estella and Cyrus rapidly.

"I haven't gone mad, I swear."

"We should keep moving," SĂ©verine urged from the front, where she kept watch. The rain continued with no sign of stopping, steadily washing the blood from the fighting into the softening earth.

It was almost a relief to know someone else had heard them. “I
 yes. I think
 with the Lord Seeker’s voice.” She pursed her lips, but started forward again. SĂ©verine was right—they had to keep going. People’s lives were on the line here, and whatever strange thing might be happening wasn’t worth stopping and trying to figure out.

“Show me what you are.” Estella locked her jaw and increased her pace, though it seemed unlikely she could simply outrun it, whatever it was. She had a feeling they’d know in time, regardless.

“DO NOT IGNORE ME!” This time, it thundered, loud enough for all to hear and then some, a strange multi-tonal cadence to what was clearly still based on the Lord Seeker’s diction. “I WOULD KNOW YOU!”

“So much for whispering.” Cyrus wore a look of open displeasure, his lip faintly curled. “But you’re right; it does sound like the Lord Seeker. One more problem we solve by finding him.” His features shifted, clearly from some internal musings, but he didn’t choose to let the rest of them in on what he was thinking, for the moment.

At SĂ©verine’s direction, they took a turn into what was apparently a guard building, because it contained stairs to the lower wall. There they came upon a few other templars, these ones clearly unaffected by red lyrium, striking down one who clearly was. They turned at the party’s approach, their postures easing when they recognized at least the Knight-Captain, and they both saluted her.

“Knight-Captain! The other officers—they’ve all gone mad.”

“We know,” Leon replied. “We need to reach the Lord Seeker. Any idea where he is?” All three shook their heads, leaving the party to continue in the direction of their best guess. Of course, the fact that the Lord Seeker continued to speak to them—or, well, her at least—was as good an indication as any that they were on the right track. Clearly, he wanted this confrontation just as much as they did.

The lower wall let them out onto a higher level of the castle, which was comparatively empty of occupants, though pitched battles had evidently been fought, with dozens of Templar corpses on the ground—both laced with red lyrium and without, though there were many more of the second. Estella tried not to hurry too much, aware of the need for a degree of caution, but her pace further increased until she was just short of breaking into a jog.

They reached a large staircase, one that led up to what must have been the main door to the redoubt's central building. She couldn't see anyone there; perhaps the man they were looking for had taken up residence within? “Come, Estella Avenarius. Show me what kind of woman you really are.” The voice echoed still, but not as loudly as before.

“All of this, for what?” she muttered, tightening her grip on her sword and mounting the stairs. The rain had grown much heavier, and though it did not yet approach what she’d experienced in the Mire, it was quite close, and very cold.

The whispers returned, this time unintelligible, echoing around the pillars that were lined along the top of the staircase, just before the main doors. Judging by the reactions of the others, all looking about, searching for the source, everyone could hear them. Eventually, a few words could be made out among the slithering noise. Herald. At last. Know you. At last. Learn. At last...

He appeared from behind one of the pillars and rushed at the group with inhuman speed. Lord Seeker Lucius never let his eyes leave Estella, even while Vesryn stood partially between them. He charged them from the right, hands outstretched with no weapons, only grasping fingers. Vesryn's shield hand reached around to grab Estella's shoulder and pull her behind him, but the Lord Seeker's speed was too quick.

He half charged through the elf, seizing Estella by the collar, at which point all three of them began to topple over backwards together. Before her back even hit the ground, Estella's vision filled with a bright light, quickly becoming all consuming, until only the Lord Seeker's piercing whisper could be heard.

"At last..."



She landed in a very different place than she had fallen, or so it seemed to her. Her back hit the ground with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of her, and as her eyes cleared, she could make out a ceiling above her head, a dome lofted high and arranged with gorgeous pieces of colored glass, which filtered the light from above in rich pigments, so that where it struck the dust motes floating through the air, it did so in scattered reds, blues, greens, and purples. There was no sound to be heard, and for a distended moment, she simply stared up at the stained glass dome, running her eyes over the familiar pattern.

There was a kind of loneliness that could only be felt when one was not only utterly devoid of company, but felt it, deep in one’s heart, the aching of an empty space. She wondered, for a moment, if everything had been a dream, after all. Her flight, Kirkwall, the Lions, the Inquisition, all of it. If that was what left her feeling so bereft now—that all of the things she’d built had been torn away, and she was returning to this moment. The thought intensified the ache, and she drew a hissing breath in between her teeth, raising an arm to place a fist over the center of her chest and push down, through the leathers and her light gauntlet.

Furrowing her brow, she drew her eyes down to the spot, realizing that it was a gauntlet, and she was wearing leathers. Moving the hand to her face, she pressed hard on her cheekbone, but felt no pain. In fact, she wasn’t in pain at all. It couldn’t have been a dream.

Sitting up, she looked around, a few discrepancies immediately becoming obvious. The chamber was circular as it should be, the light grey stone tinted in many colors by the filtered light, but it was otherwise empty. No furniture, no decoration, just dust in the air and herself on the floor. She wasn’t wrong about being alone, but she drew comfort from the fact that she might not have to be that way forever. A daring thought, really. Pursing her lips, Estella clambered to her feet, the task more difficult than she would have anticipated. All of her felt slow and sluggish, actually; awkward. She was like that all the time, though, so it was hardly surprising.

Slow. Weak. Graceless, yes. Show me more. The barest whisper of sound reached her in the still air, and she whirled around, seeking for its source, only to find that it seemingly had none.

As this particular room was at the end of a hallway, there was only one doorway out, an open stone arch, and she started towards it. Normally, it would put her into a passage of ordinary size, but when she stepped past the threshold, she found that it was about three times as big as she remembered it, its own ceiling vaulted high. The floor was bare stone, and her boots made too much noise as she walked along the center. Each side of the path was flanked with tall insets, each containing what appeared to be a sculpture or a statue. They were hard to see, but as she continued down the hall, the first one resolved into clarity.

“Cyrus?” Her voice was grating in the echoes, too rough and raspy and hissing, too loud, though she’d meant it to be quiet. There was no music in it.

But the statue, fifteen feet tall and exceptionally well-formed, did depict her brother, in white marble. Somehow, though, the eyes were the right color, as though someone had inlaid a dark sliver of lapis lazuli into the space each of the irises was supposed to be. Something was the faintest degree off about it, and when she leaned to the left, its features seemed to shift, rounding out from the well-defined lines of a man’s face to the soft, less sure ones belonging to a child, and then the emergent, nearly gaunt bone structure she’d known him to have as a teenager.

Yes, yes, excellent. First and last, you say. Always but never. So much to know, always knowing.

The return of the whisper made her jump, and she cursed herself for being so quick to startle, shaking her head. Whatever the meaning of the statue was, she could not decipher it. Her steps carried down the hall and rebounded back to her, emphasizing the inelegant shuffle of her gait by making it a dozen times louder. As though she could forget, and needed reminding.

To her right, something flickered in the corner of her eye, and she turned towards it, sucking in a harsh breath when another statue resolved into her vision. This was an elderly man, his features craggy and weathered and stern, his carriage unmistakably proud. Though the lines near his eyes were deep, they only seemed to lend authority to him, and he peered down at her from a height of no fewer than twenty feet, giving her the distinct impression that she had shrunk somehow. It was difficult to make out his face properly, given that he was carved from obsidian, but she knew its every line quite well, and swallowed thickly, her lower lip trembling.

Not wishing to linger, Estella turned and hurried onwards. More. More. I will know you.

The intervals between statues at first seemed random; it was much longer before she reached the next one, just as tall as the last, but of a younger man, with a clearer expression: one of soft frustration, tinged with affection. She closed her eyes and moved past.

The space between the third and fourth was much longer still, but the fourth and the fifth stood across from each other. One was a dignified man in armor, holding the hilt of a large sword, the tip of the blade resting at his feet. In contrast with the serious line of his mouth, his eyes carried a gentle humor about them. The one across from him wore almost no expression at all, his hands folded into his sleeves. Even the way he’d been carved was somehow enough to convey all the grace and finesse with which he moved in life, and these at least, she smiled to see.

Walking between giants. So much attention. Show me. Who is the you that they see?

Estella shook her head. Whatever this whisper belonged to didn’t understand anything at all, that much was clear. Her step was light and airy as she advanced, and she almost felt as if the hall was not so much longer after all, and wondered what might be behind the next door.

Whatever good mood had begun to lift her spirits was swiftly quashed when she reached the end of the hall and saw the last statue. For a long moment, she stared up at it, trying to quell the return of the bottomless solitude she felt. It reminded her of so many things, and her last treads towards it fell loud and ponderous on the stone.

So many faces. So many changes. What are you? I see what you see, not what you are!

“I’m no one,” she answered in the ugly murmur, and turned her eyes to the floor. The door was just ahead, and she wanted to be through it. Another few long strides did the trick, and she pushed the door open with her palm, stepping through the frame and into what seemed torn from another memory, another almost-death that had not come to pass.

The ground was scorched black, stone flooring ripped up and scattered everywhere, to say nothing of the debris from the rest of what had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. All around her, petrified corpses studded the landscape, their faces twisted and frozen in masks of fear, the barest remnants of almost-mummified flesh left to cling to their skeletons, just enough that if she squinted, she could almost imagine the people they had once been. Her squad
 they were here somewhere, too, though she knew not where. Her recollection had not granted her even that much.

Her feet dragged as she tried to keep moving forward—it felt like they were weighted down, as if by shackles that made no noise and could not be seen, chained to she knew not what. Every step was a torment, but Estella drove forward all the same, tripping more times than she kept track of, often catching herself on her hands, but sometimes not, an unfortunate lack of reflex that rewarded her duly with several cuts and scrapes on her face, which stung terribly in the grainy wind that whipped the smallest pieces of stone dust and scree directly at her.

She became increasingly aware as well of the cold, seeping into her bones and setting her teeth to a permanent chatter, the clicking sound loud and grating and annoying in her own ears. Still, she staggered forward, though she wasn’t even sure why anymore, because if this place even had an end, she didn’t seem to be getting any closer to reaching it, and even the whispers seemed to have abandoned her for now. A hard stumble brought her to her knees, and for a moment, she remained there, arms wrapped around herself, bowed over, the rasp of her breath sawing in and out of her lungs and the clatter of her teeth the only sounds audible over the driving gale. When had it become a gale? She didn’t recall. It tugged at her cloak, ripping it free of her shoulders before she could hold it in place, and blowing it behind her on the wind.

With a groan, Estella pushed herself to her feet, and kept moving forward.

For all she walked, for all it felt like ages, she never reached what should have been the bounds of the Temple. Nothing seemed to repeat, but at the same time, several times she looked around her and was confronted with the vague sense that she’d made no progress at all. Still the faces of the dead begged her to help them, though they were long past saving. Still the ground wore away at her feet, and the wind and cold at her spirit. Still her chest ached with hollowness. Still she kept walking.

The next time she tripped, her arms gave out from under her when she tried to catch herself, and she felt a sharp stab of pain. Rolling over into her side, she reached down towards her abdomen, where she could see in the dim light that a shard of granite had buried itself in an unlucky joint in her leathers, punching a hole in the left side of her belly. Grimacing, she used trembling fingers to pull it out, trying to summon a rudimentary healing spell in the other hand to stop the bleeding, at least. But of course, she was no mage, not really, and so that was impossible. She almost laughed at herself for trying.

It left her with precious few options, however, and she tried to decide what she needed most. Loosening her jerkin, she tugged it off, rolling another quarter-turn onto her back and taking hold of the hem of her tunic with both hands. She had to tug several times before it tore, but from there she was able to remove enough to tie around the wound as tightly as her numb fingers would let her, and then fold herself back into her armor, which now sat uncomfortably directly against her skin from the end of her ribcage to her waist. But it was better than giving up her boots to take the bandages from her breeches.

It took several deep breaths before she could gather the strength to roll back onto her hands and knees, and quite a few more before she could ease to her feet. For the first time, she looked behind her, but the landscape that way looked just the same as the landscape in front, and she couldn’t see the door she’d come from in any case. Somehow she doubted going backwards would help anyway.

When she returned her attention to the front, she was surprised to see a dim light in the distance, glowing softly blue. It was the first change in scenery since she’d arrived here, and she struck out for it immediately, hoping against hope that what she found there might make a difference.

As she approached, the light took on the shape of a person. A woman, and by the point of her ears, an elf. Her back was turned; her body was entirely unclothed, but her shape was made up of the light, to the point where she was partially transparent. The sapphire glow kept her exact appearance indistinct, as though it deliberately unfocused whenever Estella attempted to see her clearly. It was not difficult to tell, though, that she had a powerful figure, both taller and significantly more muscled than Estella was.

She turned when Estella neared, and even blurred her features were noble, proud. The gale whipped at Estella, but the glowing woman seemed entirely unaffected by it. Her hair, which glowed like the rest of her did, fell neatly to rest upon her shoulders. The source of the light seemed to emanate from her chest. With the severity of the cold around her, it was obvious to Estella that the woman in front of her was radiating warmth into the air.

The figure raised her hand slowly, and a spark of blue light lifted into the air above them. It burst over their heads, and a translucent dome slowly fell around them, until it reached the ground. The wind stopped altogether, and within moments the warmth had filled the entire space.

The woman bowed gracefully in greeting, nodding her head forward.

Estella, battered, chilled, clumsy and no doubt looking like a wreck, blinked slowly. It took her several seconds to even properly comprehend what she was looking at, as though her mind, no longer in the simple state of forward, now again, had to lurch back to a start. The warmth helped, and though the feeling returning to her extremities was quite painful, she was glad it was pain she could feel, because that was much better than the alternative.

Despite that, she managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere, and bowed back as best she could. She wasn’t the kind of mage that frequently conversed with spirits, but she dreamed like anyone did, and occasionally, one of them had a reason to notice her, and so she did generally know what they were like. This one was strange, a little different somehow, like she might have been incomplete, the way her features appeared to shift, losing sharpness when directly focused upon. It was almost easier to see her from the periphery of her vision.

“Thank you,” she rasped, though it might have been more an effect of the dry wind than anything. “You’re
 We’ve not met before, have we?” It would be very strange if they had, but stranger still if they had not, considering the location.

The figure smiled, not parting her lips, and then shook her head. A moment later, she waved her hand, and beams of light traveled along the glowing surface of her body, leaving armor in their wake. Were it not transparent, it would look quite heavy, and its design was ornate. In fact, as it completed its formation, it took on a very familiar shape, as did the tower shield that now leaned against her, and the spear she carried in her grasp. She tilted her head, and awaited recognition from Estella.

It was immediate. “Saraya?” Estella’s eyes went wide, and she took a half-step backwards, though it was more that she lost her balance again than anything. This was an alarming development, for more than one reason. Mostly, she was extremely concerned about this because she knew for a fact, or close enough, that she was inside her own consciousness right now—nothing else explained all the phenomena. Which meant that if Saraya was in here with her, then she wasn’t inside Vesryn’s head, and that was very, very bad.

“How did
 ah. The Lord Seeker.” Whatever he’d done, she recalled Vesryn had attempted to stop, which might have interfered in part with the magic that had pulled her in here. Estella chewed her lip. “He’s in here somewhere, too. Do you think that if we found him, made him reverse
 whatever this is, that you’d get back safely?”

Saraya nodded once, apparently all that she believed was necessary.

Suddenly, a crack of lightning blasted against the dome she had erected, and it split apart in several places, allowing icy wind to cut back through.

Begone, thing! I am learning. You cannot help her...

Saraya gazed up above them, her expression annoyed. Stepping forward, she set down her shield when she was within easy arm's reach of Estella. Slowly, she reached out a glowing hand, and gently placed it upon Estella's forehead. Instantly an intense feeling of envy filled her mind, envy directed at herself. The envy was stemmed by thoughts of freedom, a youthful, strong body, a position of authority, of opportunity. It was powerful in magnitude, but it ended before it could carry on too long, and Saraya took a step back.

She pointed up to the sky.

“Envy
” She knew the feeling, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt it so strongly as this. To feel it directed at herself was
 uncanny, and very strange. It made no sense, and yet she could only interpret what Saraya imparted upon her as that. “The Lord Seeker is an envy demon?” Or, perhaps more accurately, an envy demon was assuming the form of the Lord Seeker, which meant that they weren’t dealing with the real one at all. Perhaps they never had been. Saraya nodded gravely, confirming her suspicion.

“This shape is significant.” The voice, at once more familiar than her own and somehow distorted, sounded from behind her, and Estella turned, met with the visage of her twin, though he looked ill in the light, wan. The demon didn’t hold the shape like Cyrus held himself, either—she supposed that made sense; envy wasn’t self-assured, rather the opposite. She knew from experience that attempting to falsify confidence could only work so well. “Will it help me know you?”

“You will not tell me about you. All you will think is of others. But I must know you!”

She understood, now, what it meant about learning. It wanted, for some reason, to assume her shape, to imitate her. And in order to do that, it needed to know enough to pass as her. So it had brought her here, to seek the answers it would need to wear her face. Even now, it was trying to understand. Estella’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, but then paused, her fingers still loose around the grip. Everything she did was now another piece of information for it, potentially. And if that was really what it wanted, then she had to avoid giving it that. Knowing how she moved, how she fought, however poorly, was information. She wasn’t even sure she could kill it, here.

No. What she needed to do was make it do all the talking and thinking aloud. She needed to understand it better than it understood her, and use that information to frustrate it to the point of making a mistake. And what she knew about it right now was that it wanted to learn about her. The way it looked at her made a mockery of her brother’s natural inquisitiveness, that fervent curiosity that so often lit his eyes. It looked sick, while the demon wore his face.

Taking a breath, something she tried not to make too obvious, she answered with a question. “Why do you want to know me?” She asked it as neutrally as possible, showing it her best imitation of Rilien’s face. It was almost ironic, that she planned to outdo the demon by being, in some sense, the superior imitator. If she could manage it.

As if in response, its features shifted, until it was wearing the face of her teacher, down to the sunburst on his forehead. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker.” In its left hand, the demon toyed with a knife, a replica of one of the Tranquil’s daggers, running a precise finger along the edge. It was also not an excellent likeness, considering the fact that she’d never once known Rilien to fidget or move idly. Hopefully that was a sign that it wasn’t being as careful.

“Do you know what the Inquisition can become? If only I were you
” It lunged at her, and she jumped backward, but no sooner had it completed its forward arc than it burst into smoke and disappeared.

"When I am done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will be you.” It was Asala that time, and the voice from the left, where the Qunari woman appeared as well, though envy walked straighter in her skin, assuming a demeanor more like Asala when there was healing to be done than Asala at any other time. Still Estella kept herself mindful—the details were important.

“What is the Elder One?” Short questions, and only questions. It was already talking a great deal more than she was, even if it was deeply unsettling that it used the voices of her friends to do so.

The creature laughed, shifting again so that what began as a feminine sound ended as a masculine one, and it wore the same familiar face as the second statue, draped in dark blue robes and carrying a staff with a scythe-blade on one end, a thick hand with heavy knuckles gripping it with surety. “He is between things. Mortal once, but no longer. Glory is coming, and the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a twisted caricature of a smile, probably the best envy could manage, and this time, it called lightning to itself, lifting the staff and throwing the spell in a broad arc from the scythe.

Estella stood no chance of getting out of the way in time, she knew, and indeed, her body was extremely slow to react, almost like she was moving through water.

Saraya was not so restrained, and she intervened before the lightning could reach Estella. Planting the glowing shield into the ground before her, the spell crackled and smashed against it, leaving the woman reeling and digging a foot into the ground. The envy demon hissed, infuriated.

"Insolence! This will be my place, not yours! Begone!" He threw a straight bolt of lightning from his hand, a spell which exploded directly against Saraya's shield, and the glowing body burst into a dozen wisps of flickering light. They scattered into the wind.

“Saraya!” Estella didn’t have time to think, only react, and her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, which rang free of the sheath with a hissing rasp. She lunged into the place her ally had been, bringing the saber down on the envy demon, which still wore the face of Tiberius. As soon as her blade made contact, it shrieked and dispersed.

“You cannot stop me! I will have what is yours!” Its voice trailed off with the motes of black dust that seemed to have constituted that particular form, but Estella hardly cared. She fell to the ground, plunging the end of the saber down into it and leaning heavily against the blade, which glimmered brightly in the dark. From her knees, she dragged a hand across the ground, as though hoping to recover some remnant of the remnant, something that would show her that Saraya was still alive, still present. What did it take to kill something in the mind? Cyrus would know. Of course he would. He’d be able to fix this.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t fix anything. “Why me?” she muttered miserably, losing all will to keep herself upright and remaining so only because she saw no more point in removing her grip from the hilt of her saber than she did in keeping it there. “I don’t matter. I’m nobody.” If the demon had chosen anyone else, this wouldn’t have happened. But it had chosen her—miserable, wretched, worthless Estella—and so everything was going straight to shit, just as she’d always known it would. That she was surrounded by so many talented, impressive people, that Romulus had a mark, too; these things had allowed her to believe that they might succeed, that they might really close the Breach, and that she might be able to go back to being anonymous and unimportant without having ruined anything, save the lives of the families of her squadmates.

Her back bowed further under the pressure of her thoughts, and she fought the bile that rose in her throat. How could she have forgotten? How could she have let herself, for even a single moment, fail to recall her own incompetence, and how dangerous it was, for those around her? How had she let herself believe that she could ever be the kind of person others might be able to lean on? Where had she gained the pretension to suppose that one day, she might be strong, or worthy, or valuable in any way at all? She had no grace, no skill, lackluster intelligence, and a terrible, crippling inability to improve for all the first-class instruction and arduous practice in the world.

How dare she forget. How dare she let other people pay the price for that.

She was pathetic.

And she deserved to suffer for all the things she could not be.

Some combination of the brittle-bone cold, the weight settled over her body like a cloak of lead, and the furious churning of her own thoughts overcame her, and she retched, dry-heaving painfully, folded in on herself and at last relinquishing the grip she held on the sword. Another thing she wasn’t worthy of. Another grace extended to her that she could not hope to repay in kind. Estella fell onto her side, curling into a small ball and pulling her knees against her chest, willing the ordeal to simply end. She’d proven what she knew all along: she was incapable of meeting a challenge of this magnitude. She couldn’t do it alone, and she was toxic to anyone who would be her ally. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again—dry, because even she knew she was wallowing in self-pity and she wasn’t worth crying over—and they found immediately the bright edge of her saber. She stared at it for what seemed the longest time, fascinated by the way the enchantment made it glimmer with a light all its own. Like a little star, right there in the dark.

A bitter smile slashed her face, and she chuckled weakly. “Stellulam
” Cy’s nickname for her was ridiculous. Even he would surely be disappointed in her, if he could see her now. She was disappointed in herself. Then again, she was always that.

Distantly, she knew that she had to stand up. If she did nothing else, she had to make this right again. Her wound twinged—she’d hurt herself by falling over. Of course she had, because actual battle wounds were for people who had a fighting chance. She couldn’t


“I can’t.” But slowly, she stood anyway, dragging herself to her feet, resting her hand on the saber, which was faintly warm to the touch, and pulling it from the ground. It felt heavy in her hands, unfamiliar, like the first time she’d ever tried to wield it. Listing to the side slightly, she took a step forward, and had to scramble not to fall backwards when the scenery around her abruptly changed, putting her back in Therinfal Redoubt.

It was eerily quiet, compared to what it had been like before, but she remembered the route, and followed it. This version seemed to be what Envy imagined the Inquisition would look like, if it replaced her. She thought it was foolish to believe she had so much power as it seemed to assume, particularly when she walked in on a meeting between herself and the Inquisition’s three advisors. They all stood around the table, though Romulus was a conspicuous absence. "We’re almost there,” Marceline was saying. "Orlais, Ferelden, then Antiva and the Anderfels. Rivain’s surrender is imminent. Fitting that you’ll end where you started, no?”

“Soon enough, my accomplishment will match my ambition,” she heard her own voice reply from the facsimile of her appearance. She couldn’t help but find the words ridiculous. Estella had aspired to little. Though her faults were many, arrogance was not usually one of them. Perhaps even believing she could help close the Breach counted as arrogance enough.

“Do you see? What the Inquisition could be without you? When you are dead, and the Elder One has allowed me to become you?”

Estella walked through the ghostly image, dispersing it, and continued on her way. When she reached the same staircase as before, she spotted herself standing at the bottom of it. Or, well, the envy demon’s version of her, anyway. She took some little bit of succor in the fact that it had clearly glamorized her considerably: she looked as put-together as Marceline, and wore clothes as nice as Rilien’s, her armor polished silverite, chain with a heavy silk sash holding her sword in place, and leathers in lighter places. It still wasn't near to accuracy, really.

“Unfair! You are still whole!” In what seemed an instant, the demon was in front of her, its version of her hand tight around her throat, lifting her from the ground with no more difficulty than the Avvar she’d dueled in the Mire. “Why can’t I have your shape?!”

“Why
 would you want it?” She choked out, her hands grabbing pointlessly at the arm holding her. It was uncanny, looking into her own face like that.

“Why would
 why would
?” It seemed thrown by the question, but then gritted its teeth, its free hand glowing with sickly green magic, and turned to shove her against the door. “We’ll start again! More pain this time! The Elder One still awakes!”

A rumbling suddenly surrounded the two of them, as a ball of impressively bright blue fire burned through the wall of clouds hanging over them, to Estella's left. The envy demon growled, hurling Estella back with force against the door and turning to face the arriving presence. It smashed into the ground, scattered bits of the stone ground through the air, and from the cloud of dirt re-emerged the glowing form of Saraya, now wielding a greataxe the likes of which Estella had already seen.

She whirled forward through the air, the first blow coming down hard on Envy's sword, as it still attempted to retain Estella's shape. Saraya's offense was swift, precise, and brutal, but the demon was able to parry or repel every blow, even when it appeared to have no chance, as though it wasn’t actually possible for Saraya to land a hit. Eventually they clashed weapons and locked together. Blue sparks flickered through the air from Saraya’s axe, and sickly arcs of familiar green lightning careened away from Envy’s feign of a marked hand. Envy’s face was contorted in a mixture of extreme effort, and overwhelming anger.

“What are you? How can you remain? Die and leave, forever!”

Estella thanked whatever deities were paying attention for Saraya’s intervention, and more importantly, for the fact that she yet lived. While she knew she’d be of little assistance, the elven woman’s spirit had the demon locked in battle, which was opportunity enough for anyone, and so she circled around behind the dark shadow of herself, sheathing the sword quietly and drawing the straight-bladed knife from the small of her back.

Her approach was awkward, and she wound up just running the last half-dozen steps, jumping onto the demon’s back and plunging the blade downwards and slightly diagonally, for her replica’s less well-protected neck. The knife struck, and the envy demon beneath her dissolved again, this time with an inchoate shriek. Her vision filled once more with white, and she fell back into reality.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Though three bodies had begun to fall in tandem, only two finished the arcs they should have. While Estella and Vesryn collapsed to the ground, the Lord Seeker was seemingly thrown from them with great force, his shape twisting in midair, limbs elongating and visage twisting. What landed before the door was no man, but rather a demon, lanky and warped. Cyrus recognized it immediately—envy, a rather rare variety, and much subtler than its kin.

It rose into an arch, walking its hands through the gap between its six-foot legs, an eerie contortion of its warped form, and then it shrieked at the lot of them, prompting Cyrus to move in front of Stellulam and Vesryn, putting himself between it and them, but doing so turned out to be, for the moment at least, unnecessary. The demon exploded into a cloud of green mist, flying in through the doors and over the heads of the Templars inside, retreating to some area beyond, and leaving a barrier behind it.

The moment he was sure it was safe to do so, he was kneeling by Estella’s side, a hand at her forehead. “Stellulam, can you hear me?” His tone was low, but unmistakably urgent; worry gripped his heart and furrowed his brow. That the demon had retreated meant something—he only hoped that it wasn’t the worst.

A soft groan was his initial response, but fortunately, Estella’s eyes opened directly afterwards, unfocused and hazy. Her head lolled slightly towards the side Cyrus knelt at, and she blinked slowly a few times. “Cy?” She coughed, the force of it actually bringing her partway off the ground, and she planted one of her hands on the floor, pushing herself into a sitting position. “How long have I been out?”

That was a peculiar question. Cyrus shook his head slightly, using one of his arms to support her back, though she seemed to be sitting all right on her own, for the moment. “Not long. The Lord Seeker attacked you and you fell.” And yet, he could sense a disturbance in the Fade greater than he would have ordinarily considered warranted, as though something or someone had used a considerable amount of magic in that tiny window of time.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

The expression she showed in reaction to his answer was complicated, but confusion seemed to predominate, and her lips parted for a moment, before she hesitated, apparently unsure what to say. “I
 the Lord Seeker’s an envy demon. Or well
 the person the templars thought was the Lord Seeker is one. It
 it wanted my shape, and
” Her eyes went wide suddenly, and she glanced around herself frantically, pausing when she found Vesryn, who was still unmoving.

“Shit,” she hissed, half-dragging herself within arm’s reach of the elven warrior and reaching out, laying a hand on his chestplate and shaking him gently. “Vesryn. He—” She cut herself off and looked meaningfully at Cyrus, suggesting that there was something she could not say, before she returned her attention to their fallen ally.

“Oh Maker, please be all right.”

The elven warrior soon stirred, as though coming out of a deep sleep, but when he seemed to remember where he was, he blinked several times in confusion. "Erm... what?" He paused, an awkward, uncomfortable smile coming into place. "I've gone and embarrassed myself, haven't I?"

His eyes then darted between Estella and Cyrus, before settling longer on Estella and looking her over, perhaps to confirm that she was undamaged. Satisfied, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He removed his helmet briefly, shaking his head. "You haven't been waiting for me to wake up for long, I hope?"

“Not really, no.” Cyrus shrugged, offering a hand to each for assistance in moving from sitting on the ground to standing on it. Estella took his left without hesitation. He frowned a bit, and threw a glance into the now-open doorway. They’d become a minor spectacle for the templars inside, by the looks of things. “But if you’re both quite all right, we’d best continue. I doubt this lot will be very enthused to learn that their illustrious leader was a demon all along.” Not that he planned on dealing with the mess. That could fall to the Knight-Captain or Leon, whichever felt more inclined.

After Vesryn was on his feet as well, the group moved inside, where the remaining uncorrupted templars had assembled in what appeared to be the main hall. The long tables had mostly been cleared off to the side to allow easier room to move about. Above, on the far end of the hall, stairs led up to a balcony or upper courtyard or some such, but the way was blocked by a barrier spell of some kind, shimmering thickly, clearly strong if the templars hadn't immediately been able to dispel it.

Of course, few of them were of any decent rank, and the one Knight-Captain present looked a bit floored by witnessing the transformation of the Lord Seeker into an envy demon. SĂ©verine stood now in the center of the hall. "Never thought I'd have a leader that could outdo Meredith on the bad ideas front. Bloody demon, bloody red lyrium. How many lives, thrown away for this?" She turned, seeking out Leon with her gaze.

"The demon turned our leadership against us first with that red lyrium. I'm lucky I was never forced into taking any. I don't think anyone else of my rank or higher refused the stuff." She shook her head, eyes falling to the floor.

“An obstacle,” Leon agreed heavily, “but not an insurmountable one. By arriving when we did, we forced the demon’s hand. Not all of you have succumbed, and that means we yet have a chance.” He scanned the room, his eyes moving over all the templars present, and landed on what must have been another low-ranking officer. “Knight-Lieutenant,” the Seeker said crisply, drawing the man into a sharp salute. “There are others, still fighting outside?”

The templar nodded beneath his helm. “Yes, sir. Another three Knight-Lieutenants, there should be, and their squads. Or
 whatever’s left of them.”

“And you have lyrium, as well? The uncorrupted kind?” Another nod. “Then I’ll need the last locations you knew the lyrium and the soldiers to be at. The Inquisition will bring you the people and the supplies, and then we’re going to take that barrier down, and the demon with it. Clear?” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the relative quiet of the room, and those in attendance drew themselves straighter, responding with a collective yes, sir!

One immediately moved to a table on the right side of the room, and gestured the group over. With a stick of charcoal, she drew three circles on an architectural rendering of the redoubt. “These are the supply rooms, sir. There’ll be a crate’s worth of lyrium in them, at least. Might be you run into some of the others on the way.”

Leon nodded. “Three supply crates should be enough.” He glanced up at the group. “Lady Marceline, Ser SĂ©verine, go to the northern one, please. Take some of the more experienced templars here with you.” He pointed to the closest circle to the building they currently occupied, then moved his attention further down. “Vesryn, Estella, the one to the east, please. Cyrus, you and I will go west.” From the look he gave him, Leon knew well that he likely wouldn’t appreciate being separated from his sister, but was asking him to do so anyway.

“Very well.” Cyrus was indeed not terribly pleased with the suggestion, but he understood why it had been made. There was logic in ensuring that one didn’t send two mages against a lot of templars. He could even overlook the fact that the reasoning employed clearly underestimated him. Briefly, he turned his eyes to Estella and Vesryn. “If
 possible, perhaps just once keep the heroics to a minimum?” That was the problem with decent people, really—they tended to take risks that the purely self-interested would avoid.

Estella smiled, but it was thin. “No promises.”

With the strategy set, all that remained was to execute it. One of the Knight-Lieutenants was left to manage the templars that would remain in this room, though the majority of those with much rank would be split up between the three parties. It might have been strictly safer to retrieve the lyrium crates one at a time, but time was important, and that would almost certainly have taken too long. Furthermore, three teams pushing out at once would relieve the burden on the defenders of the main hall itself, which was fortunate since it would also thin their numbers considerably.

Leon led their way out of the main hall, moving down a side passage way to the west, which was both damp and dark, lit only by a few guttering torches. With a few more turns, they came face to face with a door to the outside. “How are you against templars, Cyrus? I understand they don’t use lyrium in Tevinter.”

“Why don’t you open that door and find out, Seeker?” Cyrus let his amusement color his tone, and smiled sharply. It was true that he’d faced few southern templars, and their abilities were not to be dismissed, when properly enhanced by lyrium. But by the same token, no southern templar knew what a northern mage was like, and he did not doubt they would find the difference
 perceptible. The very best education in Thedas could do that for a person.

“Fair enough.” Leonhardt didn’t push the door open just yet, though, instead reaching into a belt-pouch and withdrawing a small vial, about the size of one that would hold a lyrium dose, but the liquid inside this was a blackish red, lacking both the glow of red lyrium and the metallic smoothness of that fluid. “I don’t believe we’ve had cause to fight together before. I say this in all seriousness: please keep clear of me.” His voice lacked the usual mildness it carried, edged instead with a harshness that seemed foreign to it.

Tipping back the vial, Leon downed it in one swallow, tucking it back into his belt pouch and throwing the door in front of them open. He didn’t linger on the threshold, charging forward into the fray outside.

It would seem the fighting had drawn very close on this side, and the Red Templars had nearly reached the entrance to the main building. The defenders remaining were few, and consistently moving backwards. That was, until Leon crashed into the front line. His first swing snapped a red templar’s head back so far the crack was audible, and the edge of his helmet clanged against the edge of the armor protecting his back. Before his body could collapse, Leon picked it up in both hands and threw it into a line of advancing red templars, knocking one to the ground and another two off balance. The last dodged, but it didn’t matter, because the Seeker killed him next, taking his helmet in both hands and twisting sharply. His stride didn’t even break as a sword clanged off his armor; he simply turned and caught the blade between his armored palms on its way down the second time, turning his body and disarming the half-crystallized man that held it, tossing the sword away like refuse before pulling the man down by the arm and shoving a knee into his gut, sweeping his legs out from under him with a foot and stomping hard at a less-armored part of his back.

Whatever resulted was effective, because the templar did not stand again, and Leon showed no signs of stopping.

It was quite the brutal display, but its effectiveness could not be denied. Cyrus waded onto the field as well, giving Leon the berth he so desired. Considering that his last lightning spell hadn’t seemed to work too well against these people, he switched tactics, sending a fire rune to land strategically on the ground where a cluster of soldiers tried to flank what few uncorrupted templars were left. It took them all off their feet, and Cyrus pulled himself through the Fade, spatha in hand, and finished them while they were down, quick strokes to throats and any vital artery he could reach. Putting them down fast was the key here, and he was quite good at that when he set his mind to it.

Where Leon charged with pure force and raw speed, Cyrus walked the edges of the field, laying down strategic area spells to control the flow of templars, narrowing their avenues of motion with fire, barriers and harassment tactics. Though he’d have preferred to simply rain fire down from above and jump between them with his blade, as was his wont, it made more sense presently to keep the red ones away from the ordinary templars and funnel them towards Leon in small numbers at a time. It was clear that he could handle three at once without encountering significant issues, which was really quite something for someone who usually looked a bit uncomfortable around other people eating meat.

Between the two and their templar allies, what had once looked dire for the defenders turned around in relatively short order. Cyrus’s effective control of the battlefield essentially fed Leon a line of foes, which he tore through with brutal efficiency, which for all its violence was unerring in its precision. Ten minutes after they had reached the fight, it had ended, and the red templars lay slain.

A general cheer went up from the others, but for several long moments, Leon remained in the middle of the field. It was hard to tell where exactly his eyes were, with the helmet, but his fists remained clenched at his sides, trickles of blood dripping off his knuckles. With what seemed to be one very deep breath and a momentous effort, he relaxed his shoulders backwards and turned to face the templars. “You’ll want to go back inside, reinforce the others. We’ll go get the lyrium and meet you back there.”

The general consensus seemed to be that this was a good idea, and the soldiers turned, some of them supporting each other as they walked, and headed inside. Leon turned his head, clearly looking at Cyrus, and then gestured forward. “The supply storage is this way.”

Cyrus raised an eyebrow, nodding nonchalantly and falling into step beside the Seeker, glancing up at the other man through the corner of his eye, his hands folded casually behind his back even as they picked their way over what had effectively become a killing field, first for the red templars and then for them. “I can see why you prefer your space.” He kept his tone deliberately light. “That tincture you took, before we fought—that does something to you, doesn’t it?”

The color of it looked suspiciously like blood, but it was a bit too dark even for that, suggesting that something else might have been done to it alchemically. Cyrus had a guess about what that might be, but it was merely a guess, and didn’t quite account for all of his observations. He wondered if Leon would simply be willing to explain.

“It does.” It was fairly clear that Leon saw no point in trying to lie about that—probably he had decided Cyrus had only asked in an attempt to get more than a confirmation. That, however, he didn’t give, and after a few more seconds of silence, it became evident that he wasn’t planning on it. Disappointing, but hardly a surprise.

The supply cache was a bit of a ways out, but they ran into only one more red templar on the way, and she was already injured to the point of dying. Leon put her out of her misery, and the two proceeded onwards, until the sounds of more battle could be heard, at which point they picked up the pace, rounding a corner and finding themselves face-to-face with the tail end of a confrontation.

A woman in Seeker’s armor placed a heavy roundhouse kick to the face of a red templar, dropping him with a hard thud. Several more lay in a circle around her, all variously battered and broken to death. Like Leon, she carried no weapons. It was clearly the same woman from Val Royeaux, the one who had stood at the Lord Seeker’s side.

She spotted them from the corner of her eye, and moved to face them. “Good. You’re here.” She spoke rather evidently to Leon rather than Cyrus, and it was he who answered.

“Ophelia. What are you doing here? Did you know about this?” The earlier aggression clearly hadn’t left him, from the gravelly undertones to the words, and he looked about ready to step forward and be her next opponent. Cyrus wasn’t sure he was entirely misguided in his intent, and did not dismiss his conjured blade, though he remained a few paces out to Leon’s left, and watched him for cues as to how they would handle the situation.

That made her smile, just a little one, a turn at the corner of her mouth. “Know the Lord Seeker was an envy demon? No, not until recently. But I suspected. And so I remained at his side.” She crossed muscular arms over her chest, tossing back the thick ebony braid that rested over one shoulder.

“While he had all those templars take red lyrium? You know what it does. You know what happened in Kirkwall.”

She shook her head slowly. “The demon was suspicious of me, at first. Inherited that from Lucius, I expect. I didn’t know what it planned for these templars until it was already happening. After that, the best I could do was try and convince it to delay further action until I could discover whether it was really the Lord Seeker or not. As it happened, I wasn’t the only suspicious one. I intercepted a message, and replaced it with one I knew would reach you, and gain your attention.”

Leon sighed heavily. “How did you figure out that the Lord Seeker was an envy demon?”

She thinned her lips. “There’s something you should see.” Gesturing for them to follow, she led the way into an adjacent building and opened a door on the right side of a hallway. The chamber so demarcated was relatively large, perhaps once an office of some kind, but far enough from the main building that it was doubtful any of those near it were in use.

Of much greater interest, however, was the state of the room. In terms of furniture, it contained only a single desk, which rested right at the center of the rug, covered with papers, candles, and oddly enough, pieces of art. Front and center was what seemed to be a marble bust of Empress Celene, though its face was obscured by parchment. Leaning against that, a hand-sized portrait of the Lord General of Orlais had been slashed once, with a knife, from the look of it, but still remained intact enough to identify his visage. The last item was a humble charcoal sketch, rendered nevertheless in highly-accurate detail, of the crown prince. It lay in two halves atop the desk, and had at some point been further defaced with candle wax.

The dull brown stone of the walls was marred by several drawings of eyes, quite clearly in blood rather than paint, and several stacks of books were strewn carelessly about the room.

“Well this is a rather macabre little shrine, isn’t it?” Cyrus scanned quickly over the walls, and then the spines of the books in the nearest stack, before deciding that clearly, the items of greatest interest were those on the desk. The three most powerful people in Orlais, before the civil war, and possibly still, though it was hard to say. “Targets, perhaps?” It would fit with what he’d seen in the future he went to—he recalled that all three of these people had been assassinated. This could be a clue to how and when that was supposed to happen, if their mysterious perhaps-ally knew more than was obvious.

“This
 Elder One. This thing the demon is working for. It wants them dead, as might be obvious.” Ophelia nodded to the ruined artworks on the table. “I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it’s partly a tactical decision and partly something else. A hatred, perhaps. Orlais has the strongest army in Thedas, and it’s as unstable as it’s been since the reign of the Mad Emperor, with the civil war going on.” She paused, a crease appearing between her brows. “But there are no fewer than four people with enough popularity and sufficient nobility to satisfy the aristocrats and the populace and lead the country. It’s interesting that only three of them appear here, isn’t it?”

“Gaspard de Chalons is missing.” That was Leon, who’d removed his helmet and tucked it under an arm. His free hand held a sheaf of parchments, carefully arranged so as to be smeared minimally with the blood on his gauntlets. “But whether that is because the demon overlooked him or because he’s allied with this Elder One is difficult to say. He doesn’t have quite the same infamous personality as the other three.”

Ophelia nodded deliberately. “That, I have not been able to discover. Envy likely knew relatively little outside of what it was to do here.” There was, after all, a certain sense in playing secrets and strategies as close to the chest as possible, and it would have been careless for the Elder One, who or whatever it was, to simply tell its minion everything it had in mind. Cyrus could understand the limitation of information as an effective command strategy; fewer loose ends when all was said and done, and the more work rumor and speculation could do for you, the better. This Elder One might have done quite well in the Magisterium, had it the inclination.

“This note
” Leon frowned deeply, then handed it to Cyrus. “My Old Tevene isn’t very good, but I believe it says something about the Seekers. Any chance you could translate?”

“Certainly.” Cyrus was not quite the linguist Estella was, in the sense that he spoke fewer of them than she did, but his Old Tevene was rather impeccable, if he did say so himself. Which made sense, since it was a common language for scholars in the Imperium to know. He took the parchment between his thumb and forefinger, as it was relatively worn and probably ought to be handled carefully, then swept his eyes over the words.

“‘Remember, you will be watched constantly. A Seeker is always looked to, when he is seen at all. I had a replica of the armor made—it should serve your purpose in Therinfal.’ Addressed to Envy, no doubt. There’s a little more below it that might interest you.” He paused, possibly just for effect, and then continued. “There is no place for Seekers in the world the Elder One builds. The life of Lucius Corin ends with you. Leave the real one to me.’” He raised a dark brow, glancing at the other two over the edge of the paper.

“Someone was feeling rather dramatic. Though I must say I’ve always loved a good conspiracy. So many skeins to be unraveled
” Cyrus narrowed his eyes, his aspect amused rather than menacing. He didn’t think it was especially amusing for either of them, of course, but still he saw little purpose in being unnecessarily grave. It was what it was, regardless of the attitude anyone took towards it.

“Seems the thing to do would be to find the real Lord Seeker, no? After we’ve dealt with our little demon infestation, that is.”

Leon looked to Ophelia, who shrugged her powerful shoulders. “I do not know where the real Lucius is. I intend to find out, but your friend is right. Horse first, then cart, as they say. You’ll be wanting lyrium. It’s through here.” So saying, she turned and led them out of the room, opening another door at the end of the hallway, remaining outside while Leon went in after the crate, hefting it easily in a single arm, donning his helmet again with the other.

“Let’s get this back to the others.”

They were, as it turned out, the last to arrive back, perhaps due to the pit stop they’d taken. Ophelia’s reception among the templars was mixed; while none were openly hostile, they were wary almost to a one, and stood far aside when she passed. That seemed not to faze her in the slightest—perhaps, as a Seeker, she was accustomed to it.

Cyrus soon found himself caught up in a warm embrace from Estella, who, aside from a cut marring the line of her cheek, appeared intact. She squeezed once before releasing him, her expression clearly relieved. “I was worried when we got back and you weren’t already here,” she admitted softly.

“Worried? About me? What will you think of next?” Really, the idea that she worried about him, while familiar and welcome in a sense, was also a bit unnecessary. If she could stop worrying about him and worry about herself instead, he’d be much more assured. Still, neither that nor the twinge of hurt that remained between them stopped him from returning the hug, a muted exhale the only sign he gave of his own mollification.

He returned his attention to the pair of Seekers and the Knight-Captain afterwards, however. “Now
 how about we bring down this barrier?”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Vesryn's pristine armor was spattered with blood at this point, but every drop of it belonged to corrupted templars. Saraya had effectively guided him to dispatch any enemy that had crossed his path, and even many of those that only crossed the others, though of course he hadn't been quick enough to prevent all the injuries in his allies. Even his shield could only be in one place at one time.

Focused as he was on the fight, he'd been especially wary of any signs from Saraya since the ambush from the Lord Seeker, or rather the demon that had formerly worn his shape. He remembered nothing of it, only trying to get in the way of the charge, getting caught up with Estella as they fell, and then... black. Estella's face was the first thing he saw upon waking, the first thing he comprehended. There were far worse things to lay eyes on after being knocked out, of course.

As they'd worked together to bring back more of the low-ranking officers, he'd noted that Saraya looked upon Estella differently. How, he could not say, and there was no time to speculate on it. They had a task to complete here.

The Knight-Captain, SĂ©verine, nodded at Cyrus, and smoothly stepped up on top of one of the tables shoved off to the side, allowing the assembled templars to see her more clearly. She pointed her blade out at the group. "Templars! I ask of you: what is Envy?"

"A wretched thing!" cried one.
"Weakness!"
"A pathetic demon!"
"A coward, Sister!"

"A coward," SĂ©verine repeated, nodding. "In order to study, and worm into our hearts, it must hide. We will drag it into the light!" A first cheer went up among the templars, accompanied by a cacophony of swords bashed against the faces of shields.

SĂ©verine stepped down and began approaching the barrier, while the templars cleared from her path. "Those who have been taken by this demon and its promises of power are corrupt. They have betrayed the Order and all they once stood for. We, the true templars, will show them no mercy." The grimmer nature of the task did not receive a cheer, but instead a hardened rumbling, an anger building to do what needed to be done.

"Join me, Brothers and Sisters, and tear down this barrier. Give Envy no place to hide. And give the Red Templars no reason not to run!" She accepted a chalice of lyrium from a scribe when offered, the draught steaming with a frost-like substance. SĂ©verine drank deeply, and once the scribe retreated from her, she took her sword in both hands, and knelt, placing the point of it into the floor. The other templars followed her lead.

They began to glow with a golden light, some brighter than others, and the sickly green barrier above them began to tremble and waver. Vesryn adjusted his grip on his spear and shield, and moved forward in preparation to advance up the stairs. It was not long before the demon's barrier let out a wretched wail, and then shattered altogether.

From the top of the stairs came the Red Templars, storming in down in a disorganized formation to engage. SĂ©verine looked back at the Inquisition members aiding them. "Cut through, find the demon, and destroy it! We'll deal with these traitors." Their blood worked up for the fight, the templars smashed into the first arriving group of enemies, engaging them with a fearsome fervor.

Vesryn glanced sideways at his allies. "Let's get moving."

“An excellent suggestion.” Cyrus softened up a likely trajectory for them by sending a massive fireball through it, forcing several red templars to throw themselves to the side, some of them landing poorly and falling down the staircase in the process. One didn’t get away in time and took a full blast of flame to the face, collapsing in a cacophony of shrill cries. “How about that way?”

“Good enough,” Leon growled, cracking his neck under his helmet and bursting forward. His momentum seemed little affected by the fact that he was essentially fighting uphill, and he took two stairs at a time as though that were the way they were meant to be used. Considering the objective was only to clear a path, he didn’t linger long on any one red templar—generally speaking, one hit was enough to get any given individual out of the way, and he struck out with elbows, fists, knees, and feet, almost too fluid for a person encased in that much armor. Several of them, he simply gripped by the neck of their armor and pulled, toppling them facefirst down the staircase. Cyrus had driven a wedge into the line, and he was making a full tunnel of it.

Vesryn cleared the way for easy passage behind Leon's destructive force, tossing away any red templars that were fortunate enough to survive the initial encounter. They pushed up the stairs with little difficulty; Vesryn was able to surmise that the Red Templar force engaging them here was not much more than a rear guard, judging by their numbers. SĂ©verine and the templars she led would no doubt be able to handle them given some time.

All of their party through, they took off down the hall towards the outdoors, a sort of grassy overlook of the forested land far below. The sections of walls before them had steadily crumbled from weather much like they were currently experiencing. The rain came down as steady and cold as it had upon entering the hall originally, and the earth beneath Vesryn's boots felt soft, vulnerable to being torn up if too much weight was applied in the wrong way.

"I touched so much of you," the demon said, with a voice from no particular direction, as before, "but you are selfish with your glory. Now I'm no one." Vesryn kept his eyes glued to the sides of the group, not desiring to be taken by surprise again. There was nowhere for the demon to run now, but while it did not prefer to fight directly, he had no doubt that it could if pressed into a corner, as it was.

"Lovely creature, this," Vesryn commented dryly. His spear remained leveled before him, ready to strike.

“And this isn’t the half of it,” Estella replied from beside him, her hands flexing on the grip of her saber. Her eyes were in constant motion over the field, a wariness that turned out to be quite wise. “There!” It did not manifest with the same directness as another demon would have. Pride would have stood before them and demanded acknowledgement. Desire and Rage would have commanded attention just as certainly.

But Envy appeared at their flank, a hideous thing with pale pink flesh, like someone had taken a human body, stretched it impossibly long, torn up the head and sewn it back together again with crude stiches and forgotten anything but the mouth, a thin red slash filled with sharpened, bloodstained teeth. It had a second set of arms beneath the first, shorter, almost humanoid still, a reminder, perhaps, of something it had once been. In all, it had to be nearly ten feet tall, but it was thin, in places little more than skin stretched over bones, too tight to be comfortable. Hardly a wonder it wanted someone else’s form and face, really.

No sooner had it appeared than the sodden ground beneath them began to turn black, in a ring much like that caused by a terror, save that its radius was considerably greater. Estella dashed out of it quickly, but Leon seemed to pay it almost no mind, simply moving himself off the circle in his barreling charge towards the demon itself. It threw something at him, shimmering slightly in the air like heat off the desert—likely a concussion blast of some kind, and the two met at full speed. The Seeker dug his feet in, pushing through and tearing rents in the soft earth beneath him. The hit slowed him considerably, but it did not stop him, and faced with an incoming assault, the demon seemed to open another one of the dark spots on the ground and dove through, reappearing far to the other side of the field and hurling a massive chunk of what had once been masonry with telekinetic force for the group.

A blast of lightning hit the boulder in midair, the resulting explosion breaking apart the stone and raining it down upon them as harmless detritus. Cyrus switched his attention to the demon itself thereafter, hurling a tiny orb of magic from each of the fingers on his left hand at once. They flew swiftly, and when the first hit, it encased the demon’s left leg in ice. The next three seemed to target different joints of its body, one successfully locking up the larger right elbow. The others hit, and spread, but it was able to crack the ice crystals off with movement.

A few seconds later, the mage’s form blurred, then disappeared entirely, reappearing much closer to the demon, which abruptly found itself faced with an opponent quite close. It swung a clawed hand for Cyrus, who ducked under it and retaliated with a horizontal slash, but Envy twisted with inhuman strength and flexibility, and the sword he used met only air.

Limber and quick as it was, it could not dodge two well-placed strikes at once, or at least in extremely quick succession. Vesryn had flanked Envy after Cyrus moved in for his attack, and his spear found the creature's torso, spilling blood and earning an enraged shriek of pain. Vesryn anticipated the counterattack; Saraya was familiar with such an opponent, which did not surprise Vesryn in the slightest. No demon was an unknown entity to her.

He withdrew his spear and properly angled his shield above his upper body to deflect the first slash to the side, and the adjusted to deflect the second slash the opposite way. The third he took head on, jarring his shield arm but stopping the clawed arm of Envy cold and giving him an opening to put his spear right through the thing's elbow joint. Its horrid features, or lack thereof, still twisted in pain from the injury, and it sought to flee, diving into a black pit it opened in the ground beneath it. Vesryn wrenched his spear free and stepped away from the magic beneath him.

"Watch your feet!" he called to the others, certain it would pick a spot to come up again soon, and it never preferred to assault directly.

When it did reemerge, it wasn’t the fleet magician, the precise warrior, or the powerful Seeker it went for. The demon was a coward, and it chose the coward’s target: Estella. She didn’t look all that surprised when it sprang up behind her, and without looking over her shoulder, she rolled herself to the side, its claws digging deep furrows in the fragile earth she’d been standing on seconds before. When she came up out of the roll, she turned herself around to face it, her momentum channeling into a smooth, controlled lash with her saber. The maneuver opened up a bloody line on the arm closest to her, and she stepped in closer, taking on the role of aggressor.

Her feet were light over the ground, her strokes no longer or flashier than they needed to be, and her efficiency was rewarded when two new gashes appeared over the creature’s torso, its gangly limbs less effective when someone had closed to so close a distance. It tried to dive under again, but this time met some trouble when a strong grip closed over the arm Cyrus had previously frozen. Leon’s hand nearly made it all the way around the rangy bicep of the demon, and the blow he delivered to its elbow snapped the limb clean off, made possible by the magical cold that lingered still at the joint.

Envy shrieked, a sonic blast that forced both of them back far enough for it to make its escape. Estella landed hard on her side, sliding another few feet back when her impact tore up the grass and slicked her left half with mud. Leon kept his feet, but lost his grip on the demon, allowing it to retreat once more.

This time, it came up closest to Cyrus, who immediately flung a massive bolt at it, staggering the creature before it had a moment to react. Adjusting his feet, he sped forward again, the hum of his blade followed by a new, smoking furrow dug across the back of its knees. It looked to be about to try and dive again, but with a broad gesture, he cast another spell, and bars of crackling lightning appeared to close it in from all sides, even below. The gaps between were more than adequate for a spear or other weapon with reach, however, and the mage turned, nodding tersely to Vesryn.

The elf nodded back, allowing his shield to fall to the ground, before he flipped his grip around on his spear. "Hold still for me, love." He briefly took aim, before he stepped into a throw and hurled his spear like a javelin right between two of the bars of crackling energy. The weapon punched clean through Envy's chest, rendering it incapable of screaming any further. Instead, it gurgled miserably for a moment, before it slumped sideways to the ground, and stilled.

"Nice throw," SĂ©verine commented, from the top of the short flight of stairs that led back into the main hall. A large number of the templars from inside had followed her out, those that had made it through the fighting without serious injury. The Knight-Captain herself was heavily bloodied, at least over her armor, but most of it appeared to belong to others. "It's over then. For now."

"I expect the other Red Templars won't simply give up," Vesryn speculated, walking to the corpse of Envy and pulling his spear free.

"No, they won't." SĂ©verine looked back at the battered group of men and women she'd come into command of. "The fight won't be truly done with until the last of these traitors have been dealt with. Until the Order's direction has been restored."

“And that will not be a simple process.” Ophelia spoke up then, stepping forward to draw even with SĂ©verine. “The Templars have numbers across Thedas, but their leadership is in ruins. Most either knew not of what was going on, or were complicit in it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing over those assembled. “These are a good lot, though. It would be a waste for them to idle when their skills could be so useful.” Her eyes flickered between Leon, helmed and silent at present, and Estella, who stood straight, but unable to hide the fact that one of her arms was limp at her side, the one she’d landed on earlier.

“All the Inquisition came here to do was ask of them their help. The Breach threatens us all, and they could be instrumental in closing it.” She shook her head, then turned to the body of them as a whole. “If that is something you’d be willing to do, we’d welcome your blades and your stout hearts. We’ve need of both, and it would give you somewhere to be and something to fight for. You know by now that we have allies of all kinds, and you’d be equal among them.” She smiled slightly, though it was tinged a little by the pain she was clearly in, and glanced at SĂ©verine.

"Not how I imagined this turning out," the Knight-Captain admitted, shaking her head with a little smile. "But I think my Commander will understand if I don't return home just yet. The Breach does indeed need closing, and I would be honored to lead these templars in helping you do it, Lady Herald." Her plated, closed fist thumped against her chestplate. "You have our blades."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Image

Then the Maker said:
To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember Me.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:7
Image

The air still smelled like burning flesh.

It was probably a good thing that it was a memory from the Fade, and so the others present would not be able to smell it. Well, the mages might, but not until they’d taken the lyrium, anyway. Between they and the templars and his own estimations, the need had been for an entire cart of it, several crates stacked on top of each other and pulled towards the temple by a draft animal. The templars required it, and it dramatically increased the efficacy of the average mage, to the point that he believed it was actually possible to do what he’d been asked to devise a way of doing.

History, which so dramatized action over thought, was unlikely to remember his contribution to this, but for once, Cyrus couldn’t really say he cared much. Let it be forgotten, so long as it was done.

He stood now on one of the edges of the drop-off that led down to the floor beneath the Breach itself, though even at his height, he was still angled somewhat below it, such that he had to tip his head up to regard the thing. He’d not stood in its presence before, and he had to admit that he felt the keen temptation of allowing it to remain. It was a tear in the Veil of massive proportions, and even standing beside it, he felt like more than he was. When he dreamed, Cyrus could achieve nearly anything his heart desired. The Fade itself bent and twisted to his whim, answering his demands with little more than a thought from him. Here the distinction between the Fade and the mundane world was so blurred it was almost no distinction at all—he was smelling what was in the former while still fully conscious in the latter.

The prospect of being able to shape and mold this world in the same way he could sculpt and define that one was staggering. If he’d only put himself to work figuring out how to expand the Breach instead of how to close it, perhaps he could have had that. But the Breach was sick, ill, distorted—only the darkest reflections of the Fade were nearby it. And it threatened not only to collapse the distinction between worlds, but to utterly destroy this one. And the risks of expanding it without knowing the consequences—even he knew when something was too dire to chance.

But still, gooseflesh prickled along his skin, and he could almost feel the crackling of magic beneath it, yearning, almost, to be loosed, to be put to purpose and change what was into what had been dreamed. He tightened his hands together behind his back, suppressing the strange, giddy mix of nauseous vertigo and the sudden influx of power, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. Let it be assumed that he was nervous—that, unlike what he felt in truth, would be acceptable.

The mages fanned out to the left of where he stood and the templars to the right, taking up positions on the mid-level ledge. As he’d requested, Leon stood closest to him on the templar side, and Asala on the mage side. The most necessary individuals of all, Romulus and Estella, were moving into place directly beneath the Breach. A breeze picked up from the north, feathering over his face, and Cyrus let his muscles relax. Several more Inquisition troops began to carry in and distribute the lyrium—scraped together from personal stores, whatever the Riptide’s crew had been able to secure in the last few weeks, and the amount the spymaster had been able to accrue from more land-bound smuggling and trade routes. It was quite a lot, but each mage or templar would still be getting a minimal dose, given how many ways it had to spread. Cyrus himself was abstaining, of course, and as a Seeker, Leon didn’t need any, either, but everyone else would be taking at least some.

He signaled for them to do so, and waved the rest of the Inquisition back, as it was rather difficult to predict just what effect this much concentrated effort would have on the area, and it was better to minimize the risk of unnecessary casualties. Injuries, that was—he didn’t anticipate any deaths unless everything went horribly wrong, but then if that happened the entire world was doomed anyway, so it would hardly matter in the long run.

“Let it never be said that I avoided doing things of consequence.” He murmured the words to himself, a wry twist of his lip and a shake of his head accompanying the statement.

When at last it looked as though everyone were ready, Cyrus inhaled deeply, releasing his hands from behind his back and raising the right one. He held it there until he knew it was seen, then dropped it, the signal for the templars to begin.

“Templars!” The Commander’s voice boomed out over the ranks, and as one, they took a step forward, genuflecting with their armaments in front of them, bowing their helmed visages over the pommels of swords or hafts of axes, or else leaning them against the poles of spears and halberds, lapsing as one into reverent posture and calling to themselves the peculiar lyrium-fed abilities to cleanse a particular area of hostile magic. Where once they would have turned such force against the mages not far from them, now it was directed at the Breach, and the green light in the sky seemed to shudder and dim as each one spent their resources attempting to wrest it under control. Leon alone remained standing, his eyes clearly fixed on the rift itself, imperceptible words forming on his lips, his stare a thousand yards away.

At the conclusion of their efforts, however, it remained perceptibly magical. Clearly, they had weakened it, but the task of closing it was far from over.

Catching Asala’s eye, Cyrus raised his left hand, and then brought that one down as well, in a sharp motion much like the last.

Though she visibly trembled and her knuckles were white from the grip she held on her staff, Asala still raised it high and called out. "M-mages!" The mages stepped forward in a wave, enveloping their staves in a dispelling green glow before slamming them into ground. As more mages added their spells to the whole, the reflections of the Fade felt by Cyrus began to dwindle as magic around it started to ebb away by the mass dispelling. Asala's eyes darted back and forth over the breach and every now and then a blue glint could be seen in the sky, evidence of her effort to concentrate and corral straying spells.

As soon as the last of the dispellings had run its course, Cyrus stepped forward himself, right to the edge of the drop-off. With a deep inhalation, he reached for the magic, easy to his hands even still, even though he could feel the Fade retreating from this place. He reminded himself that it was good, that it was what he wanted. That it was the right thing to do, and they were the only people who could do it. When that wasn’t enough and his willpower faltered, he reminded himself also of all the reasons he had to do the right thing for once in his life. Of all he needed to make up for, all he needed to repent. And then he glanced down, past the ranks of templars and the less-organized throng of mages, to where the Heralds stood, and he thought of her as well, and all together, it was enough to turn aside the lure.

He raised his arms, a white light gathering around them, spreading until it covered the whole of his body, thin like a mist, and then growing denser as more of it billowed outwards, still contained around him, until he almost seemed to be encased in a sphere of roiling fog. Little scattered sparks of electricity jumped around inside the clouds, occasionally lighting them from within. When the mist had thickened to the point of obscuring his view completely, he finally released it, sending it towards the Breach like a slow-rolling ocean wave. Struck by the light as it moved, it threw tiny prisms of refracted light onto the ground below, glinting off templar armor and the polished staves of the mages.

The Breach, which had begun to distort and destabilize at the edges as it fought against the attempts to neutralize it, almost recoiled from the wave, as though it were half-alive itself and sensed danger. But it was, ultimately, immobile, and the spell hit it like a tidal force, the pearlescent cloud clinging to it, dulling the green to a washed-out verdigris hue, and stopping its motion entirely. It simply hung there, pulsing faintly, a tumor in the sky.

“Now!” His shout echoed as it descended towards the Heralds, his eyes flicking between where they stood and where it remained, yet to be defeated.

Romulus nodded, looking to Estella to see if she was ready as well. She appeared to gather herself for another second, then inclined her head.

As one, they stepped forward and thrust their marked hands at the Breach, the left of Romulus beside the right of Estella. Twin arcs of the green lightning-like energy shot forth and connected with the sickly tear above them, which began to pulsate violently. It shook the arms of both Heralds to maintain the connection, and soon a blindingly bright white light began to emanate from within the Breach's center point.

It was enough to force some of the mages and templars to look away, distracting them from their task, and for a brief moment it seemed as though the Breach was strenghtening, fighting back against the forces trying to shut it for good. It swelled and expanded in front of them for an unknown reason, bulging from within while the light grew stronger still. The Heralds did not relent, each knowing that to stop now could spell disaster far beyond the confines of the temple ruins.

The Breach gave out a great moan, twisting and pulsating as it was steadily filled with the energy from the marks, until at last it could hold itself together no longer, and it exploded, the blinding light becoming all-encompassing, forcing any sane person to shut their eyes. A strong wave of force washed out over the temple grounds, throwing anyone not already bracing for it onto their back. The Heralds received the worst of it, the blast enough to throw them several body lengths away, the green crackling energy still pulsating from their palms.

Cyrus, even despite being prepared for backlash, staggered backwards several steps, his eyes shut against the bright light. As soon as it dimmed, though, he opened them again, running to the end of the ledge and dropping down to the next level, then moving through a few dazed-looking mages to do the same thing a second time, putting him on the ground with the Heralds. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, both of you!” He reached down to Estella first, knocked prone by the blast, and offered a hand to Romulus as well once she was back on her feet.

Whoever or whatever the Elder One was, it had to know they weren’t going to take this lying down now. Behind them, once it was confirmed that both Heralds had survived the effort, a cheer began to swell, dozens of voices adding to the exultation, the celebration of what had just been accomplished.

The sky overhead bore a greenish scar, a remnant of what had loomed so dire, but the Breach was closed.

The Inquisition had succeeded.



Needless to say, the tavern in Haven was packed to the rafters that evening. All the tables had been pushed to the side, and it was standing-room only, still incredibly full due to its proximity to the alcohol. He’d initially entered seeking libation, as most of these people had, but the din of all the voices was incredibly loud, and he wasn’t sure how people could even hear themselves think in the space. So once he’d secured his tankard, he headed for the door immediately.

The Captain of the Riptide busied herself at the bar and knocked shoulders with her large, Qunari-companion. She'd chosen lighter garbs, forgoing her restrictive leathers for softer linens. It seemed as if she was always in the tavern, especially if there was cause for celebration. She occasionally drifted away from her stool to twirl around in the middle of the dance floor and always had a tankard held in her hand. Somehow, she managed not to spill a drop. She arched her back and stretched her arms over her head, as content as one could be in good company. She leaned towards Aslan and tossed her head back, laughter crackling from her belly. Though she was obviously amused, Aslan's tight-lipped frown betrayed none.

Most of the people in here were not those he knew to any degree, though one of the Lions he’d met earlier, Donnelly, was leaning heavily against the bar, apparently in less-than-sober conversation with a much more lucid-looking Aurora, the little redhead who led the mages in these parts, or at least the ones that didn’t answer to Fiona. He gestured upwards with his cup at both of them, the mercenary returning it with a broad grin and the same, sloshing a bit of ale over his hand and then eyeing his handiwork with exaggerated trepidation, frowning for all of a moment before he shrugged and grinned again. It would appear that there was little dampening his current mood. The corner of Cyrus’s mouth turned up, and he passed through the exit to the outside without issue.

The rest of the Lions weren’t far away, standing in a cluster not too far from where the bard played and Larissa sang. They looked to be a bit under the influence on average, but none among the three of them seemed especially so, particularly not considering the chaos around them. Completely sober were Estella’s Tranquil teacher, Rilien, and his assistant. Tanith, Cyrus believed her name was—she was speaking to him with an amused look on her face, but he, of course, wore no expression at all, though he was tuning a lute. That was bound to produce an interesting result, in any case.

He spotted Thalia weaving into and out of the crowd, but of course she rarely talked to him when she didn’t have to, and he certainly didn’t expect to see much of her tonight. She’d probably be spending it with some pretty little thing or another, as was her wont.

Most of the rest of Haven and the Inquisition seemed to occupy the area close to a bonfire, which burned high and bright against the night sky, bathing those around it in an orange glow more than sufficient to stave off the chill of the evening. Asala and Meraad danced in the light of the fire, both laughing freely and easily as he spun her in a wide circle. Nearby the BenoĂźt child watched with a light smile and clapped along to the beat. Even the commander seemed to have been persuaded to join in the festivities, admittedly with much less abandon than anyone around him. He was talking to Marceline, who had her arms around the man who’d been introduced as her husband, MichaĂ«l. For once, Leon's expression was relaxed; open, even. He appeared to be rather enjoying himself, despite the absence of a drink in his hand. Marceline's hand, however, was not likewise unburdened, but held a goblet of wine, no doubt from the same bottle that hung from MichaĂ«l's.

Sparrow herself was lounging on the outskirts, for once. She'd found a barrel to perch on and was idly tapping her fingers across her knee, looking across the tavern. It wasn't immediately apparent what, exactly, she was looking for, but by the expression on her face, she was mildly annoyed.

Estella was nearby the fire, looking a strange mix of happy and uncomfortable. Happy, perhaps, because of the general festivity. The discomfort was likely due to the fact that a new person seemed to crop up to shake her hand or speak to her every few moments. No few of the exchanges were likely either high praise or requests for a dance, from the way she so often looked surprised and then embarrassed in quick succession, a result he suspected both types would have produced. In any case, she tended to smile politely and shake her head a fair amount, which was unsurprising, given what he knew of her tendencies towards reservation and the deflection of compliments.

She met his eyes, shooting him a look that conveyed something between disbelief and panic, as though she weren’t quite sure what to do with herself.

Cyrus merely met her look with a much more mischievous one and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. Frankly, he thought she should get used to the attention. It wasn’t like she’d be able to avoid it forever, no matter how little she thought of herself. He raised his tankard to his lips, drawing several swallows down in rapid succession. It tasted almost unbearably cheap, but accomplishment had a way of making anything sweeter.

From out of the swirl of dancing people came Vesryn, devoid of most of his armor, though his cloak, a lighter one than the garish white lion, was still tied around his waist, and several of his leg plates were still attached. His tunic was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, as it always seemed to be on the occasions when he got out of his armor. Evidence suggested that the heat of the fire, the warmth of the bodies, and the pace of the movement had warmed him up enough to risk shedding layers, though he'd have to preserve the momentum to stay that way.

Currently he wound his way over to Estella, the latest in her line of visitors, pausing only to take a breath that needed catching. "Might I succeed where the others have failed?" he pondered, offering an upturned hand in her direction, attempting his most charming smile. "My night is not a victory until I have danced with a Herald. The other one has already cruelly spurned me in favor of another." By his delivery, it was entirely true.

Estella was nothing if not consistent, though she looked slightly less surprised this time, something that said perhaps more of Vesryn than it did of her. Her embarrassment, however, was just as evident, though it did seem accompanied by a shade of amusement. “I should hate to hand you a ‘loss’,” she replied, considerably less dramatically, if lightly all the same. “But this particular Herald doesn’t dance, and it really is better that way.” The declination was offered kindly and in good humor, but it was still a refusal, and she smiled apologetically. “I’m sure there is no shortage of people who will gladly take advantage of my lapse in judgement, however.”

"As you wish," Vesryn said, accepting the rejection quite easily. He withdrew the hand into a flourishing bow, and stepped away. "This is not a retreat!" he called, stepping back into the throng of dancers. "Merely a tactical withdrawal!" The swirling bodies consumed him, though it was not long before the telltale sound of his laughter was heard again.

Cyrus didn’t bother suppressing his snicker, but over the noise, it wouldn’t be audible anyway. He was willing to bet that didn’t happen too often to Vesryn, but from Estella, it was entirely predictable. Skirting the edges of the crowd himself, he attempted to find a way to maneuver closer to the fire without getting caught up in the mass of whirling bodies. His path took him by Romulus, and Khari, who was halfway through a tall glass of something golden in color and looking a bit flush in the face because of it, though that might have just been the firelight. He nodded to both as he passed them by, spotting an ideal perch atop a barrel, one that looked to be empty now but had probably contained beer at some point earlier in the evening.

He stationed himself upon it, for the moment, resting his tankard on his knee, his fingers loose about the handle. If he looked up past the fire, he could still see the faint green scar left by the Breach, and try as he might, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it. They celebrated like everything was over, and perhaps for most of them, it would be. But for him at least, he knew things had only begun. There was still the matter of the Elder One, whatever it was, and the magic that had been used to tear open the Veil in the first place. He could recall with unsettling clarity the feeling of power he’d had from just standing close to it, how intoxicating that had been.

Shaking his head and forcing his eyes down, Cyrus lifted his tankard to his lips and downed half of what was left. He should probably make sure he had a few more of these before he slept. For now, though, he tried to let himself get caught up in the merriment of others, washing around him like water around an island. And for a little while at least, it was good enough to be so near to it.

Tomorrow was another day. But tonight didn’t have to be only a prelude to it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
Panic set in immediately and clutched Asala's heart. The deafening roar of something terrible doubled her over and forced her hands to her ears to try and drown out the sound. It didn't help, of course, she could feel the ferocity of the cry in her bones, she could feel its hate. Eventually the roar subsided, but the dread she felt did not. Slowly Asala took a step back, but her foot caught something and she was thrown backward. She landed on top of something, and when she turned to see what to what it was, the dead eyes of a Venatori soldier stared back at her. She cried out in surprise and scrambled away from the charred corpse.

She reached the trebuchet and used it to pull herself to her feet. All around her, the scene was the same. Bloodied and charred Ventori, broken and shattered red templars, and even some of the Inquisition soldiers lay dead around them. But all of that only garnered her attention for a moment, as the sound of the massive wing beats drew her eyes upward. A great black dragon with leathery jet wings flew silhouetted against the night stars. Asala's eyes went wide in fear and terror, causing her to slip back down to the ground, her back pressed against the trebuchet and her gaze pinned upward.

She watched it descend and sink its talons into a another trebuchet, wrecking it like it was made of nothing but rotten wood. Panic seeped in again, this time with a shot of adrenaline, and she pushed herself up from the ground and quickly took a few cautionary steps away. Over the din of everything, she could still hear the cries of battle and the ringing of metal against metal. She turned and found Cyrus, her eyes wide and confused. She didn't know what to do any more, and she looked to him for direction.

His attention too was pinned on the dragon, but he wore no expression of fear. Rather, Cyrus seemed to be studying it, a sharp stare following its wheels and turns in the sky carefully. He was mouthing words, though it was impossible to tell what they were, or if they had any volume at all, over the din of battle. When the dragon passed temporarily out of sight, his eyes fell back down, and only then did he seem to observe the chaos around them for the first time, flicking his gaze back and forth between each component of their situation rapidly, absorbing the information and processing it.

A muscle in his jaw jumped, and his scrutiny fell on her briefly, before skittering to Estella and then the rest. He looked like he was about to say something, loud enough for everyone to hear this time, but it was at about that point that a small cluster of other soldiers stumbled upon the site, all in various states of woundedness. “Fall back to the Chantry!” The words were hasty and slurred, but nevertheless effective. “Commander’s orders!”

“You heard him, let’s go.” That seemed to be mostly directed at Estella and Vesryn, but then he glanced to Asala, gesturing up Haven’s hill with a sharp tilt of his head as he turned.

Vesryn withdrew away from the thickest fighting, his spear coated in blood, and much of his armor spattered as well, though he was moving quite efficiently, a sign that he hadn't suffered too much in return as of yet. His axe as well was dripping dark red, and even small bits of red lyrium crystals clung to the blade of the weapon, from where it sat upon his back. He moved back swiftly, always keeping his shield towards the enemy, his helmet darting left and right to watch his path as he moved.

"I'll watch the rear," he stated, leaving no room for argument. A reckless Venatori found himself skewered upon the spear, and Vesryn shoved him off onto his back with a kick from a metal boot. "No time to lose, we can't get cut off." He was clearly referring to the fact that elsewhere the Venatori and Red Templars were finding more success, and starting to break through into Haven, where they could run rampant. It would get very messy soon, unless they could fall back and find a better place to hold them off.

Estella was covered in cuts and scratches—they’d pulled her out of sleep and she hadn’t had time to don much more than a leather cuirass and boots before they were off again, and the lack of protection had hurt. All things considered though, the wounds were light, and it was obvious enough that she’d somehow avoided the worst of all of them. Looking between the others, she nodded, leading the way forward. Their path took them towards the gate first, after which they’d be able to go up the hill, past the tavern again, and then to the Chantry.

The scene that met them upon approaching the gate was not a pretty one. There were fewer corpses here, but the gate itself was clearly but a few blows from caving inward. Spotting Lia and Tanith in the crowd, Estella shouted out. “Fall back to the Chantry, everyone! The Commander’s called a retreat!” As if to punctuate the statement, the heavy wooden gate groaned in protest again as it was struck from the outside—presumably, they were using a battering ram.

Most of the soldiers looked quite glad to be going along with that plan, but Tanith looked at the gate for a long moment before turning back to Estella. “If we don’t hold them here, you won’t have enough time to get out before we’re overrun. Some of us must stay, and I will stay with them.” Quickly, she turned to the soldiers. “Men and women of the Inquisition! Who among you will remain, that your Herald, and your brothers and sisters in arms, might live to fight another day?”

There was a moment of heavy silence, but then a woman stepped forward, her shield to the fore, and saluted Estella with her sword. “For the Inquisition.” Several of those who’d been standing closest to her followed, with various affirmations of for the Inquisition, for the Herald, or even for Thedas. No few of these people had been wearing broad grins earlier in the evening, celebrating with joy and abandon, but there was no trace of that now. In the end, Tanith had two dozen footsoldiers with her, and they all rearranged hurriedly so as to be in front of the gate itself, forming a wall of shields and spears, those in the back line drawing bows and pointing them for the door. In front of the rest, Tanith lit a flame in one hand, a dagger held in a reverse grip in the other, and glanced over her shoulder.

“We’ll hold. The rest of you—get to the Chantry. And tell Rilien I’m sorry, would you?”

Estella’s face twisted into an expression of clear pain, and she looked almost as though she intended to protest, but in the end, something stayed her tongue, and she nodded solemnly to them. “I will. Thank you, all of you. Fight well.” Her voice nearly cracked, but she managed to hold it steady. The need for haste was still apparent, however, and she turned from them then, jogging up the hill with the rest of the group and the remainder of those who had been posted at the gate.

Asala quietly followed, her eyes wide in shock. It was all too difficult to process what was happening, and she didn't truly understand it all. There was smoke and blood in the air, and deeper into the town the crimson of fires burned. She felt empty and numb, her feet moving on their own behind Estella and Cyrus. As they drew closer to the Chantry, the clash of steel reached her ears, and she looked up to see a small cluster of Venatori. They must have found a breach somewhere within the wall. Their armor was covered in scarlet and around their feet lay multiple bodies-- not all of them soldiers of the Inquistion. Amongst the pile, Asala recognized the face of Adan, the alchemist who'd aided her.

Her hand covered her mouth and she choked back a sob. Her legs trembled and threatened to buckle under her own weight. So distraught was she, that she didn't see the Venatori archer draw his bow, his arrow aimed at them.

The arrow flew from the end of the bow, its trajectory straight and unerring, at least until there was another body in front of it, Cyrus leaving afterimages behind as he pulled through the Fade to the spot, the luminous sword in his hand swinging in a controlled arc that snapped the arrow in two, the halves of it flying off in different directions. The bolt of lightning that he shot from his free hand cooked the archer in his armor, and the cultist dropped heavily to the ground.

“Asala! Focus! We’re not done yet!”

She shook her head, hard, and her eyes focused. Closing her eyes she forced everything to the back of her mind and drew her hands up. A Venatori with a large sword rushed them, and in a moment, the fade lit up in her hands. A barrier formed feet in front of him and surged forward. He attempted to hew through the shield, but the sword bounced off and left hairline cracks in it, but it continued to bowl forward regardless. The barrier struck the man at full force, throwing him back first into the ground hard. The wheezing he let out caused Asala to wince, but otherwise she did not back away.

The fight was a short one, in total, and the last Venatori soldier fell before Estella, a saber-stroke opening a broad gash on his neck, gushing arterial blood onto the snow. Her expression was grim, but resolute. “It’s not far now; let’s go.” She took point again, leading them up the last staircase and onto the highest level of the town itself, where they could glimpse ahead of them several others standing by the Chantry doors.

There were a lot of maroon tunics in the mix—it would seem the Lions had made it this far as well, and from the prominent scorch marks on their clothes and the soot-covered civilians that they herded inside the building, their progress here had been no easier than anyone else’s. As the group approached, they drew the attention of the mercenaries, who looked quite relieved to see them.

“Thank the Maker,” Donnelly said as they approached, breathing a heavy exhale. “Commander Leon’s lot are inside already, and we’ve got most of the civilians and remaining troops as well. You should hurry—he’ll want to speak with you.” He gestured for the group to head inside ahead of himself and the other Lions.

The small Chantry was brimming with people, civilians and soldiers alike. There was a loud clamor of multiple voices all speaking at once, and in various states of panic. The unrest felt within the building was palpable, and Asala wanted nothing more than to close her ears and drown it all out. But she didn't. Instead, she threw herself into work. As they approached the leaders of the Inquisition, Asala stopped and began to heal all of those that needed it. The work helped take her mind off of the panic in her heart, and the focus helped drown out the dread.

As she helped a soldier with a large gash in his side, she watched as the others approached the Inquisition's leaders. Marceline stood with her arms crossed and a thin frown on her lips as she spoke to Leon and Rilien. It seemed she had just been roused from bed, as she still wore a black nightgown, though she also wore a thick coat that was far too big for her and a pair of thick leather boots. Nearby, her husband rested heavily against a pillar, a thin line of blood falling from his temple, and a pair of swords hanging limply from his hands. Larissa comforted Pierre with a firm grip on his shoulders and whispering something into his ears. Leon was fully armored now, his arms crossed over his broad chest, but when they entered, his eyes were immediately upon them, and a fraction of the tension left his frame.

Rilien looked the same as he ever did, still unerring in his calm, though not too far away, Khari seemed considerably more agitated, pacing restlessly. She too was fully armored now, and wearing her familiar cleaver-like sword. Her expression brightened for a moment upon seeing them, but then her eyes moved to the cluster of the Inquisition's leaders, as though she were waiting for something.

Leon said something to his fellow Inquisition leaders, too low to hear properly, and then nodded shortly, drawing in what seemed to be a very deep breath indeed, before he gestured to Asala and the rest of the irregulars, both those who’d just entered and the ones who were already there. Once everyone had assembled in a rough circle, he began to speak, his voice low enough not to carry much further than their ring of people.

“There isn’t much time until they reach us, as I’m sure you're aware.” He glanced up, towards the doors, where several Inquisition soldiers were at work fortifying the entrance to the Chantry with whatever was available, setting up an inverted ‘v’ of pews, a traffic control tactic that would likely do no one any good in the end. “I don’t know who this is or where they got a dragon, but we’ve no hope of holding Haven.” He shot a glance to Marceline.

She shook her head and drew the coat tighter over her shoulders. "We have our essential supplies packed into carts and the horses are ready..." She said before she hesitated. She threw a wary glance over her shoulder and toward her son and husband, before she returned it to the group. Marceline sighed heavily before she continued. "But, we have nowhere to escape to. We would not make it out the front gate before we were cut down." Though her face betrayed no emotion, her grip on the coat noticably tightened. "And I do not know of any other way out of Haven."

The group was interrupted at that point by an approaching Reed, who half-carried Chancellor Roderick, one of the clergyman’s arms slung over the corporal’s shoulders. Roderick’s white vestments bore a very obvious red stain, though it would seem he wasn’t currently bleeding. Rather, his face looked wan, bleached of all color, and a healer as experienced as Asala knew he was dying from blood loss.

“He said he had to talk to you, Commander,” Reed offered to Leon, whose brows drew together over his eyes.

Asala quickly moved to Roderick's other side and gestured for Reed to gently lower him into a sitting position on the ground. Once there, Asala's hand lit up in a healing spell and she moved it over the wound. She tilted her head toward Leon and gave him a curt shake of his head. It... did not look good, and she doubted that he was within her power to save, but it would not stop her from trying. She focused in on his wound and began to try and help as much as she could-- at the very least, she could dull the pain.

"Charming girl," he said, having apparently caught the look she gave Leon. Roderick patted her gently on the head before he weakly turned her head toward Leon. "Ser Albrecht," he began, before wincing in pain. "There is a way. You wouldn't know it unless you've taken the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must've shown me," he said weakly, but still tried to reach his feet. A steadying hand from Asala and a constant healing spell at his said, she helped guide him up.

"Andraste must have shown me so I can-can tell you."

“What do you mean, Chancellor?” Leon’s tone seemed to waver between gentle and stern, as though he could not quite resolve the tension between the urgency of their situation and his evident sympathy for the cleric. “Shown you what?”

“It was whim that I walked the path,” he replied, his mind clearly not at its usual alert capacity, which was probably the result of the wound he’d taken earlier. “Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one that remembers
” He wheezed, a sound that might have been a rueful laugh, had he the lung capacity for it. “If this simple memory can save us
 then this could be more than mere accident.” He turned his head, clearly making an effort to fix his eyes on Romulus and Estella. “You could be more
”

“Will it work?” Estella asked urgently, training her gaze on Rilien and Leon. The commander turned to the Tranquil as well, perhaps trusting his instinct in clandestine retreat better than his own.

It did not take him long to consider. “Possibly. If you can show us the way.” His expression remained devoid of any readable traces, until he turned the scant bit needed to move his citrine eyes from Roderick to the others. “But it will take time, and the opposition must be occupied while it occurs.” The gravity of what he was saying was apparent in his pitch, somehow, though he didn’t modulate much at all. He was saying, clearly enough, that some group of people would need to remain behind and distract the encroaching force while the rest escaped. And the prospect of those people escaping was near to nothing.

"So we give them something they’ll be drawn to, as bait,” Romulus cut in, buckling on the second of his bracers. Estella looked as though she’d been about to speak, but yielded the floor when the now battle-geared assassin spoke up instead. His weapons were soon in his hands, making his next words perhaps less surprising. "I’ll go, with a few others maybe. I could try to reach one of the trebuchets, turn it towards the mountains behind us. Hit the right spot, and
” He pushed his hands down, a gesture symbolizing an avalanche as best he could make it.

"Bury them in the village they want to take?” Vesryn said, grinning slightly as he leaned on his spear, though he appeared largely uninjured. "Not a bad plan for our escape, but that doesn’t leave you with much of one.” Romulus had a look of steel in his eyes, and yet at the same time it had softened. Aggression towards the enemy, out of desire to help friends, perhaps.

"I was going to be gone in the morning anyway,” he admitted, glancing at Khari. "But this is a choice I can make. One choice of my own. I want it to be a good one.”

“I’m going with you.” That was Khari, and she said it with iron in her voice, a tone that left no room for protest. It didn’t take long, though, for that impression to almost dissipate, subsumed under her usual carefree demeanor, complete with reckless smile. “Can’t well run away while my friend goes off to fight a dragon and fire a trebuchet at a whole mountain, now can I?” She put one fist in her other palm in front of her chest, cracking her knuckles and shaking her hands out, shifting deliberately from one foot to another, as though to make sure everything was working the way she wanted it to.

Romulus simply nodded, offering no objection, and smiling slightly, as though unsurprised.

Estella glanced back and forth between them, still looking a bit like she’d swallowed something that didn’t agree with her, something tightening around her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Leonhardt didn’t seem especially pleased, either, but clearly he believed that the suggestion made sense, and he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said at last. “Give me a moment; I’ll see who among the others would join you—skilled as you are, the distraction needs to last, or it will be for naught.”

He left them there for several minutes, during which he made a short circuit of the room, returning with four Inquisition regulars, looking nervous but resolute, and, surprisingly enough, Grand Enchanter Fiona. She nodded to the group, smiling grimly. “I failed to protect my people once,” she explained, “I will not do so again.”

A pair of horns muscled their way toward the group and Meraad emerged with his arms crossed and his head tilted to the side. After a moment of him glancing between them, he nodded. "I will join you."

"No." The healing spell in Asala's hand cut off abruptedly and caused Roderick to wince as the pain rushed back. She shifted his weight so that Reed was left holding onto him again, and she moved toward Meraad. "No, you will not," she stated firmly as she stood in front of him. The frown she wore was deep and wide and she held his wrists as tight as she dared.

He simply smiled and shook his head. "I am, and I will." A muscle tightened in her jaw and she was about to refuse him again, but he silenced her by pressing his forehead gently against her. "For you, Kadan. I have to make sure you escape safely." With that said, he withdrew and threw a glance back at Romulus and Khari. "Someone has to make sure they come back," he said still smiling. "We will be fine. I promise," he said, kissing her forehead.

She was quiet after that, her mouth open but she didn't know what to say. She stared at him long and hard before she spoke again. "You... promise?" she asked, to which he nodded. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she went into the pack at her side. She retrieved a container and pulled the lid off to reveal a white, paint-like substance. She dipped a pair of fingers into it a scooped some out.

Without needing her to ask him, he leaned forward and she drew a pair of lines across his forehead with the vitaar, and another pair down his forehead, across his brow, and all the way to his jaw. He then offered her his arms, and she drew another pair of lines down each of them. When she was done, she replaced the lid, slipped the container back in her pack, and took a step backward. She was on the verge of tears, before she threw herself into his arms.

"Come back, Kadan," and with that, she returned to Roderick's side and resumed the healing spell, throwing herself back into her work.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Image

Estella had lost track of how many hours, how many miles, the Inquisition had walked since departing Haven. Their progress was understandably slow, considering the number of wounded. The cavalry’s horses, the ones they’d managed to round up for the retreat, had been given over to the injured, as had any spare space in the two supply carts they’d been able to muster in enough time. It wasn’t a lot, wasn’t near enough, but it was something. She supposed she should feel comforted by that, but she really didn’t.

As it had done so many times before, the necessity of continuing to move forward kept her from collapse, but it was a near thing. She simply led Nox, burdened down with two injured soldiers, along the trail the wagons had forged through the snow, near the back of the procession. The other Lions slogged nearby, she knew, but she hadn’t made eye contact with anyone for most of the time they’d been walking.

Now, they drew to a stop, far enough away for those in charge to feel comfortable making camp, and knowing that they had to, lest the injured become the dead. Handing Nox off to one of the soldiers so he could help the others down, Estella moved forwards into the camp and started to help pitch the tents, few as they were, the largest one devoted to the care of the wounded. Her hands moved mechanically, methodically, without any thought at all, because she was trying very hard not to have any. A few others laid all the blankets and such that they had down on the floors, and she caught sight of Leon and Hissrad assisting with the carrying of the most gravely hurt to the tent, where she expected Asala and Donovan and some of the other mages would soon be hard at work.

It would be nice, to have a use at a time like this. A real one.

When the tents were pitched, Estella helped dig a fire pit, then ventured out into the snowy landscape to find wood to burn in it. At present, no one told her she shouldn’t, because they couldn’t spare anyone the work needed to get the camp set up as soon as possible. Every time her thoughts wandered to the avalanche’s thundering down the mountainside into Haven or the sight of that dragon flying away, she shook her head and refocused, scanning the landscape for another dead tree or brush sticking up from under the snow. Every time she thought of Khari or Romulus or the party who held the gate, or Fiona or Tanith or Asala’s brother Meraad, she threw another branch over her shoulder and trekked it back to the site, not pausing before she struck out again.

Every time she thought of the people who’d died so that she could live, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and another step forward. What else could she do?

Each trip back to the fire pit brought her back to Cyrus, who’d started it with his magic and was now tending it, coaxing it to grow as large and warm as possible, feeding it gradually from the pile of wood she was bringing in so that it would burn long and steady. He’d also altered the shape of the pit, so that the outer perimeter of the fire could be used in several places for heating snow into drinkable water and cooking, things of that kind. He seemed to be doing so now, actually, a large cauldron set near the center of the flames, which licked up its thick, cast-iron sides. Several bags of supplies lay near where he sat, and water was beginning to boil in the cauldron, prompting him to begin adding other things. From what he had, it seemed their meal would be a thick stew of some kind.

Rilien could be seen on another side of the fire, steadily at work brewing potions, from the look of it, though his kit was quite small, probably being the only version of it he’d been able to stow on such short notice as they’d had. Already, though, several glass vessels were full and stoppered, stuck into the snow to cool rapidly for consumption. Larissa worked nearby, aiding him to the best of her abilities. Several other members of the Inquisition were hard at work building up a snow-wall to protect the camp from the worst of the wind, especially considering that there would not be enough tents and blankets for everyone. Out of those helping build the wall stood Sparrow, no worse for wear, possibly sporting a new wound or two, but it seemed as if she'd come out of the battle with all her limbs intact. Through chattering teeth and the occasional colorful cuss, she smoothed her fingers across the impromptu bricks and turned towards the nearest man to settle another brick in place.

Marceline had changed out of her nightgown, and now wore something more appropriate for the environment: a thick black dress and heavy leather boots. She kept Pierre close as they moved through the camp, handing out the water to those who needed it, one of whom was her husband, Michaël. He sat heavily against the cart, another soldier working to patch the cut that opened above his eye. When not watching his family, he seemed to gaze off into the distance, with a glaze to his eyes.

Zahra had positioned herself on the outskirts of their makeshift base camp. Mumbled something about keeping her eyes on the horizon in case any dragons flapped over the mountains, though if that were the case, everyone would know without her say so. In any case, they hadn't directed her anywhere, and allowed her to slink off by herself. She hadn't changed out of her bloody leathers, nor donned any warm cloaks. Hers had burned along with everyone else's belongings back in Haven.

She'd refused treatment from any of the healers, and upon close inspection, there wasn't anything inherently wrong with her. No physical wounds, no new scars, nothing at all. She hunkered herself down in the snow, just outside one of the tents, hands wrapped around her knees. Chin tipped across her knees, lips set into a hard line. The Captain looked less like the intimidating woman who had born down on the Inquisition, lips perpetually drawn into that shit-eating grin of hers and more like a lost little girl, motionless and unusually silent.

Eventually, on one of Estella's trips to retrieve more wood, though they had acquired enough for the fire to last already, she found Vesryn already out there, separated away from the rest of the group as well. There were scouts still about as well, those not too severely injured, but for the most part, they were beyond the earshot of anyone within the camp, especially when speaking softly, gently, as Vesryn did.

"I won't pretend to know what you're going through," he said. He looked uncomfortable himself, obviously unsure how to proceed. His hands rested upon the blade of his axe, his eyes hovering with concern over Estella. Throughout all the fighting, somehow he'd managed to only acquire a single, minor wound, treated by a tight wrap around his left arm near the elbow. "But if there's any way I can help, any way at all, please, tell me."

His words brought her up short, and for a moment, she struggled to understand their meaning. That, after all, required something more than automatic motion. When they finally clicked into place, though, she cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably where she’d stopped and looking at her feet. “It’s not me,” she murmured softly, and then she forced herself to look up, meeting his eyes and smiling awkwardly. “I’m not the one to worry about right now, I think.” In the end, all she was doing was feeling sorry for herself.

Asala was the one who’d lost a brother. Zahra had lost her most stalwart crewman, a member of her family. Rilien had lost one of his oldest friends. Romulus and Khari
 they’d lost their lives, they and so many others. Probably everyone here had lost someone—a compatriot, a friend, a family member or a lover. But now she was thinking about it, and she hadn’t meant to do that. Estella felt a hot sting at the back of her eyes, and dropped them again, gulping in a deep breath, trying to blink away the moisture and failing.

“Sorry, I, um.” She used the heel of her left hand to wipe off her cheeks and exhaled a shaky breath, trying not to let herself get caught up in her emotions. There were certainly a lot of them, dark and churning through her head like a violent tide.

Vesryn was quick to set down his axe against a nearby tree and cross the space between them, such that he was within arm's reach. "Listen." He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly, and ducking his head down a little so that they'd be closer to even in height. "There are dozens of reasons why you're worth worrying about right now. And only a few of them have to do with you being a Herald, or important, or anything of the sort." He spoke the title almost dismissively, as though in that particular moment it meant quite little to him indeed.

"Here's a reason for you: you're a good person. A selfless person. I've seen it. And you had to witness people make sacrifices that our blighted circumstances stopped you from helping with, or lessening. To me, that's something far more heavy to endure, and not something Asala can magically make go away." His other hand rose to her other shoulder. "I can't cast any spells, and I don't know any of the others enough to help them. But I hope I can help you. I want to."

She swallowed thickly, trying to fight down the lump that was forming in her throat. Vesryn’s face swam in and out of clarity as more tears gathered, and still she fought them back. What he was describing
 all of them had needed to witness that. He’d know—he’d been right there the whole time as well. So why was she the only one who couldn’t seem to handle it right now? How was it that everyone else was still moving, still doing what needed to be done, when what they’d suffered was at least as much as what she had?

How was it that none of them were blaming her for it?

“Don’t die then,” she said, struggling to force the words out in some steady, comprehensible way. “They died because I’m the Herald. Because they believed that this—” she held up her right hand, where the mark glowed even through her glove—“made me worth that sacrifice.” Not all of them, maybe. Certainly not Rom or Khari, but the majority of the Inquisition’s soldiers
 “Please.” She met his eyes, blinking to clear hers and make sure she had them, her voice cracking and fading to a whisper. “Promise me you won’t die for me.”

Even to phrase it that way sounded absurd to her own ears, like the height of arrogance. To presume that anyone would bother. But at the same time, she knew that many of them had. For the Herald, they’d said. She couldn’t bear it.

Vesryn actually smiled, exhaling a soft, breathy laugh. Her emotion was obviously proving somewhat infectious, though he managed to keep it within himself much better than she did. "Come here." He pulled her into an embrace, wrapping one arm around her, the other pressed against her dark hair. "I'll have you know I'm very good at not dying. I have plans to grow old and grouchy, entertaining hordes of adorable little children with tales of my heroics." There was a glint of light in his eyes, but whether it was tears or amusement was difficult to say. Likely a bit of both. She huffed weakly, something that might have been a laugh in better circumstances, and tentatively returned the hug, making obvious effort to keep her breathing steady.

"I will not lay down my life for a title anyone has, or a magic ability they wield. I have another life in my head to protect besides, remember? But she gave me the skill to follow in her ideals, and they would have me oppose whatever force tried to obliterate us tonight." He broke the embrace so that he could have her eyes again, swallowing. "And they would have me do everything in my power to help you succeed."

“Okay.” Estella nodded shakily, but she was gradually regaining the feeling of having her feet properly beneath her, of having a way to go forward, and the declaration was as much for herself as for him. She knew from experience that as along as she had a way to go, she could keep going until she was numb and half-dead. She’d done so before, in ways both literal and figurative. What they needed to do now was decide which way forward was. She knew at least one thing that had to happen for that, too. Maybe
 maybe he could help with that, as well.

“I-in your travels
 have you ever come across anyplace big enough to hold us? Somewhere we could go, without imposing on anyone else?” She knew of a few old mercenary forts that stood empty across the Orlesian countryside, but none of them were large enough. It was possible that he’d once encountered some ruins that were, or perhaps Saraya knew of some. “If we’re to have a hope
 we need somewhere to plant ourselves, all of us together.”

Vesryn nodded thoughtfully, but didn't seem surprised by the query. "We've given some thought to this. There is a place that I can show you. It's far from here, to the north. It'll be a hard journey through the mountains, but I can show you." He looked tentative about the next part, taking a step back and letting his hands fall to his sides. "I believe it will serve the Inquisition well... but I don't know how the Inquisition will react, having an elf lead them to a home. I can lead troops in a battle, but I can never be the heart of this Inquisition."

He shrugged. "That, more than ever, needs to be you. I'll be there, step for step, but I think you should lead the way."

“What? No.” There was more than one thing in that to protest, but she felt most strongly about a particular piece of it. “You two are the ones who know where it is—everyone should know that it’s your doing that gets us there.” It was, of course, impossible to explain Saraya to everyone, but Vesryn at least should be acknowledged for what he contributed to the cause. “I’ve no reservations following you if you know where to go, and neither should anyone else.” If the title and everything that came with it were to do any good, at least she should try and lead by example, in this case, the example of accepting help and wise counsel, whether it came from an elf or not.

"Think about this," he urged, still gently. "The Inquisition suffered a blow, a hard one, but one that it can still recover from. But it will never rise like it needs to without a leader. I don't believe you were chosen by Andraste, but I don't need to because I know you. The world must believe it, and they won't if they hear that the lone Herald of Andraste followed an elf every step of the way. The right thing to do here... it has to be giving these people the hope they need. It doesn't matter if Andraste chose you or not. You have the ability, the opportunity, to make their hope real. And I believe you can do it."

Anguish morphed her features. “That’s the same lie that just killed hundreds of people,” she replied, just as gently. “And I have to tell it again?” She shook her head slowly, her brows knitting tightly over her eyes. Even if she wasn’t saying it directly, by not denouncing it, she was allowing it to stand uncontested, which was enough of an endorsement. Deep down, she knew he was right, or at least, she suspected he was. She knew it was the same advice Marceline or Leon or Rilien would give her, but it didn’t make her feel any less like dirt.

She exhaled heavily, her breath clouding in the chill, and felt a new weight settle over her shoulders that had nothing to do with hauling wood. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to do this, to let people believe this, before she cracked under the pressure of it. But if she had to be the bad person here, the liar and the fake
 would it be worth it, for what they achieved?

Estella had to believe it would be. Had to believe the lie and the false front would be enough to accomplish what they needed to. She lamented that she wasn’t strong enough to do this as herself, but she couldn't be. To most of them, she would have to be something she wasn’t; she’d have to let them believe it. Just long enough.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll
 I’ll lead. But you have to be next to me. If I can’t follow you
 everyone else can.” She tried for a half-smile, shrugging one shoulder. “The world needs to know that’s possible, too, the sooner the better.”

He smiled, the expression coming more easily to him, as it always did. "I've no problem with that."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
A week of travel had taken its toll.

The Inquisition was drastically undersupplied, even in terms of camp equipment, and on most nights, the vast majority of its people slept outside, under their cloaks with their bundled gear by way of pillows, if they had any. Leon had done his rotations outside with the soldiers, and he knew that Estella and the other officers had done the same. The lack of good rest made the days even more wearying, and the horses and carts necessarily went with priority to the injured, leaving most to trek the snowy miles by foot. A large number of the most gravely wounded had succumbed to their injuries or infection or the cold—there simply weren’t enough potions and healers to go around.

For all that, though, they’d kept going. Part of it was undoubtedly the fact that every time one of the regulars looked up and forward, they could see their Herald at the front of the column, breaking the ground over which they would eventually tread, the other leaders fanned out behind her. Periodically she would consult those nearest her, and she called breaks in trekking regularly, but at the conclusion of every one, she was walking forward again. Even that much was enough to make clear that the Inquisition, like its remaining leadership, yet had purpose, destination, and the will to reach it.

But after a long week slogging through the mountains, even the most faithful believer in the cause grew nearly unbearably weary, and that discontent was beginning to seed in the ranks, many of whom could be heard to wonder aloud why they had not simply turned east, for the Hinterlands they already held, or west, towards potential allies in Orlais. Either would have been far warmer than this, and safer. They’d nearly lost one cart to a narrow and unstable pass already—it would have been a loss they could not sustain.

Fortunately, he had the suspicion that they neared the end of their trek. It was something he read off the way Estella’s tread lightened, the way she’d smiled the last time she’d paused to update directions from Vesryn. Presently, they crested another rise, sundown almost upon them, and Leon halted at the sight below.

Farther down the path before them lay a castle.

Composed of grey granite, it wasn’t enormous by the standards of such constructions, but it wasn’t modest, either. Connected to their present course by a stone bridge over a deep chasm, the castle proper was perched firmly upon the top of another rise, one that stood apart from the mountains to two of its sides, the third side falling off sharply down into a canyon beneath. It was eminently defensible from the ground, the only way in through a system of gates on the bridge, protected by guard towers.

It had roughly eight towers, two in the back considerably larger than the rest, as well as the central building, which was twice as broad again, but perhaps fifty feet shorter, lending it a sense of symmetry. It was hard to make out from this far, but the grounds within looked expansive enough to contain all the things one would expect: bailey, stables, smaller buildings; enough space for a village’s worth of people, at least. Leon noted also that several of the towers looked to be on the verge of collapse, and would need immediate attention from a mason, or rather many of them. Then again
 it was probably quite old.

"We certainly have a project ahead of ourselves, yes?" Lady Marceline stated as she pulled up beside him on her black Orlesian Courser. Behind her, Michaël led another, this one bearing a dozing Pierre. Though she spoke the words, she still seemed relieved to have finally reached their destination.

“So it seems,” he agreed pensively.

It was still a relief to see it at last, and as he trailed in the wake of the Herald, he couldn’t help but turn back periodically to assess the reactions of the others. They seemed, for the most part, both impressed and bolstered by the sight of their destination, and that eased his worry a bit. It wasn’t near the end of the work they had to do, but at least things like roofs, beds, and baths were in the foreseeable future, now. He knew from experience that these were the things that beckoned most to soldiers weary from long, hard marching.

They deserved this. To be able to sleep indoors, warm and comfortable. To not have to huddle close in hopes of conserving what warmth was to be had, or rotate with their fellows for the spots closest to the campfire. After what they’d been through, they deserved a fair bit more than that, as well, but Leon knew it was important to focus on one thing at a time for the moment.

The gates themselves proved old, but mostly still in working condition, and they were able to get all three of the ones across the bridge raised, and funnel their people, animals, and supplies through without difficulty. The bridge was missing a few chunks out of the side, which made for more careful going in places, but the underlying structure appeared quite sound.

After the final gate put them in a wide area of shriveled brown grass and weeds, Leon directed the carts be placed under a stone overhead seemingly designed with the purpose in mind, and then they were unloaded, quite quickly considering how little there was to unload. The scouts came back shortly after with an idea of which buildings were immediately accessible, which fortunately included what had to be the barracks, so the regulars had somewhere to set their things, anyway.

While they worked on settling in and getting off their feet for a while, Leon gathered some of the others to himself in hopes of making a more detailed survey of what they were working with. Cyrus and Asala should stay with the healers and continue tending the wounded for the moment, and he didn’t want to disturb Zahra, but himself, Rilien, Marceline, Estella and Vesryn might as well figure out what they now had.

“Might as well start with the main hall, I suppose.”

It was Rilien who tried the door first, and though it stuck initially, it opened when he put his shoulder into it, a cloud of dust billowing about at its motion for the first time in what might well have been centuries. The group stepped inside, to find that the situation with respect to the castle’s condition was even more dire than had been evident from the outside. The chamber they entered had vaulted ceilings as grand as any architecture in Orlais, but that was, for the moment, where the similarity ended.

This room, like the rest of the building, was built primarily from grey stone, likely pulled at some point from the mountain itself, and much, though not all of it, had remained intact. The room was longer away from them than it was wide, and clearly once served as a receiving hall. A dais at the end of it seemed poised to hold a throne, and the depressions along either side would serve well for long tables.

Of course, all of the wood in the space, and much of what must have once been its furnishings and decorations, were in utter ruins. Massive beams of wood lay over the floors, rotted and torn fabric dangling here and there from splinters or else lying strewn over the ground. It was impossible to tell so much as what color they’d once had, so advanced was their decay. The smell was not as bad as it could have been, considering, but the thick layer of choking dust over everything made breathing a labor nevertheless.

Rilien, at least, seemed unperturbed, scanning over the features of the chamber with no detectable feelings on the matter. “We ought not risk moving too much of the debris, but some of these doors are unblocked.” Several flanked each side of the hall, and he was correct that at least half of them looked to be useable without risk of further damage.

Marceline's eyes were turned upward, as though she was worried their intrusion would bring the roof down around their ears. However, a few more steps into the main hall seemed to have settled her as she instead looked toward a door on the left side of the hall. She pointed toward it and turned back to look at the others. "Shall we?" she asked. She then began to pick her way through the debris, careful to not to trip over anything, to reach the door in question. She took its latch in hand gingerly and gave a pull, but it fought against her and refused to swing wide. She huffed a little and pulled again, this time putting more weight into it until something snapped. Instead of swinging open, the door's rusted hinges snapped and tipped forward toward Marceline.

Vesryn found himself in the opportune place and swiftly reached armored hands out to catch the door, subsequently trapping Marceline in a rather small space between the flat surface of the door braced by his palms, and the chest of the elf himself. He laughed a bit uncomfortably, but did not seem displeased by the development. "Fear not, my lady. I will prevent such a low, dastardly foe as this door from marring your beauty." There was at least enough room for her to slip out, if she were willing to duck and squeeze. Which she did.

"That would be a such shame. My thanks, Ser Vesryn," she said with a smile. Grunting, he shifted the door to the side, and set it up against the wall.

With that dealt with, they entered through the now bare door frame and through another door that did not break into a side room. The room itself was of moderate size, with one half built three steps into the floor. The upper part of the floor made a pathway that led to another door at the far end of the room, while the lower part held a grand fireplace built into the wall. Like the main hall, the floor was littered with splinters of wood and torn pieces of fabric. Marceline descended the steps into the lower part of the room and placed a hand on the fireplace. As she ran her hand across the mantle, she looked around studying the room. Once she was done, she turned to face the others.

"If we are to stay here, then I will keep this room in mind for my office, if you all would allow it," she said, allowing her hand to fall from the mantle. The fireplace seemed to have found a way into her heart.

With the room thoroughly inspected, she took the steps onto the upper landing and continued to the doorway at the far end. Once through the portal they were met with a long hallway built onto the contours of the mount they were on, by the way the floor rose upward by a set of two stairs. To the right, windows were built into the wall, but the glass that once filled them were long gone. Near the end of the hall, the wall gave way to crumbling masonry, allowing them a good view of the mountain range to their side. Marceline frowned as she looked at it and shook her head, her displeasure clear.

Estella simply gave it a careful berth, skirting around the structural deficiency and towards the door at the end of the long hallway. She was careful with it, perhaps seeking to avoid a repeat of Marceline’s ill fortune, but she needn’t have worried, for the door opened easily, if with a grating squeak of hinges. She winced, glancing back over her shoulder at the rest of them. “Sorry.”

Leon suspected apologizing was a reflex for her at this point, so he simply shook his head, following her into the room on the other side.

It was quite spacious, semicircular at the far end, and contained a bank of vertical windows on that side, most of them at least partly broken out as well. Here too was the same evidence of former furniture and furnishing, now destroyed, as well as some clear weather-damage, where rain or snow had worn away at things over long decades of no maintenance. What might have once been a massive chandelier was the main piece of debris in the room, broken and scattered in all directions.

“You know, it’s almost like the place was attacked,” Estella mused, stepping carefully over various chunks of debris to the windows. It looked like they faced out to the mountain behind. “Or maybe just
 ransacked, after it was left last.” It was hard to imagine bandits all the way out here, but Leon had to agree that it did look like that way. Furniture didn’t rot itself into smashed condition, after all.

“Well, let’s hope it suffers no such ill luck whilst we’re present, shall we?” he replied wryly. The room would do well as a meeting one, though—he’d been able to save most of his maps from Haven, and a new table for them would easily fit in here; there was standing room for as many people as he could imagine needing to address at once, in such a situation. It would seem that, however much work it required beforehand, the castle would at least be able to meet their needs.

“What’s this place called, anyway?” Leon asked, glancing between Estella and Vesryn.

"Tarasyl'an Te'las," Vesryn answered simply, though he seemed well aware that further explanation would be required. "I expect that wouldn't do for a name to spread far and wide, of course, and the fortress itself is Ferelden, not elvish. The words mean 'the place where the sky was held back.' For our purposes... Skyhold, I think will do."

“Skyhold it is, then.” Quite the grandiose name, really, but the that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now
 they just had to get it in the kind of shape that deserved the designation.

“
we’d better get to work.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
“My, my. Don’t you look official.”

Cyrus could tell from one look at Estella that she was not at all comfortable in her current raiment. Someone had made her a light shirt of polished, silverite ringmail, which fell almost to her knees. Her trousers were ordinary dark linen, but russet and gold fabric was predominant throughout the rest, with a few touches of red. Her chestpiece was dyed leather, impressed with the Inquisition’s heraldry, the all-seeing eye and the blade of mercy, as well as designs thematic of flames and the sun, which carried through to her pauldrons and the silk sash that took the ringmail in at her waist and held her sword. The part of the shirt from the waist down was layered over with a skirt of sorts, an abstract sunburst in yellow patterned onto darker orange. Her boots were the color of her other leathers, banded in silverite for reinforcement. She’d bound her hair back into an Orlesian-style braid, which trailed down the rather impressive cloak behind her. It was all the sort of thing someone of status would wear to an official function, which was precisely what today was to be. Naturally, his sister likely thought it all beyond what she deserved or was suited to.

Deserving was such a peculiar notion. He couldn’t say he really understood whatever version of it she operated with. At the moment, however, the abstract thought wasn’t the one that occupied him, and he plucked a pin off the table and moved forward to her side, flattening a little flyaway hair down atop her head and using the pin to secure it in place. He was himself back in indigo and black silk, much more at home in such things than she was. He, of course, had to look presentable as well, because he was now the brother of an Inquisitor, something which amused him a great deal more for her obvious apprehension than anything else. Something about Estella’s discomfort with attention had always struck him as slightly absurd, and funny, but he knew it wasn’t so for her.

So when he stepped away from her, he gentled his smile and took her hands, lifting them to press his palms against her own and lace their fingers for a moment. He ducked his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine, Stellulam.” His eyes narrowed, and his tone was lighter when he continued. “They can’t be any more unbearable than me, and you already have that problem well in hand, don’t you?”

She half-smiled in that way she had that wasn’t quite all the way to happy, and shook her head ruefully. “Not everyone out there is my brother, Cyrus. And you’re not unbearable. Just
 difficult.” She was joking with him, at least, which was a good sign, perhaps.

Still, it didn’t take long for the sense of unease to return to her, and she sighed shakily, her hands tightening in his. “I don’t suppose you know some back way out of Skyhold, do you? So we can escape if there are riots?” That joke, at least, fell flat, symptomatic of the all-too-serious way in which it was delivered.

Cyrus raised both eyebrows, letting his reply remain ambiguous between jesting and complete seriousness. “Stellulam, the day you genuinely want out of all of this, I will carve you a path out of Skyhold if I have to.” He tilted his head to the side and blinked down at her.

“But today, I think, is not that day, despite its trials.” When she didn’t correct him—of course she wouldn’t—he dropped one of her hands and moved himself sideways, adjusting her other so that it rested on his forearm. “Now. Please allow your first loyal subject to escort you to all your new ones.” Escort was really too formal a term, since all they’d be doing is entering the main hall through one of the side doors, but nevertheless, appearances were important.

She took the opportunity of their positioning to elbow him in the ribs before resettling her hand on his arm. “Don’t even start with that,” she scolded him, though a fair amount of the disapproval in her tone was exaggerated. Estella sucked in a deep breath and straightened her spine, giving him a short nod to indicate that they could proceed.

The door they were behind in the first place led right out into the front part of the hall, which necessitated a bit of a procession forward to the far end with the dais, but then, this had likely been deliberately arranged. The room had been one of the first repaired, and was now decorated in much the same warm palette of colors as Estella was wearing, a dark crimson carpet runner aligned with the path up to the modest throne that now sat atop the dais.

Estella’s step hitched beside him; likely someone had neglected to inform her of this particular detail, though her face didn’t change. Members of the Inquisition were variously standing or seated at the sides of the room, where twin long tables had been set with matching chairs, and new chandeliers hung over each, to complement the light pouring in from the elegant stained-glass windows behind the throne. It would have quite the effect, once someone was seated in the chair itself, which was designed to complement the rest of the dĂ©cor, hammered metal and a flowing design giving it the gleam and depth of flame, particularly when it reflected light from elsewhere.

Though there was far from enough room to admit the entire Inquisition force in the main hall, there was certainly a large portion of it, including all the officers, most of the irregulars, and all three of the organization’s subdivision leaders, the last of whom stood just beneath the dais.

Cyrus ascended the first few steps with her, shifting effortlessly to take her hand and guide her up the last few to the top without him, smiling up at her with a distinct sense of mischief and winking so only she could see, backing down the stairs to land on a level with the rest, leaving her to stand in front of the throne by herself, facing the crowd.

Lady Marceline was the first to move after that. She took long, deliberate steps to deliver her below Estella and the throne, when she turned to face the gathered Inquisition forces. She wore an immaculate black dress stitched with silver embroidery and the Inquisition Heraldry sewn onto either shoulder. Her hair held gentle curls and seemed to have been groomed especially for this occasion. In fact, she seemed to have prepared for it extensively. Dark eyeliner lined her bright ocean blue eyes, and her lips were painted an intense cherry red. She stood with a regal bearing with her hands folded against her stomach.

The moment was allowed to simmer as she did not immediately begin speaking. Instead, she looked into the throne room, meeting the eyes of many of the individuals that had gathered, a gentle but proud smile on her face. She was silent for a time, but when she began to speak, her words carried all throughout the room. "Those of you who have gathered with us here today," she began her hands motioning along with her words, "We are the Inquisition," she continued, her hand turning to a fist, "Those that would stand before us will soon realize that we will not be defeated so easily, not when our hearts still beat and we still draw breath!" she paused to allow for a swell of voices.

"Haven was a defeat," she said, solemnly, before her voice began to rise again, "But it was not the end! The Inquisition still lives. We will rise from the ashes of Haven, stronger and more determined. We will step forward with a righteous fervor, and continue forward until the enemies that sought to eradicate the us lay behind us! Men and women of the Inquisition, will you follow?" She asked to the agreement of all of those in the throne room.

She smiled against and glanced backward to Estella before she continued. "But we cannot do so without a leader, a shining light to follow in the darkest of days. A light that has already guided us from the ashes and to this place that the Inquisition now calls home. It is her example we should follow, her kindness we should remember. Our Herald. Our Inquisitor," she said, a genuine smile on her cherry lips.

Marceline turned to Leon and accepted a golden sword by the blade. It was ceremonial in nature, its hilt intricately designed to hold the impression of a dragon. Turning back to Estella, Marceline gazed up and held the sword out horizontally for her to take. "Lady Estella Avenarius, will you lead the Inquisition?"

Estella stood tall, holding herself with a poise Cyrus knew she believed to be mere affectation, and when she reached forward to accept the blade offered to her, those closest could see that her hands shook. She took it as it was presented, horizontally, and then stepped back a pace.

“I will,” she replied, her tone velvet-coated iron, heavy with resolve and soft with her natural inclination towards reserve. She shifted her grip on the unwieldy object, tilting the blade down until the tip of it balanced on the floor, putting both hands on the hilt, which rose to the center of her chest.

“Lady Inquisitor Avenarius.” Leon spoke solemnly, projecting to be heard by everyone, and bowed at the waist towards her, holding the position. The rest of the room took its cue from him, one by one inclining themselves or taking a knee where they stood, raising their fists to their hearts. Cyrus himself placed his open hand there, sweeping low. Silence pervaded for several heartbeats, until she spoke again.

“Rise, Inquisition,” she said, and they did, to find that she wore a smile, gentle and mild. “I will lead, but I will not do so alone. Here beside me now stand people who have made all of this, our efforts to close the Breach and now our efforts against the Elder One, possible. Here before me now, and out beyond this room, strive others, without whose support the Inquisition would falter and fade. A leader is nothing and no one without those that follow her, and I’m no different.”

She lifted her chin, to look down towards the end of the hallway. “And with us now are two people whose accomplishments, whose contributions to the cause, deserve great recognition, and more grandiose words than these. Knight-Captain SĂ©verine Lacan and Miss Aurora Rose, please approach.” This part, at least, she seemed more comfortable with. He supposed that was because she'd be able to shift the attention away from herself for a while.

Aurora approached with a smile on her face, not directed to Estella the Inquisitor, but rather, the Estella beneath the title it seemed. They'd known of each other long before the Inquisition was a thought in someone's mind, and even a small bit of pride seemed to be in Aurora's face as she looked up to the new Inquisitor. The woman, while not a circle mage herself, wore the finely made robes of an Enchanter.

SĂ©verine's approach was not as openly friendly as Aurora's, though it was genuinely proud, and tall. Her Knight-Captain's plate was polished to a glimmering shine, robes freshly cleaned and smoothed. Her ebony hair was draped about her in several separate braids, purely for ceremonial purposes. She stopped beside Aurora, gauntleted hands clasped behind her back.

Estella’s smile inched fractionally wider. “Both of you came to the Inquisition as our allies. The leader of the Free Mages of Thedas, and a Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s Templar Order. And those things you will remain. But
 I would like to ask you also to become something else. You’ve both proven your courage and skill beyond the shadow of doubt. If you are willing, I would have each of you take the role of Captain in the Inquisition’s army, so that you might continue to lead your fellows in our name.”

She shifted the ceremonial blade to one side, holding it in her left hand. “Will you swear your loyalty to the Inquisition, to serve the people of Thedas, until such time as the threat it rises to meet has been vanquished and it is dissolved?" She said the words carefully, deliberately, and the silence from all the rest of the gathered was absolute, not so much as a shifting of a chair or a throat clearing to be heard from anyone.

SĂ©verine was the first to take a step forward, and she settled down upon a knee, shifting her hands atop it. "It would be my honor, Inquisitor." The lines of her face were hard, and genuine. A new scar from the battle at Haven rested across the bridge of her nose. "For those that have already sacrificed all, I will continue to serve, until the threat has been destroyed, and the peace restored."

Aurora's acceptance wasn't nearly so grand. She followed SĂ©verine to her knee, her smile slipping away into something far more solemn. "I will," she said simply, but firmly, inclining her head at the words.

Estella inclined her head and raised the blade, touching first each of SĂ©verine’s shoulders, and then each of Aurora’s. “Then I give to each of you the title and rank of Captain, and all the rights and responsibilities it carries with it. Rise, and join your fellows.”

When they had departed to the sides of the room, Estella seemed to hesitate, for just a moment. The plan here had simply been for her to dismiss the assembled, allowing them to go about their business so that she could go about hers, but she did not immediately do so. Instead, her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before she raised them again and cast them out over the soldiers. “I know that it still seems bleak,” she said, and she swallowed visibly. “What we all saw that day—all those soldiers, and a dragon, and everything else
 it’s hard to keep hoping for the best after seeing something like that. After losing your friends, or comrades, or people who were family to you.”

She frowned grimly, and shook her head. “And I know that it took courage, to keep going after that. Any one of you, any one of us, could have chosen to give up then, to let the responsibility for this fall onto the shoulders of others. You could have gone home, to your families and the people you love and the lives you knew, and held all of that close to you, in a way that those we lost can no longer do.” Her grip on the sword tightened until her knuckles were white. “And we’re asking a lot of you. I’m asking a lot of you, when I ask you to take on faith that this can be done, and that we will achieve it.”

She was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I can’t express to you how grateful I am that you’re still here. Still willing to fight for this. Nothing I can say or do will be enough to thank you for the choice you made, the one you make every day you remain. But I
 I can make you a promise. I promise you that I’ll never give up, on this or on you. Whatever happens, however grim this gets, whatever becomes of me, I can keep going. Because I know that you’re willing to do the same. This isn’t my Inquisition—it’s yours. And when we defeat the Elder One
 that victory will not be mine.

It will be ours.”

Cyrus started the applause, half-smiling and clapping his hands together twice. That was all it took—the rest of the crowd joined him soon afterwards in a generous swell of noise. It would seem something she’d said had resonated with them. Perhaps all of it had. The words weren’t the most elegant or poetic, but they were genuine, and honest, obviously so, and he suspected that was what stirred them most of all.

With the ceremonies having drawn to a close, most of those present were dismissed, and returned to their regular duties. Some remained, for now came the other part of the day’s events: Stellulam was to sit in judgement of the Inquisition’s prisoners, and Cyrus could not claim to be looking forward to the first item on the docket.

For these purposes, less formality was required, and Estella was relieved of the ceremonial sword, though she did have to actually sit on the throne, which provided him with another flicker of amusement. Once everyone was settled, the eyes in the room turned to Marceline, who had the list of matters to be addressed. He knew well what was on it, but there were certain procedures that had to be observed regardless.

Marceline gazed down at the list, which had been delivered to her by Larissa moments ago with a clipboard. "Lady Estella," she began, looking up from the clipboard as she spoke. "You, of course, remember Cassius Viridius of Tevinter, yes?" It was difficult to forget the man. "Ferelden has allowed us to keep him within our custody. The formal charges levied against Lord Viridius are attempted enslavement of the Free Mages of Thedas, as well as attempted assassination against you and others of the Inquisition."

Behind them, the rattling of chains signified the man in question being brought in. "Tevinter has since publicly denounced his actions and stripped him of his rank due to these crimes," she explained though there were a flutter of her eyes. It seemed that she did not put much stock in Tevinter's denouncement.

Estella’s brows visibly furrowed, and she glanced over at Cyrus, concern clear in her eyes, but she turned back directly afterwards, regarding Cassius with an expression best called thoughtfulness. “Have you anything to say on your own behalf, Lord Viridius?”

Time in the Inquisition’s custody had done little to erode Cassius’s natural dignity, and even cuffed in manacles with his feet bound together, he stood tall and commanding. He appeared to regard those around him carefully, but with an ill-concealed disdain. The question brought his attention to Estella herself for perhaps the first time since he’d entered. There was a certain irony in the picture they made: once, Stellulam had stood before the Magister on his throne, and petitioned him for his cooperation. Now, it was he that stood before her, and she that was throned, however uncomfortable Cyrus knew she was there.

He had to admit, he liked this version of the image a great deal more.

When his teacher spoke, it was in a voice raspy from disuse, but still genteel, the Imperial accent clear without being thick. “We all make choices. Sometimes, we choose imprudently. I acted to protect my House and my family, and I do not regret that, nor do I apologize for it. Kill me if you will, but I shan’t confess any wrongdoing.” He seemed resigned at least to the fact that his fate was truly in her hands, but he quite evidently yet retained his pride.

It would be a cold day in a Seheron summer before Cassius ever admitted that anything he did was wrong. That much had never changed. Magisters did not apologize. They did not regret, either—at least not publicly. Sometimes, they chose poorly, but that was always the fault of incomplete information or unpredictable circumstance, never the Magister. To admit error was to admit weakness, and weakness was fatal in the Magisterium and the decadent culture of nobility that surrounded it. Better to risk death at the hand of someone generally benevolent than to expose one’s bleeding wounds to the sharks in Minrathous.

Estella wore an expression that was melancholy, but not surprised. She’d been raised at the very periphery of that world, but no one was truly free of it. Pursing her lips, she moved her eyes from Cassius to Leonhardt, Marceline, and Rilien. “You know as much of his deeds as I do, and he brings nothing further in his defense. What would you do?”

Leon scowled slightly, shaking his head. “Truthfully? I’d let Ferelden have him. He ran the Arl of Redcliffe out of his castle, and they’re not particularly amenable to us right now, either. Handing him over may ease Arl Teagan’s soreness, and he has the ear of the King.” She considered that for a moment, then looked to Lady Marceline, who nodded her agreement.

"It would certainly go towards easing over our relations with Ferelden, and we will need as many allies as possible."

“Kill him.” That was Rilien, blunt and monotone as usual. “Ferelden would do the same, and remanding him to their custody would cause the impression that we either lack the authority or the will to punish him. At this early stage especially, we cannot be believed to be missing either one.”

Cyrus had not moved his stare from Cassius the entire time, and now the old man was looking back at him, too, as though expecting him to agree with the tranquil. And really, perhaps he should. He’d certainly been in that frame of mind when Cassius had first surrendered; only Stellulam had stayed his hand then. He doubted she would want to kill him now, either, and wondered if she would do it. He figured she’d see little distinction between ordering it herself and sending him to Ferelden to receive the same.

That was one very rare way in which they might just be alike. Memory seized him momentarily, and he glanced down at his own hands, at the ghost-image of the blood that would always be upon them, when he looked the right way. There was part of him that hated Cassius, had hated him even before all of this. But he wondered if that was the only part there was. Could even he truly despise someone who’d raised him, more a father than anyone he’d ever known? Which part was more despicable: the part that did, or the part that didn’t?

With a sharp breath, Cyrus snapped himself back to the present, speaking abruptly. “Killing him would be a waste. Letting Ferelden do so would be marginally less of one, but still much less use than he could be.” He let that sink in a second, then continued dispassionately. “That man, for all his many faults, is one of the most brilliant magical minds in Thedas. One of two people to ever succeed in the manipulation of time, and a scholar of towering intellect. He’s not to be trusted, but he can be relied upon to always act in his own interest, and that of his House. He doesn’t care about anything else.” He shrugged, keenly aware that he could just about be describing himself with the same words.

“Make him an offer he can’t refuse, and his work will pay the Inquisition a thousandfold what it takes to keep him imprisoned and fed.”

Estella looked to be deep in thought, glancing from him back to Cassius, then over at the others. Leon lifted a shoulder, conveying clearly enough that it was her decision to make, and she frowned slightly. “I think
 that we need what resources we can muster, as you’ve all pointed out, in one way or another.” She shifted her attention to Cassius, and spoke politely, but with a firmness uncommon to her.

“What you’ve done, what you tried to do, cannot go ignored, Lord Viridius. You’ve incurred a debt to the Inquisition, and you’ll have to pay it. Work for us until this is over, spend your nights in a prison cell, and you’ll keep your life. You’ll be supervised at all times by a templar and a mage to guard you, and be given limited access to the materials necessary for your work. If you attempt to escape or circumvent the conditions of this punishment by working sub-standardly or intentionally subverting us, I’m quite certain Cyrus will be able to inform us, and this process will happen again, with no third option. Are the terms of your sentence clear to you?”

Cassius’s jaw was tight, but he nodded, even inclining himself slightly in a bowing motion, though it was clearly difficult for him to do. “You are most merciful, Lady Inquisitor. I shall bear your conditions in mind.”

With that, he was escorted out by the guard, presumably to whatever cell they were keeping him in. Cyrus wasn’t sorry to see him go. He glanced at Marceline. He hadn’t the faintest idea who was next.

Marceline looked at the list in her hand again, but after reading it closed her eyes and began to rub her brow. "This is different," she said, looking back up to Estella. "And strange. A few weeks after we arrived to Skyhold we discovered this man attacking the stronghold. With a goat." Marceline said, delivering the line in a deadpan akin to Rilien's. "Throwing the goat against the castle wall, in fact." She paused to allow that to sink in before the doors to swung open to permit the man to enter. Like Cassius before him, he was clad in shackles and flanked by two Inquisition soldiers, though another woman who did not appear to be a part of the Inquisition's main force also accompanied them.

"Chief Movran the Under, father of the Avvar that you defeated in the Fallow Mire," Marceline frowned at that, still seemingly displeased by what had transpired there. There was an imperceptive shake of her head and she sighed somewhat, still seeming a little confused on why the man would assault their keep with a goat. Though, who could blame her. "I also present to you Signy Sky-Lance, an Avvar chief herself and our resident expert on their culture and customs. She is present to assist you in your judgement," Marceline continued, introducing the woman.

Signy was a tall woman, perhaps six feet in height, with a dark complexion and thick red hair to just beneath her shoulders. Her armor, light and composed primarily of leather and hide, left her upper arms bare, making it obvious that one of them was patterned beautifully with dark blue tattoos which extended up to tease the line of her jaw. She wore an expression that, while subtle, left little doubt as to the fact that she was highly entertained by all of this. That said, she observed what was now customary, and inclined herself politely to Estella.

Cyrus was still trying to comprehend the idea that this man had attacked Skyhold
 by throwing a goat at it. He snorted, then smothered a laugh by coughing into his hand, trying to keep a straight face. Just imagining this man, with his ibex-horn helmet and all that apparently-for-intimidation body paint, hurling a goat straight for the castle wall—well, it would take a lot of strength, or a catapult. He wasn’t sure which was funnier. Both were very much so. Estella looked like she was trying not to smile herself.

When the attention settled upon him, Movran spoke, apparently completely unbothered by his circumstances. “You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your hold with goats’ blood.” He shrugged, almost as if to dismiss the oddity of it.

“The custom does exist.” That was Signy, who had moved to stand to the side of the dais, next to Cyrus. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest, and she held herself with relaxed ease. “Though whole goats are not required. Just the blood.” She raised an eyebrow at Movran, who chuckled softly.

“They bled a little, didn’t they?” Signy smiled a little wider and shrugged. “No foul, Inquisition. My son meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with you instead. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat, they say.” Cyrus glanced at Signy, who lifted one shoulder as if to indicate that she couldn’t deny it. It was also unsurprising that these Avvar didn’t like Tevinters. No one ever did. Clearly, Movran had no idea that one of them was sitting on the throne.

“Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.” He paused, seeming to study Estella for a moment. “I’d not have thought one of your stature could defeat him, but my clan tells me you did. In honorable combat no less. I’ve no further quarrel with you or yours.”

“I don’t doubt it seems strange to you, but he means it.” Signy spoke again, rocking back idly on her heels. “Honor demands that he answer your deed the way he did, but now that he’s done so, the matter is finished. If his son had been the victim of treachery, that would be a different matter, but your kill was clean, and in the defense of yourself and others. We can respect that, just as we respect your right to answer as your customs would bid you.” Movran inclined his head in agreement.

Estella pursed her lips thoughtfully, and made eye contact with Signy. “I’m not sure I have any customs for what to do when someone throws a goat at my residence,” she replied, clearly exercising great effort to say that with a straight face. Still, she managed. “What do yours generally advise in such a situation?”

“Usually? Nothing.” Signy blinked, almost surprised, it would seem, to be asked how the Avvar would handle the matter. “His actions are a symbolic gesture. I think it clear that there was no love lost between them anyway. Thane Movran fulfilled his familial duties. That is all.” She appeared to be curious now, regarding Estella with a keenness she’d not previously shown.

Estella did smile, then, just slightly. “Well, all right then. Thane Movran, you’re free to return to your people. We’ll keep the goats, though.” A glimmer of amusement entered her expression. “It seems a fair trade for needing to clean the blood off the walls.”

Movran laughed, this time full-bellied and wholly genuine, it would seem. “Then they are my gift to you, Inquisitor. May the Lady guide your hand.” The guards on either side moved to unshackle him, and he was clearly none the worse for wear, giving Estella a slight bow before he turned and exited the main hall, head held high.

“Well.” Cyrus spoke lightly, glancing up at Estella. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She sighed deeply, pushing herself off the throne at first opportunity and descending the stairs. “It
 could have been worse, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next time I have to do this.”

He supposed that was fair enough.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
It was a few days after Estella sat on Skyhold's throne for the first time. Marceline and the other advisors stood with their Inquisitor around a long table that held maps of both Orlais and Ferelden, as well as many other papers spread across them. A model figurine of the Inquisition's Heraldry stood in a specific place on the map, the location where they resided in Skyhold. Other, smaller figures were spread out across much of the map, each set belonging to a specific advisor. Currently, Marceline found herself in the middle of a strategy meeting with the others. They had established Skyhold as their base of operations and named Estella their Inquisitor. Now was the time to plan the next step.

Marceline stood a step away from the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Unconsciously she swirled the dark purple liquid in her hand as she looked down at the table. They knew very little of their enemy, only someone or something called the Elder One had gathered enough Venatori and Red Templars in order to fashion an army. Other than that, they were reduced to guessing. The location of the Elder One's base was unknown to them, along with the numbers in his army, and other rather necessary items. Marceline simple sighed and took a drink from glass, before going back and swirling the liquid again.

Estella’s eyes were fixed on the map, her expression pensive. “We know a few things they might try to do,” she mused, “surely our best chance is to catch them out in something underhanded. If we can get an agent or two, we might be able to start unraveling the skein.” She bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. She’d been holding up quite well since her official appointment, at least externally. She seemed to be quite against the finer armor and silk, but had consented at least to trade her maroon and silver Lions’ linens in for the russet and gold of the Inquisition. How she was beneath the face she wore was harder to say—she wasn’t entirely ineffective at hiding her feelings, it seemed.

“The common thread, the one that both Cassius’s future contained and Envy’s plans hinted at, was the assassination sequence. Either it’s something they really want to do, and will therefore probably attempt even despite our survival, or
 it’s a trap.” He sighed, then glanced across the table to Rilien.

“What does Lord Drakon have to say?”

“We have his support.” The tranquil’s reply was brief, but he elaborated. “He will pay the Lions himself from this point, which allows us to appropriately salary several new officers. He has also officially contracted with us for their services, and given his permission for us to promote them within the hierarchy as we see fit. You have leave to make Corvin a captain, and Lia as well.” He paused a moment, blinking down at the representation of Val Royeaux on the map.

“Ser Lucien has taken our warning seriously, but there is little he can do about it without more concrete information. Nevertheless, he will be in contact with Lady Montblanc, and my agents in the capital, and coordinate a search for such. It will be difficult, with the war, but he reports that the fighting in some regions has begun to abate. The chevaliers are uneasy with how things are changing while they are asked to fight amongst themselves.”

"Correspondance with my father corroborates this. Though he cannot offer his official support due to his standing with the loyalist Chevaliers under Empress Celene, Marshall Lucas LĂ©cuyer wishes us the best and will send us reports on the Orlesian civil war," she said, pausing a moment to take another drink from her glass. Though she didn't display anything outwardly, she was worried for her father, having been drawn out of retirement to fight against their countrymen. The regular correspondance set her heart at ease a little, but the fact remained that her father still fought in a war. They both did, she supposed.

She tilted her head back down to the maps, but shook her head once more. "Even if were were to discover this Elder One's identity, and were able to accurately pin down what it is that he or she plans to do, there lay other issues that will surface in our near future. Issues that are no less important," Marceline said, tapping the stem of her glass. She did not envision it necessary that the Inquisition expand so quickly. "Currently, we operate off of donations from our noble allies-- some of which you may have noticed touring the castle. However, if the Inquisition is to grow in order to combat all threats, then charitable donations will soon not be enough." A thin frown lined her painted cherry lips.

"I fear that we may have to begin taking loans in order to be able to pay for the expenses that arise. My mother, Comtesse Gabrielle, has agreed to one such loan with a very generous interest rate. However, we will need much more if the Inquisition is to survive," she said, solemnly. They can not fight against this Elder One if they did not have the resources necessary.

“When you put it like that
 I should write my sister.” Leon had spoken very little of his family, but it was obvious enough that he was from some form of noble stock. He grimaced, though whether at the prospect of this communication or the news itself was hard to say.

Before anyone could contribute anything further, the door burst open, the usually-composed Reed barreling through like demons were chasing him. “Inquisitor, Commander. You’re—that is
” he paused long enough to gulp in a breath, then shook his head, an expression on his face far beyond his usual skeptical assessment of the strange happenings around him. “It’s Romulus. He’s alive, and at the gate.”

Marceline looked about as shocked as her even expression could manage. For a moment, the room was silent from what they had heard. Marceline's own eyes were wide and her head taken on a slight tilt. A beat passed before she looked to the others. "We should go," she understated. Like the others, she had thought Romulus and the others had died in the attack on Haven, having sacrificed himself for the rest of the Inquisition. To hear otherwise, well, it was a surprise to put it mildly. The others began to file out the door behind Reed, while Marceline took a moment to down the rest of her wine, before setting the glass on the table and following.

The news had already reached the rest of the castle, but the sound of the clamor echoing through the halls. Their steps quickened until their path brought them to the double doors that led outside to the front gate. A pair of Inquisition soldiers opened the door for them to pass through and deposited them onto the stairwell that led to the ground below. From their position, they could see a crowd had gathered around the gate, in hopes no doubt to catch a glimpse of the Herald they thought they had lost.

He did not make any attempts at hiding himself, standing unhooded among the center of armed individuals bearing the sunburst brand stitched upon their clothing. His cloak was new, only dusted from light travel it appeared, and Romulus himself looked quite different, in addition to his clothing. His hair was longer atop his head, and a filled-out beard covered the man's jawline and upper lip. There were a great many speaking, trying to get the Herald's attention, or just chattering excitedly to each other, but Romulus appeared to be waiting for the Inquisition's leaders to appear.

He stood alongside the immediately recognizeable visage of Khari, sans mask or hood and grinning broadly. She waved as they approached. Another redheaded woman, this one human, flanked him on the other side, bearing the group's suburst brand and wearing more polished pieces of armor than the rest. She stood proud and tall, hands folded before, though they soon sweeped out, when she noticed the obvious Inquisition leaders, coming down towards the gate.

"Good people of the Inquisition, I give to you your Herald, who survived the events of Haven, despite all the forces of darkness threw at him. He has fought through cold, sickness, and Tevinter pursuit to rejoin you now, and tell you, that he is the blood of Andraste, the first son in the line of endless daughters!" The crowd erupted in murmuring and talk, the utmost amount of mixed reactions, while Romulus turned and whispered something to the woman, obviously displeased with something. Very few knew what to make of the woman's introduction, but plenty just seemed happy to have the second of their Heralds back, especially considering all he reportedly went through just to stand there.

The pronouncement seemed to catch Leon off-guard for a moment, but he recovered swiftly, and as usually happened when he wanted to go somewhere, people got out of his way as he advanced forward. Estella moved in his wake, until they were both directly in front of their returned comrades and the newcomers. It was difficult to tell what the newly-minted Inquisitor was thinking, at least until she smiled.

“Welcome back, both of you. I’m so glad you made it.” And clearly, she was.

Khari didn’t let her get away with just the words, however, and took half a dozen steps forward, more at a run than a walk, to half-tackle her in a tight hug that drove them both backwards several more paces. “What a coincidence! I’m really glad we made it too!” She actually lifted Estella several inches off the ground, apparently having no reservations whatsoever about doing any of this in public with much of the Inquisition hanging around. Estella actually laughed, a bright sound that lacked most of her customary reserve, looking a bit surprised to be so enthusiastically greeted, but not at all unhappy about it. Even after she was put back on the ground, she wore a grin, her eyes a tad wet, though whether that was because she was overwhelmed by the good news or because Khari had hugged her tightly enough to squeeze a few tears out of her was rather unclear.

"It is so very good to see that you both are alive and well," Marceline said, a genuine smile even on her lips. The cheer that had developed over them was infectious and even drew her in. She stood beside Leon, taking the sight of Romulus and Khari backed by an armed escort in. "We had feared the worst," she explained, before her gaze shifted next to him, to the redheaded woman that had announced him. She beheld the woman for a moment, her smile wavering. What she had just announced was best left for a later discussion between all involved, but the mere fact that they had returned safely seemed to have flooded any negative impact such a proclamation could have.

"It seems that there is much to be discussed," she allowed a pause into her words while she returned her attention back to Romulus, "But, that will come in good time. Until then," she said, stepping forward and extending a hand for Romulus to take, "Welcome home, Lord Herald." There was an arch to her brow as she spoke the word, as if asking him if home was, indeed, the correct word to use.

"Thank you," he replied, taking the offered hand, though his eyes and his smile could not help but be directed at the sight of Khari attempting to swallow Estella with her limbs. "I plan to see this through with the Inquisition, to the end."

"That is exceptionally wonderful to hear," Marceline answered, inclining her head in a show of respect. No doubt his presence would help to take some of the weight off of Estella's shoulder, as well as do wonders for the Inquisition's morale. Her smile brightened as she laid a gentle hand on Romulus's shoulder, and gestured toward the castle proper. "Come, the sooner we speak, the better," she said, allowing Leon to lead the way back. Amongst all of the faces cheering for the return of their Herald, Marceline saw the back of only one person's head, a familiar mane of white hair framed by a pair of horns heading away from the crowd.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon drew a deep breath into his lungs, holding it and counting to five before he let it out again. The large, semicircular chamber they’d chosen for the war room was nearly full to capacity, as he’d been rather liberal with his summonses, unsure what expertise would be necessary and what would not. Besides himself, Estella, Marceline, and Rilien, the room also held Romulus, Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus. Reed and Larissa were present as well, situated in one corner of the room, both supplied to take notes on anything significant. He suspected they would not stop writing once they began.

The Inquisition’s commander cleared his throat softly, having prioritized the order in which he’d make his queries, doing his best to account for the fact that at least some of the others were bound to interject with queries of their own. He’d decided getting an accounting of events, and any consequent intelligence, was first priority.

He smiled mildly at both Romulus and Khari. It truly was good to see them well, but for the moment, there was too much else to be done to linger on that. He would leave the celebration to the troops outside, who were almost certainly doing so at this moment. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we’d thought you both lost after the events at Haven.” They had, essentially, volunteered to give up their lives for the rest. Fortunately, it would seem that at least the two of them had not needed to pay that steep a price after all. Leon folded his hands together behind his back.

“What happened?”

Romulus took a moment to get acclimated to the new meeting room, which was far grander than what they'd been afforded in Haven. It even had windows. And these offered a breathtaking view to the mountains that surrounded Skyhold's position in the Frostbacks. When he was ready, he leaned forward, placing his hands upon the edges of the table.

"We held our position at the trebuchet for as long as we could. Venatori and Red Templars were drawn to it. Eventually, that dragon made a pass, and obliterated a section of the wall. Everyone was thrown back. I was the closest to it, and was severely injured. The dragon circled around to land inside the wall, and the army's leaders came through the flames."

“A bunch of people, actually.” Khari picked up the thread of the explanation there. “The first lot were Venatori, probably the elites. Mages, but ones who moved like
 like an army, a real one. Their leader was this man—he seemed to be human, but
” Her brows furrowed for a moment, but then she shook her head. “Anyway. He was tall, definitely a mage, and wore a mask over one side of his face.” She raised a hand to cover the left half of her own.

“He and the Venatori, uh
 they seemed like a vanguard or something. The leader, he killed Fiona, like it wasn’t even an effort for him.” Considering who Fiona was, that news boded extremely poorly, to say the least. “Behind them came
” She struggled for the right words for a moment. “It looked like a darkspawn, I guess. But
 there were also chunks of that glowy red lyrium on him, and he talked. A lot, actually.” She scratched her head, glancing briefly at Romulus.

“He was really tall, taller than you, Commander. But kinda weirdly spindly, like someone took all his parts and stretched them out. He had magic, too. By that point it was just me, Rom, and Meraad against this guy and his dragon and his army.” Her voice, usually at least slightly good-humored or light, was heavy, thick. “I, uh
 charged them. Aimed for the big Darkspawn.” She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, instead fixing her eyes somewhere near Leon’s shoulder. “It—he, I guess
 he just kinda gestured, and then this force picked me up and flung me into the trebuchet. Hurt like hell.” Her gaze came back into focus on the last part, at least, and she managed a little smile, more self-effacing than anything.

Romulus nodded somewhat gravely, not refuting anything Khari had said. His own voice had constricted somewhat since he'd last spoke. "They were only interested in me. The bait worked as well as we'd hoped. Meraad tried to stand up to the dragon on his own..." He left unsaid how well the attempt had gone. It was not difficult to imagine.

"The darkspawn Khari described is the Elder One we've been hearing about. His name is Corypheus, and he was responsible for the Breach and the deaths of everyone at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. In fact, he spoke a great deal, believing his victory complete." He shook his head at the thought, either from bewilderment or the darkness of the memory that the particular night in question carried with it.

"He spoke of championing Tevinter, assaulting the heavens. He said we interrupted a ritual," he looked to Estella, "the day we received our marks. He called them Anchors. 'Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty,' he said."

He delivered the line with no attempt at impersonating the Elder One, this Corypheus, though by his tone, he found a great deal of confusion in what the creature spoke of. "He tossed me away like I was nothing, and I hit the side of a well or something. He wanted to remove the mark from my hand with some sort of magical tool, but determined that it couldn't be done. I was to die, but Khari managed to set off the trebuchet, and dragged me into the well before the avalanche crushed the town." He half smiled at her briefly, as though he still couldn't quite believe they lived despite all of that.

"That's what we know of the enemy. The rest of the time was spent just trying not to die, and... discovering some interesting things." He did not actually look eager to enter that particular discussion.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t yet have to. “It called itself Corypheus?” Cyrus spoke with obvious surprise, and more appeared on his face when he glanced about the room only to find that no one else shared his shock. Blinking several times, he decided more explanation was prudent. “Corypheus was the name of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence. He was the Old God Dumat’s high priest at the time all of them entered the Fade physically. It was more than a thousand years ago.” From the sounds of it, he wasn’t sure whether he believed the implication of the darkspawn naming himself such, and he snorted softly.

“Elder One, indeed.”

“The Grey Wardens had this creature sealed in the Free Marches, bound by blood magic ritual.” That contribution, perhaps more immediately relevant to their interests, came from Rilien. “Several of those I knew in Kirkwall broke the seal and killed it. Or believed they did. I will contact them immediately—there may be more they can tell us.”

It was almost too much information to process. But Leon knew from experience that when something seemed overwhelming, the best way to handle it was to break it down into its parts. The part about Corypheus’s possible origin, he left aside for the moment, focusing instead on Rilien’s contribution regarding a recent previous encounter. “Please do,” he replied, inclining his head in the Spymaster’s general direction. Anything else they wanted to talk about regarding that should probably wait until they could talk to one of these friends of his, anyway.

That left several other choices: the marks, their enemy’s goals, the other man who’d appeared with him, who was likely a general or right hand of some sort, and then the elephant in the room—what the woman who had appeared with Romulus had said about him. The marks, he thought, were probably a matter for Cyrus and Asala to do some work with, and that would be later than this meeting, anyway. Corypheus’s goals were unclear, beyond what Romulus had already said, and the while they might be able to get somewhere informationally if they knew who his prominent underlings were, the description Khari gave wasn’t enough to work with yet.

That left one more thing they could likely address in this meeting, and Leon turned violet eyes on Romulus. The Herald’s unease hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it was surely an important-enough matter that it bore explanation as soon as possible. “Romulus, the manner of your return did raise a number of questions. Would you please explain to us what it is that you have discovered?”

He grimaced slightly. "I'm sorry about that. It wasn't how I would've made my return, but... there are no subtle ways to enter this place." He half smiled, as much making fun of his own tendency to hide as he was complimenting the Inquisition on the new fortifications. He cleared his throat.

"The woman who spoke is named Anais. She leads a group that operates out of a place called Winterwatch in the Hinterlands. I traveled there with Asala and several of the Lions, and earned their loyalty by closing a rift. Her people rescued Khari and I from a mounted group of Venatori that nearly caught us." That seemed to be the easiest part of the explanation, and Romulus swallowed, taking a moment to formulate what came next in his mind. "Anais had studied under an order that devoted themselves to the history of Andraste, and her bloodline. She'd been researching a theory since Redcliffe."

He placed his palms back upon the table, as though to steady himself. "She believes I am a living descendant of Andraste herself. She introduced me to a man I met in Redcliffe, who turned out to be my father. I don't know if it can be proven, but she claims to be working on a way. From what we have, between Anais and my father... it seems right." He practically shook when he admitted that, effectively giving away that he believed it himself. The idea seemed to scare him more than anything, though there was a glimmer of something in his grey eyes. Hope, perhaps.

Well. That did, in fact, sound even stranger the second time.

Leon’s relationship to his faith had always been a great deal more nuanced and complicated than that of most people he knew. It didn’t bother him to acknowledge the mortality and the humanness of most of the figures involved in the Chant, and he’d never been one to, say, condemn outright the actions even of Maferath or the Archon Hessarian. Those were, naturally, unpopular positions, as was the common Tevinter belief that Andraste was not so much an exalted Bride of the Maker as she was foremost a human woman and a mage. He’d never seen the tension in saying she was both.

So it was perhaps easier to swallow for him than many faithful that her descendants were still very much alive. It wasn’t something everyone believed, nor something everyone liked to think about, but it was well within the realm of possibility, though as far as most knew, the line had disappeared a long time ago. Harder to believe than the fact that her descendants existed was that someone had managed to track them down. But he didn’t know this Anais or what she knew, and so on that, at least, he chose to suspend judgement.

“That, I think, is something best dealt with when she proves it or fails to do so,” he said at last. “In the meantime, I think it may be most prudent to prevent further declarations of the kind that accompanied your arrival.” His lips twitched into a rueful smile. “It’s not impossible that you are who she says you are, and if so, that will have implications. But those implications will go more than one way. Some will react as Anais and her group have. Others will deny it, and hate you for so much as suggesting that it could be true. Everything you’ve done, your entire life, will fall under the kind of scrutiny we have hitherto tried to divert from you. If you choose to make this information public, you will have to be prepared for that—to own your history and everything you do from now on as well. It will not be easy.” He didn’t mean to sound to dire about it, but he spoke the truth as he saw it. Being a public figure, especially one propelled to it with a claim like that, true or not, was very different from being anyone else.

"If I may, Ser Leonhardt?" Marceline interjected. Up to now, she quietly listened and kept her thoughts to herself. Her face was impassive, nearly impossible to glean any information on how she felt about all of this through her body language. Until now, she watched Romulus with a hawklike gaze, at least until her facade broke away with a smile. "Even if what this Anais says was true, and you must understand that by no means am I implying that it is not. There are far too many possibilities to discount it completely. But, the Inquisition cannot officially declare you Andraste's heir."

The smile on her lips remained, though, as she leaned forward, her arms crossed at her chest, "However, rumors have a strange way of propagating. Amongst the crowd that witnessed your speaker's declaration, a number of the nobility were present. Whom no doubt will spread news of what they have heard when they return home," Marceline's head tilted toward Leon, "The Inquisition will neither confirm nor deny these rumors," it was not as if they had many options. Either stance would anger someone. "With luck, those who wish to believe shall, and those who do not, simply will not."

Romulus nodded, taking a moment to absorb their reactions to the news. "Whatever you believe is best. I'm... still not sure what to do with the information myself." He then looked to Estella, and offered a reassuring smile. "But I do know that I'm here to stay, and serve the Inquisition in whatever manner it will have me. That's my choice now."

She looked a bit unsure in response, halfway raising a hand as though to stave off some part of what had been said. Likely the serve part, considering her nature. In the end though, she sighed a little, half-smiling back. “We’re happy to have you, in any case.”

That, really, seemed to be the bottom line here, and Leon nodded. “Exactly so. Thank you—both of you, for the information as well. By all means, get some rest. We’ll sort out what to do about all of this as soon as possible.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
The view from her balcony was simply brilliant. Marceline had taken it upon herself to occupy the living space atop the main tower, which was connected to the main hall via long staircase and and short hall. A rather large four-poster bed rested against the far wall, its bedding made and tucked into the mattress immaculately. Above that hung a purple banner of Marceline's house heraldry stitched in silver, a shield emblazoned with the image of a raven sitting atop a vine of grapes. On the wall adjacent was a large wardrobe which held a number of her finely tailored dresses. Across from that and pressed into a corner sideways was a desk whose seat would still give her the gorgeous view out of her balcony.

It was certainly the room of a noblewoman, and Lady Marceline was not yet even done decorating to her liking. "My apologies for the bare accomodations, I still have pieces of furniture on its way from home," she explained to her two guests. Leon, Cyrus, and herself had chosen the moment to put aside their duties and to do something other than work. "I am particularly anxious to get in a rug that I had imported from Antiva. The floor is nearly unbearably cold in the morning," she added taking an unsavory glance at the wooden floor beneath their feet.

It was summer, but the mountain mornings still carried a bit of a chill with it, but fortunately it heated up during the afternoon. The weather was nice enough that she had the double doors that led out onto the balcony thrown open. On the balcony itself was a long table, and on the table sat a number of items. Most prominently featured were the selections of bottles that they had all brought, dust still present on the necks of some. Surrounding them were a basket full of various types of bread, a plate of select cheeses, another plate holding different luncheon meats, and finally a dish of crackers.

Marceline allowed herself a mild smile as she looked between both her guests. "I must admit, I have been looking forward to this opportunity for a time now. It is a relief to do something other than try and manage the Inquisition's finances while meeting with the nobility." They were still receiving donations from their allies among the nobility, though fortunately their petitions to take tours of Skyhold had dropped somewhat since they had established themselves. Still, it was not a rare thing to cross the hold's grounds and catch the reflection off of an Orlesian mask.

Cyrus didn’t stand overmuch on the formality, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs set at the long table, relaxing his usual impeccable posture into the seat back and half-smiling in that curiously-sharp way he had. He looked entirely comfortable, as though he did this sort of thing all the time, and in all fairness, he might once have done. “What's this?” His tone was teasing, but mildly so. “Even the esteemable Lady Marceline grows tired of balancing books and attending to the eccentricities of blue-blooded gawkers? There’s hope for the likes of us yet, Leon.”

Leaning forward, he reached towards one of the bottles on the table, dusting it off slightly with a cloth napkin. Removing what looked to be a foldable corkscrew from a pocket in his tunic, he popped it open with a series of practiced motions, moving forward again to pull three of the glasses towards himself. Into each, he poured a small amount of the dull golden liquid—one of his selections for this particular exchange. He declined to distribute them, however, apparently waiting for the others to get settled.

Leon did so as well, choosing a seat on the near side, so as to look out over the view from where he sat. For someone who left the matters of nobility wholly to Marceline, he didn’t look uncomfortable at a setup like this, either, as though it might not be precisely unfamiliar to him, either, though he lacked Cyrus’s obvious ease and comfort. Then again, that seemed to be true generally. He was smiling though, perhaps from the other man’s jest. “My thanks for the invitation, Lady Marceline.” He nodded amicably to her, then turned his attention with interest to Cyrus’s glasses.

“Ah, I’d heard Imperial brandy was worth writing home about. How did you manage to get it shipped here, though?”

While they spoke, Marceline took a seat on the other side so as to see them both, her back to the open air. “I still know people in the right places.” The reply was a little enigmatic, but Cyrus said no more, simply handing a glass to each of them. They weren’t full of course—this was more a tasting than an effort for any of them to become inebriated. “This one has a bit more honey to it than most do. I like it best with something a bit heavier, but the camembert will do quite well.” He lifted his glass a bit into the air.

“To our mutual culinary edification.”

Marceline raised her glass to clink off the others while allowing herself a smile. Instead of downing the liquid immediately, she gently swirled it in her glass before lifting it to her nose so that she could get the aroma. Once satisfied, she finally allowed herself a sip of the liquid. It rolled smoothly over the tongue, but it was immediately obvious as having a heavier kick than ale, a sort of sharp burn that settled in on the way down. Though made of grapes, like wine, it resembled in taste a strangely-sweet whiskey, and the tart flavor of fruit was blended, indeed, with something like honey, rich and saccharine. Marceline paused to think on the taste for a moment before she spoke. "It certainly has a kick, does it not? But it is not an unpleasant kick. I am rather fond of the aroma as well," she said, swirling the liquid again under her nose. She could find the tart fruitiness in the scent. "Where is this distilled?" She asked. While it was not the type of liquor that Michaël particularly enjoyed, her father did however. A bottle or of something similar would be a wonderful gift to send him.

“This particular one? The river valley just outside Vyrantium. The lowlands there are quite amenable to grapes. I can put you in contact with the distributer, if you’re so inclined. She’d be quite happy to have a client from somewhere outside the Imperium, I’m sure.”

He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers for a moment, chewing over the cheese he’d taken to accompany the drink, then ventured a different variety of question. “You’re from growing country yourself, aren’t you, Marceline? I understand you’ve inherited a vineyard and production facilities of your own.” He either didn’t notice that he’d dropped her title from her name, or he’d done it on purpose, because he neither made note of it nor corrected himself. Either way, she did not say anything to correct him. Were they in public, she may have, but they were in a social outing and she did not feel the need to point out the faux pas.

"I am and I have," she answered, though a slight frown appeared in her lips. "The LĂ©cuyer Vineyard, and the West Banks as a whole are mine, yes, but my mother is once again in charge of operations. With my obligations and attention focused on the Inquisition, I am unable to run our business efficently. Though fortunately, mother was more than happy to resume her duties as my steward. I do not think she enjoyed retirement as much as she believed she would," Marceline added with a smile.

“Sounds familiar,” Leon put in, his tone somewhere between nostalgic and amused. “There are some people, I think, who really don’t suit a life of inactivity.” He reached across the table next, taking up three new glasses and a bottle, picking up Cyrus’s corkscrew and using it to open a squatter, squarish bottle of liquor, the glass dark and smoky. The label was black, the letters on it silvery, and the glass itself was cut with some eye to aesthetics, though it was a sharp, angular sort.

“This is my contribution. I think my sister was a little too happy to learn that I intended to share with friends, because she sent me the really good stuff.” He smiled wryly. “Anderfels whiskey. You should, ah
 drink slowly. It tastes better than Golden Scythe, but it’s almost as potent.” He barely covered the bottoms of their glasses with a thin finger’s width of liquid, the color a reddish amber. Even from as far away as they sat, the smell was sharp and obvious, and he handed the glasses over, raising for another toast.

“To
 well, to family, I suppose.” He shrugged, knocking his own glass back with the ease of much practice.

"To family," Marceline repeated, clinking the glasses once more. Like before, she swirled the liquid and lifted it under her nose, though this time it was wholly unnecessary, and in fact came from a habit alone. A habit that burned the inside of her nose, and she noticeably took the glass away from her nose quicker than usual. However, despite the omen, she had her pride as a connoisseur and knocked the shot back much like Leon did. It was probably a mistake. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he called the whiskey potent; the sort they had in Orlais, that she was more familiar with, didn’t have near the bite this did. Though the taste was strong, with a fair number of oak and smoke flavors to it, it was clearly of good make, just
 very overpowering.

Marceline stifled a cough and quietly reached for the nearest glass of water, and attempted her best to nonchalantly sip from it. One sip turned into two, and then two turned to half the glass, but she could still feel the burn in her nose and chest. Though she made no vocal complaint, she silently wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and helped herself to a wheat roll. "It certainly is... stout," Marceline admitted, pulling a chunk out of the roll and placing it in her mouth. After she swallowed, she continued, "Michaël would most certainly enjoy this," she said. Her husband was rather fond of strong drink, but she wondered if it was too much for even him.

It was impossible to miss the sound of Cyrus laughing to her left, though he was doing so quietly. “Let no one doubt your talent for diplomacy.” His own glass was empty as well, though she hadn’t seen in what manner he’d consumed it, and he looked relatively unaffected. Perhaps he’d elected to go a bit more slowly. She stared at him with an even frown for a moment before a smile worked its way into her features. It was her fault for letting her pride to get the better of her.

Leon smiled, too, his humor just as evident. “It’s
 an acquired taste, I think.” While they waited for her to sufficiently recover and make her own contribution to the exchange, he changed topics slightly. “Are you still planning to send Pierre to live with your mother for a while, Lady Marceline? I think it might be more comfortable for him if he didn’t spend the winter here; I’m still not sure how well the castle’s going to handle the cold.”

"Yes, the weather in Orlais's heartlands is much more favorable than it would be here in the mountains," she explained. While it certainly did grow cooler back home, it would certainly not snow as much as it would in the mountains or as it had in Haven. "He should spend time at home, I would like it if he learned of the business much of the same way I had, and mother is a superb teacher." She then frowned again, sighed, and continued, "I would also like him there to keep mother company. She is a stern woman, yes, she has a soft spot for Pierre. The business slows during the fall and winter months, and she would get lonely with father away due to the civil war. I worry," she said, exchanging glances between Leon and Cyrus.

"What of your family, Leon?" she asked with genuine curiosity.

He lifted a shoulder, leaning back a bit in his seat. The expression on his face was fond, but still very much in the present moment. “My family and I have been separate for most of my life,” he explained. “I was given to the Chantry around the time I turned eleven, and entered templar training not long afterwards. I do visit, though. My mother died when I was quite young, but my father and two older siblings still inhabit our land. Gerwulf is the heir—he’s been married a while now, and I’ve a niece and a nephew. Verena heads the family’s forces, and nags me in letters.” Leon smiled, and moved his eyes to Marceline.

“I think it’s quite remarkable, though. The way you can raise a child in the midst of all of this. I certainly couldn’t.”

“I don’t think I could raise a child ever.” Cyrus said it humorously, but there was nonetheless a detectable thread of sincerity in the words. “Especially not if it was anything like I was.” His eyes glinted with mirth, and he reached for a round portion of bread, manipulating it in his right hand so that it rolled along the length of his forearm to his elbow, where he caught it with his left. “I was terrible, really. Still am, I suppose.” He lofted a brow, as though anticipating confirmation.

“Your Pierre is extremely well-behaved, by comparison."

"He is a young gentleman," Marceline agreed with a proud smile. She saw much of herself in the young man, in his demeanor and personality, but she also saw some of Michaël in him as well. She could tell by the set of his shoulders and the square in his jaw that Pierre would grow tall and strong like his father. "It is our hope that he will grow to be able to do anything he so desires, though it is my hope that he will wish to inherit the family business," she said with a coy smile and a slight laugh. However, the smile was short lived, and it gave way to a frown.

She could not pretend that it was that easy however. "I still worry. Michaël and I both do," she began, her features even set. "With our obligations, we fear that we are not able to be present as much as we would like. I wish I was able to spend more time with him, but I simply cannnot," she said. "I am pleased that he has managed to find a friendship with Asala." Marceline had noticed Pierre spending time with the Qunari woman in Haven, and she could not disapprove. It was clear that Asala was a kind young woman, and was a healthy friend to have.

Cyrus looked thoughtful for a moment, unusually free of the half-mocking demeanor which seemed to characterize him most of the time. “Friends have a way of changing things.” It was unclear if he spoke from personal experience or was merely offering up something he’d heard, but he didn’t exactly seem happy to say it. He shook his head just a little bit, though, and moved away from the subject.

“And what have you brought to our little exchange, Marceline?”

"A Cabernet Sauvignon," she answered, reaching for her bottle. The bottle itself was dark and dusty with the label having browned from age in her cellar. However, the stamp her heraldry of the shield and raven and its vintage was still immediately recognizable with black ink. She took Cyrus's corkscrew in hand and in a practiced sequence had the cork free in moments. She smiled as she began to pour into their glasses. The liquid was a thick, dark purple with a hue of red reflecting off of the edges. She was generous with the pour, but did not overdo it to better let the wine breathe.

She swirled the wine much like she did the other liquors, but she spoke too. "I will spare you from the sales pitch," she said, with a coy smile, "Just know that it is a LĂ©cuyer Special Select, taken from my own personal stores," she explained. Finally she lifted it under her nose and took in the scent. Among the various aromas were an earthy wood, with a strong note of blackcurrants. She took a drink and allowed the flavor to settle over her tongue. It was a heavy drink, with the taste of blackcurrants at the fore, though beneath that were layers of tastes of vanilla and, oddly enough, a hint of green peppers.

“I’m not much of a wine person,” Leon admitted after his first swallow. “But that’s really quite good.” He offered a smile and a shrug, gathering up a few pieces of cheese and some bread to eat with it, presumably, and relaxed further back into his chair. His eyes wandered out over the view, and it was quite spectacular, really.

“I suppose I’ll add it to my list. Things I’d never have experienced but for the Inquisition.” His expression became slightly wry, and his focus momentarily returned to the other two. “At least not everything on it is completely terrible.”

“Commander, I think you may be even more cynical than I am. It’s quite refreshing.” Cyrus looked amused as ever, his smile widening a little to something with a hint of genuine pleasure in it. “I can happily drink to that, though. To things not entirely terrible, enjoyed with people not entirely intolerable.” He raised his glass and tilted it forward.

Marceline simply laughed and raised her glass as well, clinking it together with the others.

"Agreed."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella was tired.

She couldn’t properly recall the last time she’d had what she would consider a full night of sleep, but she knew she wasn’t alone in this. Leon was busier still, and she had no idea if Rilien slept at all, though if he was missing any, he didn’t show it. Lady Marceline probably didn’t let such nonsense as work get in the way of her health, but even so it was unlikely that she accomplished any less than the rest of them.

The most of it right now was just trying to establish themselves. Before, when the Inquisition had been based at Haven, they hadn’t actually done much to root the organization, so to speak. Everyone had assumed that they were there to close the Breach, and once that was done, so would they be. When that proved so utterly false, they were left with few long-term plans, and the ones they had had needed a great deal of work yet. It turned out that on her part, this mostly involved writing letters to send along with Lady Marceline’s, and doing some of what had been Tanith’s duties, helping Rilien organize intelligence reports until he could find someone he trusted enough with that kind of sensitive information.

And then of course there was answering inquiries directed for her specifically, which she wanted to do as much as possible, and then hearing the various matters that members of the Inquisition wanted brought before her attention. Occasionally there was a dispute, but mostly they just asked her to decide certain things for them, like when the architects had asked her what to do with one of the unused towers they were trying to renovate. Review plans, ask for modifications, try to determine which of many possible purposes would serve the best—it had occurred to her that the things she was to decide might really matter, in a way that her decisions had never mattered before. It was daunting and overwhelming and terrifying, but she did it as well as she could, leaning heavily on the recommendations of others where she was able.

She knew her fatigue was beginning to show, so she’d taken steps to conceal it as well as possible, mostly for the sake of appearances, which she’d been told repeatedly now were often just as important as reality. Estella found it difficult to agree, but
 if it would help even a little, it was worth doing, and so every morning now included a few minutes’ worth of work to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she tried to remember to dress a little better, though most of the time, she probably failed. It was hard to justify wearing silk and silverite to herself when she still wasn’t sure where they were going to get the funds to pay for food the next winter, so she generally elected not to bother.

Now though, they were slowly putting down the roots they wanted, and that meant she’d received more than one invitation to meet someone she’d written, usually at a salon or other small, but still relatively public, event. She’d blanched the first time, and asked Lady Marceline what to do. Apparently, the answer was: accept, when she had time. But Estella was not a noblewoman, not really, and integrating well into any group of the landed and titled was not something that came to her instinctively.

And if it didn’t come to her instinctively, she needed to be taught. Repeatedly and at length.

So they’d set something up, and she was apparently going to be getting the right kind of lessons from both Lady Marceline and Rilien, which she appreciated, knowing how busy they were, but also dreaded, for obvious reasons. When she’d expressed her reservations about it all to Khari a few mornings prior, her friend had offered to take the lessons with her, for support if nothing else. Estella wasn’t sure exactly why Khari would want to do something like that, or why she’d need to know any of it, but ultimately she figured it wasn’t about that—it was about helping out a friend, and for that, she was extremely grateful. Somehow, facing this with someone else made it a little more bearable, in theory.

When the two of them entered Lady Marceline’s office, however, she felt herself growing uncomfortable almost immediately. The center of the area had been cleared, and a small table was set to one side, in what looked like utensils for a full Orlesian many-course meal, sans only the food itself. Commander Lucien had never made her go to anything where dinner was involved, and she had to admit it all looked far too complicated already.

As promised, both Rilien and Marceline were present, the former standing beside the room’s desk, a wrapped bundle having replaced most of the paperwork thereupon. Marceline was in one corner, seated, with a full-sized harp set against her shoulder. Estella blinked, and her eyes found the last person in the room: Pierre Benoüt, Lady Marceline’s son. He was about fourteen, if she had her guess, dark-haired like both his parents, and clearly much more comfortable here than she was.

Khari stepped into the room behind her, sweeping bright eyes over the whole setup and huffing a soft laugh. “It’s like a dinner party, only without the best part.” She nodded with her chin towards the empty plates. It didn’t seem to bother her much, though; her demeanor remained quite sanguine, lacking any of Estella’s tension at all. The elf hooked arms with her and dragged them both down to the slight recession in which most of the office really lay, bringing them both to stand roughly in the center of the cleared floor.

“All right everyone. Do your worst.” She grinned easily, jostling Estella in a companionable fashion. “You can be the noble lady, and I’ll be your knight in shining armor.”

Estella felt a fraction of her unease abate, a smile creeping up her face. “How chivalrous of you,” she replied dryly.

"Even a knight would know better than to barge toward the table with a lady in arm," Pierre chided Khari. From the corner of the room where Marceline sat, a soft melody began to play from the harp signfying the lesson was beginning. "The chevalier would instead allow the lady to lead them toward the table calmly and politely," he continued, stepping around the table so as to get a better look at them. "Unless, of course, it is crowded. At which point, chivalry dictates that the chevalier would lead her through the crowd," he lectured. It seemed that It wasn't Marceline who was to teach this lesson, but rather, her son.

Now that he was close enough to get a better look at, he was dressed in the colors of his family, black, silver, and with accents of purple. The summer found him in a clothes of lighter make, but still fine. Most apparent, however, was his height. Even at his age, he stood closer to Estella's height, and it was clear he had more yet to grow. In a couple more years, he would most likely stand as tall as his father, who himself stood almost as tall as Lucien. Pierre then gestured toward the pair of spots that had been laid out on the table. Two place cards had been set up, each bearing one of their names written in fine calligraphy. "The chevalier would then kindly pull out the chair for the lady."

Khari blinked at Pierre for a few moments, a poorly-contained snort becoming an exceptionally undignified cluster of boisterous laughter, but she reigned it in more quickly than she usually did, clearly fighting to straighten out her face. “Someone get Pierre a cane, so he can rap our knuckles when we get it wrong.” The laughter remained in her eyes, even despite the fact that she managed to otherwise smooth her expression to a respectable degree, and she cleared her throat, approaching the setting with at least some dignity and pulling the chair out partway for Estella to sit. Estella thought that it was probably better no one did, else they’d both walk out with tender hands.

“Milady Inquisitor.” For a moment, she smiled, and it looked like she might lose the battle with her own sense of humor, but in the end she suppressed it, if only just.

Estella smiled herself, resisting the urge to shake her head at the mannerisms which were quite unlike Khari, and remembered that she should probably return with ones that were quite unlike herself
 though maybe by not quite as much. “My thanks, messere.” She slid into the chair as gracefully as she could and let Khari ease it closer to the table for her, keeping her hands in her lap until she knew what to do with them.

"In this case, the correct term to refer to the chevalier would be 'Ser'. Were the individual in a higher social standing than yourself, it would, indeed be Messere, but as the Inquisitor, the chevalier remains in a social standing equal to or lesser than yourself, in which the individual should be refered to as Ser." Pierre leaned slightly against the table as he spoke, his arms crossed over his chest. "Were the chevalier also nobility, milord would also be an acceptable honorific, but in this case..." Pierre continued, trailing off with pursed lips. A quick smile lept into his lips for a moment as he winked at Khari, "Ser will do."

Pierre's gaze fell back down to Estella. "We will create cards bearing the aristocratic titles and their appropriate terms of address for you to memorize later. It is... rather complicated to explain in words," He said apologetically.

Actually
 that might not be a terrible idea. Estella was usually pretty decent at remembering things, so memorizing the distinctions instead of just trying to practice them a lot might be of some help. She nodded slightly. “I know some of those already, thankfully. Commander Lucien always said that if I can’t remember exactly what to do, ‘milord’ and ‘milady’ work for everyone who isn’t royalty, so I guess that’s what I’ll do if I forget.” She grimaced a bit, but the expression disappeared shortly thereafter.

Her eyes fell to the place setting in front of her, and it almost returned. “Ah
 the only rule I know for this is that utensils are used from the outside in.” She had a feeling it was a great deal more complicated than that.

“Uh
” Beside Estella, Khari had already picked up the innermost set of silverware, and now looked back and forth between the two of them with confusion. “Why wouldn’t you use the ones closest to your plate first? Why are there so many anyway? It’s not like the metal keeps the taste of whatever was on it
 unless you suck at eating and don’t use it right.” She eyed the array of forks and knives with suspicion.

“Unless these extras are for throwing at people who say stupid things at dinner, I don’t really get why you need them.”

“That... would be a very different type of Game," Estella replied wryly. Maybe an improvement, in some respects. At least you could duck a flying fork.

"A look will usually do," Pierre replied. Amusingly, Pierre was shooting Khari a very similar look. "Now, if the chevalier would kindly stop handling the utensil like their sword, we can continue." Though he was quick to quash it, Estella still managed to recognize a wisp of a smile. "Moving on. Yes, Lady Estella, that is the general gist. The utensils have very specific purposes, and once done with, the utensils are taken with the plate they were used with so as not to contaminate the next course, and to also keep the table clean."

With that, Pierre pointed to the outer most fork. "This is your salad fork. Often, it will be chilled so as to not warm the salad," Continuing, he began to gesture down the line. "This is your dinner fork, it is the largest one, and over here," he said, gesturing to the other side of the plate, "You have your soup spoon," he said, starting at the utensil furthest away from the plate. "This is your teaspoon, and this," he finished on the largest knife on the table, "is your dinner knife."

Pierre shrugged, and pointed to the pair of utensils above the plate. "This is your dessert spoon, and your cake fork. Your napkin is over here, he added, pointed to the square cloth next to the forks. "And if used, be sure to fold it back in such a way to hide the dirtiness. We are civilized individuals after all," he added with a quick glance at Khari and another contained smile. "Well. Some of us."

Khari’s eyes snapped to Pierre at that, and she grinned savagely, flashing too many teeth. “You can teach a wolf to walk and dress like a sheep, kid, but it’s always gonna be a wolf.” She put her knife back down where it belonged, though, and moved her hand along the table to rest briefly at the end of each item, as though she were committing their names to memory.

“Or perhaps a bear,” Estella rejoined, recalling a story she’d heard about Khari’s favorite chevalier technique. She did much the same as her friend did though, repeating the names of the utensils to herself in her head so as to commit them to memory. Thankfully, she knew how to eat in a way that would count as sufficiently ‘civilized’ for her purposes, so the fact that there was no actual food here wasn’t so bad. Nodding slightly, she glanced back up at Pierre.

“How does one handle conversation at a setting like this? I, um, don’t want to presume that anyone would be interested in talking to me, but
 I suspect there might be a few interested in talking to the Inquisitor. I don’t have to stop talking to someone if someone with a better title cuts in, do I?” That sounded unpleasant, but also like it might be a rule.

Pierre shook his head in the negative. "To cut someone off is a serious faux pas no matter the title, not to mention rude. Chances are, those with a higher standing are less likely to cut you off, so as to not appear uncouth." Afterward, Pierre allowed himself a chuckle, "Do not presume, there will always be those who wish to have a conversation with you, for one reason or another." It sounded as if he had experience in the area, as if he had been a part of many of these conversations himself.

“Obviously.” Khari looked sideways at Estella, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, let’s be honest here, Stel, even if you weren’t the Inquisitor, you’d still be awesome. And super nice. And you have a really cool job.” She ticked the items off on her fingers as she went. “And you’re much smarter than most people, and funny. So
 really I’d be surprised if you weren’t swarmed.”

Estella cleared her throat, not having expected such a response and finding herself surprisingly embarrassed by the praise. Khari wasn’t the kind of person who’d say things from a desire to flatter, and so she presumed that if the elf had said them, she really meant them. She was quite sure her ears were turning red. “Thank you,” she said, if only quietly. She didn’t believe most of it, exactly, but she believed that Khari believed it, and that was still something important. Though it probably said more about Khari than herself.

In any case, she returned her attention to Pierre and nodded her understanding. “I think that all makes sense,” she told him, somewhat surprised by the result. “Is there anything else we should know?”

"One thing," he said, glancing up and across the room to the corner, where his mother sat style plucking a melody on the harp. "Do not try to put on airs. There are those that do, and while there is no unspoken rule against it, there are those that will respect you more if you simply be yourself," he said, apparently returning a nod to Marceline. Returning to Estella he smiled, "Be polite, be courteous, and be yourself. The nobility adore stories of the kind and humble leader."

“See? Nothing to worry about. They’ll love you!” Khari seemed to be a little less serious this time, perhaps because it was still the court they were talking about. It was at that point that Rilien stepped forward slightly and crooked a finger to summon them both to where he was standing. After a brief lesson on how to exit the table, they approached, to find that he was unwinding the bundle he’d set on the desk, which rolled out to cover the whole length.

It proved to be a soft case for over a dozen knives, needles, and other instruments of death and dismemberment, as it were. Most of them were smaller than the ones he typically used, or anything one would trust to a battle proper. “As distracting as court events can be, you must also always maintain an awareness of your surroundings, and the people around you. That distraction is what makes them opportunities for bards and assassins to ply their trade, and whether you like it or not, you will be a very obvious target.” His eyes moved to Khari.

“As will you, in fact, though not as much so.” He declined to elaborate, but it wasn’t too difficult to guess. Khari had declared her intentions to break into the human-only world of Orlesian knights—even if her claims were found to be absurd, there would still be some who would desire to silence her for having the audacity to make the declaration.

Rilien slid a knife from the cloth, still in its sheath, and handed it to Estella. Studying Khari for a moment, he elected to pass her a small bundle of needles. “Attempt to hide these somewhere on your person. I will not look.” True to his word, he turned around and faced the back wall, hands folded into his sleeves.

Estella examined the knife with some trepidation. It wasn’t very long, maybe four inches or so of blade and another several for the hilt, but it was still a relatively large object. Her clothes were relaxed in their fit; nothing clung to her skin by any means, but she also wasn’t entirely sure that she’d be able to conceal anything in them. Tugging at a few spots on her tunic experimentally, she grimaced and decided her best option was probably behind her, at the small of her back, and she went about trying to arrange that, hoping that her belt would make the concealment slightly less obvious.

“Uh
” Khari seemed even less sure, though her clothing was much looser. After some hesitation, she wound up sliding the needles into her boot, wiggling her foot a couple times in what was surely an attempt to make them sit comfortably. Checking to make sure that Estella was also done, she shrugged. “Ready, I guess.”

Rilien turned around, facing them both with a placid expression. Deliberately, he circled them, only once before he came to a stop. “Lower back.” That was addressed to Estella. “Not a poor selection, but you’ll need to learn to actually conceal it.” Citrine eyes flicked to Khari. “Right boot. Better hidden, but it would have been extremely obvious if you’d had to go for the weapon. If anyone’s carrying something there, it is probably only for defensive purposes. Or they are unskilled at subterfuge. Either or both.”

He paused a moment, his attention diverting temporarily to Marceline, still playing the harp. “Neither Lady Marceline nor Pierre is wearing any, but both have an idea of where they would, if they felt the need. I am wearing five.” There was certainly no evidence of that claim to be seen, but then considering who and what Rilien was, it wasn’t preposterous.

“It is safest to assume that everyone you meet is armed.” Rilien blinked, shrugging one shoulder, and a dim gleam appeared near his hand as he moved a dagger into his grip. “And hostile.” He lunged for Estella.

In that moment, the melody lilting from the harp grew heavy and picked up in tempo as Marceline shifted the tune to better fit in with the sudden fit of activity.

Estella reacted as soon as she saw the glimmer, because it wasn’t entirely out-of-character for Rilien to throw things like this at her. Suddenly, the fact that the floor was cleared made a great deal of sense, and Estella sidestepped the initial swing, twisting around to the side on soft feet, reaching back for the only weapon available to her right now: the knife at her back. For all her agility, however, Rilien had more of it, and more precision as well, and he never overcompensated on a miss, meaning he’d be able to take another strike before she could arm herself, and she readied to get out of its way as well as she could, making sure she had enough room on all sides to maneuver. She was useless in a corner, after all.

He did indeed have plenty of opportunity to slash again, but his attempt to do so was interrupted, as Khari finally gained her bearings and charged at him, lowering her shoulder in an effort to carry him to the floor. Rilien dodged the maneuver like it was inconsequential in its entirety, and on her pass, took hold of her shoulder and swept her feet out from underneath her in a smooth motion, redirecting Khari’s momentum and putting her on the floor of the office, prone and spread-eagled.

The move hadn’t done anything to him, but it had bought Estella a bit more time.

It was enough that she could free the knife, anyway, and Estella readied it before her. The weapon was shorter than she would have preferred, but Rilien hadn’t left her untutored in the use of close weaponry like this, and she knew how to handle it at least. The one thing she could say in her favor was that his blade was also short, and so she wasn’t at a significant reach disadvantage or anything. Also, if she could buy enough time for Khari to get off the floor again, then she’d have an ally.

The next series of exchanges had her hanging on by a thread—Rilien was swift, exact, and utterly relentless, as ever. It was a wonder she ever managed to last more than seconds when they sparred, but of course she suspected that was because he took it easy on her so she could learn instead of just losing. She always did both. Estella dodged where she could, and parried where she could not; he hit more heavily than one might expect of someone who used light blades primarily, but then that was normal to her as well. He was slowly backing her towards a corner, and she trying desperately not to let him, but there was a certain inevitability to it.

Khari came in from behind again, this time diving low from the beginning, and though Rilien moved out of her initial grab range, she managed to get a hand around his ankle, forcing him to abandon his effort to back her up and deal with the immediate problem. Khari hadn’t managed to disrupt his balance enough to take him to the floor with her, and so his retribution was swift: he twisted, stepping on her back with his other foot, and brought the knife down to rest the flat of it against the side of her neck.

“Dead.” The declaration was flat, with no note of triumph, and Khari conceded with a groan, pulling herself back up onto her feet when he stepped off of her. Estella had used the opportunity to move in and go on the offensive, but he bent backwards away from her swipe, taking a few steps back. They were back to being near the center of the room, but Rilien’s tactics shifted, the speed of his movements increasing sharply, and with a heavy strike with the blade’s hilt to her wrist, he disarmed her, then stepped into her guard, wrapping his free hand around her neck without pressure and pressing the blade to her sternum.

“Dead.” He said it more softly the second time, pausing for a moment before he released her and stepped back, as the music from Marceline's harp shifted back to a more gentle melody.

“You forgot you were armed, but your idea wasn’t a bad one. Most dexterous combatants are unprepared for a fight on the ground. Assassins and the like most often rely heavily on the element of surprise and accomplishing what they need to do in as few moves as possible. But this is not true of all of them.” Obviously, it wasn’t true of him, for one.

Then he turned to Estella, regarding her flatly. “You are still your own most dangerous foe.” He didn’t elaborate, only shaking his head slightly.

She sighed. He said that a fair bit, of late, and she thought she understood part of what he was getting at, but it wasn’t so simple as that. With a wan smile, Estella glanced at Khari. “Maybe we should practice with close weapons in the mornings sometimes.”

“Only if we get dramatic harp music." Khari arched a brow in Lady Marceline's general direction.

Marceline simply smiled politely and inclined her head slightly into a bow.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by Talisman
The leaves were beginning their change.

From green to their orange and red hues, autumn was quickly approaching. The summer's heat, while not still not so hot in the mountains where Skyhold nestled, started to bleed away, and soon a crispness would return to the air. Autumn's arrival also signified Pierre's departure. It was this occasion that had Marceline out of her office this afternoon. A cart and a team of horses to pull it had been requisitioned for their use. Along with Pierre, a few of the Inquisition's soldiers were given leave and were hitching a ride to their homes along the way. They'd hear no objections from Lady Marceline, the more people that traveled with Pierre and his father, the safer they'd be along the roads.

Marceline watched with her arms crossed and a tight frown as Michaël checked the horses and their tetherings. Though both Michaël and she believed it best that their son stayed the autumn and winter at their home on the West Banks, it did not mean she wouldn't miss him. The boy himself was busy nearby, helping the soldiers organize their belongings in the back of the cart. Standing beside the men, Marceline couldn't help but notice how fast her son was growing. It wouldn't be but a few years now that he would be a man himself. An imperceptible wince came with the thought, that she would miss more time with him. She hoped that he wouldn't grow even more while he was away.

Both Larissa and even Asala were present as well, to see Pierre off. Larissa laughed and joked with the soldiers as they packed, but Asala stood quietly further away, almost as silent as Marceline was. Eventually, their work was done, and they climbed in back of the cart themselves, settling themself in for the trip to come. Pierre and Michaël approached Marceline, and she put a practiced smile on her lips. They could see through it, of course. They always could. "That should be it," Michaël said, tossing a glance to the cart behind him. Marceline simply nodded. "Come on, Marcy. We'll be back before you know it," he added with a big, genuine smile.

The plan was, Michaël would travel back home with Pierre, and then a few weeks later return to Skyhold with the other soldiers. Larissa would then travel at the beginning of Spring to fetch Pierre and return to Skyhold. "You both know that is not true. Skyhold will be rather lonely without my men," she said with a gentle laugh. With that, Marceline approached her husband with her arms wide, pulling him into a hug, before he suddenly lifted her up off the ground into a spin. She tried her best, but she couldn't hide the surprised squeak she made. As he set her down, she laughed and turned toward Pierre. "Do not give your father any trouble... And make sure that he and mother play nice," she said, before wrapping him into a hug too. Rather unexpectedly, he too lifted her in the air, though without a spin. When he set her back down, Michaël and him shared a laugh. "You two need to stop," she said firmly through a smile.

"We will be fine, mother. I will write, every chance I get. You know this," he said. Then Pierre turned toward Larissa, "I will miss you too, and I will make sure to send you the newest novels in Val Firmin," he said.

Larissa beamed for a moment before collecting herself bowing. "Thank you Milord. And I will be sure to keep in touch about how Lady Marceline is doing," she added.

With that, Pierre walked past them and to Asala who stood nearby. She recoiled half-a-step before digging her heels in and blushing. It seemed that having his parents eyes on her put her off-balance. "And I'll be sure to keep you in my letters too, Asala."

"Uh... Th-thank you... Oh! I almost forgot. These are for you," Asala said, producing a small package from under her cloak. "They are, uh... Snacks. For your trip," She added with a shaky smile. She then inclined her head and spoke "Pan-panahedan." Asala hesitated for a moment before wrapping him into a quick hug and releasing him just as fast, the blush spreading across her face.

Pierre chuckled and returned to the cart, before hopping into it's seat beside his father. Marceline approached them both and took a hold of Michaël's hand. "You two be careful, and have a safe trip. Please," she asked.

"Of course," Michaël answered, before leaning down to kiss her. "And you try not to work yourself to death. I love you."

And with that, Michaël bade the horses forward through the gate and over the bridge leading out of Skyhold, Marceline waved to them as they departed, and she was aware that Larissa and Asala were doing the same behind her. Slowly they faded from view, and though Larissa took her leave, they watched as they vanished over the horizon, leaving only Marceline and Asala.

A hum sounded above the retreating din of clopping hoof beats and rolling wagon wheels. Accompanying the intrusion were deft fingers plucking at Marceline's sleeve: a pinch of fabric between forefinger and thumb. It wasn't readily apparent just how long she'd been there. Or if she'd simply skulked up on them as they were waving Pierre and MichaĂ«l off. Lidded eyes followed theirs into the distance. Zahra watched as the wagon bounced and rolled and ebbed further away. Her expression softened as she released Marceline's sleeve and took a tentative step backwards, “They'll be fine—those two, if they're anything like you, Sunshine.”

The Captain had chosen a mixed fare of clothes for the season. It appeared, in any case, that she was always cold. At least if her colorful mix of words were anything to go by. Cold as tits, she'd say. A light tunic with a leather vest cinched around her waist. Leather trousers and knee-high boots. A decorative sword dangled at her hip. Bright red tassels hung from the pommel. She inclined her head towards Asala and grinned. A form of greeting if it was anything at all. Or else she'd found something else amusing. The distinction was difficult whenever Zahra was involved. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled one of her shoulders, bright eyes moving back to Marceline's face, “I was hoping you had some time to spare.”

Marceline first looked to Asala, who'd been watching the Captain herself. Eventually though, she realized that Marceline was looking at her, and caused her to wince and avert her gaze elsewhere, but not before shrugging. Marceline's breath hitched in humor toward the woman and she smiled as she turned her attention back to Zahra. “I suppose it would all depend,” Marceline answered with a manufactured smile, “with what you intend to do with that time.” Despite the words, there were humor behind them. Larissa could handle what paperwork she had to do, and in fact was probably doing it as they spoke. The meeting she had with various individuals about expanding their trade routes to Skyhold wasn't for some time yet, so it was not as if she was immediately busy.

“But no, there is nothing that requires me as such currently,” she added.

If there was anything awkward about the silence that passed between them, Zahra was nonplussed by it. It didn't seem at all possible that she could be bothered by anything of the sort. She took a step back from Marceline and idled to the side, casually glancing over to where Asala stood. Her fingers tapped against her hips. A tuneless sound beating against her leathers, “Nothing you'd regret.” She let the words hang in the air for a dramatic moment and pursed her lips, “I was hoping you could show me how to use this thing.” She patted the blade swinging at her hip affectionately and toyed with the brightly-colored tassels. Running them through her fingers, “You know I'm good with my bow, but there are times when... something else is needed.” It appeared as if she didn't want to clarify her reasons, or else she thought that it was good enough of one.

She swung her gaze back to Asala and inclined her head. A smile pulled at her mouth and appeared all the more mischievous, “You wouldn't mind if I borrow Lady Benoit, would you? I promise I'll bring her back before nightfall. Captain's honour.” A strange way of asking whether she was interrupting anything, perhaps. However skewed. Asala looked up and shook her head in the negative, throwing her white hair across her face.

“Oh, well, you see... I, uh, I mean, we... weren't...” she tried before unsurprisingly stumbling over her words as usual.

Marceline decided to make it easy for the woman and raised her own hand. Asala drew into silence from the gesture, and let Marceline speak. “We had nothing planned, she just wished to see Pierre off,” she explained, smiling at the young woman. Asala blushed, and her gaze fell, but she said nothing else, nor did she start to leave. No doubt curious, and Marceline couldn't blame her. The Captain was a rather interesting individual. Her gaze fell upon Zahra's sword, and Marceline's smile turned into a thoughtful frown. She looked at it for a moment, before she reached out and held her hand open, gesturing with a wagging finger to let her see the sword for a moment. Still, it was quite strange that Zahra would come to her to ask how to use the blade.

“There are better swordsmen than I present, why is it that you wish to learn from me and not them?” The Lions came to mind, as they were the ones training the Inquisition's soldiers.

Asala's spluttering caused Zahra to laugh. Though it was without malice. Her smile pulled back to reveal teeth and her hands drifted towards the waxen rope binding the scabbard in place. It loosened and fell away as soon as soon as she pulled the knot inwards: an unusual sailor's tangle. She caught the blade before it touched the ground and turned towards Marceline. Offered it in both hands, palms facing upward. From the looks of it... it may have been a decorative piece, or at least meant for extravagance rather than bloodshed. A pretty piece. She took a step forward and dropped it into Marceline's open hand. A softer laugh sifted through her teeth. It sounded somewhat flustered. As if she'd been caught with something she was not supposed to touch.

“You do yourself no credit.” Zahra pulled her now-empty hands back and settled them back at her hips, toeing the rope she'd left at her feet. Her eyes rolled skyward for a moment and resolved themselves back on Marceline's face. As if she were collecting her thoughts. Or deliberating on a reason good enough to serve. “Not all styles would suit my purposes. I'm not like Khari. Or Rom. Brute strength? No. Finesse? Grace? Fluidity? I see no better teacher. I may seem,” she tilted her head and chuckled, “harsh, sometimes. But I'd like to learn from someone who fights to win. Honor be damned.” From her choice of words, it appeared as if her mind had been made up on anyone else in the Inquisition. Lions included.

Marceline's eyes focused on Zahra for a moment. It was a fair assessment, though she still believed that there were others better suited to teaching than her. Marceline knew that she was unsuited to combat, but then again, she did not claim to be a soldier. She was a diplomat, with enough experience to protect herself. However, Zahra was an archer, and few lessons in swordsmanship could only help. Her attention then turned to the sword in her hand, gripping it by the hilt and bringing it closer to inspect. She ran a finger down along the blade and then tapped the point. Nodding to herself, she turned away from Zahra and held it straight up in front of her, perfectly parallel to her body and perpendicular to the ground. Her off hand settled into the small of her back as she thrust the blade forward twice, and slashed on the third.

“The blade should be sharpened, and the weight better distributed. It is very lovely, however, and nothing that cannot be fixed by a quartermaster,” Marceline smiled, before turning the blade over in her hand and offering it back to its owner. “Very well, if you wish for lessons, then I cannot deny you,” she said with a smile, “Though I've never taught this particular subject. MichaĂ«l is the one who teaches Pierre self-defense so forgive me if I am not the ideal teacher.”

She then crossed her arms and held Zahra in her eyes for a moment, before she nodded, “Come, we will go to my office. There is enough room to learn the forms there, but,” Marceline said, beckoning with a finger, “understand that the best weapon is not the one in your hands, but the one in your head,” she said with a smile.

Zahra watched as Marceline scrutinized the blade, hands on hips. Her mouth set itself into an expectant smile. If she could've bristled with energy—a desire to get down to all the nitty grit of swordsmanship, she probably would have. Instead, she tipped towards Asala and bumped her shoulder with a blooming grin. As languid and lewd as the Captain could be, there where instants like these where she appeared more childlike and unreasonable. Had Marceline outright said no, the woman certainly looked as if she would not take it as an answer.

She ticked the impressions from her fingers as if she were creating a schedule of chores in her mind. When Marceline back towards her, Zahra waggled her fingers and retrieved the blade from her hands. Settled it back into its scabbard and nearly rocked up on her tiptoes. Green eyes bright against the sun blazing in the background: nearly as wild as Khari. “Just what I wanted to hear!” she butt in, all hurried, before licking her lips and settling back on her feet, “Leading and teaching are one in the same, aren't they?” Not always true, though she appeared as if she had no misgivings on her decision to approach her about the subject.

She nodded her head and fell in beside Marceline. It was clear that her expectations had already run their course. Fancies best left in storybooks. Perhaps, towards something involving clashing swords in the yard or leaping onto tables and skittering parchment paper across the tables. Certainly not what Marceline had in mind.

In reality, what Zahra received was a number of guides written on the matter of fencing, as well as a few hand-written notes of Marceline's own design. They were piled up on a desk that Marceline had placed Zahra at in her office, while Larissa sat at Marceline's own with an amused look. The woman herself stood nearby with a tilt to her head as she looked upon the gathered materials. She did not know how the Captain would take to being issued mostly theory at first, but Marceline would rather Zahra get acquainted with the theoretical aspect before they dove into swinging swords around. Without a good baseline, Marceline surmised that she may hurt herself or someone else in her attempts to learn.

“You may borrow this material, it will give you a good idea of the basics you are to learn.” She then smiled and nodded, “It is dry, I understand, but one must first gather all the information they are able to before they act.”

If Zahra's expression was anything to go by, she certainly hadn't expected being seated at Marceline's desk with a pile of books, dog-eared and well-worn, surrounding her. She pursed her lips and leaned over the assorted papers she'd been instructed to look over. She dragged her fingers across the letters and finally leaned back in her chair. There might have been a sigh poised on her lips, though she made no noise. Glassy eyes rolled towards the ceiling for a moment before she leaned back into her work. Scrawled notes in a small empty book bound with strings. Certainly not something she would have owned. Marceline had instructed her to read through several books and mark down prudent information pertaining to footwork and movements. She paused in her work and smoothed her hands across the loose pieces of parchment.

“I, uh,” she seemed to hesitate before a smile tickled at her mouth and widened, “wasn't exactly expecting this. At all.” Zahra looked up from her work and tapped her fingers against the table, “Is this truly how you were taught all this? For curiosities sake. With the way you move, I thought you'd had a savvy teacher. Leaping and darting and all that.”

Marceline laughed softly to herself. She shook her head gently and began to lean against the desk Zahra sat at. “My studies began the same way when I was a young girl, and Pierre as well. The leaping and darting followed soon after.” The corner of Marceline's lip turned upward and she continued, “Though, I doubt there is much leaping in reality. Lifting your feet off of the ground is not an intelligent maneuver.” There was a tone of gentle chiding mixed in with her amusement but soon she shook her head and tried to give her something Zahra could work with.

“Some of the others, yes, they may start you off with sword in hand immediately, but it was not how I was taught. I would never be as strong, or even as quick any who may would wish me harm, but I could be more intelligent.” Marceline quieted for a moment and reflected. “We will never be able to overpower or outrun everyone, but we can outmaneuver and out-flank, and all that begins inside those pages.” she said, pointed toward the collection of books and papers. “And yes, once you have attained a basic understanding, we will move into the practical application. You can be as intelligent and observation as possible, but it means little if you do not know how to hold a sword correctly,” Marceline added. The smile had returned to her face.

This would prove interesting.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The fresh snow crunched underneath their feet as Marceline traveled alongside Leon. Winter was upon them now, with new drifts of snow being supplied to Skyhold's grounds daily. Even then, snowflakes lazily drifted from the sky, and provided a stark contrast for the moment that they lingered in her well-kept mane of black hair. She was dressed for the weather with a thick black coat with silver fur lining the collar. The mountains would only make the winter chill all the more sharp, and they could probably look forward to snow for several more months.

“I do hope you have men keeping the roads clear,” Marceline said with her neck arched upward, studying the falling snowflakes. They would depend on those roads in the following months for supplies like food and clothing. A lot of diplomacy went into securing contracts and trade routes for goods. It would be a shame to see all of her work undone by snow blockages. Her words, however, were merely musings. She had faith that Leon had the soldiers doing whatever was required of them.

Her head fell back down and turned toward Leon, “Speaking of the soldiers, there are some things I wish to discuss.”

“I wished to see how you felt using the army in an attempt to bring in a source of income,” Thus far, the Inquisition had mainly relied on donations and loans from across Thedas, though primarily Orlais and Ferelden. However, donations would soon become scarce as the Inquisition established itself, and there were only so many loans they could take out before the debt crushed them. “If you feel they are ready, of course,” If not, then the whole thing was moot.

Leon, perhaps due to sheer size, didn’t seem much bothered by the cold. His own cloak was comparatively light, made of nothing more than roughspun wool with a deep red linen lining. He crossed his arms upon Marceline’s suggestion, causing the edges of the garment to fall forward. His brows furrowed.

“Bring in income?” he echoed, sounding dubious at best. “It’s not a matter of readiness, Lady Marceline, but a matter of ethics. If you’re suggesting that we hire ourselves out to the highest bidder or take sides in a civil war in hopes of getting paid
” he trailed off, shaking his head. “That’s not really the kind of thing an army like this one should be doing.”

“I did not mean for the suggestion to sound so mercenary, Ser Leon.” Taking a side in the civil war would not only be unethical, but would also lead to a conflict of interest and undeniable bias. Her father fought for the Empress however, and she would not condone placing the Inquisition's army in his way. “You understand as much as I that war brings all sorts out of the woodwork. Bandits, highwaymen, plus we now have the Venatori and the Red Templars to contend with. With the majority of the Chevaliers' attention turned toward the civil war, there are not as many trained soldiers patrolling the roads or keeping the holds safe.”

Marceline shrugged and glanced upward toward Leon's face. “I am simply suggesting we fill that need. Now, do not misunderstand me,” Marceline, her own brows furrowed, “I do not want to initiate a protection racket where safety comes at a price, but... The Inquisition will need income to feed and pay her soldiers.”

Leon seemed somewhat mollified by the clarification, but his frown didn’t disappear. “In principle, that’s not a bad idea, but
 the kind of people who would benefit from our protection are not the kind who have much to give in terms of donations. We may end up spending more on transport and supplies than we get back for the effort. Much as I’d like to help, that might be better left to the Lord-General’s chevaliers. Not to mention Orlais is a sovereign nation even despite the civil war. We don’t really have a legal right to—look out!”

Before she could react, whatever it was struck her hard in the face. A freezing cold sensation was immediate as it spread through her face and seeped into her neckline. She halted midstep and gasped, swiping her face and bending over to free the snow stuck in her collar. Snow. It was then she realized that she'd been struck by a snowball. After removing as much of it as she could from her face and clothes, she shot a gaze upward, looking for the most likely culprit. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes narrow, though her face did not hold a look of outright rage instead sitting somewhere at accusing.

The first person she saw was her husband, having himself a hearty laugh. MichaĂ«l had returned to Skyhold from their estate on the West Banks a number of weeks back. Once he realized that she was staring at him however, his laughter stopped immediately. An alarmed expression entered his face as he quickly pointed toward the elven woman beside him. “Her,” he hastily accused.

Khari glared at him, but quickly threw up both hands in a placating gesture. One of them still grasped a second snowball. “Uh
 sorry, Lady Marceline. I was aiming for Leon, I swear!” Apparently she expected this information to make things less bad.

A loud snort sounded above the pin-drop silence, followed by hoarse, uncontrolled laughter. It carried itself across Skyhold’s grounds and belonged to the resident pirate, Zahra, who appeared to be struggling to keep herself on her feet. She was crooked forward with one hand perched on her wobbly knees, and the other planted firmly on the closest building. A breathy intake of breath later and she was rubbing her hands and knuckles across her eyes. If any attempt was made to stifle her amusement, it was a feeble one. “You should see—I can’t believe,” she sputtered between giggles and snorts, “your faces.”

She appeared to have made some effort when it came to dressing for the weather. No amount of pride could keep the chattering of teeth at bay. She’d chosen simpler clothes, though they still appeared unusual. Dark leathers, bound with soft brown linens. A heavy black cloak rimmed with some sort of animal fur hung over her shaking shoulders. Her hair hung free, in a wild mess, woven with small braids and beads upon closer inspection.

“That’s not helpful, Zee!” Khari threw the other chunk of snow she was holding for the laughing woman. Certainly, her aim could use some work—it barely clipped Zahra before spinning off slightly to the right. Zahra’s laugh only grew louder when the snowball careened off her shoulder. She was already ducking down to gather snow in her own fingerless gloves, wolfish grin wild on her dusky face.

Coming up behind the elf and the chevalier was a bundled up Romulus, heavy cloak draped around him and a hood covering his head. He stepped lightly through the snow, but if he was trying to put his particular skillset to use, he wasn't doing it very well. The dusky-skinned Herald still looked far from home traipsing about through the snow, but he at least looked a little warmer than he had the previous winter.

He was rapidly forming a snowball in his own gloves, packing it into a throwable condition. As soon as he had he aimed it for Khari, and his aim was true; it exploded right against the back of her neck, and Romulus showed a toothy grin as he shrugged. "It's only fair, I think."

She pretended to look offended for all of two seconds before cracking a smile just as wide. “Oh yeah? We'll see what's fair." Apology already forgotten, Khari stooped and drew up a handful of snow.

Across the courtyard where the inn sat, a window on the second level popped open and swung outward. The white-blonde mane of Vesryn appeared, his eyes surveying the sudden snowy conflict. "Are you having fun, Herald?" he asked incredulously. "I didn't think you knew how."

"Why don't you come down, then? I'll show you." Romulus was already working on another snowball, eyes watching all those present, his grin unwavering. Vesryn took the bait, disappearing immediately from the window and closing it behind him.

Next to Marceline, Leon chuckled under his breath. “I do believe we’d best either take cover or arm ourselves,” he said, a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “That’s my official advice as commander, by the way.” Leaning forward slightly, he scraped some snow off a banister to his left, exposing the grey stone and compressing the flakes together between his palms. Taking his sound advice, Marceline quietly took a step backward and slipped into the rather large silhouette cast by Leon.

He eyed the entrance to the inn, apparently waiting for Vesryn to emerge before loosing the snowball. Given his strength, it wasn’t an outlandish possibility that he’d be able to hit someone all the way across the courtyard, either.

The elf swiftly moved out of the inn's doorway, like a child in a pretend game of warfare, which for all intents and purposes, this was. He had an actual implement of war, however. His tower shield led the way, and it was this alone that saved him from a snowy smack in the jaw. With snow sliding down the metallic front of the shield, Vesryn advanced, planting the shield into the ground just as another attack came from Romulus. He began working up a snowball of his own, though his efforts were a little hindered from holding up the shield.

"Is that all? My grandmother has a fiercer attack than this lot."

A soft thud accompanied a snowball striking him in the back; the culprit was soon revealed. Estella stepped out from behind a corner of the inn, one hand holding up part of her cloak, which was for the moment a makeshift basket for what looked like several more snowballs. “Surprise?” She half-smiled, darting away to take cover of her own behind a pile of chopped wood, stacked adjacent to the inn’s other side.

She adopted a steady rate of fire—her accuracy was at least better than Khari’s, though perhaps not by much.

She was certainly, however, not responsible for the volley of perhaps a dozen snowballs that arched onto the field from behind her, pelting anyone unfortunate enough to not duck behind cover in time. From her angle, Marceline could easily discern the cause—Cyrus strolled up behind his sister, wearing a broad grin. With a sharp hand gesture, he levitated another five or six chunks of snow into the air and hurled them as well.

“Asala?” The Qunari woman was indeed not far behind. “Have you ever attempted snow-fort architecture?”

“I have never had snow,” Asala answered cheerfully, the majority of her attention diverted instead toward a decently sized bubble levitating nearby. The bubble was completely opaque, having been filled with snow. “Though, Pierre and I did create a... snow man, back in Haven.” She stared at the snow-filled bubble for a moment before staring at Cyrus with a blank expression for another few moments.

She was quiet, before her eyes lit up in understanding. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and brought the bubble around to their front, morphing and shaping the snow in the air. By the time she sat it down, they had a nice, compressed snow wall between them and the rest of the combatants. With that, she beamed proudly. At least, until she was struck by a snowball.

“Cheating! That’s cheating—,” Zahra cried beneath the hail of levitating snowballs, raining down like arrows. A few had certainly struck their mark. Remnants of snow shook from her shoulders, and hair. If she was at all upset at having clumps of snow mussed in her wild mane, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead it appeared as if she was trudging through the snow and behind Asala’s makeshift wall, hidden from view. At least from the snow-ball churning demon grinning beside Estella. A lone snowball veered over their heads, and Zahra appeared a moment later, further to the right. Arms thrown back. Shuffling through the snow as if it were water. She dipped lower and attempted to tackle Cyrus into a nearby snowdrift, laugh already bubbling from her lips.

They went down in a heap; a pause in the constant barrage of snowballs from the south side allowed an opportunity for counterattack.

With a good deal of the attention turned toward the scuffle between Cyrus and Zahra, Marceline finally peeked out from Leon's shadow. She shot a glance around at the rapidly increasing number of individuals embroiled in their little snow battle. In a one fluid movement, she leaned out from behind Leon and loosed the snowball she'd been holding on to toward Khari. There was a little twist to her lips as she slid closer to her Seeker bulwark. Marceline always got her vengeance.

Above the frosty battle, and across the powdered walls, sat a lone figure. A woman perched across the brickwork like one of Rilien’s cackling ravens, though she hadn’t made a sound. She kicked her legs back and forth and absently fluffed snow from her knees, white-haired and dressed in clothes fit for Skyhold’s nippy weather. A soft brown hood was pulled over her head, but upon closer scrutiny, it appeared as if she was smiling. It pulled against the scar on her face.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Their next journey at sea was mercifully far shorter than the first. Unfortunately the weather seemed to be trying to make up for the lack of distance, and the waters were choppy and rough, causing the Riptide to sway up and down with the waves. The winds were up and the rain came down steadily. No downpour, but enough to dampen all who showed their faces above deck with a constant spray. Rom had placed himself firmly at the bow of the ship for the past few hours, Anais refusing to leave his side. She always seemed to have something she needed to say to him.

The rough weather no doubt kept Zee on deck, near the helm with Nixium the navigator. Leon was there too, though he kept out of the way of the wheel itself. Whatever they were saying wasn't loud enough to make out over everything else, but none of them appeared that concerned with the state of the waters.

Their road had taken them north and just into the Orlesian border, where they boarded their ships at Jader and headed east for a nearby island. This time the Riptide was accompanied by the larger warship belonging to the Herald's father, the Northern Sword. Borja had made some scant attempts at small talk with his son on the one-day journey, but the man seemed always to be more awkward and uncomfortable when speaking of anything personal, and with all of the Herald's Disciples around, they never had a moment to themselves. Now they were a ship apart, with Rom choosing to remain with the other prominent members of the Inquisition, and Borja choosing to captain his own ship.

The Riptide was far more crowded than it had been before, with a large contingent of zealots under the command of Anais crammed aboard to witness the historic event. They were practically bubbling with excitement. Anais's own enthusiasm was tempered compared with the night before, but perhaps that was just because she was in the presence of her followers. Air of authority to maintain, and all that.

Khari had never had authority over anyone but herself. With no appearances to maintain, she had one less worry about planting herself at the ship's rail, crossing her legs around it and leaning her forehead against the smoothly-worn wood. The choppiness of the ocean had only made her stomach churn along with it, and staying below had been no help at all. At least the air was fresh out here.

So Khari concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths, not too bothered one way or another about the rain. Turning her head, she rested her cheek against the rail and distracted herself by counting the number of ropes in the rigging.

"Few know of this place," Anais said, mostly to Rom, though no small number of disciples stood about close by, to listen in. "A place of quiet reflection and worship for Andraste, after her release from slavery at the hands of Tevinter. The journal states quite clearly that the ritual must be done here. I suspect this place to be where the Maker first spoke to her." Rom did not react visibly to most of what she said. The disciples seemed to regard the pair with the utmost reverence, as though they were concerned that the breaths they took might disturb them if they exhaled too loudly.

"And there's a temple here?" Rom asked. Anais looked out into the mists ahead of them.

"The remains of one, yes. My scouts found ruins, and dated them back beyond the Second Blight by our best estimates. It was likely destroyed then, but the power of the place should remain intact. The Maker will recognize you, Your Worship, and make it known. So long as you are willing to recognize yourself." Rom did not respond, and the Riptide moved forward into a cloud of fog. The daylight was fading now, making their way forward somewhat treacherous, and they slowed to be safer.

With the retreat of the sunlight and the constant rain, it was also getting cold. Even if they weren't in the mountains anymore, winter in this part of the world could be pretty brutal. Khari tugged her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her middle and hugging herself. The steady flow of her breath, chill enough to sting the lungs on the deep inhalations, produced little clouds when she pushed the air back out again.

She was glad she wasn't superstitious. All the fog and the cold and the uncomfortable feeling in her guts could have been foreboding if she were. Fortunately, it was just fog and cold and seasickness. Well... she was pretty sure that was all, anyway.

Quiet footsteps heralded an approach; a moment later, a slight weight settled over Khari's shoulders. A blanket, it seemed, pulled from down below deck. Stel settled next to her, mimicking Khari's posture on the next rail over, and offered a slight smile. “I know you said it's better for your stomach up here, but I thought you might be cold."

Khari blinked stupidly for a second. Huffing a staccato breath, she returned the smile, shrugging the blanket up further around her shoulders. “You're a lifesaver, Stel. Thanks." Shuffling around a little bit, she scooted the blanket around so that all of the excess was on the left side where Stel was, then held it out towards her. “You want some?" Truthfully, she could use the company. Misery loved it, or something.

Stel contemplated that for about a second before she accepted, scooting slightly closer so that their shoulders and hips were firmly in contact. “This isn't bad at all," she remarked. “The cold, I mean. Are you still feeling sick?"

Khari's pride said no, but her guts could only contribute an emphatic yes. She groaned slightly by way of reply and leaned her head forward against the rail again. “I can sit a horse all damn day, but a few hours on a boat and I'm a useless puddle." It was actually pretty humiliating, but she supposed the upside was that she was too busy feeling ill to really wallow in the embarrassment.

Seeking to distract herself, she asked the first question that came to mind. “Are you religious, Stel? What's your take on all this?" Maybe that was a bit too complicated a question for simple distraction. Hopefully she'd actually be able to follow the answer.

One of Stel's arms shifted until it was between Khari's back and the blanket, and she smoothed her hand up and down a few times, a clear attempt to mitigate the discomfort. “Well..." she murmured, shifting slightly and throwing an unreadable look towards the prow of the ship. “I'm honestly not really sure. I used to be religious; I was raised in the Chantry, after all. I thought my whole life would be there. And it's a matter of historical record that Andraste existed and had children, so none of it's impossible."

She sighed. “I'd have protested if I thought it too unlikely that Romulus was indeed part of that family, considering the consequences of being wrong. I'm still... worried, but that's just in my nature, I suppose."

“'S'not in my nature. But I'm still kind of worried." Khari pressed her brow harder into the rail, closing her eyes. She hadn't really planned on admitting that, but there it was. Still, it wasn't like Stel was going to go around repeating that to people. She had way too much integrity for that kind of petty thing. “...mostly about what comes after this." The big fire with the magic and stuff was... well, she didn't really know what to think about that except to hope it worked. But all appearances to the contrary, Khari wasn't stupid. She could guess how the news would go over with the rest of the world. And it wasn't always pretty.

“Yeah, I know what you mean." Stel said nothing further. Maybe she didn't have any better answer for that concern than Khari did. Maybe their answers were the same: maybe just being here was answer enough.

"How did this place remain hidden so long, if it's this significant?" Rom asked Anais, narrowing his eyes and trying to search through the mist for their destination. Behind them, the Northern Sword kept close, just remaining in sight in the reduced visibility.

"It would hardly be the first time something significant to Andraste has vanished for ages," Anais replied. "And unlike certain valuable artifacts, few had cause to search for this place, or knew it existed to begin with. It has no name, nor representation on any maps. On top of that, these mists are a common sight here, and the Frostbacks south of us conceal the island from those inland." She paused, leaning forward slightly. She then quietly gasped, and pointed ahead. "And here we are. The Prophet's Refuge."

It emerged slowly ahead of them, and the two ships were brought to a halt near the shore, at a safe distance to drop anchors. It was a very small island indeed, with a shore that was rocky instead of sandy, with any real vegetation having died off from the winter's cold. There wasn't much of the temple left to find, just the remains of a stone pillar here, the crumbling base of a wall there. It plainly wasn't some simple house, though, judging by the stonework. It had taken many years and probably darkspawn, as Anais suggested, to tear it to the ground.

One thing that did remain intact was a flat and square stone slab in what looked to be the center of the temple. If any statue or artifact had been placed upon it at some point was unclear, but now there was an impressive pyre. A contingent of the Herald's Disciples had traveled ahead of the rest, it seemed, and these had prepared a tall group of wooden pillars, with a single post at its center with footing for Rom to stand upon and presumably burn. The waiting disciples stood in a neat line with their hoods drawn against the rain.

The large shore party loaded into several boats and rowed to shore, with the lead boat carrying the Herald, the Speaker, Khari, Zee, Stel, Leon, and Marceline, who had chosen to observe the event along with the others. When all were ashore, Rom waited somewhat impatiently for instruction from Anais. The redheaded woman drew back her hood and smiled, her expression betraying a bit of nerves despite her obvious excitement.

"We can begin when you are ready, Your Worship. I will prepare the ritual. In the meantime, if you would like to say anything to your companions... I am confident this is not the end, but of course there are dangers involved." She turned to begin her work, and then abruptly stopped. "Oh, and you will want to remove any clothes that you wish to keep."

A single laugh, quiet and uneasy, escaped Rom, and he watched Anais stroll over to the pyre to begin her work. Judging by her concentration as she circled the assembled wood, it was not a simple task, but subtle and complex magic. Rom turned to those that had come along for the ride, but was obviously unsure what to say.

Marceline, wrapped in a thick black cloak, had her arms crossed and glanced at the rest of those assembled. "Tis a poor moment to be at a loss for words," she chided gently before shrugging.

“Sometimes, there aren't any," Leon said, moving his eyes to Rom and nodding solemnly. “Best of luck to you."

“We believe in you," Stel added warmly. Even Marceline nodded in agreement.

Zahra’s expression tempered itself between a grin and a soft smile. She didn’t appear all that concerned of what the outcome might be, but it might’ve been a result of the adamant, sea-roving approach she had to nearly everything: including her companions. She sniffed against her knuckles as she strode up to Rom and paused for a moment before clapping both hands on his shoulders, wild eyes alight.

Her breath still puffed out in white plumes, rising between them. She’d donned a wolf-headed jacket over her shoulders, probably scrapped up from the Riptide’s hold. “Drinks on me after this is all done,” she offered a wayward wink and released his shoulders, stepping back to allow the others to reach him as well, “That’s a promise.”

Khari's own confidence warred with her concern, and as usually seemed to happen to her when she couldn't quite sort out her feelings about something, she reacted physically. In this case, she took a couple steps forward and bear-hugged Rom, squeezing tightly.

“You're gonna be fine." She wasn't entirely sure which of the two of them she was trying to convince, but it probably didn't matter. “A little fire's got nothing on you. So don't go making me a liar."

He smiled and hugged her back, momentarily burying his face in her mass of red hair. As Leon had said, there weren't any words, at least not for her specifically. But certainly something was said with how strongly he embraced her. When he finally broke free of the hug, he looked to be a little choked up, but managed to maintain his composure.

"Thank you," he said, nodding. "All of you." His eyes wandered to the water. All of the boats from the Riptide had come in and were beached on the shore. None had come from the Northern Sword. In the distance, the outline of the bulky Captain Borja could be seen at the bow of his ship, seemingly content to watch his son from afar. Rom's expression was hard to read, but any pain or confusion there was quickly pushed beneath the surface.

He removed his cloak and boots, handing both to a disciple that was perhaps overly eager to receive them. Without looking back, he made his way to the pyre. Anais met him at the base of it, having finished her work. The base of the pyre seemed to be glowing, a barely perceptible white that may not have been noticeable at all if not for the relative darkness around them. The rain was lightening somewhat, but judging by the clouds on the horizon, it was only a pause in the storm, and not the end of it.

Anais pulled a small vial from a pouch on her belt, containing a pale golden liquid. "The last piece, Your Worship, prepared exactly as the journal specified. Have faith, and the Maker will protect you. His Bride will protect you." She handed the vial to him. Rom studied it momentarily, before he pulled the cork and downed it. He seemed to have a lack of reaction to it, not even a shudder at any foul taste. He dropped it once it was done. Anais placed a hand on his arm. "Now, let us begin."

Khari found it difficult to stand still, shuffling her feet slightly in place and drumming her fingers against her thigh, but she didn't get much closer to the pyre. It was like an invisible line had been drawn in the ground, whether for the sake of reverence or just more mundane safety. She didn't cross it, toeing the edge instead. She was good at not thinking about all the ways something risky could go wrong. It was a talent she chose to employ now. Zahra idled just close enough to her side to let her know that she was there. Arms folded neatly over her chest. While her expression has dampened a bit, and the grin had lost its humor, she appeared fairly composed.

One of the disciples aided his ascent onto the platform of the pyre, climbing up after him with a length of rope, which he used to bind Rom's hands around the central pole. The Herald's eyes remained down, almost purposely not seeking out anyone in particular, while the other disciples put some distance between themselves and the pyre, ending up near the assembled group from the Inquisition. Once Rom was properly secured to the pyre, the last disciple scampered away from the site, leaving only Anais behind. She tilted her head back towards the sky.

"The first son in the line of daughters has stepped forward to claim his mantle!" she called, to the Maker or to no one in particular. "He offers up his life as a show of faith in you! Receive him and protect him, Maker!"

With that, she called fire to her hands, and thrust the magic down at the base of the pyre. The white glow brightened and then immediately turned an intense orange as the natural fire seemed to consume it. Anais quickly retreated away from the pyre and came to join the others at a safe distance, a half smile of wonder etched on her face. "I would advise not approaching the pyre until it is done, for your own safety," she warned them.

The fire lingered at the base momentarily while the wood caught it, and for a moment it was only smoke that rose and surrounded Rom. The moment did not last long, though, and soon enough the blaze rose in height, and then with an unnatural speed it reached higher. The tongues of flame licked at his feet and legs, setting his clothes alight, and for a brief moment there was a look of confusion and alarm on Rom's face. Then the fire grew until it was monstrous in size, and the flames swallowed him entirely such that he could no longer even be seen by those witnessing. But he did not cry out in pain. Not a sound came from the blaze save for the roaring of the fire itself.

Khari pulled in a breath and held it. No sound was good, right? She doubted there were many people if any who'd be able to not make a peep if they were actually burning alive. Except the story said Andraste had done that, right? Shit. She crossed her arms in a self-conscious attempt to stop her own fidgeting, grinding the teeth in the back of her mouth and staring into the fire. Beside her, Stel pulled in a deep breath and seemed to hold it. A slender hand came to rest upon Khari's shoulder, though Marceline said nothing of it and only kept her eyes forward on the pyre. Zahra’s arms had dropped to her sides, and she appeared to be leaning slightly forward. Hands bunched into fists, eyes searching through the smog of black smoke licking through the air above and around the pyre. She did not move, though it looked as if she wanted to.

Still the fire grew more and more fierce, the heat of it blasting even those that stood as far away from it as they could, perhaps even reaching those that remained behind on the ships. It swirled in the wind, and even the mist shrouding the island seemed to be giving way, forced back and clearing the air, unable to withstand the intensity. When it finally stopped growing, it held and spun and roared for thirty seconds, a minute, more... any man inside without some kind of protection would have been burnt to their blackened bones by now.

Suddenly, a wave of energy radiated outwards from the pyre, akin to a strong gust of wind, continuing outwards until it had passed beyond the shores of the tiny island and over the pair of ships watching. From the ground up the fire was extinguished, the flames swirling up into the sky above where they eventually vanished. With the sound of the blaze gone, only the continuous pattering of the rain remained.

Romulus remained on the pyre, blackened with ash and soot and entirely naked, but seemingly alive and unhurt. His head lolled forward, but he looked to be barely hanging on to consciousness. The rope restraining his hands had burned away, and soon he toppled over forward towards the ground. The entire pyre collapsed with him in a crash of charred wood, into the rocky surface below. Anais, her face awash with delight, rushed forward with his cloak in hand.

“Dammit." Unable to keep her spot with her best friend on the ground like that, Khari ran forward, too. The Maker better have remembered to insulate against smoke inhalation, because that could knock a person just as dead. Anais had the cloak thing handled, so Khari busied herself pushing aside ash and debris from the pyre, clearing the area a little in hopes of making it a bit easier to breathe.

The rain began to come down harder now, sizzling as it hit the wood pieces and even against Rom's skin. Behind the Speaker and Khari others quickly moved to help as well, some at the orders of Marceline, whether she had command of them or not. Anais was quick to throw the cloak over the Herald's naked body, and together with Leon they were able to pull Rom free from the smoking remains of the pyre. Under the ash his skin was reddened and extremely warm to the touch, but he appeared to be cooling quickly, and there were no visible burns or signs of damage on him. Once he was clear of the smoke he was set down to rest upon his knees. He was still conscious and trying to stay upright, but needed support on either side. For a moment, he seemed delirious.

"Your Worship," Anais said, holding tightly onto his arm. "You've done it. The Maker has safeguarded you. You have proven your status, Blood of Andraste." The disciples around them heard the declaration, many falling to their knees and lowering their heads to the ground. A few openly shed tears. Romulus blinked rapidly, struggling to focus. With a hand he seemed to shove at Anais. She grabbed the hand and squeezed. "It's over, Your Worship. It's over."

"No," he managed, the word barely escaping him. "No." His eyes sought those around him, and found Leon. His other hand latched onto Leon's collar, and he tried to maintain eye contact with him. "Stop her. Stop... no. False... no..." Anais frowned, reaching to place a hand on the side of Rom's face, trying to get him to look at her.

"Your Worship? It's alright, you're safe now, the ritual is complete. You passed the trial, your faith has been rewarded!"

Leon's expression hardened slightly; his eyes narrowed a bit and his lips thinned. “Everyone step away for a moment, please." Though it was phrased politely, it was hard to mistake the fact that it was the High Seeker speaking, and not Leon. He was more than capable of supporting Rom on his own, and he moved to do so, putting a hand on either of his shoulders.

He ducked his head to keep eye contact, speaking quietly, deliberately and clearly—probably in hopes that Rom would be able to understand the words. “Stop whom?"

"He's just been through a great ordeal, High Seeker," Anais said, remaining firmly at Rom's side. "This is hardly the time for questioning him. He needs rest."

Khari frowned. “Whatever he's talking about, it's important enough to him that he's trying to say it now, so we should hear it now." She crossed her arms and took a single step closer. “Surely whatever the Blood of Andraste has to say is important enough to listen to?"

Reluctantly, the Speaker took a single step back away from Rom, who tugged the cloak tighter around his shoulders. He took several deep breaths, each one seeming to bring his strength back bit by bit. Anais's frown grew. Finally, Rom looked at Leon again.

"Anais," he said, as clearly as he could. "The vial... the ritual. Never... any danger." Suddenly he looked as though he was quite sick, and lurched forward, heaving and coughing in a fit that racked his body. He shuddered when it was through, and began shivering from the cold. Anais began to look offended.

"He's not in his right mind, High Seeker. Of course there was never any danger, the Maker protected him! He was chosen by a power greater than any of you to lead us!"

“Then surely you will not mind sharing the journal and the recipe for that concoction with our alchemist when we return to Skyhold," Leon replied evenly. A look of trepidation crossed his face, and he shook his head a little. “Estella? Is there anything you can do for him before we head back?" He must have been talking about healing magic.

“Perhaps," she replied softly. “But I do think it would be best to get him somewhere warm and comfortable first."

Khari shrugged out of her own cloak and added it to Rom's for warmth. “No reason to stay here in any case, is there?"

Suddenly Rom shoved himself up to his feet, with a groan of effort. He nearly fell again, but managed to remain upright and facing Anais. If anything the bout of sickness seemed to have purged him of some of the ill effects, and he was looking significantly more focused now. Anais's eyes widened, and she even took a step back in surprise.

"Your Worship, how... how can you even stand?"

"I could've..." he wiped at his mouth, eyes locked on the Speaker. "I could've made that potion myself. Couldn't... cast the spell, but I know there was nothing divine in that fire, nor in that vial. You build up a... tolerance, with enough use." Her mouth hung open, struggling for a moment to find something to say, but she still seemed stunned to see Rom coherent, let alone on his feet.

"I prepared the ritual exactly as the journal specified, Your Worship. As your ancestors wished, for one of their own to claim their rightful mantle as Blood of Andraste."

"The journal..." he practically scoffed at the mention of it. "The journal you translated. I'm such a fool..." He staggered a step closer to her, and this time she remained firmly rooted to the spot. The disciples around them seemed confused, alarmed, some even distraught at the argument. "What am I, Anais? What am I really?"

"Your Worship—"

"Don't call me that. What am I?"

She seemed threatened, half recoiling away from Rom, though she kept her eyes firmly rooted to his, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "You are the Blood of Andraste, Romulus. You have been given a great opportunity here, to seize the power that your birthright grants you. You must take it."

He held her gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Must I? No. I'm done listening to you. You brought my father to me, and for that I'm thankful, but I won't pretend that any of this was real." He turned to the others. "There's no one holy here. Only frauds."

Marceline strode forward, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. "Ser Leonhardt," she began before opening her eyes, "If you would kindly keep an eye on Anais on the way back to Skyhold, I would very much appreciate it." Shaking her head, she looked up and took a protective step next to Romulus. "And if you would, send a runner to inform Borja as well?" With that, Marceline gently encouraged Romulus that it was time to leave.

"Come... We have a long day of traveling ahead of us."

Leon nodded, pointing to one of the few Inquisition soldiers on the shore. “Run that message for me, Legrand. Everyone else, get back to the boats."

Boom. A powerful blast echoed in the distance, from the ships. Rom immediately turned towards the sound, to see a heavy projectile whistling away from the Northern Sword amidst a cloud of smoke. It smashed into the side of the Riptide, punching straight through and sending a spray of wood splinters into the air. By the looks of it, the shot had been aimed for the ship's main mast, but it remained upright, only slightly damaged, having avoided the worst of it. Shouting erupted from the two ships, and the Northern Sword began to turn, having already hauled up her anchor.

"No!" Anais cried, distraught. "You idiot!" Some of the disciples searched for cover, though there seemed to be no threat to the shore party. Borja's ship was turning to flee, the winds catching her sails and taking her east, towards the storm. The captain could be seen at the helm, not looking back.

Rom stared in utter confusion at the attack, the hurt written plainly across his face. He did not seem to understand what Anais was furious about. But after a few more seconds of disbelief, he seemed to have his mind made up.

"We need to catch him." He looked around at all of his companions, searching for support. "I need to catch him."

“Then let's go!" Khari didn't see any point in arguing about it. Even Marceline should be okay with chasing down someone who'd just fired on the Inquisition's borrowed boat. She was mostly just pissed at Borja though. That slimy little—there had better be a damn good explanation for this.

But of course, there was one person whose permission actually mattered. “Zee?"

Whatever confusion had happened at the pyre had wept from Zahra’s face like the ash and dust sifting from Rom’s flesh. Now, her eyes were trained on the horizon and on Borja’s fleeing vessel. There was a fury twisting her features, drawing her lips back from her teeth, as if she were bristling to throttle someone. In this case, it would’ve been Borja. She exhaled sharply and stomped forward, “Back to the ship. Now.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
It was all Zahra could do to contain the tawdry shudder of anger riddling through her bones as she ground out commands through clenched teeth. Why had Borja done this? What kind of fucking rouse had Anais pulled back at the pyre? The connections weren’t lost on her. Nothing made sense anymore. She doubted she’d get any answers until they had Borja here. On his knees, begging for forgiveness. She’d see it. Even if he was Rom’s father. They’d hightailed it back to the ship far quicker than she’d thought possible given Rom’s state, but she figured Leon could’ve practically carried him back without much effort. Her crew was already scrambling across the decks and the anchor had been hauled up as soon as they’d set their feet aboard. Nixium’s face was grimmer than it usually was, though she’d already turned the rudder’s hard to port and without being needed to be told where they needed to be, cut the Riptide towards the Northern Sword.

The Riptide’s sails flapped down like falling curtains and billowed out at the gust of wind as if it were a lover blowing them true. They sliced through the waters at a quickening speed. Fortunately, their ship was much smaller than Borja’s and crafted specifically for this: catching fleeing vessels. However, the damage that had been done to the ship was
 concerning. The Northern Sword could be frighteningly destructive if it’s intentions were to send said ship to the bottom of the sea. How many had she seen suffer that fate? Too many. If it hadn’t been for dumb luck, they might not have had any way to leave. He’d missed the mast. Garland had already vaulted down the steps leading into Riptide’s belly, armed with hammer, nails, and boards tucked under his armpits. If his expression was anything to go by
 the damage wasn’t good.

But they were afloat. For now.

Seeing as Anais was the only one that might know what was going on here, Zahra stalked up to her with all of her small-sized, pent-up rage. She hadn’t allowed them to lock her in the holds, nor move her out of the cold. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed, drawing into mean slits. Whatever remnant of calm had already sizzled out like the flames of the pyre. Her hands, drawn into fists, bloomed opened and closed before she finally reached the woman in question. One hand shot out and grappled onto the scruff of her collar, which she used as leverage to draw her down closer to her face, and her withering stare. She hadn’t reached for blade or arrows, but her posturing was anything but feigned. It spoke of consequences.

“I’ll give you one chance to explain what’s happening here,” she breathed out sharply.

"And if I pass on that chance?" To her credit, Anais did not seem cowed by the captain's display of ferocity and justified anger. She did little to shield herself from the driving rain, which grew ever fiercer the closer they came to the storm's heart. "What will you do? Kill me? I very much doubt it. I could provide some answers for the Herald, but I won't do that here."

Zahra tossed her head back and laughed. She hadn’t released her hold on the back of her neck either, only forced her to reel back with her. There was a glint in her eyes, like two pieces of flint. “Kill you? No. That’d be easy. But I can make you wish for it, little bird.”

Romulus carefully positioned himself partway between them. He was clothed again with a spare change under his armor, which he'd left behind on the ship. It was obvious that he wasn't at full strength and wouldn't be for some time, but he at least seemed alert. "I need her alive," he warned Zahra. "I think there's too much to explain for it to be done here."

Even as Rom repositioned himself so that he stood nearly between them, Zahra’s countenance hadn’t changed. She demanded blood be paid. It was the raider way, even if she’d become less and less of one. For one who’d lived their lives on land instead of the sea, it was difficult to explain just how much a ship meant to its crew. This was no different. It accounted for a life.

"He's right," Anais agreed. "For the moment, I should inform you that Adan Borja will not hesitate to sink this ship if threatened, nor will he think twice about killing every soul aboard. This must be done carefully." That was clear enough. The waves ahead were growing ever larger, and the Northern Sword was showing no signs of changing her course. Romulus glowered at the sight, taking his shield in hand.

"Just get me on that ship."

Zahra’s fingers slowly released their death-grip on her collar and she allowed the fabric to slip away from her hand. Her eyes, however, raked away from Anais’s face, and onto Rom’s. “When this is done, and she sings her last useful words...” her eyes shifted sidelong and her mouth settled into a hard line, “I won’t move on this matter.” For now, as he said, they’d need to catch up to the Northern Sword and board it before he tried to turn around and face them. Being punched with more cannon balls wasn’t an option. She pushed the sopping wet hair from her face and grinned grimly, “Now, that I can do. Make sure everyone’s ready.”

She turned away from them and cried out quick commands over the sound of the storm. Nixium bellowed back from the helm, though her words were muffled from the rain that’d decided to start pelting down from all angles, chilling them to the bone. Riptide quickened its pace, and the Northern Sword began showing discernible details. People shuffling along the decks. If she squinted hard enough she thought she could see Borja leaning over the railings, hands planted
 though she couldn’t be sure, and chalked it up to her eager imagination.

On The Riptide's own deck, those few who were neither crew nor cultist prepared for battle. Khari, still with wan and waxy complexion from all the rocking, was nevertheless arranging the straps that held her graceless cleaver to her back. She forewent the metal mask—perhaps air was more important—but pulled her dark hood up around her head, her facial features disappearing from view. Across the deck, Marceline stood with the point of her rapier resting gently in the wood by her feet, flanked by a pair of sturdy Inquisition soldiers and their shields. Meanwhile Estella appeared from below, sword now at her hip, and tossed what looked like a pair of heavy gauntlets to Leon, who caught them in midair. They stayed out of the way of the crew, but their eyes were fixed forward on the retreating boat.

A porthole opened up in the rear of the Northern Sword as the Riptide steadily gained on her. A flash of fire followed, and a boom like thunder rippled through the air. A cannonball from the stolen Qunari weapon hurtled through the air at them, the shot sailing high and splashing down into the tumultuous seas behind them. With the way the waves lifted and dropped the two racing vessels, aiming would be very difficult. But soon there were more projectiles added into the mix.

"Find cover!" Romulus called, as the first arrows whistled down onto the deck, some clattering off into the sea, others thudding into the wood. They were almost impossible to see in the darkened sky, with the driving rain added into the mix. Another shot from the cannon sent a giant plume of water up in front of the ship, the attack falling short this time. Their aim was unreliable at best in the storm, but it wouldn't be long before something found its mark.

Khari didn't need to be told twice. She half-lunged, half-toppled forward, snatching Estella's arm and dragging them both behind a couple of the barrels that had been lashed down to the deck in preparation for the inclement weather. One lucky arrow thudded right into the barrel in front, vibrating for several seconds before it stilled. A semitransparent barrier, more purple than blue, flickered into life over their heads. It was neither very large nor sturdy-looking, but at least one arrow bounced off of it harmlessly.

Taking cover wasn't exactly simple for a man of Leon's proportions; he wound up putting the foremast between himself and the oncoming arrows, occasionally risking a glance out from behind it. At this point, though, their job was pretty much to stay alive until they were close enough to retaliate.

Marceline huddled behind the shield-wall erected by her guard, adding her own weight to theirs to help keep them steady. Slowly they picked their way to a rise in the railing, in an effort to add it to their protection as arrows thumped harmlessly into their shields. Once they reached it, there was nothing more they could do but patiently wait.

While most wouldn’t have counted themselves lucky facing such an unforgiving storm, Zahra was. If only for the fact that Borja couldn’t pelt them with flaming arrows—it was a tactic she was keen to employ whenever she pulled up to other ships. Setting a ship’s sails aflame was a good way to render them useless, and still. She’d donned her own bow in hand and bounded up towards the upper decks as quickly as she could manage, arrows whistling through the air. If they could reach the ship in time, she could sink his hooks into his, and he’d be daft to fire anymore cannonballs.

In any case, they were gaining on him.

Nixium kept her post at the helm. Though she’d conjured some sort of shield to protect herself. A rippling force-field. One of her palms was held up in the air as she grappled with the wheel using her upper body. From the looks of it, the wild waves crashing into the ship’s bow wasn’t being easily managed. Several arrows crashed and splintered against her ward, while some buffered off into the hail. Once Zahra reached her, breathless and sopping wet, she grappled onto the other side of the jerking wheel while Nixium adjusted herself on the opposite end.

“Hooks are ready. Close as we can, now.”

The last attempt from the Qunari cannon was a hit on the Riptide, a ricochet off the starboard side railing that sent splinters raining down on their heads before it careened over the back and into the sea. A lucky result, considering how easily it could've taken a head clean off. They were close enough now to accurately exchange fire, the two crews loosing arrows back and forth in between dives for cover. Romulus pegged a pirate in the chest with his crossbow before he ducked back down to load another bolt. They were numerous, this crew of Borja's, but they had never faced an enemy like this one before.

"We're in range!" Romulus shouted, through the crack of lightning. "Hook them!" The grappling hooks were heaved at the Northern Sword, entangling its masts and railings, binding the ships together and steadily drawing them into each other. "Brace!" A wave pushed the larger ship the rest of the way into the Riptide, scraping the sides of both hulls and inflicting some light damage on the smaller of the two. It was negligible in the grand scheme of things; they had their way across.

They were close enough to make a jump, and Romulus was the first to throw himself across, landing near the Northern Sword's bow. The first pirate to get in his way found a knife digging into his ribs, and he was discarded overboard into the sea. If the effects of being drugged were still wearing on him, he was hiding it quite well. Borja roared at his men from the rear of his ship, compelling them into action, and the melee began in earnest.

Khari, too, leaped from cover, bounding over the deck with surprising surefootedness for someone with such a bad stomach for the ocean. She made the jump further down the ships, landing closer to the mizzenmast than the fore, sword swinging wildly. She looked to be aiming mostly for center mass, and moved on as soon as a foe dropped, rather than pausing to finish any of them off. Jamming an elbow into one pirate's jaw, she pulled him over her hip with one hand, whacking him hard in the head with the flat side of her cleaver. He stilled, and she stepped forward into another.

Estella and Leon took a little longer to board, mostly because Leon paused to boost her across the gap before following himself. The Seeker went to work immediately in that brutal way he had. Grabbing one man by the head, he threw him sideways into the mainmast and kicked hard enough to break ribs, snatching up the pirate's weapons and throwing them into the churning ocean below. The next got his legs swept out from underneath him; his kneecaps broke under Leon's stomping boots.

The hatchet he'd been carrying flew end-over-end, lodging itself in the back of a woman who'd been after Estella. The Inquisitor herself pulled it free, toppling her foe with a hamstring slash and slamming the hatchet down with all her might, pinning the pirate to the deck by the back of her shirt. A few seconds later, the axe was frozen to the wood, and Estella was standing, bringing her saber up to block another assailant.

Marceline was among the last to board the ship with her entourage, probably in an effort to let their main force at least thin the resistance a little. Both soldiers aided her in crossing the gap between the ships. Once their feet were dug into the Northern Sword's deck, they formed into a tight unit, with shields flanking both sides of Marceline. A pirate who perhaps believed that felling the Orlesian ambassador might hurt morale, drove straight for her before he was intercepted by a shield. In the moment that he turned his attention away from her was the moment she chose to strike, the tip of her rapier burying deep into his chest. They'd find the ambassador to be a far more difficult target than that.

Zahra had left Nixium’s side with little more than a nod. As soon as ships kissed sides, there was not much else a navigator could do until the time came to unhook themselves. She, too, jumped onto the railing and used her momentum to leap onto the Northern Sword’s busy decks. She ducked an incoming blade, heard the sweep of air as it sliced above her. As she was coming back up, she swung the sharp end of her bow underneath his chin. There was a spray of blood and a sickly gurgle. A thud sounded behind her, but she was already springing away towards the next foe.

“Borja!” She screamed into the hail. Whether he’d heard him or not didn’t seem to matter. Her eyes trained the decks, absorbing the carnage that was unfurling on both the Riptide, and the Northern Sword. Numb fingers notched an arrow in place and pinned a man’s hand against the wood of the mainmast. Struck clear through the knuckles. His sword, mid-swing, clattered at his feet. His screams couldn’t be heard either, though she did not doubt they’d end soon enough.

Romulus was giving as little thought to the well-being of his enemies as Zahra was, it seemed. Lightly armored pirates dropped in heaps, leaking blood to mix with the rain washing over the ships. He pushed through the melee towards the rear of the ship, towards where the captain was supposed to be fighting alongside his crew, though in the thick of the fighting it was difficult to discern where anyone was. His efforts to search for Borja were continuously interrupted by sword-armed criminals trying to end his life. Frustrated, he bashed one in the throat with the rim of his shield, before reaching forward to violently snap the man's neck, dropping him to the ground.

Before him, a hatch opened leading to the lower decks of the Northern Sword. Romulus had been about to plunge his dagger down into the neck of the first person to appear there, but he managed to stop himself short, recognizing the figure. The lanky and aging smuggler Conrado had his hands free, one of them grasping a long, thin sword which he carried with practiced ease. His head swiveled about, searching for threats, eyeing up the pirates around him as well as those they'd been boarded by.

"Conrado!" Romulus called, demanding the man's attention. "Fight with us!" How he'd gotten free was unclear, but his treatment at Borja's hands had been none too kind. Conrado nodded briefly, then gestured with his head behind Romulus, warning him of an attacker to his rear.

Romulus half-turned his head to react, before a sharp pain immediately bloomed in his torso. He looked down to see Conrado's sword stabbed into his side. Before he could so much as react the thin blade was withdrawn and slashed deep across his lower left thigh. He staggered and nearly fell, but Conrado was quick to complete the move, pulling him forward and throwing him down the hole he'd emerged from, where Romulus crashed against the ladder and disappeared out of sight. The smuggler kicked the hatch closed behind him.

On the upper deck, Borja was nowhere to be seen.

Khari must have either seen or inferred what happened, because she hastily kicked her off-balance opponent over the railing of the ship and threw herself at Conrado, barreling through a couple of occupied pirates on the way. He stepped neatly out of the way of her first blow; the sound of the blade hitting the deck was inaudible over the din, but from the way it jerked through her whole frame, it must have been quite the impact.

Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, and she wrenched the cleaver out of the floorboards, twisting away from a fencing lunge but unable to completely avoid the follow-up, which caught her in the side. It was hard to tell if she so much as felt it. She attempted to close one gauntlet-protected hand over the blade of the rapier, but Conrado was too fast to allow it. So she followed his retreat instead, clearly trying to pin him down in a corner.

Leon was swiftly clearing out the mid-ship area, but his progress was nowhere near fast enough to get to Romulus's aid anytime soon. Estella branched off in the aft direction, but was immediately waylaid by a trio of Borja's men. Grimly, she leveled her saber and got to work.

With a solid solid foothold behind them, Marceline ventured away from her guard, the rapier flashing in one hand, and the main-gauche in the other. She pressed as hard as she could along with the others, but she was careful that her pace did not leave her vulnerable. Unfortunately, that pace was not quite quick enough.

Zahra battled her way down from the upper decks. Somewhat disgruntled at the fact that she hadn’t found her mark. No sight of Borja anywhere—the damned coward. She did, however, spot Khari grappling with a familiar face on the ground
 Conrado. Someone she hadn’t expected to see here. Alive, in any case. She tensed her shoulders and twisted around an incoming man’s fist, leveling her elbow into his nose. It crunched under the blow and she finished it with a dagger pulled from her hip, dipping it between his ribs. She was trying to bully her way through the crowd, but every inch she drew closer was interrupted by another of Borja’s snarling crewmembers.

Over the shoulder of the current layer of pirates blocking her way, she could see Khari still struggling with Conrado. The elf looked the worse for wear; her hood had fallen and she bore a deep cut across her forehead, freely bleeding into one of her eyes. Conrado's agility and skill with that dueling sword was clearly formidable.

Khari's main advantage, however, was sheer dauntlessness. It didn't seem to matter how many times he stuck her with the thing, how many little goading jabs pricked her skin: she just kept going, relentless and aggressive. She didn't try to be a better duelist than he was—instead, she took some of the blows, turned aside the rest, and kept advancing.

She left an opening on her right side; Conrado darted in to take advantage. But her reaction was quicker than it should have been, like she'd bluffed the vulnerability in the first place, and a powerful blow disarmed Conrado, sending the rapier spinning across the deck. Her lips moved, but there was no way to hear what she said. The pommel of her sword smashed into his temple, and Conrado crumpled.

Wiping the blood out of her eye with her cloak, Khari hustled for the hatch, yanking it open and barging in without so much as pausing to assess the landing.

She left a darkened wet streak behind her on the deck.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
She should have been with them. That was all Asala thought about ever since Romulus and those who attended his ritual returned. They were in pretty bad shape when they arrived the day before. Asala and most of her staff had spent the entire previous day tending to their injuries, and currently they were all in stable condition. She still preferred it that they did not move for another day or two in fear of tearing or reopening their wounds. Asala was especially firm in Khari's case, fearing the woman would probably try to escape if the opportunity presented itself. Still, they were all alive, and if they took their recovery slow, and she and her assistants did their jobs properly, then there should be no lasting danger either.

She couldn't shake the guilt, and it remained with her even as she measured out a dose of potion into a vial. Donovan stood next to her, carefully folding clean bandages into a tin tray to change out the soiled ones. Asala couldn't help but feel things would've been different had she been there. No, she probably could not have changed the outcome, but she could have at the very least tended to them while their wounds were fresh, if not prevented a number of them to begin with. Asala had not asked for details, and in truth she did not want to hear them. It was clear that whatever they were supposed to prove failed, and she had seen Anais led to the dungeons in chains. She could infer enough from that alone.

With the potion measured, Asala set it on the tray with bandages and took it with her as she went to Romulus's bedside, and sat it down on a small stand beside her. Asala gave him a sweet, if a little sad smile when she handed him the vial before she began to undo the bandages on his thigh. The wound was mostly closed now and beginning to scab over. She was extremely careful as she worked; he had broken a number of bones and was no doubt very sore, if still not a little pain.

In the bed beside them, Bibi purred softly at the foot while Millian worked with Khari, cutting the bandages on her hand and inspecting the wound there. She was efficient, though she lacked Asala's... bedside manner.

Khari didn't seem to care much; she was surprisingly compliant with the tranquil's commands. The only resistance she'd put up so far was insisting that she was well enough to sit up with her back to the wall next to the bed she'd been assigned. Aside from the wound on her hand, most of her abdomen had been bandaged under her shirt due to multiple stab wounds there, and there were more around her head, covering a deep cut over one of her brows.

Indeed, she was uncharacteristically solemn in general, and didn't even keep up much of a running commentary, as she otherwise would surely have done. Instead, she stroked the cat with her free hand, rubbing at his ears.

Where Khari was solemn, Romulus was despondent, and had said almost nothing that wasn't absolutely necessary since his arrival back at Skyhold. His injuries had been extensive, the majority of them consisting of broken bones from being repeatedly struck with blunt force. His right arm was the worst break, requiring him to keep it tied up in a sling despite the best efforts of Asala's considerable healing magic. His jaw had been broken, his cheekbone fractured, even part of his skull had required healing. His ribcage was a mess, which had led to a number of internal injuries varying in severity, and there was the stab wound through his side and the deep slash through the muscles of his left leg to work through.

Despite it all, it was obviously not his physical injuries that troubled him, as he'd been clearly withdrawn inside his own head, where nothing good could be occurring. He slept often, but not well, either the pain of his injuries or his intense dreams waking him repeatedly. He ate only the bare minimum, and if Asala's comforting presence was having any effect on him, he was hiding it well. He did not sit as Khari did, but lay still and stared at the ceiling while she worked.

The door to the infirmary opened, and Vesryn entered, for once seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He closed the door quietly behind him, rubbing his hands together for the warmth. "How are we doing?" he asked, in a carefully casual tone. "On the mend, I hope." When Romulus didn't so much as acknowledge him, he nodded uncomfortably. "Well... is there anything I can get you, Asala? From the Keep, or the tavern maybe? Thought I'd see if I could be of service somehow."

The only one from the Riptide occupying another bed was its small-statured boastwain. Tucked neatly into the corner. Apparently she’d suffered the worst of the Northern Sword’s initial attack. She’d been in the Riptide’s belly when the cannonball crashed into its side, sending a spray of thick splinters through the upper portion of the ship. Her arm had taken the worst of the blows, and it’d needed to come off. Too much damage to salvage. They’d done a good job, though she hadn’t woken up for more than a handful of minutes before drifting off.

Zahra had visited several times throughout the night to check on Rom, Khari and Nuka. Most of the time, she’d just fill in the empty space between them with rambles, trying to cast light in the dark situations they’d tumbled through. Even if it didn’t have any effect
 she was relentless. She’d had scrapes and cuts but hadn’t suffered nearly as much as the others had. Bruises would blossom and disappear, but she looked none worse for wear. The upper portion of her arm was neatly bound in fresh bandages where they’d extracted an arrow. Besides that, she’d been lucky.

She, too, filtered through only moments after Vesryn had. There was a bottle tucked under her arm, though it was difficult to tell what it was. She paused at the door before stepping through and shutting it behind her. Her eyes roved across the occupied beds, stopped short when they reached Rom and Khari before they slipped towards the farthest corner of her room. Her mouth formed a line, before it shifted into an easy smile. “How’re the patients, kitten?” Zahra closed the distance and idled beside Vesryn. She fished the bottle from beneath her armpit and prodded him in the shoulder with the corked end, “Just got back from there.”

Asala paused her work for a moment to turn and greet both Vesryn and Zahra. There was nothing really more to do except to keep their injuries clean and supply doses of healing medication until they were well enough to start moving again. It was not the external injuries Asala was most worried about however, but the ones that lingered in their heads. Broken bones and cuts could be mended, but maladies of the mind was something on an entirely different scale. In fact, their company were perhaps the most important thing right now than the things they could get.

She turned, but before she could even ask, Donovan was already to work fetching the chairs. "They are... healing," Asala answered Zahra. Her eyes did linger on the bottle disapprovingly for a moment before she shrugged. "I believe we have what we need but, if you would like, you are more than welcome to stay awhile," she said, though by the way Donovan was bringing chairs, it was more of a request than a suggestion. Their company would perhaps give them something to think about over whatever dark thoughts were swirling around their heads. She sighed again, but offered a smile to Vesryn and Zahra before returning to tend to Romulus. She should've been there, she told herself not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.

Khari roused herself a bit at the presence of company, still leaving her hand within Millian's custody but turning her head so she could smile wanly at the visitors. It was hardly a smile compared to the face-splitting grins she so often wore, but she seemed tired and concerned enough to warrant it. Her eyes frequently flicked across the room to where Romulus was.

“'Fraid we're not at our most entertaining right now, but thanks for dropping in. Don't worry too much though—you should see the other guys."

"Oh, I have," Vesryn assured her. "The ones able to make it into our dungeon here, at least. I suspect they didn't fully understand what they were getting into when they fired on the likes of you. Safe to say they do now." Seeing that Zahra was a step ahead of him on the gift from the tavern, he shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly in place, before smiling and bowing his head a little. "Well, I should be going. I hope your recovery is swift, all of you, and... Saraya expresses her concern as well." He took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Zahra appeared as if she wanted to call after him
 but he’d walked through the door as quickly as he’d come, and she was left standing there, bottle held in both hands. She made a humming noise in her throat before plopping down on one of Donovan’s proffered chairs. She’d caught Asala’s opposing stare, and shrugged her shoulders, “It’s a gift. What can I say? I don’t go back on promises.” She bounced the bottle on her knee and tilted her head to the side, “Well. You’re alive, at least. Counts for something.”

Khari's smile grew, just a bit. “Well, we promised, too, after all. Can't break a promise on breakfast."

At that point, the door outside opened up again with a blast of cold air. It admitted Lady Marceline first, who held a cloth covered parcel close to her chest, and behind her Estella, who was laden with a heavy-looking tray bearing what looked like a couple of decently-sized pots and several empty bowls stacked upside down, along with the glint of tin spoons.

Steam gushed liberally from the top of both pots, and Estella moved with exaggerated care, careful to place each foot before adding weight to it. She made it over to an empty side table, where she gingerly lowered the whole tray, breathing what sounded like a sigh of relief. Turning towards Asala, she gave a small smile, brief enough to be little more than a twitch, and folded her hands in front of her.

“Um... I made soup. That's okay, right? I wasn't sure if anyone had any stomach injuries, so it's not very spicy or anything..."

"Larissa sends her regards," Marceline said after Estella, "Along with these." She then began to pull the cloth away to reveal a set of novels which she turned over to show them. "I find her choices to be... subject, but nonetheless she assured me that you would enjoy them," she said. From the glance Asala took, she read Hard in Hightown on one of the covers before she returned to her task, setting the old bandages back into the tray beside her.

Khari snorted. “I've heard of those. Some guy from Kirkwall wrote them, right?" Admittedly, she seemed more interested in the soup at the moment; as soon as Millian was finished wrapping her hand in fresh bandages, she was pushing herself out of the bed. Apparently the concept of bedrest was a little lost on her. Millian even put a hand on her shoulder to try and dissuade too much movement, though it seemed to be ineffective, and the tranquil did not try to fight her over it.

“Rom, you want to eat something?" She glanced back at him, turning an empty bowl over in her hands quite heedless of the injured one. If she was still in pain, she was remarkably resistant to it.

Romulus blinked, turning his head at the sound of his name and taking in the sight of the soup, Estella, and Marceline. "Uh... yeah." It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but perhaps the smell of it was enough to convince him to acquiesce. Carefully he worked himself back into a sitting position with Asala's help, though he wasn't able to perform much movement with one of his arms and one of his legs. "Thank you," he said quietly in Estella's direction.

Asala picked the tray with the empty vial and dirty bandages up, handing it to Donovan as he came to retrieve it. She then reached into one of the pockets in her robes to produce a clean rag and wiped down the table she had been using with the intention of using it the hold the soup.

“You're welcome." While Khari was serving herself, Estella started serving bowls for the others in the room, handing the first one to Asala, indicating with a small nod that it was intended for Romulus. Others went to Donovan and Millian to distribute; Estella seemed inclined to stay clear of where the healers were working.

Khari sat back down on her bed, holding her soup steady in her lap with her injured hand and using the other to manipulate the spoon. It was a little awkward, since she'd been stabbed in her dominant hand, but this didn't seem to pose a significant problem. “It's pretty good, Stel. Thanks."

"Will you need help?" Asala asked Romulus softly. While she wanted to, she did not want to make him feel useless by stealing any independence that he could have. If he wished to feed himself, Asala would make sure that he would be able to do it.

"No." Romulus said, somewhat quickly. "Thank you."

With that, she smiled and nodded, pulling the table close enough for him to reach without straining himself and set the bowl down on to it, with another clean rag beside it. She stood and backed away to give him space. The rest of her staff went about distributing the soup, and helping those who needed it with their eating. For a moment, she felt lost for a moment before her eyes hungrily fell onto the bowls of soup and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. Asala had spent so much time tending to everyone and making sure that they were comfortable that she had forgotten to eat. Even so, she did not immediately go for the soup, and instead hesitated, looking around in case there was someone else who needed her.

Estella must have noticed, or she looked more tired than she realized. In either case, the Inquisitor handed her the next one, pointing to a chair near the wall with a little half-smile. “I know enough about magic to know it's exhausting," she chided mildly. “You should eat, too."

Asala took the soup with a little surprise and was about to refuse before her stomach betrayed her and grumbled. She could feel the heat of the blush blossom across her face, so she meekly accepted both the bowl and the chair, slinking into it and leaning against the wall. As she began to eat, she couldn't help be begin to feel tired, and before long her eyelids began to droop. Soon after, she slipped off to sleep, with the warm bowl of soup in her lap and spoon still in her hand.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Leon stared at the map in front of him with a furrowed brow. Rilien was seeding his agents at a remarkable pace; in truth, the rest of the Inquisition needed to shape up to match the spread of their information networks. He turned a wooden shield token over and over between his bare fingers, the smooth varnish slick against his mangled skin. Beside him, Estella sighed softly; he could hear the slight rustle of her fidgeting with her sleeves. Marceline and Rilien were quieter, more accustomed to this sort of waiting.

Leon had sent a message summoning Romulus to the war room, but he expected it to be a few minutes yet before he arrived. There was quite a lot of business to take care of today, but it all had to happen in a certain order.

Shaking his head faintly, Leon dropped the token onto the side. They just didn't have the ability yet to move their soldiers any deeper into either Orlais or Ferelden. The support Romulus would have gained had he been proven blood of Andraste would have likely made the difference, but Leon had never counted on that. He didn't make a habit of relying on miracles, which was usually to his benefit.

When Romulus did arrive, a few minutes late as expected, it was with an uneven and uncomfortable gait, still limping slightly from the damaging wound he'd suffered to his leg. His right arm was still in a sling, cradled near his chest, and he was still plainly fragile from head to toe, but the movement was a good sign that with proper healing from Asala he could eventually make a full recovery.

He hadn't made a habit of being in the war room, despite being a Herald of Andraste. In fact he'd only been inside a few times before, the most notable being the first when he spoke of the enemy encountered at Haven, and Corypheus. He might've entered a bit more confidently now had the events off the coast gone differently, but instead he looked smaller than usual, dwarfed by the scale of the room. "Is this about Anais?" he asked quietly. He'd hardly once raised his voice to normal speaking levels since the return to Skyhold.

“In part." Rilien, as ever, did not spend time on pleasantries. He stood slightly further back from the table, almost in Estella's shadow. It wasn't clear if he'd chosen to do so deliberately or just naturally gravitated there. He unfolded his hands from his sleeves, taking a step forward so as to be more clearly visible. “But first we wish to ask you if you would accept the rank we've granted Estella."

Lady Marceline smiled, most likely from the terseness of the tranquil. Her head tilted slightly to one side and she clarified. "We have discussed the matter at length amongst ourselves and we have decided that you have proven yourself a most valuable part of the Inquisition. We have unanimously determined that you should be offered the rank of Inquisitor in spite of the recent events that have transpired," she said. "Provided that you accept it, of course."

A frown settled onto Romulus's face as soon as Rilien put the offer on the table. His eyes followed from the Tranquil to Marceline, but his confusion only seemed to grow. Silence filled the room for a long moment, while he struggled to think of a response. "You... want to make me an Inquisitor," he repeated, as though the words might make more sense after they left his own mouth. "After everything that happened. Everyone who was hurt because of me." Clearly he didn't think the same way about the idea as they did, but his eyes sought Leon, and then Estella.

"You would trust me with that?"

Leon elected to let Estella speak first. She understood the reasoning, but more importantly, she understood how to say things, for the most part. It would come across better from her than him or one of the others.

She didn't fail to take the opportunity, inclining her head a bit. “Really, we should have done it before," she said. “Maybe as soon as you got back from Haven. But everything was... unclear, then. Too much of—too much of what Anais and the others were saying was muddying the water. But you were right all along: there was no wedge between us, and you never tried to put one there. We're... for better or worse, we're in this together. I'm not above you. I don't want to be."

“You're not the first person ever to be swindled by a clever ploy, Romulus," Leon added. “You won't be the last. It doesn't disqualify you from your place here. You've earned our trust as you are." The emphasis he placed on the last words was delicate, but certain. “We want everyone to know it, but the choice is yours."

"We believe that even the willingness to pursue the chance of your own divinity was done out of service to the Inquisition. Know that everyone here understands your loyalty and the lengths you would go for the cause," Marceline paused a moment a looked at the others, "We wish to recognize that loyalty with our own. Officially."

He visibly wrestled with the words in his mind. "I don't know that it was," he answered Marceline. "In part, maybe, but... I did it because I thought it was what my mother would have wanted. I thought my ancestors had been preparing for that moment, for me to seize it. I would try to use the power for the good of the Inquisition... but what I wanted most was to have a family, or be closer to one. Connection to a history that wasn't in chains." He seemed almost surprised that he'd said so much, and fell silent for a moment.

"I don't know what to say, though. Thank you, I'll—I'll try to earn this. Maybe you all think I already have but I'll try anyway." He paused, before he looked back to the Tranquil. "You said in part. What's to be done with her?"

“That is for you to decide." Rilien blinked in that owlish way of his, folding his arms back into his wide sleeves. “As Inquisitor, it is your right to sit in judgement of our prisoners. Given that it is you who best understands the extent of their crimes, it is only prudent that this round of judgements fall to you." He tilted his head slightly to the side.

“They wait just outside the main hall now."

“We will of course be present to advise, if you are inclined to seek counsel," Leon added. “And to keep the records even if you are not." Marceline picked up a clipboard from the table, as if to confirm.

"Oh... right." He seemed to have forgotten that particular responsibility of the Inquisitor. After mulling it over some more, he nodded, more resolved than he'd appeared since returning. "Good. Let's not delay, then."

Leon nodded, gesturing to the open doorway. The small group proceeded to the main hall, where Reed along with Zahra already waited. The throne stood empty on the dais; the Seeker took up his customary spot to the right, slightly in front and below. Estella elected to stand on the other side, with Rilien, and Marceline took up the officiator's position just to the side of the carpet runner leading up. Romulus looked unsure about taking a seat in the throne itself, as well as uncomfortable once he had, perhaps due to his injuries.

“Reed. We'll take the first, please." His aide nodded and headed down the hall at a swift clip to admit the first prisoner.

Eventually, the clanging of chains echoed throughout the hall as Reed escorted the first prisoner. "Lord Inquisitor," Marceline began, her voice taking in an air of authority as she stated Romulus's new title. "I present to you the accused, Speaker Anais, the leader of the cult known as The Herald's Disciples."

Anais had been stripped of the light armor pieces she wore, perhaps the one article of clothing that wholly separated her from those that had followed her lead. The past few days had obviously not been comfortable for her; her hair and skin was unwashed and dirty from both the journey and then her time in the dungeons, and her robes were in need of a change. All that said, she still appeared to be keeping herself together. Once escorted to the appointed position, the Speaker chose to kneel before the Inquisitor, rather than stand.

"The formal charges levied against her are as follows," Marceline said, looking down to the clipboard in hand. "Fraud, heresy, collusion with the pirate formerly known as Adan Borja, and attempted sedition."

"Lord Inquisitor," Anais greeted, lowering her head in deference. "It seems you don't need me to rise up in rank after all. Though I fear this is as high as you'll ever go." Romulus chose not to answer her opening statement, instead studying her in silence. Looking down at her from his seat, he almost seemed to relax.

"Do you deny any of your charges?" he asked.

"No, Lord Inquisitor," she responded, ready for the question. "Had I succeeded, it would only have strengthened the Inquisition. I acted in service of our shared cause."

"Not all of us would have benefited."

"No, of course not, but few things in the world benefit everyone. I believe a joint leadership, as you have just established, will prove a thorn in the Inquisition's side before long. You may share the same goals as your fellow Inquisitor, as the leaders of your armies and your spies and your diplomats, but all of you have different minds. Our enemy has one mind, one body, and one goal. I sought to give the Inquisition the strongest leadership it could have, to counter that."

Romulus let that sit for a moment, the two just staring at each other unwavering. He shifted in the throne, failing to conceal a wince. "Explain your plan to me. From the beginning. I want to know what you did each step of the way." He paused, watching her think over how to begin. "You don't want to lie to me again, Anais."

His tone was dark, angry, dangerous even. Anais clearly caught wind of it, and for the briefest moment it seemed to strike some fear into her. She swallowed, finally breaking eye contact with him. "I began to make some connections soon after we first met, and you closed that rift with your mark, but the idea didn't truly come to me until my agents reported that Adan Borja had taken an interest in you personally." Her eyes flitted up to him before they fell back down. "He clearly never forgot you, despite only meeting you before when you were very young. I approached him personally, and learned of the history between you two."

"And after learning what he'd done to my parents... you offered him a part to play?" Romulus was unable to hide his disgust. Anais nodded uneasily.

"I did. He was uncertain at first, but I was able to sell the potential of it quite well. I researched how your own history might connect with what I'd learned from the Augustan Order, but it wasn't until Haven fell that the opportunity truly felt within reach. When my scouts reported that the Venatori were hunting for some survivors in the area, I was confident that it was you. That the elf was with you was even more fortunate."

"Khari," Romulus interrupted.

"Yes, of course, forgive me. I had Borja brought in, and we agreed to present the story to you together should you be found alive. You were, and you seemed to believe us, so we were willing to move forward. While you returned to the Inquisition at Skyhold, we had ample time to prepare for a way to see you fully ascend. This gave Borja time to make contact with Conrado, and allowed me to prepare the journal."

"The journal..." Romulus nearly whispered the words, stewing in his seat. "My mother wrote none of it, I'm assuming?"

"Correct," she answered, as though she were now tiptoeing across shards of glass. "I wrote every word. It required... a great deal of time and research. I built a fictional family tree for you. Recorded in every language I'm familiar with, and had several of my trusted agents pen some of the pages, to have messages in different hands." She paused, carefully watching for his reaction. "I can give you their names, if you like. Most of my servants were kept in the dark regarding the plan, and were fed the same story as you, but a few were aware."

Leon glanced at Marceline. She would no doubt be able to take the names down; that was good. He hadn't been looking forward to sorting through which cultists were gullible but innocent and which were complicit. It would have been several days of interrogations, at least.

"I don't care about their names. Later." Romulus waved his hand in dismissal. He was beginning to look quite uncomfortable, perhaps a result of revealing the full extent of the deception against him. "The action in Llomerryn. It was staged?"

"The Qunari were quite real, and unaware. I didn't dream of trying to persuade any of them. But the journal couldn't simply be handed to you for it to be believed. Acquired from someone who knew your mother, though, I believed that would work. And Conrado did know Rosamara Abeita. The Qunari, as it turns out, are easy enough to offend, and they prefer to bring their prisoners back to Par Vollen in most cases. With some well-timed sabotage on the part of my agents and Borja's men, we were able to keep them where we wanted them, and secure Conrado before any real harm could be done to him."

It occurred to Leon that Khari had left Conrado alive; he was actually due in next for judgement. He doubted any answers the man could give would be much in the way of the connection Romulus wanted, but they might be something more than he'd get if the man had been killed. Shifting his weight slightly, Leon clasped his hands at the small of his back, allowing the story to proceed uninhibited. On the other hand, Zahra appeared to be teething at the bit. Mouth pinned into a hard line. Eyes, bereft of sympathy, glued on the kneeling figure in front of Romulus.

Romulus nodded, clearly having come to expect this level of dedication to the lie at this point. "And the rest I think I know well enough. You translated your own journal in front of me, read the details of your own false ritual, and prepared a powerful potion to protect me from even the fiercest flame."

"Yes. We were very close, I think. You will not hear me claim that morally any of this was right, but you must believe that I did this to bring more power to the Inquisition, to help us fight the threat we now face. What is a legend on the level of Andraste born from? Entirely truth? Only a fool would believe so. I'm sure it's heresy to speak this way, but I do not believe this was the first time such a story was attempted. Nor will it be the last."

"You would have had me believe for the rest of my life that the man who brutally murdered my parents was, in fact, my father?" Romulus leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at her.

"To serve the Inquisition, yes. He was not a good man, and likely deserved his fate, but we are in conflict with far greater monsters than he."

The Lord Inquisitor rubbed at his forehead, exhaling a long breath. "What are we to do with you, then?"

"I have no delusions about continuing my plan, or developing a new one," she replied, inching forward slightly on her knees. "The ruse has been sniffed out for good. But I have a great many talents, and a desire to serve the Inquisition. Let me study our enemy, and his forces, and I will prove my worth to you. I will do it in chains, if you like, until some glimmer of trust can be built." Romulus raised his eyebrows at her idea, but did not immediately respond, instead looking to his counsel, to see what they thought.

“She successfully led a cult. That ability is as dangerous inside an organization of this kind as outside. Perhaps moreso. Do not give her anyone else to influence." Rilien spoke first, perhaps already having anticipated some kind of bid to this effect. “Certainly do not trust her. But she is a resource like any other. I could find a use for the talents she claims to have."

Leon frowned. He had a fair point about Anais's potential usefulness to the Inquisition. That said... “We must also consider, however, what message doing that would send. Anais was never quiet in her declarations of your holiness, which is now a lie that is, rightfully or not, likely to be attributed to us as an organization. Nor was she hesitant in her condemnation of our other Inquisitor. It will eventually get out that she swindled us. Allowing her to continue in any capacity will look the height of foolishness—may in fact be the height of foolishness. We have plenty of talented people with ample competency in these matters."

His brow furrowed deeply over his eyes. “She is also responsible, directly or indirectly, for quite a bit of harm. She killed a Qunari sailor who had done us no wrong in her ruse, orchestrated a borderline-heretical scheme that has undoubtedly damaged our reputation already, and brought to our doorstep the man responsible for extensive damage to our allied naval forces, both material and personal." He dipped his head to acknowledge Zahra, but she would likely have much more to say on that matter than he did. “To say nothing of what nearly happened to you and Khari. It would be unfair to blame her for all of Borja's actions. But she is nevertheless the reason any of it occurred in the first place."

Zahra finally broke her silence, incited by Leon’s assessment. It appeared as if hers would not be so repressed. Nor kind. As if she’d made her decision ages ago, or at least before she’d even stepped foot in the large chamber, with its high ceilings and looming windows. Her face was cast in shadows since she’d been standing off to the side, though they melted away when she stepped forward. There was a twitch to her fingers, as if she couldn’t stand to hear anymore warbling. “An execution.”

Clad in leathers and a loose, thick cotton shirt and a variety of bandages, she paused for a moment as she regarded Anais’ crumpled form. Whatever vexation or indecision Romulus felt at appropriating judgment was entirely lacking in her. Conviction read clearly in her movements. Hand planted on her hip. Her mouth was tipped up in disgust. If she was at all swayed by Anais's declaration of betraying them all for the greater good of the Inquisition, she was hiding it well. Or she didn't care. From the looks of it, it didn’t matter what Anais said or what she could offer. It was an obvious decision. To her, at least.

Her tone had taken an iciness that belied no room for leniency, “Imprisonment is too kind for the lives she’s affected. For those who’ve been lost. For those she’s maimed. Borja paid his price. Hers should be just as steep.” Spoken as if she wasn't there at all. There was a short pause before a muscle bunched at her temple, and her voice grew terse, almost desperate, “She hurt my family.”

Anais grimly listened to the advice given regarding her fate. When she looked back up to Romulus, her expression was showing signs of pleading. "I would urge you to remember that I did not choose to attack your ship. You said the words yourself, there was never any danger to you. You cannot treat the captain's actions as my own."

The Lord Inquisitor was not moved. "There was never any danger? You put a murderer at my side, within these walls, endangering all of us. Your scheme threatened everything we've built." He paused, his eyes cold and devoid of any remorse. "No. You'll die for this." He glanced sideways at Rilien and Leon, perhaps to ensure that the judgement was indeed acceptable. "At first light tomorrow. I'll swing the sword myself."

Rilien remained impassive, giving no sign of his thoughts save a tiny nod.

“Very well," Leon said neutrally. He didn't think it was an entirely-unwarranted decision at all. People had been executed for less, and as a matter of practicality, housing and feeding a prisoner was an expensive matter. That said... he was in general not fond of death sentences, and he did wonder if Romulus had insisted upon one in this case for personal reasons, rather than an impartial assessment of the situation. There was a reason the philosophers believed justice should be blind.

But in this case, it served no purpose to argue the point. Far be it from him to undermine the new Inquisitor's authority as soon as he'd exercised it. Equally far to insist on saving the life of someone who had so wronged them all.

It sat more wrongly with Estella than it did with him; that much he could detect. From the corner of his eye, he watched her frown, only for the expression to disappear without a trace a moment later. She did not speak against it, however. That was unsurprising.

"You're making a mistake, Romulus," Anais said urgently, as Reed and another guard hauled her back up to her feet. She offered minimal resistance, only enough to turn her head and shout. "You can't afford to throw away allies! I can help you!" It was the last she was able to get out before she was ushered from the hall.

After a suitable amount of silence had passed, Lady Marceline cleared her throat to bring their attentions back to the matter at hand, and began to read the next item on the agenda. "Lord Inquisitor, I present one Conrado Ruis," she began, as the sound of another set of chains began to fill the air. "The formal charges levied against the accused include: assault on Inquisition forces, collusion, conspiracy, and theft against the Qunari."

Conrado was battered, the result of losing an altercation with Khari, though some of his injuries looked a little fresher than the battle would have suggested. Possibly the other prisoners taken from Borja's ship did not look fondly on him. He remained standing before the Lord Inquisitor, his hands and feet chained, all in all not nearly as steadfast as Anais had been upon her arrival.

"I want to know about my mother, Conrado," Romulus said bluntly. A dark look had fallen across his face since Anais had been escorted from the hall, and it remained in place now. "My father, too, if you can. Tell me something true about them."

Conrado did not appear to have expected such a beginning, but he adapted to it quickly enough. His posture was tense, perhaps afraid of the men standing behind him, or intimidated by the sight of Romulus and the others leaders of the Inquisition above him. "Of-of course. We... well, we didn't carry on together, like I implied. We were friends, I think, but she never really had an interest in me that way. Your father, his name was... Remero. Remero Abeita. I didn't know him very well."

"Borja said they were thieves. Is that true?"

"A-Aye," Conrado nodded. "That was how we crossed paths. We did business together. They were quite good at what they did, and I moved a large amount of goods for them. It's the kind of work that creates enemies, however. They were trying to escape from it once they had you, I think, but that life isn't easy to get away from."

"I understand." Romulus fell silent for a moment, resting his chin against the closed fist of his marked hand. "Tell me what she was like. As a person."

"She was..." His mind worked visibly in front of them, possibly trying to come up with an answer that would please him. "Spirited? Perhaps that's not the right word. They both were. Anything but cautious. Loud, aggressive people. I think they enjoyed their lives quite fully, while they had time."

"Time which you helped cut short." The Lord Inquisitor exhaled slowly, his face largely unreadable. "You'll die with Anais tomorrow, for aiding in her plot."

"What?" Disbelieving, Conrado began to lunge forward as though to rush closer, but he was immediately restrained by the guards, and fell to his knees. "No, you can't, you must understand, I lived in fear of Adan Borja! He was not the kind of man I had the power to betray, to refuse! I had no choice. Not now, and certainly not then." He found no sign of change on the Inquisitor's face, so he immediately sought it out in the others. "Please, spare me! I will not dream of troubling the Inquisition again, I swear it! My part in the plot was not my choice. I was a prisoner of Borja's!"

“Romulus." The interjection was quiet, but there was a sort of firmness to it, one Estella was still learning to wield. “Is this truly necessary? If what he says is true, he was acting under coercion. If his actions were not fully his own, does he truly deserve to suffer the full brunt of their consequences? Borja would have been an easy man to fear, surely." There was a slight change in the cast of her eyes, just enough that Leon caught it.

He suspected she was trying to make Romulus empathize. See a similarity of a certain sort. His eyes moved back to the other Inquisitor, but Estella continued.

“Much is unclear, but is that not reason for caution? Who does it benefit, to kill him?"

"And if he's lying?" Romulus asked. His emotionless mask was beginning to crack. It was impossible to fail to see that extremely personal feelings were motivating his decision. "As he's lied so many times before? Who could it hurt, to let him live?" He glanced down at the cowering smuggler, his disdain for the man plainly apparent. "I can't just let him go. I won't let him avoid this."

“It need not be death or freedom." Rilien's monotone was a stark contrast to the emotion seething just under the surface of the scene. “Punish him for what we know he has certainly done: collusion, assault, theft. Hard labor and prison time are both common for such offenses. The labor, at least, we could use. Alternatively, he is most certainly wanted in Antiva or Rivain. The Inquisition could keep him until such time as a court system with more evidence of his crimes could arrange a transfer."

"We can have the message en route to both nations before the evening is over, Lord Inquisitor," Marceline added.

Romulus was clearly deep in thought on the issue, and most likely not feeling satisfied by any possible outcome. Conrado looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut, probably doubting it would help his situation at all. At last, an idea seemed to occur to the Lord Inquisitor.

"Do you deny stealing from the Qunari?"

At once Conrado shook his head. "No, Lord Inquisitor, I admit to it."

Romulus nodded. "Then you'll be delivered back to them, for the theft of their artifact. No one will come for you this time. What they do with you is their concern." Quite clearly he was hoping it would not be pleasant. He looked to his advisors. "If that can be arranged?"

"We do not have very much contact with the Qunari, so it will take some time, but it can be arranged, yes," Marceline stated.

"Good." Romulus seemed to deflate while Conrado was escorted away, the smuggler rather blank faced and struggling with the reality of what was happening to him. The ordeal seemed to have taken quite a bit out of Romulus, who rubbed at a spot on his chest that was clearly paining him. "Are we finished?" he asked Leon.

“We are, for today at least." It was quite the task to undertake on one's first day at the job, to be sure, but both of them had done it now. Their footing was even—that was significant. Allowing his expression to take on a bit of the sympathy he'd been concealing up until that point, Leon nodded towards the door that led out of the main hall and towards the undercroft. “Please, do get some rest. We can handle the rest, for the moment."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
It was snowing again. Skyhold had become a beautiful, still, serene place, ill fit for an execution.

That there was need for one, Romulus was certain. At least, as certain as he could be about anything these days. Estella didn't seem to think so, from what he could tell, but most of the others seemed to be in agreement: Anais was too dangerous to be allowed to operate in any capacity, within or beyond the walls of Skyhold. He supposed there were other people that could carry out the sentence better than he, but Romulus felt that he had no right to condemn her if he was not willing to make an end of it himself.

The sword that Reed handed him was heavier and longer than he was used to, no doubt compounded by the fact that his arm was very much still healing, as was the rest of his body. He'd downed a strong potion just before emerging to dull the pain, and let him move well enough to swing the blade. It dulled his senses enough that he didn't really notice the small crowd of people gathering to witness as he ascended the newly constructed platform. The Inquisition hadn't made a habit of executing people, and so such a location hadn't been required until now. Romulus didn't doubt it would be taken down soon enough, so they didn't develop a reputation for it.

A pair of Inquisition soldiers watched over the Speaker, who knelt with her hands bound behind her, feet tied as well, a solid stone block placed in front of her. She contemplated it calmly, having had a full night to prepare for her death, save for the brief time it took for her to give up the names of a few of her cultists, those that were complicit in her plan. Romulus knew not what would be done with them. Labor probably, to lighten the load on the army.

Romulus paused for a moment atop the platform, briefly surveying those that had chosen to witness the execution. Leon stood among the crowd, most likely in attendance as a matter of formality. He took no official place on the platform, perhaps feeling that the few necessary functions for such an event had already been taken care of by others. Khari stood next to Leon, much less noticeable in the tall man's shadow. Beside Reed, Rilien remained unmoving on the platform, to all appearances still as stone.

On the other side of them, Marceline stood with a scroll in hand. She took one last glance at Romulus before she pulled open the parchment and began to read the sentence. "Speaker Anais, for the crimes of fraud, heresy, collusion, and attempted sedition, which put not only the Inquisition, but her Inquisitors and their people in peril as well, you have been sentenced to death. May the Maker have mercy on your soul." With the grim sentence read aloud, Marceline took a step back and turned to witness the execution.

Romulus approached Anais, the two soldiers placing their hands upon her shoulders. He studied her and she him for a moment, and Romulus could not deny he was disappointed not to see any fear. Some darker part of his past was calling to him, making him keenly aware of all the ways he could drag this out and make her suffer. But this would have to do, this clean death. "Do you have any last words?"

"None capable of staying your blade," she said honestly, though her eyes wandered away from Romulus and over the crowd. "I placed a murderer within your walls. You've now placed a murderer on your throne." She leaned forward without any assistance from the guards, exposing the back of her neck to Romulus. He found himself wishing he hadn't asked her to speak. It was what she'd done throughout her entire life.

He raised the sword in both hands and brought it down with focus. The Speaker's head fell away from her body.

Romulus walked away seething, handing the bloody sword back to Reed and not wanting to look at the mess any longer. Silence fell over the courtyard save for a few quiet murmurs, and the crowd began to disperse. He stopped, a few steps from the stairs to the Keep, realizing that his marked hand was shaking. He grabbed it with his other, ignoring the dull pain in that arm, and forced it to stop.

“You don't look like you feel any better." The words came from just behind him; the voice was easily-recognizable as Khari's. She stopped next to him, her eyes falling to his hand for a moment before they lifted back up towards his face. Her expression was unusually grim, her words factual and without the inflection good humor so often gave them. Then again, most everything had been like that lately.

She heaved a sigh. “Want to take a walk? No one will bother us if we go up the battlements."

He exhaled shakily, and nodded. He didn't feel any better, that was certain. If anything he felt worse. He told himself that the point of ending Anais was not, in fact, to make himself feel better, but rather to end the threat she posed to the Inquisition, and to bring about some kind of justice for what she'd done. He wanted so much to feel better after removing her head. He wondered if he would had he cut off Conrado's as well. Probably not, but he would never get the chance to find out now. He'd had the chance to bring everyone that had brought about his parents' death to justice, and he'd let it go. If it was for the best, it sure didn't feel like it.

They headed down the slope from the courtyard before the Keep to the stairs leading up to the outer walls, silent all the way. He wasn't used to any kind of silence lingering for long when he was with Khari, but then again he wasn't used to any of this. The view from atop the walls was breathtaking as ever, with the army camp below constantly smoking and glowing from the lit flames, and the cold peaks of the snow-covered mountains stretching endlessly in the distance.

"I'm not used to things being personal," he admitted, finally, grimacing from the cold, his injuries, and the uncomfortable acknowledgement. "I didn't handle this well. Any of it. I'm..." His hand curled into a tight fist. "I feel so bloodthirsty. I wanted to hurt her. Make her suffer. I wanted to kill Conrado too, and would have if the others hadn't talked me out of it."

“I've never felt like that." There wasn't any judgement in Khari's tone; if anything, her expression suggested that she was trying her best to understand. This kind of thing didn't often seem to come easily to her—perhaps it was because they were so different from each other, in terms of where they'd come from and how they'd ended up here, with the Inquisition. “But then... I've always known who my parents are, and they're still alive. I think." She shrugged. “And I've definitely never had anyone try to tell me I was the world-changing kind of important and fuck with my head like that."

For a second, her mouth dropped into a scowl, but it eased a few seconds later. “So maybe I've got no room to talk, but I think nobody would have handled it fantastically. You handled it well enough that we're still here. I'm not dead, the Riptide's not sunk, Anais isn't still deluding everyone here and Borja's never gonna murder anyone else's parents. That's all on you as much as the rest of it is." She crossed her arms, shrugging her mottled brown cloak a little further forward against the chill.

"None of it would have happened at all if I wasn't such a fool." He heard what she was saying. Every step of the way he had tried to do what he thought was right, for him, for the Inquisition, for the future, but every step of the way he fell right into their trap, right up until it was almost shut for good, too late to escape. And Borja... just thinking about the time they spent together made him feel ill. Thinking about the way he felt when the man first revealed himself and his supposed relation in the Hinterlands. "I thought he was my father. I was really willing to believe it. It wasn't so hard, in the end. I turned out to be just as much a killer as he was."

It had been so selfish. All of it. He'd allowed himself to have a tiny bit of pride in himself just for a moment, and Anais and Borja together caused it to swell until they could tell him anything, show him anything, and he would believe it. Even if what they told him was ludicrously improbable, to the point of impossibility. "If you had died..." He let the thought trail off, fighting the tightness in his throat. "I don't think I could do this. As is, I don't know if I should. I've never been anything more than someone's tool. Even when I've thought I was in control."

He leaned forward against the wall for support, suddenly feeling the pain in his body more keenly as the potion wore off. "I don't know what I am. Who I am."

“You know I actually went to him and encouraged him to talk to you?" Khari snorted softly, shaking her head vigorously enough that her hood fell to her shoulders. She didn't make any effort to put it back, though. “I thought... I thought he was just being awkward because he didn't know how to approach you. I actually tried to make it easier for him." Taking a couple more steps, she uncrossed her arms and used them to brace herself on the wall next to him, fixing her eyes out on the landscape. “Shoulda been harder for him to fool me. He wasn't giving me any answers I'd been looking for, and I still fell for it."

Her brows furrowed, forming a little line above her nose. “It's awful. You'll never get me to believe otherwise. But... here's what I think: if what's in the past is shitty, focusing on it won't ever make anything better. Maybe you haven't ever been anything else, but that doesn't mean you never will be. The future's wide open, if you're willing to kick the door down. You can decide who you are." She shrugged. “And you know... from where I'm standing, the present's not so bad either. It was a painful hurdle, but you cleared it. And you're here, Lord Inquisitor and everything, and we're gonna save the whole damn world. You're gonna save it. I'd like to see anyone try and call you their puppet then."

Kick the door down. That was her way, wasn't it? Chryseis would've told him to use the window, and then open the door for her from the inside. And Romulus... he didn't know what he'd do, because even still he didn't feel he was making his own decisions. Being a Herald was never his choice, fighting Corypheus wasn't his choice, and his appearance had even made staying with the Inquisition not his choice, not really. He suppose he chose to be Inquisitor, but what was the first thing he did with his power, his freedom to choose? He chose to lop off a woman's head for vengeance, and to try to do the same to a cowardly man who didn't have much more choice than he did.

"I'm going to keep making these mistakes," he said. A moment passed, until he actually laughed darkly. "This must be how Estella felt when they pushed the title on her." But unlike her, he was worried he wouldn't make the mistakes with the best of intentions. She was taught differently than him, she thought differently than him. Romulus was taught to kill, to destroy the enemies of his mistress, and he eagerly did so because he knew it would please her. He was taught to please. Khari didn't know half of the horrible things he'd done, and he didn't know if he would ever have the heart to tell her. Maybe he never would, and maybe that was for the best.

If she was right, it didn't matter. All those years of conditioning didn't matter, if he could just focus on being something else going forward. "You're a good friend, you know that?" He smiled to himself. "Who am I kidding, of course you know. What I mean to say is..." He struggled to find the right words. "You know what I mean. You're... brilliant. One of a kind. Better than I deserve."

Khari laughed at that—not uproariously, just a quiet ha, more expelled air than sound. Gently, probably mindful of his injuries, she knocked her elbow into his arm. “Well, that's the thing, right? It's not like you've suddenly got to figure everything out by yourself. I'm here for you, if you need me. The others, too. You've got friends. And we'll definitely tell you if we think you're doing something dumb."

She flashed a grin, one of her more ragged ones. “And hey, you're a pretty great friend too. Really. You know you're the first person who ever didn't laugh at me when I told you what I was trying to do with my life? Even my teacher thought I was crazy to start with." She paused. “Well, I am, I guess. But you believed me. That means a lot. So don't be too down on yourself. And—ask me to remind you, sometimes, about the good things. I'd be happy to." It was an inverse of the request another version of Khari had once made of him, in a future that would never be.

He wasn't very good at asking. Never had been, likely as part of his conditioning. Figuring things out on his own was also not one of his skills, when he had always been told what to think and feel, and more importantly what to do. He scratched at his beard, still smiling despite the weight still on his shoulders. He really ought to get rid of the beard, once it was a bit warmer. He was done with every thought of being some religious figure, Herald of Andraste or no, and somehow it seemed to be included in that.

"I think you're the perfect kind of crazy, to help someone like me." He really did believe that. He also believed she was quite beautiful, when she grinned like that, when she laughed at the things he said.

Maybe someday he'd find a way to tell her that, too.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus was healing quite quickly.

It was in large part due to Asala that he was recovering from the physical damage so well. His right arm had received the worst of it, and was the last thing remaining to truly trouble him, but it no longer required a sling, only avoidance of overly straining it. As for the mental damage, he had Khari and the rest of his support to thank for his progress there. It would be some time, he expected, before he could really move on from it, but the worst of it, he hoped, was in the past. He was an Inquisitor now. Not a slave and not the heir to Andraste. Somewhere in between.

The stairs up from his quarters no longer troubled his leg, which was good. He regretted not being able to travel with some of the others to the coast to help repair Zahra's ship, but that was a bit much of a trip, and he had no desire to the look upon the sea again so soon. He would have to find another way to thank her later, for the risks she was willing to take on his behalf. It hadn't been entirely for him, of course, but he was the reason any of them had been in danger.

The main hall was largely empty save for a few soldiers and staff taking a late lunch at the long tables. Romulus had not sat in the throne since judging Anais and Conrado, nor did he have any particular wish to. In hindsight the power he'd been suddenly given frightened him. More specifically, the way he'd allowed his judgement to be clouded by his personal desire for revenge. It was something his advisors would continue to temper, he was sure. A runner had come delivering a message requesting him in Lady Marceline's office, for what he did not know.

When he entered, he found the Ambassador along with Leon and Rilien waiting for him. He frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Rilien blinked, tilting his head and speaking first. As usual, he was extremely direct. “That has yet to be determined. We have received a missive bearing the seal of House Viridius. As one of its two members in in our dungeon, it stands to reason that Magister Chryseis wrote the message." His eyes fell pointedly to a letter on Marceline's desk, as yet unopened, which did in fact bear the characteristic seal in green wax.

"We believed it best that since it was addressed to you, that you be the one to open it," Lady Marceline said, "However, considering your new status, we felt it best that we were present as well in case the contents pertained to the matters of the Inquisition as a whole."

Romulus wasn't sure what he'd expected, but communication from Chryseis had not been it. The mere mention of her name sent little pangs of anxiety through him. It was not something he expected he would ever be able to avoid, such was their relationship. Despite having been separated from her for so long, and having been through so much since he had truly been her slave, the thought of her still commanded some sort of power over him. An insistent little voice in his mind that demanded he be meek and subservient. He could declare himself no longer her slave, but actually living that reality was not so easy.

"Thank you," he said, remembering himself and crossing the room to take up the letter. He carefully cracked the seal and withdrew the message inside, moving closer to the fireplace for more light. The handwriting was unmistakably hers. It was neat and delicate, but hearing her voice in his head seemed to change the way it looked. He did not read the message aloud.

To the Lord Inquisitor,

I cannot grant you your freedom. It would seem that such a thing is no longer mine to give. I am no fool. I know that your experiences in the south have changed you, and that you have found a greater purpose there. We accomplished some remarkable things together, but it is plain to me that your work with the Inquisition has taken you to a far greater elevation than I could have imagined or planned for. Nor will you return.

I have no intention of threatening you or harming you back into my service. Your newfound friends and allies have nothing to fear from me. The work of the Inquisition is too important, and you are vital to it. You must defeat the threat that the Venatori pose.

I ask only that you remember me. Know that you have a friend and ally in Minrathous should you ever need one. And know that I stand with you against the Tevinter that the Venatori would create.

-Chryseis Viridius.

Romulus read parts of it twice, to be sure he hadn't missed something. When he was sure he understood her correctly, he looked up from the letter to his advisors, a frown firmly in place. "She released me," he said evenly, setting the letter back down on the desk. "She renounced her ownership of me officially."

Leon arched his brows, folding his hands behind his back. “I confess to not really knowing the proper sentiment for that. Congratulations, perhaps?" A half-smile pulled at his mouth, but faded quickly, perhaps at the expression on Romulus's face. “...unless there is reason to react in some other way?"

There wasn't, not if the letter was taken at face value. It was an admission of defeat of sorts, acknowledging that she did not have the power to truly wrestle him away from the Inquisition anymore, not since he had become so tied to it. But Romulus could not think of her as a friend and ally, not ever, not after what she'd made him into, and she knew that full well. She had to. She didn't need to ask him to remember her. How could he ever forget? It left only one explanation in his mind.

"She thinks she can use me more easily as an ally than as her subject. She's..." He grimaced, not sure how exactly to put it. "Her goals are not evil, I don't think, but she's... twisted. A dark woman. Ruthless, and willing to do anything to get what she wants. She doesn't have friends. Now that her father's lost to her, now that I am as well, she must be feeling pressured." Her family and her blade were her first two lines of defense against those that disagreed with her, those that threatened her. Without them, she was vulnerable, and it wouldn't take the Magisterium all that long to figure that out.

"I think she will request something of us, before long," Romulus concluded. "Of me, most likely. I don't know, perhaps I'm overthinking all of this."

“Perhaps." Rilien sounded exactly as unconcerned as ever. “If she does, we can evaluate whether it is in our interest to meet the request. We are under no obligation. Nor are you." He glanced at the letter on the table for only a moment before lifting his eyes again. “In that sense it is no different from any other halfhearted offer of alliance. We receive requests from people attempting to use us to one end or another almost daily."

Marceline chuckled beside him, "He is certainly not wrong." Romulus couldn't have missed the glance she gave toward a rather intimidating stack of papers on her desk, before she shook her head and looked at him instead. "Regardless, it would serve us well to have information on her affairs. We have agents in Minrathous, yes?" She asked, tilting her head toward Rilien. He nodded tersely.

"They can listen for rumors that may involve any of her machinations."

Romulus had to remind himself just how powerful his allies were. He still wasn't certain they were affording Chryseis the respect he was, but he also wasn't certain she deserved it. Perhaps it was just his warped view from having too much experience of her. What worried him the most was the pull he felt that he should help her, if asked. He was almost more afraid of her being an ally than an enemy. But for the moment she was neither, and he could breathe easily.

"Thank you," he said. "For bringing this to me, and for the help. This is going to take some getting used to."

“That's only to be expected," Leon replied, smiling more fully this time. “This transition wouldn't be easy for anyone, let alone someone for whom the change is so radical. It's part of our jobs to make it a little easier. And I think I speak for all of us when I say we're personally glad to help, as well."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Image

Great heroes beyond counting raised
Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men
And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.
Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,
Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,
Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill.
-Canticle of Andraste 1:2
Image

There was distinct spring in Khari's step as she entered the castle. Truthfully, she didn't spend much time in Skyhold's main building, other than to go to the undercroft. Stel and she trained together in the mornings, and that was outside; for the most part, the rest of the people she looked in on regularly were posted somewhere else. So maybe she still wasn't quite used to the grandiosity of the fully-decorated main hall, with the banners draped on the walls and the fancy carpet runner on the floor. Whatever she might be one day, she couldn't say she'd been born to things like castles and noble causes. She was just someone who'd decided she was going to end up with more than she started with.

Figuring her best bet was to start with Marcy's office, Khari hung a right midway down the hall, letting the door fall shut quietly behind her. The room was open enough that it wasn't really the kind of place where you knocked; probably Marcy had done that on purpose, or something. She seemed like the type to always be thinking about the little things. It was impressive, in a certain way.

As it turned out, luck was on her side, and Leon was already there, too. Two of the three was probably enough to make a decision, right? Well, she'd float the idea and see what came of it. Clearing her throat to alert the two of them to her presence, she stepped out of the doorway and into the open hallway that ran alongside the recessed office space. “Uh... you two have a few minutes? I had an idea I wanted to ask you about." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. They didn't exactly intimidate her, but... in this setting, they were definitely part of that world she'd only dipped her toes in yet. It wasn't quite like asking normal people for stuff.

Leon tilted his head a bit, gesturing for Khari to join them in the office proper. “Why don't you have a seat, Khari? If you've a suggestion of some kind, we're happy to hear it." He had stood when she entered, but was previously occupying one of the chairs in front of Marcy's desk, which the woman herself was at. Larissa was at the other end of the room, reading in front of the hearth. “Why don't you go ahead and lay it out for us first?"

Khari nodded, feeling a little of the discomfort leave her. She took the chair next to Leon's, crossing one leg over the other. She didn't sit back, though; she was a bit too on-edge for that. “Sure. Thanks. Er..." Her thoughts had been a lot more organized before this; she tried to pull them back into the right order.

“So basically... I was thinking about our personnel problem. I don't exactly have a bunch of friends hanging around anywhere, like the Lions or anyone. And I'm not going to be able to convince any Dalish to help us, if you were wondering." She grimaced at the mention, unable to quite stop herself from thinking of things she found unpleasant. “But, uh... there is one person I could ask. My teacher, Ser Durand. I might have mentioned him. He's a chevalier-errant. I know he's not the kind of person to get caught up in the civil war when there's more important things to do, so... he might be willing to help, if we can find him."

Marceline sat at her desk with her chin resting on her steepled fingers. She'd watched Khari as she spoke and when she finished, closed her eyes as if to think. Without opening them, she called to her assistant. "Larissa?"

The other woman leaned back on the couch she laid on, her neck arching past the padded armrest. Her eyes fell to the ground as she thought as well, though she eventually ended up shaking her head. "No ma'am, I do not think we know a Ser Durand." After she answered, she continued to watch them from her inverted position, finding them far more curious than whatever she was reading at the moment.

Marceline tsked, but opened her eyes, letting her hands finally rest on the desk. She returned to watching Khari as she spoke again. "Do you know where to begin the search, if we were to look for him?" She asked.

Khari wasn't surprised Marcy had never heard of him. She'd never known him to spend time in Court or near cities, even; the few times he'd spoken of his experiences with other nobles, he hadn't been especially complimentary. Then again, he wasn't especially complimentary in general. “Sure do. He's usually around the Dales. He doesn't actually go on Dalish land unless he has to, but it's not far from the Exalted Plains, either. More specifically, I dunno. He keeps on the move a lot."

It would probably be better for only a small group to go looking. He and the guys he kept with him were extremely mobile, and knew the land as well as anyone. Even if they found his trail, they wouldn't be able to catch up to him unless they were pretty quick themselves.

"I would like to know more of this Ser Durand," Marceline continued, "What type of person he is, and if he is a chevalier-errant, the type of men he leads." She leaned back in her chair and appeared genuinely curious as to his story. "What can you tell me about him?"

“Uh." Khari hadn't really expected the question, but she figured she could probably answer it, at least. Reaching up, she tugged on one of her ears, furrowing her brow and looking for the words she wanted. “Well... he's an older guy, I guess; might be near fifty these days, though I don't know for sure. Never bothered to ask." Even she had a sense for when a question was rude, and she'd been so damn eager to stay in his good graces that she hadn't risked much like that, at first. By the time they were really comfortable with each other, it had seemed too late, for something like that.

She pulled a breath in through her nose, leaning back a little in the chair. “His whole name is Jean-Robert Durand, and his family's from somewhere in Collines Verts." She pronounced the Orlesian words with an elvish lilt, still; it annoyed her, but the accents were more similar than elvish and the trade tongue, so she always backslid. “He graduated the Academie... I guess it must have been almost twenty-five years ago now? He went pretty much straight into being an errant after that; it was what he'd always wanted to do."

She'd listened to everything he told her with rapt attention; in retrospect it was almost a little embarrassing. But she definitely didn't regret it, and it meant the details were pretty easy to her recollection now, though he spoke only seldom of himself. “He's the youngest of like... four kids, so it's not like he has an inheritance to worry about, and he says he likes being on the road more than cooped up in a castle anyway. Uh... what else? Oh. The guys are pretty great; most of them are commoners, you know? People who wouldn't be eligible to be chevaliers themselves. It's him, and the eight of them, and I made ten, when I was there." She smiled fondly at the memory. Being the youngest and newest to the group had meant she was subjected to some pretty gentle hazing, of sorts. Go here, polish this, check the horses for stones, all that sort of thing. All of it turned out to be useful; she figured they'd known it would from the start.

“And you believe he is the sort of person who would aid the Inquisition, given the opportunity?" Leon rubbed absently at some of the stubble coming in on his chin, raising an eyebrow in Khari's direction. His tone didn't sound skeptical, exactly, only curious.

Khari nodded firmly. “I do. I mean, he's... really dedicated to looking after the part of the world he's in. Seemed like all we ever did was deal with bandits and train to deal with more bandits." She snorted; that was a joke, but there was a kernel of truth to it. She'd never met anyone who worked quite as hard as Ser Durand... well, until she met Stel, anyway.

“But I think once I explain to him what's really going on here, he'll help us. His group isn't big, but... he took me from stick-limbed fifteen-year-old barely knowing which end of a sword to hold to, well, me in the span of a few years. Think what someone like that could do if you gave him actual soldiers." She shrugged. Khari knew she wasn't the strongest fighter in the Inquisition or anything, but she also knew that she was pretty damn good. Better than the majority, for sure.

Marceline had resumed leaning forward in her chair again, this time her chin resting on one of her hands as she listened to Khari's explanation. Once she was done, she leveled a quiet stare into Khari's forehead, holding her in her gaze for a few moments before she finally spoke again. "He may prove useful, but..." there was a hard pause and she took the moment to glance at Leon before she continued. "I wish to know, is the reason you bring this name up now truly for the benefit of the Inquisition, or are your reasons of a more personal nature than that?" She asked with an arch to her brow. It was unclear if her tone was that of genuine curiosity, or if it hid a note of skepticism.

Khari frowned; suddenly the ease of the situation vanished, and she was left wishing it hadn't. “What, like... you think I'm just asking you to do this because I want to see him or something?" The frown deepened; her brows knit together. “Look, Lady Marceline, I dunno what kind of person you think I am, but I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to try wasting Inquisition resources on something that doesn't matter. I know how important this is—I'm not sure you got the memo, but my best friend just had to blow up the head of a guy pretending to be his dad." Her fists clenched on her knees.

“Will it be nice to see my teacher again? You're damn right it will. But I wouldn't have brought this up if I thought he had nothing to offer us. If you disagree, fine, but don't insult me."

Marceline frowned, but she did not budge from her position. She stared at Khari a little longer before calling for her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to remind me to pen a letter to the Marquis of Collines Verts, I wish to see what information Lord Ambroise has on the Durand family," she said, though her eyes never left Khari.

"As for you, realize that I meant no insult, but regardless, I would have you understand," she said, clearly speaking to Khari this time, "That we did not set off with the intention of battling with the crew of the Northern Sword either. I apologize if you feel my caution is warrant for insult, but I only wish to avoid any future incidents if I am able.

With that, Marceline finally leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her lips were still set in an even line, and it was difficult to get a feel of her from her expressions. "It matters little," she said, with a slight sigh, "I feel that either Romulus or Estella, if not both, will accompany you while you undertake this task. That is... the type of person they are, as well as their relationship to you, so my opinions on the matter are moot. They are the Inquisitors, while we are their advisors."

She glanced at Leon before nodding, "Still, a chevalier-errant will be useful to the Inquisition as you said," she stated. "However, I feel the need to reiterate my apology, but understand that it is our duty to think of the Inquisition as a whole. No one person is bigger than what we stand for." she said, her eyes alighting on Khari once more.

Khari sighed. “Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to get mad at you, exactly. I get why you have to think about things this way. I've known Ser Durand since I was a girl, though. I know he's what he says he is." She was sure whoever Marcy was writing to would confirm it, anyway. “And uh... yeah. I would like to take them both, but if you think bringing both the Inquisitors is a bad idea, I could figure something else out. I was also thinking of asking Zee and maybe Asala to come along?" She glanced between them.

“They don't really have anything else in particular to do at the moment," Leon pointed out. “While it might not be ideal for both of them to accompany you, I think you should ask them, and decide based on what they think. We can adjust accordingly; it isn't as though we never planned for them both to be out in the field at the same time." He shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Though I do very much agree in taking Asala. Just in case," she added, a pleased look finally creeping into her once impassive face.

“Sure. I can do that. I'll ask them and get back to you guys soon then." Khari couldn't deny a bit of relief at the prospect. Doing things was invariably easier than talking about doing them, for her. She stood, nodding to the both of them. “And thanks. For letting me chase down the idea. You won't regret it."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Romulus honestly hadn't planned on making any more judgements on the throne so soon. And yet here he sat.

To be fair, he didn't feel his opinion would matter all that much, just his words. For some reason he wanted to be the one to say them, and Estella had easily given up the responsibility. He had no intention of blindly sentencing Ser Durand to die, but whatever he'd done had deeply affected Khari, and thus he felt it keenly too. She was his closest, most important friend, and his deception had shaken the foundation of what she was, or what she'd thought she was. What she wanted to be. He wasn't sure what learning the truth of the matter would do. It might bring answers, but would those answers even help?

A good number of Skyhold's more important individuals were present for the judgement. Lady Marceline of course was present, and none too pleased as far as Romulus could tell. It was hard to blame her, after yet another supposed ally proved false. Estella was also beside him, for which Romulus was grateful. She would keep a level head in all of this, he knew. Leon stood beside the Ambassador, as did Rilien. He hoped their confidence in him was not shaken by his uninspiring performance on the throne the last time around. And of course Khari would hear Durand as well. Romulus would not dream of sentencing the man to anything without hearing her thoughts on everything, and there was nothing preventing her from speaking them.

He looked to Leon, nodding to signal that he was ready to begin.

At the Commander's signal, Reed and another guard led in Ser Durand. He wore his shackles quietly and without protest; at a full head taller than either of his minders, that was probably a good thing. He didn't seem to have borne imprisonment poorly—he was clean still, and about as groomed as he'd been on the road. But the lines around his eyes appeared deeper, and he hunched his shoulders forward, walking at a bit more of a shuffle than he had prior. When they drew him to a stop, he glanced once at Romulus on the throne before fixing his eyes on the carpet runner in front of him.

Next to Estella, Khari's hands clenched, but she didn't say anything. Not yet.

Marceline inhaled sharply, perhaps the only indication of the mood she was in, considering her face was still as impassive as ever. "Lord Inquisitor," she began in her business-like manner. "I present to you the accused, Ser Jean-Robert Durand, chevalier-errant of the House of Durand of Collines Verts." Apparently, Lady Marceline had recently received correspondence from the Marquis of Collines Verts reaffirming his title. "Though, this title is subject to change depending on today's ruling." she added.

She looked down at the clipboard in hand and began to read. "The formal charges levied against Ser Durand are as follows: aiding and abetting the criminal formerly known as Halfhand and her illicit organization, the Reapers; we also have evidence to support the kidnapping of a number of chevaliers and accessory to the murder of Ser Liliane Routhier." Behind both Estella and Khari, MichÀel loomed with his arms crossed and his face twisted into a scowl. At the mention of Liliane's name, he audibly grunted and his scowl grew worse. It seemed that they knew each other, once upon a time.

"Now would be the time to explain your actions," Romulus said, staring down at him. He felt he could cut the tension in the room with his knife, but acknowledged that whatever the man in front of him said could actually make it worse instead of better.

"It would be." Durand acknowledged that easily enough, sighing ponderously. "If there was anything to explain." His eyes remained where they were; he seemed quite resigned to the worst.

Khari, on the other hand, obviously was not. “What do you mean, if? B—" She stuttered over what was obviously the beginning of the familiar nickname, then corrected herself. “Ser Durand, how could you? How could you? How long were you working with those bandits? Why?" She seemed to have more questions than wherewithal to get them out; she'd made it halfway between where she'd been and where he was before she came to an awkward halt, obviously unsure what to do.

He turned his head slightly away from her. "Stop it, Little Bear." He didn't appear entirely free of conflicting emotions himself, from the slight tremor in his voice. He was otherwise quite stoic in his delivery. "You don't want to know the answers to those questions. It's enough that I've done what I'm accused of. I'm the villain here—let me be that."

“Ser Durand." The new voice was Estella's, clear and soft. “Please think about how this will look for your men. You seemed quite concerned for them before; you asked us to keep in mind that they only followed you. If we're to understand how much leeway that grants them, we must know what they followed you to, and why. Surely, it's in their interest for you to explain. Even if you are a villain, as you say, we have to understand why they are not." Strangely, the words didn't sound like a threat, though perhaps from another tongue, they could have. Rather, Estella's tone was one of genuine concern, almost cajoling rather than demanding.

"They are in our custody as well," Marceline noted.

That appeared to deal quite the blow to Durand's reticence. With an aside-glance at Khari, he finally lifted his head, making eye contact with Estella first, then Romulus. "Have it your way, then."

He shuffled in his spot, standing a little straighter. "I have been a chevalier-errant for twenty-five years, give or take. In all that time, I have patrolled the same region—a border area between the part of the Dales the elves still occupy and the human settlements on the plains. I've learned that piece of my country, and the people in it, better than anyone else knows them. Of that much I'm certain." He rolled his shoulders back, grimacing. "It's a popular area for bandits; many merchant caravans go through the region to and from other places, the ones that actually get names on the map. I've lost count of the number of different groups of highwaymen and bandits and fucking skinhawkers I've killed or run out in that amount of time." He spat the word for slavers like it tasted disgusting on his tongue.

"I wasn't given any men to command on my way out of the Academie. Wasn't important enough, or noble enough. Found my own guys. Just farmers and merchants' sons and whatever other scattered fools were crazy enough to want to do the work." His eyes flickered to Khari for just a moment, but he moved them away again hastily. "Trained them all myself. Learned to deal with losing them as best I could. In all the time I was on that piece of land, I sent requests for help to Val Royeaux exactly six times. You know how often I got any?"

He shook his head. "Never. Not one damn time. And I lost good people because of it. Because we were always doing more work than we should be."

“So what? You gave up?" That was Khari. Indignance rolled off her in waves.

"No. But I eventually realized that if I wanted to actually get anywhere, I had to be smarter about it. When Halfhand and her damn Reapers rolled in five years ago, fresh off some business in Kirkwall and fucking angry as brontos about it, I knew we weren't going to be able to take fifty people. Sent my last request to the capital. I suppose it's probably still sitting on some indifferent little diplomat's desk, if it hasn't been shredded. Helping me gains no one any prestige or status, and I doubt something so mundane would ever end up in the hands of anyone who gave a damn about anything else. Not in fucking Val Royeaux."

He shrugged, but something seemed off about his apparent nonchalance. He was far too tense. "So I went for the slow play: I didn't confront her, didn't try to stop her when she raided or when she kicked the last fuckers out of the fort. Seeded a few of my guys in her ranks, to give me intelligence. And I didn't try to stop her when she ambushed Lieutenant Routhier. I'm not proud of that fact, but it didn't surprise me when that finally got the Lord-General's attention. Some nobody like me sends a request for help, nothing. Noble like that goes missing, suddenly people care. Suddenly there's a damn captain and a whole other twenty-some chevaliers crawling over my landscape."

Ser Durand breathed a heavy sigh. "I knew Halfhand would hold them hostage, not kill them right off. She never shut up about how much she hated the Routhiers, or the Crown Prince, or the entire damn government, for that matter. Some days, I even felt like I could sympathize, a little. I didn't mean for the lieutenant to die, but it was a risk I was willing to take."

Romulus found himself slowly wishing he wasn't on the throne more and more as Durand continued. The chevalier was a proven liar, and a decent one given he'd fooled an entire troop of other chevaliers and the party from the Inquisition, but Romulus doubted very much that any of that was a deception. He also couldn't find much fault with it, as it was delivered. The slow play, as he put it, was the only effective way for him to bring down Halfhand with the resources he had, and there was no way for him to acquire more besides the capture of a more notable name. It was a massive risk, one that hadn't fully paid off, but what were the other options? He could not attack, and he could not call for help. He could not reveal himself to the help that did come, otherwise the capture of the others would have been for nothing. It was ruthless, probably wrong, but was there a better way? Romulus didn't see it yet.

Of course, he didn't know what to say about all of this either, nor could he properly gauge yet what Khari's feelings on the matter were. What anyone's feelings were. Of all the people deciding on this, surely the trained assassin was not the best candidate for judging the methods of removing a bandit horde from the region.

"So you used them as fucking bargaining chips?" MichÀel growled. The entirety of his large frame was tensed, and the grip he held on the plate on his arms were beginning to grind underneath his finger tips. A glance from Marceline seemed to rein his temper in, but he remained glaring at the man.

"I did." Ser Durand met the glare with a flat stare of his own. "And I would do it again. No one cares about the people out there. It wasn't as though the bandits were just wandering around the countryside killing each other. They were preying on merchants, on farmers, on elves, on all kinds of people who could not protect themselves. My job was to protect all of those lives. Was I willing to sacrifice a few to do that? You're damn right I was."

“And that's all?" Khari's hands were clenched so hard they shook. “It was just numbers in and numbers out for you? What the hell happened to honor? To telling the truth and treating everyone like they're valuable? To everything you taught me how to do? How to be? How can you think like that and still call yourself a chevalier?" She closed the rest of the distance and seized him by the collar, pulling him down so that their faces were on a level. “What the hell was that all about then, huh? This isn't you! I know it's not you!" She shook him, but she was shaking more than that. “It's not..."

She swallowed audibly. “Was any of it real, Big Bear? Did you ever really think...?"

The knight in chains didn't look far from tears, but if that were so, he held them in anyway. "The world is so simple for you, Little Bear. It's right and wrong and honor and dishonor. I wish it was that way for the rest of us. I wish you hadn't come looking for me. But it isn't, and you did. And now you know."

Khari released him slowly, hands falling numbly to her sides. “Death before dishonor, you taught me." The words were a strained whisper, but still easily-audible in the silence. “A chevalier would rather die than stain her honor. But you... but..." She backed up several paces, until her heels hit the first stair up to the dais.

She whirled, facing Romulus and the others. “I'm supposed... I'm supposed to say he deserves to die." Her expression was stricken, hurt scrawled across every line of her face. “But I can't. Even after..."

Her eyes met his; she took a deep breath. “Please, Rom. Please don't kill him."

"If I may," The tone with which Marceline spoke was even and her face remained an impassive mask, despite the charged atmosphere of the hall. "I fear that his sentence should not be a matter for the Inquisition to decide," she continued, looking toward Khari as she spoke the line. She then turned toward Romulus and spoke with a slight tilt to her head. "Ser Durand is an Orlesian chevalier, operating in Orlesian lands, and his crimes were committed against Orlesian forces. By all accounts, he should be summoned before the Orlesian court, judged and sentenced there."

She then turned to MichÀel for a moment, who seemed at a loss for any more words. "The Routhiers rode under the banner of Drakon, and served under his Imperial Highness, Lord Lucien. I believe it would serve us well to allow his house to decide."

MichÀel sighed and though he still rubbed the armor plates at his elbows, spoke with a resigned tone. "He will find a no fairer man in all of Orlais than Lucien."

"Captain Routhier left Ser Durand to us," Romulus reminded them. They hadn't been there, after all. The woman had just lost her sister right in front of her eyes, and it seemed obvious that Ser Durand was at least partially responsible. But the man had been left in Inquisition hands.

Romulus felt conflicted, in perhaps the strangest way possible. He hadn't expected it to turn out like this. This was supposed to be the part where the man's sentence was lessened because he did the only thing he could, but for these chevaliers, the only thing he could do carried the penalty of death. Was it so sacred to them, that all of the circumstances regarding their actions should be thrown out? Would Ser Durand prefer if it were that way? Had he known that punishment would await him, if knowledge of his actions came to light, and done it anyway? Would the Drakons give Ser Durand the sentence he felt he deserved? There were too many questions, and he couldn't begin to answer them.

He could at least ask Ser Durand another before making any kind of decision. "Do you deserve to die, Ser Durand? Do you hold to what you taught her? Death before dishonor?"

The chevalier let out a short breath. "I don't pretend to know who deserves what, Inquisitor. But that is what I was taught, and I do still hold to this: if I am to die, I would rather die having done what I believe was necessary. My duty was to those people, and I carried it out in the only way I saw. If that condemns me, I accept it. I am not ashamed."

He wasn't making it easy. Romulus didn't want to make any decision at all anymore, but he couldn't help but feel that he had a chance to do what was right by them. Both of them. If he let him go, it was out of his hands, and then perhaps it would be his fault if some judgement fell upon him that dissatisfied his honor, or Khari's.

"Khari." Her name escaped mostly as a whisper. "I want to do the right thing here. But I've never known any kind of honor. Not like the two of you." His eyes had a fair amount of pain in them, but not like hers. He hated to see it. "I don't know what to do. If you want me to leave this to someone else, say the word."

“I don't know, Rom." She sounded miserable. “I don't know what the right thing is. I thought I did, but... but I don't. He—I... I'm too close to this. I can't see it clearly. But I trust you. Whatever you decide... I'll understand." It seemed to take a lot of effort for her to say; it wasn't her own life she was placing in his hands this time, but the life of someone she clearly cared dearly for. And it was not lost on her that there was a very real possibility that person would die because she'd chosen to do so.

At that point, Leon interrupted, clearing his throat gently. “If I may," he said, clearly aware of the fragility of the moment and respectful of it. “I feel I should point out that if Ser Durand is telling the truth—which I believe he is—the crimes of which he is guilty are actually relatively minor." He let that sink in for a moment and explained. “Aiding and abetting tends to carry prison sentences with a duration of some number of years based on the activeness of the help and the nature of the crimes abetted. And the legal notion of kidnapping doesn't include not stepping in to stop one; certainly not when doing so would risk one's own life. Granted, the motives were more impure than mere self-preservation, and I would agree that he is not to be held up as a paragon of honor by any means, but his failures amount to not acting when perhaps he should have. As I understand the situation, he didn't kill anyone, and arguably he wouldn't have been able to prevent what deaths did occur." The Seeker lifted his shoulders. “Those are not offenses for which death is usually on the table, military defendant or otherwise."

Marceline nodded in agreement, "Ser Leonhardt is correct, his actions do not warrant a death penalty. However, I would ask that you consider allowing me to pen a letter to the Academie as well, to move that his title be stricken from him, as Ser Durand's conduct was not befitting that of a chevalier, no matter the circumstances. If that is what you decide, of course," she added.

It was too much to look beyond at this point. Maybe there was a chance death was necessary for staining his honor, but there was doubt, and with any amount of doubt Romulus found himself unwilling to do something so severe. Not with the knowledge of what it would do. He was already worried of what his consideration of killing Durand might have caused, even if he felt he explained his reasoning for it as best he could.

"Then it's for someone more knowledgeable to decide," he admitted, exhaling some of the tension from his chest. "He'll be given to House Drakon for judgement. They can attend to his titles as well."

It was hard to gauge Khari's reaction; she seemed somewhat relieved, but the tension didn't quite leave her. Then again, the decision had been moved rather than made outright, so perhaps that was understandable.

For his part, Ser Durand accepted that with equanimity. He inclined his head to Romulus and the others, then moved his eyes to Khari. "For whatever worth my words have for you, Khari, I truly hope you succeed. If I have ever met anyone who deserves to be called chevalier, it is you."

Her lips parted as if to answer, but none came before the guards shuffled him away, and none in the silent moments after.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
Lady Marceline once more stood in her officiator's position just off to the side of the carpet that led up to the Inquisitor's throne atop the raised dais. This time, it was decided that it would be Estella who would be the one to preside over the day's judgement. Marceline had received detailed reports of what had transpired in the Approach, and though she once respected the name of the Grey Warden, she was pleased to hear that they had been escorted out of Orlais by one of their own. In addition, once word spread that it was the Inquisition that had successfully sieged the Grey Wardens at Adamant Fortress, they would start to be realized as legitimate threats, for better or for worse. They were murky waters that she would have to navigate, but that would have to wait for a later time.

The other advisors, Ser Leonhardt and Ser Rilien, each stood at their customary positions around the throne, and Romulus likewise was nearby. Others were among them to witness the judgement as well. The Kirkwall Guard Captain stood on the other side of the carpet from her, and he looked tired-- but sober, fortunately. He had yet to shave, even for the day's proceedings and his armor sat haphazardly around his shoulders, but to his credit he remained standing at attention. Their respective captains of the mages and the templars also stood among them. It was her understanding that Aurora once had dealings with the accused, and all three of them were in Kirkwall during the time that he was active.

Eventually, Larissa moved out from behind her and handed off her clipboard. Marceline took a few seconds for herself to read over its contents before she finally spoke aloud. "Lady Inquisitor, if you are ready?" she asked, deferring to the Inquisitor for permission to begin.

Estella still sat gingerly in the ornate chair that served as throne, but her discomfort was masked very well otherwise. Her facial expression was placid, her shoulders back and her spine straight. She didn't dress to Marceline's own standards, but the way she presented herself wasn't anything to complain about either—polished light ringmail and dark leather trousers tucked neatly into tall boots. At the question, she took a visible breath and nodded, her eyes sliding to Ashton for a moment before she spoke. “Yes. Bring him in."

Ser Leonhardt didn't even need to repeat the command; the guards at the door heard Estella and opened it themselves, admitting two templars, who'd been chosen to escort Pike from his cell for the obvious reason. They respected the position they were in and his right to a trial, clearly, but neither did either look pleased to be in his company, and they brought him to stand before her briskly, backing off only half a foot once he was where they wanted him.

"Lady Inquisitor, I present to you the apostate and fugitive Elias Pike," She hid the disgust in her voice very well, and she let her eyes linger on the man only for a moment before they moved back to Estella.

That didn't stop a laugh from escaping Pike. Though she would've rather had it otherwise, Pike was brought to them ungagged. He had a right to a fair trial, and that meant being able to speak on his defense. She didn't expect much of a defense though. "Madame Inquisitor, it is... pleasant to see that you remain alive. Somehow," he said. One of the templars roughly shook him by his shoulder, but otherwise did nothing more, leaving Pike chuckling once more.

"The formal charges levied against him for the crimes committed as an accomplice to Corypheus are as follows," Marceline continued, preferring not to indulge the madman. "Crimes against the Order of the Grey Warden, blood magic and apostasy, attempted assassination of both Inquisitors, terrorist activities committed in the city of Kirkwall, and many, many others," she did not wish the read the entire list in her hands.

"What? No murder? Or is that filed under crimes against the order and what not?" Pike grinned and added sharply. A commotion arose from the other side of the carpet as Pike's words had set off Ashton, who was now trying to get to him.

The flighty bird-like woman stood closest to the large doors leading into the chamber. Sparrow's expression bellied many things, but managed to placate itself into a gloomy grimace. Her eyes were downcast as the proceedings continued. Even as Ashton’s hackles raised to meet Pike's glib remark, cutting through the room like a knife, she hadn’t moved. Perhaps, that was the greatest indication that she wished for Pike’s head to roll.

Leon stepped into Ashton's trajectory, physically blocking the other man from reaching Pike.

“Ashton. Please." Estella's tone was gentle, but there was a firmness to it that she rarely used. “He's entitled to speak for himself without reprisal." Her brows were heavy over her eyes, but she turned them resolutely back to Pike.

"Is he?" It was not so much as a question from the Guard Captain, but a statement. As someone with a family of her own, Marceline felt it... understandable. She couldn't, or even wouldn't imagine what he was going through. But despite that, Estella was right. Eventually, after casting glares around the room, Ashton reeled himself in, but he didn't relax. It was Aurora who gently grabbed him by the arm and drew him back, and even after she did not remove her hand.

Pike on the other hand seemed surprised. Not at Ashton's outburst, but Estella's words. He stared at her with his brows raised, putting his feral eyes on display for everyone to see. "I am?" he asked, rather incredulously. Eventually, his features settled back into a smirk. "Then I didn't do it. See, the Wardens and the Templars? They did it to themselves. They set themselves up for the fall. I was simply the push over the edge they needed," he said with shrugged. "It would've happened regardless."

“And if you push someone off a bridge, it's still attempted murder," Estella pointed out. It was a passable imitation or Rilien, actually. She sighed through her nose, turning to her advisors. “There is also the matter of Kirkwall to consider," she said quietly, but left a silence for them to speak.

Leon took the opportunity first. “There is no comparing the magnitude of his various crimes. We have as much right to pass judgement here as Kirkwall does, and they as much as us." He glanced back at Ashton for a moment. “We should be careful not to allow personal feelings to interfere here, however. Justice must be blind."

Ser SĂ©verine cleared her throat from the side of the room. "Lady Inquisitor, if I may..." she paused, evaluating the prisoner before her. It was obvious she had significant disdain for Pike, but she was doing well to keep her tone neutral, and her expression. "This mage has proven time and time again that he is a danger to everyone around him. With the forces he meddles with, and the stability of his mind, or lack thereof, it would seem to me that he is a danger to himself as well. I... would not normally suggest the Rite of Tranquility as punishment, but if there is a mage deserving of it, I believe it would be this one." There were more templars than usual in the hall for the judgement, and a few of them could be heard murmuring in approval.

The Knight-Captain's gaze turned to Estella. "If I have suggested too much, please don't hesitate to correct me. But I'm sure you remember the sight of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall as well as I do. I would not see such a thing happen again."

“That is not a solution. If we are to kill him, let us simply kill him. Destroying every trace of his identity and letting him wander in a shell is no mercy. And if he deserves none, you would do better to put him to the sword." Rilien delivered the words into the void that followed, his own dull tone a reminder that he knew perhaps better than any of the rest ever could just what the suggestion of tranquility really entailed. He did not seem offended by the suggestion, merely to be inspecting it in his typical logical fashion.

"I agree with Rilien, tranquility should never be an answer," unlike Rilien, Aurora spoke with a deep frown. As a mage herself, and captain of the Inquisition's mage forces, Aurora had numerous dealings with tranquil. Perhaps it was an emotional response from the captain, in spite of Leon's words, but Marceline found herself in agreement with Rilien. Sparrow nodded in accession, though she made no comment.

"An execution would be far more efficient than the Rite of Tranquility, while also not upsetting the mage faction that has allied with us," And allowing their Inquisitor to order Pike be made into a tranquil would do just that. It also appeared that the man himself understood this, as he stood with a grin, unperturbed of the talk of his possible tranquility. Either that, or he was well and truly mad. It was difficult to tell, in all honesty.

It was Aurora who spoke again, this time to Estella. "I believe he should be sent to Kirkwall to stand trial in front of Sophia and the Templars who remain there," she said with a thin frown. "He was once of the Kirkwall circle, it's only fitting that he should receive justice where it all began," she added as she crossed her arms.

Estella sat back slightly in the chair, clearly deep in thought. It was unclear what she thought of the suggestion to make Pike tranquil, or of the other options available to them. It took her several minutes to straighten fully again. When she did, she sighed slightly. “I can understand why everyone thinks as they do. But I believe matters between Pike and the city of Kirkwall are even less resolved than his business with us." It made a certain amount of sense; the situation with the Grey Wardens had been more or less resolved. Kirkwall had as of yet had no chance to seek justice for what had become of the Chantry there.

“I remand you to Captain Riviera's custody, on the understanding that you will be safely transported to Kirkwall to face judgement by the Viscountess and answer for your crimes. Lady Marceline, if you would be willing to provide them also with an official account of our evidence for his other deeds, I believe Lady Sophia should be given the most accurate picture possible of what he has done."

Ashton turned toward Estella, already shaking his head in the negative. "No," it was a quick, sharp answer. He winced afterward as if he hadn't meant to sound so venomous, and began slower in the following attempt. "No... I can't. You don't want me to be the one escorting him. He wouldn't make it," he said, shooting a dangerous glare Pike's direction. The other man simply shrugged the glare off and began looking around Skyhold, apparently bored with the conversation taking place.

"I suggest sending him to Kirkwall before I take my leave."

"If my services are not required here for a short time," Knight-Captain SĂ©verine suggested, "I would be willing to escort the prisoner to Kirkwall with a small detachment of my templars. You have my word no harm will come to him, forgive my earlier suggestion. I will gladly trust the judgement of Lady Sophia." The other benefit to SĂ©verine was obvious. She had previously mentioned serving in Kirkwall for some time, and had not been able to return since her departure on orders to observe the Lord Seeker's activities.

Estella nodded easily. “All right. Ser SĂ©verine's custody, then." She glanced to the templars at guard, who stepped up behind Pike and took hold of his arms once more, ushering him down the long runner.

Sparrow only stayed long enough to hear Estella’s decision being made, though it was difficult to tell if she was at all happy with the results. By the pinch of her mouth and the tightness in her fists, she might’ve thought it best to simply kill him there. Perhaps, she would have done so if it were her choice to make. She passed behind Ashton and settled a hand across his shoulder, feathering it across to the other, before sliding out the door as if she’d never been there in the first place. No words could replace what was lost. So, she offered none.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Estella stood, descending the dais as though she couldn't be away from it soon enough. “I'm sorry, Ashton; I didn't mean to suggest anything you didn't think you were up to." Her remorse broke clearly through the veneer of stoicism she wore; she pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “That was it for today, right?" The question was directed at Marceline.

Marceline glanced down to the clipboard in her hand and after a moment of inspecting it she nodded. "Yes Lady Inquisitor, that should be it," she answered, holding out the clipboard for Larissa to melt back into view for a second to take.

"Actually," Ashton spoke up, causing a few set of eyes to turn his direction. He met a couple of them before turning his gaze on someone specific. "Rilien, if you can, I have a favor," he said, crossing the carpet so that he did not have to speak to him across the room. "I... Can you get a letter to Lucien for me?" he said, sighing deeply. "He... I want to be the one to tell him about Nos. He'd want to know."

Rilien blinked in typical owlish fashion, then inclined his head. “Of course. Do you already have the letter you would like to send, or should I wait for you to pen it?"

"I still need to pen it," Ashton noted, "I'll see that you get it soon." His hands then went to his head, his fingers running through his thick brown hair. "How about Ithilian and Amalia? Do you know where we can get into contact with them? They should know too." He asked.

The tranquil shook his head. “No one here knows where they are. If we encounter them before you do, I will see that they are informed. If you wish to leave a letter for them in case that happens, I will keep it for you." Rilien folded his arms into his sleeves.

Ashton forced a tiny laugh. It was a hoarse, dry creature, without any mirth. "I... think I'll leave that to you. I've only got one in me, I'm afraid," he said with a broken smile.

Rilien did not argue, simply dipping his chin again in acknowledgment. “As you wish."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The burn in her muscles was a long familiar sensation, but Khari had to admit that MichÀel knew how to really bring up the intensity. She hadn't exactly been stagnating before she started training under him, but she'd lacked the knowledge he had. How to bring her exercise to the next level, so to speak, to maximize the efficiency of her drills so she was worn out by the end of a session, but not so battered she wouldn't be able to push through it again the next day.

She finished the last repetition, slowly letting her arms relax, and the heavy practice blade in her hands droop towards the ground, though she kept firm hold of it. He had her doing sword forms, which she didn't mind. Some people might have seen the repetition of fundamentals and things she'd already learned as insulting, but Khari at least understood the importance of maintaining the basics while trying to keep moving ahead. It was about time to finish for today, though, and she glanced to him just to confirm that there weren't any more drills he wanted her to run. Sometimes if he thought she wasn't exhausted enough, he made her do extra, the bastard. She appreciated it though; sometimes the last set was exactly what she needed.

"Alright, take a breath," MichÀel said, a practice sword of his own resting across his shoulder. To his credit, he always went through the forms alongside her, though he kept out of her way when she went through the more intensive practices--though his booming voice was always with her, demanding things, telling her to do better, be quicker, anything to push her to complete the next set.

Pierre was among them for this session, the boy having returned from his winter with his grandmother. The kid managed to find a few extra inches during his time away--eventually he'd even reach his old man's lofty height. He stood some distance away, watching their practice with piqued interest.

MichÀel looked skyward for a moment and judged how much sunlight they had left. "Right, to finish off, I have a surprise for you. Go outfit yourself in something comfortable to fight in, and find a practice blade that won't kill you to swing," He waited only a moment before he pounded his palm with the pommel of his own blade. "Go on now, we do not have all day.

Khari rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, fine. And people say I'm impatient." She really didn't want to waste time, though, so she took off at a brisk trot for the armory, despite the protestations of her legs at the additional punishment. She'd ignored worse.

Once inside, she shucked off her platemail shell, replacing it on one of the armor racks before sliding into something different. A little heavier than what she'd usually wear into the field, but it was still practice, and she still wanted to make it count. The blade, she changed out for one closer to Intercessor, but he'd specified that it was to be one of the blunt ones, so using her own was out of the question.

It didn't take her more than three minutes in total before she was jogging back onto the field, newly-equipped. Her time to get in and out of the plate was shrinking, thankfully.

"Decent time," MichÀel noted upon her return. He was alone now, Pierre apparently having departed while she was swapping out her equipment. "You'll have to bear with me for a while, your surprise will be ready in a moment," he said, with a rather mischievous grin.

About ten minutes passed before it finally arrived. Or rather, she. Lady Marceline strode toward them, Pierre trailing behind her. She was outfitted for what seemed like battle with her hair tied up into a bun and equipped with a suit of finely made plate. As she drew closer, it was apparently clear that the armor was custom made for her and her alone.

From a glance, the plates seemed lightweight and moved with her easily, with the thicker ones covering her chest, thighs and forearms, including a pair of boots and plated gloves. It left her joints exposed-- only black cloth between her skin and the air which accented the polished shine the rest of the armor was given. In lieu of her own personal coat-of-arms, the Inquisition's standard was instead engraved upon the chest piece, a flaming eye with a sword pointed downward behind it.

She was still adjusting her gloves when she pulled up to stand beside MichÀel. Pierre stopped not too far away, a pair of practice weapons resting in his hands. MichÀel wore a smile that was somehow both a mixture of pride and deviousness. "And here she is," introducing her with a flourish of his practice sword. "Lady Marceline."

Khari blinked. “You want me to spar Marcy? —Er, Lady Marceline, sorry." Khari wasn't against it—if the woman bothered to get really damn shiny custom armor made for herself, she probably knew what to do with it. She just figured it was kind of a weird thing to ask her to do. There were plenty of quick-footed types around he could have had her spar with instead, but this was the first time he'd actually set her against one on purpose. She'd been working on fighting people substantially physically stronger than herself, because most people were. Marcy was one of the few who really wasn't.

"That was his intention, yes," Marceline answered, inspecting the front and back of her glove. Apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, she finally looked up and spared Khari a glance. A polite smile crossed lips before she turned expectantly toward Pierre. The boy took a step toward his mother and held out the weapons he'd carried with them for her to take. The first was a cup-hilt rapier of sorts though it held no cutting edge and the piercing tip was blunted-- a practice blade. The other was a shorter dagger, with a wide crossguard in addition to another cup to protect the hand.

Once in her hands, she spun the rapier once to test its weight and readjusted her grip to something more comfortable. "Unless you are against it?" Marceline added.

“Uh... no, not really." Khari shrugged. She wasn't the kind of person to turn down an interesting challenge, and while she had no idea what their angle was with all of this, she was willing to go along with it and find out the hard way. So she took a couple steps back, bowing in the genteel way Mick had said was the standard for duels or practice ones, and waiting for the indication that it was okay to begin, watching Marcy get into position and trying to read her likely moves from that.

Marceline took her place across from her and replicated the bow, and added "Death before dishonor." After the salute, Marceline settled into her stance, rapier facing the front and the dagger not too far away.

With that, MichÀel nodded toward his son, and Pierre began to count down. "Three, two, one-- début!"

The dagger was mostly meant to parry, but that would be kind of a dangerous thing for Marcy to try and do with one hand to Khari's two. Maybe she had other plans for it. In any case, she was going to get the best idea how the other woman fought by actually fighting with her. No point in wasting time. She lunged, swinging hard and fast for Marcy's midsection.

A shuffle of her feet and Marceline danced away from the swing. While the blade slipped passed her midsection, she was already taking steps forward while she tried slapping her rapier against Khari's hands-- in an effort to disrupt her timing than trying to do any damage considering their strength difference. The real damage would come from the dagger, as Marceline tried to close the distance quickly and put herself deep inside Khari's guard, the tinier blade making its way in an attempt to rest against Khari's neck.

A practice rapier wasn't going to do a lot to hands in plated gauntlets, but Khari noticed the hit, drawing back slightly. The distraction cost her, allowing Marcy to move in closer than she'd have let her otherwise. Khari'd had enough knives aimed for her throat to know what to look for, and while she couldn't block it, she turned her body slightly, rising onto the balls of her feet and leaning a bit aside.

The practice knife hit the gorget of her armor, just a few inches too low to actually threaten the exposed part of her neck, and Khari took the opportunity to shift her grip on her sword to one hand and grab for Marcy's arm. They were in grappling range now, and that was something she bet a fleet duelist didn't have to do often.

Khari felt an impact below the knee, Marceline's armored boot clashing against her shin plate. It did nothing more than provide another distraction however, but gave Marceline enough time to lean away from the grasping hand. She spun away and quickly put distance between them, coming to a stop and then resetting her stance.

"She is already doing better than you had, love," Marceline stated, though her eyes never left Khari. From somewhere to their side, Khari could hear MichÀel grunt and mutter something under his breath. Though she couldn't hear it, whatever it was made Pierre laugh. "Again, but this time pretend like you know what you are doing," Marceline taunted.

Khari scowled. The verbal hit glanced, as far as they went, but the near miss from before had already got her blood pumping, so to speak. She avoided sinking into the adrenaline or reaching for the anger that so often carried her through a fight. She wanted to understand everything that happened here, and she was honestly too tired to risk it at the moment. Not without a better reason than a spar.

Rolling her shoulders back, Khari bounced on her feet a few times, feeling the heaviness in her body from the day's practice, then doing her best to ignore it. Find whatever it was in her that let her forget that pain mattered, even if she couldn't quite forget that she was feeling it. When she lunged the second time, it was sudden. She hadn't braced herself or taken a deep breath or even shifted her weight. She just burst forward, like she'd seen Leon do from a dead stop, and swung low. Footwork was no help if your feet weren't under you.

Marceline wasn't caught off guard however, tilting her rapier down and driving the tip deep into the ground in between herself and Khari's blade. The sword stopped with a shudder, though the rapier's blade was thick and durable enough to take the hit with little give. As if to put a point on it, Marceline stepped on Khari's blade and taunted again. "Come now, you must do better," she said, ripping the rapier from the ground and replacing the distance between.

The fight continued in that manner, Marcy demonstrating grace, fluidity, and precision by evading or parrying every attack that Khari came at her with, usually punctuated with a taunt of some sort. Up until one moment Khari slipped up and exposed an opening. Marceline capitalized, thrusting her rapier forward and letting it rest against the crook between Khari's shoulder and neck. "Dead," she stated with a finality.

By that point, Khari's breath was coming hard and fast. She frowned when Marcy's blade touched the space between two of her armor plates. She might have debated whether taking a hit there would have killed her or not, but it was fair enough. She nodded, lowering her practice blade, and as soon as the rapier moved away, she doubled over, putting her hands on her knees and gulping in more air. Her arms and legs trembled slightly from exertion, but the dizziness would pass quickly if she regulated her breath and let it work its way out.

A minute later, she pushed away from her bend and stood upright again. She turned expectantly to Mick. This was the point where he usually told her how she'd fucked up and how to do better next time.

"If it makes you feel better, you fared better than I had when I first sparred with her," MichÀel stated, the pride clear in his voice. Though, it was difficult to tell if it was for her, or for Marceline. "She had me with that first maneuver with the dagger before Ser Lucas made us reset."

Marceline smiled at the memory. "I distinctly remember father laughing heavily all the while." Pierre had gone to his mother and graciously accepted both of her practice weapons, he then went to Khari to see if she wished to pass it off onto him as well.

MichÀel frowned and deigned not to respond to that, instead turning back to Khari. "Regardless, it taught me the same lesson I attempting to teach you now... Do you know what it was?" he asked, his hands resting on the pommel of his practice sword.

She had a pretty good idea, honestly. Hesitating before handing her weapon off to Pierre—it felt weird to have other people do that kind of thing for her—she sighed. “That I need to be more patient and fight smarter?" It wouldn't be a lesson about underestimating anyone, because Khari hadn't done that. So that left something about how Marcy fought that Mick thought she needed to work on. And she really doubted the takeaway was that she needed to mock people while she sparred with them, so...

"Correct, though taunting is optional," MichÀel answered, sparing Marceline a sidelong glance. She simply shrugged and crossed her arms.

"Understand that there will always be someone stronger and faster than you or I, but you can always be the more patient one. Conserve your strength while they waste theirs and allow them to make their mistakes so that you can exploit them." She glanced at MichÀel, "The taunting helps in expediting that, but yes. It is optional."

MichÀel chuckled, taking a small victory in her own admission. "Granted, I am not telling you to fight like Marcy. There is only one Khari and one Marcy-- and that one is mine. I simply want you to incorporate the knowledge into the tactics you are learning, understand?"

“Well, yeah. Not like I'm gonna go pick up a glorified fireplace poker and a knife now." She grinned to show she wasn't serious about the poker part, than shrugged. “But... I can try some of it, sure." She didn't really do the 'conserving energy' thing; Khari only got around some of her bigger challenges because she had so much to expend, but... she could think about how to do so in smarter ways, at least.

“Thanks for the fight, Marcy." She bowed again, just like at the start, and nodded to Mick. It seemed like practice was over today. Now was probably a nice time to soak in a tub somewhere to make sure she could move tomorrow.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Lady Marceline sat expectantly on the lip of her desk, nursing a half-empty glass of wine. Behind her Pierre sat in her chair, gently rocking it back and forth with his hands clasped behind his head. Her office had filled in nicely since they first arrived to Skyhold. The desk she sat upon was of strong oaken make, stained with a deep varnish with exquisitely carved siding. For what felt like the first time since it had arrived, the desk was bereft of loose papers-- though they did not hide far away in one of the desk drawers. Behind them in the corner she had situated her desk in front of, a pair of bookcases flanked both walls. Leather bound books and ledges filled the shelves.

The fireplace crackled with life, chasing away the lingering winter cold. Above the mantle, a large family portrait consisting of Marceline, Michaël, and Pierre hung, each wearing a warm smile-- though Michaël's was something more of a grin. A couch was situated in front of it, with a pair of sitting chairs positioned behind it. Beyond that in the corner across from them, an armor stand held Marceline's custom plate, with several of her weapons hung up behind it. Atop the landing beside them, a russet carpet led from the entrance to the door that opened to the hallway to the War Room.

They were both waiting for someone. Or someones, at that particular moment. She had asked for Romulus and Estella to meet her in her office so that she could brief them on the guests they were expecting later that day. He had specifically requested to meet the Inquisitors, and Marceline did not wish to sequester them away from every aristocrat that asked... At least, certainly not the ones that mattered. While she expectantly watched the door, she took another sip from her wine glass.

It didn't take too much longer before there was a knock; a couple of minutes before she'd asked for them, the Inquisitors had arrived. Estella stepped through the door first, outfitted as usual in russet-colored linen with cold and brown accents. She'd skipped the chainmail today, though she wore her sword at her belt and knife at her back as always. She offered Marceline a small smile, though it was slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps she had a guess as to what this was about.

Romulus had at least changed into a different outfit than the ones he trained in, wearing a clean, dark brown tunic over a tan undershirt, loose-fitting trousers, and low boots. Instead of a smile he offered a nod, and where Estella was uncomfortable he looked tense instead. As though he'd been called in expecting some kind of punishment or something. Indeed, he rarely set foot in Marceline's office except when it was requested or required of him.

Their expressions were not entirely a surprise, but she still sighed to herself when they entered, taking another sip from her wine glass. Once they slipped further into her office, she and Pierre finally stood up to greet them. "Romulus, Estella," she said, holding the wineglass out to the side for Pierre to take. The boy accepted the glass and set it down on a nearby table that held its empty partner and the bottle that it came from. "You two appear rather intimidated," Marceline noted, putting on her best comforting smile. "It will not be that bad, I promise."

“Oh, no, it's not..." Estella pursed her lips slightly, and then her expression cleared to neutrality. “What exactly are you wanting us to do?"

"Skyhold will be receiving visitors and they have personally requested to be introduced our Inquisitors," she said rather simply. "Our guests are the Marquis of Collines Verts, His Grace Mathis Ambroise, and his niece, Lady Félicité." She had written to the Marquis to inquire of the status of the Chevalier Jean-Robert Durand when Khari had suggest the Inquisition attempt to recruit him. Lady Marceline was not particularly enthusiastic with how the situation resolved itself, but it did put her back into contact with Mathis. It was perhaps their victory in Adamant that piqued his curiosity enough to request a more formal visit however.

Marceline pushed away from her desk and stood with her arms crossed as she regard the Inquisitors. "Collines Verts lies adjacent to my own holdings on the West Banks and His Grace is responsible for a sizable share of Orlais' grain production. There is a good chance that our own grain stores once originated from his holdings," she stated. She frowned as she looked toward the Inquisitors, worried that she may have intimidated them further rather than comforted them. "Do not worry, I am acquainted with Lord Mathis personally and I have never known him to be a man quick to judge or anger. I would ask that you two simply be yourselves," She asked, before frowning for a moment. "Though, I would urge you to maintain a proper respect for his position."

Romulus had indeed looked more and more troubled as Marceline spoke, a tightness developing in his jaw, which then tightened even further. "Am I... expected to say anything?" It was quite obvious that if he was, he was entirely in the dark as to what words in particular to use.

"I would prefer that you answer if you are spoken to, yes," she said sighing, "but if you do not wish to make small talk, then you do not have to."

“It's... not easy to feel comfortable around people of station," Estella said, though whether she was doing so as a means of trying to sympathize with Romulus or gently remind Marceline that this was not as obvious for everyone as it was for her was hard to say. “Especially when most of them make it very difficult to forget that they are." She still maintained a carefully-neutral expression, but her questions at least indicated a bit more understanding of the expectations in general.

“Is this to be an official meeting of some duration, or would you just like us to introduce ourselves and answer his questions for a while?"

"Only introductions are necessary for now, though they will be among us for a week," She looked between them before she tilted her head, figuring she should try and say something to soothe them. "Do not worry, Larissa and I will be the ones chiefly responsible for entertaining them, you will be able to go about your days as usual."

Marceline spent the time until a knock rapped at the door coaching them and attempting to get them more comfortable with the idea. She did not know if she was successful in her endeavor however, and turned her attention toward the door as Larissa entered. "Lady Marceline?" she said, stepping through and opening it wide to allow their guests in. "I present His Grace, Lord Mathis Ambroise of Collines Verts, and Lady Félicité."

The man that entered bore a gold mask embedded with onyx stones that covered the upper part of his face. He had strong cheekbones, had the mask's contour of them been correct--and to her knowledge it was. Stringy brown hair was swept back on his head, though errant strands made themselves home framing his face. Small brown eyes hid behind the mask and thin lips rounded out the man's face. He bore black clothing accented with gold embroidery and gold jewelry. Across his shoulders was a black cloak lined with white fur, which he was in the process of peeling off.

Following close behind him was a young woman, only a year older than Pierre if Marceline remembered correctly. While the young lady had the same high cheekbones as her uncle, her eyes were larger and held pale blue irises. She too wore a mask, though hers was a silver color, embedded with rubies instead of onyx. Her hair, also unlike her uncle's, was a pale blond, and the skin left bare by the mask suggested a pale skin tone.

Once Lord Mathis had removed his cloak, he held it out politely for Larissa to take, nodding his appreciation when she accepted it. "Comtesse Marceline, it has been far too long since we have spoken in person my lady," he said, slipping into a deep bow with the greeting, a gesture Lady Félicité copied. "And is this young Pierre?" he asked surprised, catching sight of her son. "My, he has grown since the last time I have seen him," he said.

Pierre replied with a appreciative smile and a bow of his own. "Your Grace," he greeted.

Marceline bowed as well, returning the warm smile Mathis had with one of his own. "My thanks Lord Mathis, it is pleasant to see you as well," she answered. "I can say the same about Lady Félicité, she is growing into such a lovely young woman."

The young lady blushed slightly in response but nodded her thanks anyway. "Yes, she looks more and more like her mother each day. My brother would have been so proud," he said, though Marceline caught a certain wistful tone to his words. As they crossed the room, Mathis paused for a moment as he looked closer at both Pierre and Marceline. "I see that you are without your masks. A shame, yours was especially lovely."

"Yes, as I now represent the Inquisition instead of Orlais, I felt it only right that I forwent them," She answered

"I see... Well, fair enough. I do not wish to put you at a disadvantage," he answered, glancing at Félicité before he began to remove his own mask with Lady Félicité not far behind. Once the masks were removed, he turned toward both Estella and Romulus. "Are these the Inquisitors then?" he asked, excitement leaping into his eyes.

“Your Grace; Lady FĂ©licitĂ©." Estella replied politely, holding herself tall and with about as much dignity as she ever managed. Her pronunciation, at least, was flawless, and she bowed slightly to both. “Milord is quite right; I'm Estella Avenarius. This is Romulus—we lead the Inquisition. With much help from Lady Marceline among others, of course." It was impossible to tell how real her smile was, but it looked like the genuine article, warm and kind, without being unctuous.

“Welcome to Skyhold."

"Your Grace. My Lady," Romulus added. He seemed to attempt a smile, but it didn't make it very far in the construction process.

"My thanks, Lady Inquisitor," he nodded in appreciation. "Your Keep has been nothing but welcoming since I arrived, I assure you." He then paused for a moment glancing between them and frowned. "I expected that you two were... Taller," he said, receiving a sharp elbow from his niece in retribution. "Oh, my apologies," he added at her urging, "but it is to be expected I suppose, my niece and I only had rumors to go on, and they are not the most reliable source of information."

Mathis paused, his eyes lingering on his niece for a moment before they shifted to Pierre. "Forgive me for asking Lady Marceline," he said, turning his attention back to her, "But might I impose that your son give my Félicité a tour of the castle ground? I am certain that they do not wish to listen to us drone on and trading pleasentries ad nauseam."

Marceline did not answer, but instead turned to Pierre so that he may. "Of course, your grace," he said, stepping forward and offering an arm for Lady Félicité to take. Once she accepted, they made their way to the exit while Larissa held the door for them.

When Larissa shut the door behind them, Marceline spoke again. "Lord Mathis, you must be exhausted from the traveling. If you wish, I can have Larissa take you to your lodgings. I apologize if the Keep's housing is not what you are used to."

Mathis simply brushed her off. "Do not worry, I am not that thin-skinned," he said with a laugh, "But yes, that does sound wonderful. I expect we will talk more later?" Mathis asked.

"Of course," she answered with a smile, and watched as Larissa led the Marquis away. Once he was beyond the door and out of earshot, she turned toward the Inquisitors. "See, it was not that bad, no? The Marquis is a pleasant man," she said, making her way to her wine table and retrieving her wineglass.

“You've known each other for a while, then?" Estella glanced to the door where they'd all departed, then back at Marceline. “At least since Pierre was a bit younger?"

"Yes, even further than that actually," Marceline answered as she returned to sit on the lip of her desk. She swirled the liquid in the glass as she watched, until she stopped and glanced up toward them. "Before I married Michaël, the Marquis tried his hand in courting me," she said, taking a sip from the glass.

“And Lady FĂ©licitĂ©? If her uncle's her guardian, then...?"

Marceline frowned sadly. "Her parents are no longer with us, correct," she said. She pursed her lips as she thought back to them. "They were wonderful people, the kindest people you ever would want to meet. I actually attended the college in Val Royeaux with her mother, a bright young woman--I am glad to see that Félicité inherited it."

She sat the wineglass down and crossed her arms, continuing her explanation. "In actuality, Collines Verts is Lady Félicité's by right, but due to her youth and inexperience the Marquis acts as her regent. Her father was the older brother to Lord Mathis." Marceline said. She leaned back, propping herself up with her arms behind her. "Had Mathis married me, we would have united our lands but..." she said, trailing off for a moment as she thought about her own husband. "He is certainly no Michaël," she smiled.

Estella hummed something that sounded vaguely like agreement or understanding, but if anything, her face looked troubled for a split second before smoothing out again. Perhaps that was simply due to the evident discomfort of Romulus. “It seems like a stable situation now, at least. If that's it for now Lady Marceline, we should leave you to your work, perhaps." It was clear enough that she was asking mostly on behalf of Romulus, but there wasn't anything unkind in it.

"Of course. If anything changes, I will be sure to let you know," she said, rising to stand. "Thank you both for your presence today," she added, bowing in gratitude.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

0.00 INK

#, as written by AugustArria
With spring came the rains, and a new operation for the Inquisition.

There was perhaps nowhere better to experience those rains than the lowlands of Ferelden. Specifically the Inquisition's small party approached the village of Crestwood, with Vesryn in the lead. A message had been delivered to him from an old... well, friend wasn't the right word really. Acquaintance, perhaps. Regardless, the letter informed him of a situation worth investigating near Crestwood, as well as an invitation to catch up. Like nothing had happened, Vesryn supposed. The writing sure sounded like him, and it smelled, too. Of trouble.

But he couldn't say no. The fact that the letter came at all meant that the bloody man wasn't going to stop until he could see Vesryn. He was persistent like that. But Vesryn could see the game here. He'd known Vesryn was in Skyhold with the Inquisition, somehow. Word of the shining plate armored elf spreading, or some such. Better to meet him by drawing them out of their walls than showing up at the gate unannounced.

And there was no better way to draw out the Inquisition than with a rift, something only they could deal with. The letter wasn't explicit, but it stated that something rift-related was plaguing the town, which meant the presence of an Inquisitor was needed. Stel had come along, with Cyrus in tow. He'd taken the letter to her first, and it wasn't long before the scouts had been dispatched, to get the lay of the land before the party of irregulars arrived. A full force of Inquisition soldiers wasn't expected to be a necessity.

For once, though, their lovely diplomatic ambassador was accompanying them into the field. Vesryn glanced to his right where Lady Marceline rode, checking to see how she was faring in the rain. It was cold and persistent, still carrying the death throes of winter's chill. Vesryn had once again donned the lion pelt around his shoulders, adding a bit of weight and warmth.

"You've picked a lovely location for your getaway from the office, Lady Marceline."

"It would not have been my first choice, Ser Vesryn. I certainly would have picked a better day for it as well," Lady Marceline answered, though her eyes remained on the path ahead. Despite the nobility that oozed off of her, she appeared to be taking the weather and terrain very well. She wore a thick black cloak over her shoulders, lined with dyed purple fur. Hanging loosely from her neck was a gleaming silverite mask-- akin to the one Khari wore in battle, though Marceline's was of an obvious finer make. The moments when the cloak parted, her custom set of armor revealed itself for a second before retreating back beneath its warm folds.

Lady Marceline had expressed a wish to contact the local merchants and bannorns to work out a deal to establish trade routes to Skyhold, in addition to the usual tasks they were to resolve in the area.

"Could be worse, though," Vesryn mused. "At least the rain isn't coming in sideways."

They rode on, following the path. Vesryn knew the area pretty well, having been over most of Ferelden quite extensively during his years prior to joining the Inquisition. This region was far from his favorite area of it; it had been hit pretty fiercely by the Blight, as he understood it, and those parts of the country were still recovering even a decade later. Still, they were a hardy people, and refused to give up the land they had lived and toiled on for so long over the threat of darkspawn, or now the demons they were assuredly facing, if they were having trouble with rifts.

They spotted Lia waiting for them up ahead, astride her own Fereldan mount. She looked a little soaked through, but in good enough spirits considering. She waved a greeting to them. "Camp's just this way, come on." Kicking in her heels, she urged her horse ahead and led them off the path a little ways, winding around a bend until they arrived at the well-situated scout's camp. As always she had picked an excellent location, out of the way from the road and difficult to spot, but with easy access to natural shelter and a good view of the surrounding land.

That view provided them line of sight to the lake in the distance below, and at that point their problem became immediately obvious. A familiar, unearthly green light emanated from deep within the waters, the only possible source being a rift, and quite a large one unless the water was somehow amplifying its light. Green-tinted fumes of some sort seemed to waft away from the surface, dissipating in the air.

"There was a flood here during the Blight," Lia explained. "So far this is the only rift to appear in the area, but... there are corpses wandering out of the lake with the demons. Honestly, Stel, I'm not sure how you're supposed to close this one. Maybe someone in the village will be able to help."

“Fancy a swim, Stellulam?" Cyrus appeared to be teasing his sister rather than offering any actual solution to the issue, from the mirth in his eyes and the half-smile he wore. The rain didn't seem to bother him much; if anything, he was enjoying it. Not that this stopped him from wearing his hood up over his head, of course.

Estella pulled a face at him, wrinkling her nose. “You first, dear brother," she said dryly. Her eyes lingered on the green light for a moment, brows knitting, but then her expression eased and she returned her attention to Lia. “It can't hurt to see if anyone there knows anything useful. Let's head that way."

"The three Dalish that contacted Vesryn are waiting for you on the road to Crestwood. I'll take you to them."

"Three?" Vesryn asked, frowning. Lia nodded.

"Yep. The two mentioned in the letter, and a third that was with them. Tall, strong woman. I didn't catch her name."

That made sense, if it was who Vesryn thought it was. Keeper wouldn't let the First go on an adventure alone if he could do anything about it. And letting his sister go with him hardly made him any safer, unless she'd drastically improved since the last time they were together. "You spoke with them, then?"

"A little. It was a bit awkward, once they figured out I wasn't really Dalish. But they seem alright to me." Not really Dalish. Vesryn almost snorted. That was rich, and not particularly surprising that he would make an issue of it. Probably best that Khari wasn't with them right now. "Oh. And you'll probably want to leave the horses here. The undead don't seem to agree with them. Don't want them bolting."

Vesryn was willing to bet his own would be able to ignore the moans of the walking corpses, but the point was valid enough, and they continued on foot. The smoke rising over the hills from the village was already visible, meaning that they didn't have far to go. As they neared, they began to pass the odd body in the wet grass or near the trodden dirt of the road. It reminded Vesryn of the Fallow Mire. Soaked, skin still clinging to bones, mutilated forms of human bodies that had dredged themselves up from the depths to bring death where they could. Unpleasant to say the least, but at least Crestwood's storm was not as brutal, nor the ground so muddy.

Vesryn spotted the three that were waiting for him on the roadside some distance ahead, and made sure he was at the front of the party for when they came within speaking distance. It was a sight he met with mixed emotions. All three of them evoked something different. But the sight of him brought a broad smile to the face of the handsome elf standing in the center of the two women. He approached Vesryn quickly, the arms of his robes outstretched wide, and wrapping around him before he even thought to react.

"Anetha ara, Ves! It's almost as though the day itself just got brighter."

Vesryn stood dumbly in the embrace for a moment before he cautiously returned it, patting the man's back lightly. "Zeth... good to see you."

Zeth broke the embrace, but still grasped Vesryn by the shoulders. "How long's it been? Seven years?"

"Just about." This was said by the much smaller of the two elven women. She didn't even reach Khari's height, and where the little bear was built and strong, she was petite, bordering on diminutive. The sight of her brought a genuine smile to Vesryn's face.

"Look how much you've grown, Skygirl. You'll be taller than me soon." She grinned, sticking her tongue out at him for a moment, but soon came forward for a hug of her own, one that Vesryn gladly met as Zeth stepped aside. "I missed you, Astraia." Her height had changed little, but she had grown into a woman. Beautiful where she'd been awkward before, exotic in that way some of the elves were. Her dark hair had grown long, and was decorated with an assortment of beads, metal bands, braids, feathers, and other things that turned it into a lovely mess.

Vesryn exchanged a nod of greeting with the last of the three. He had a feeling she wasn't interested in a hug, regardless of whether he would've given her one or not. He would've. But if the other two were here by choice, their protector was undoubtedly not, and it showed. She was a grumpy sort, but soft enough once one knew where to poke.

The little reunion done, Vesryn turned to his Inquisition companions. "Everyone, these are a few old friends of mine. Zethlasan and Astraia Carrith, and this one is Shaethra Movrin."

"Zeth will do fine," the mage leading them said, offering a short bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He and Astraia were making no attempts to conceal their status as mages, which Vesryn found unsurprising. But apostates for once were not the south's greatest concern, and he doubted they'd run into any trouble.

"The pleasure is ours," Lady Marceline answered, dipping into a polite bow of her own. When she rose she continued, with an introduction of her own. "And I am Comtesse Marceline BenoĂźt, the Inquisition's chief ambassador," she said with some amount of pomp. Regardless, she began to introduce the others as well, outstretching a hand to present them. "This is Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius, her brother, Lord Cyrus, and as I am sure you have already met, Ser Lia, our lead scout. We are but a small portion of the Inquisition."

“Please, Cyrus is quite adequate." The man himself did not often seem to insist on his title, actually, and it didn't seem he would do so here, either. “Andaran atish'an." The words were smooth off his tongue, bereft of any lingering accent. He didn't bow, exactly, but he did incline his head in a measured sort of way.

“And I'm just Estella." She did bow a little, wearing a warm smile despite the atrocious weather. “It's nice to meet you."

"A shame it couldn't be under less undead-riddled circumstances," Zeth said, smiling at each of them in turn as they greeted him. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Inquisition."

"And why might you be here, exactly?" Vesryn asked, keeping his tone friendly as best he could, trying to stay away from sounding suspicious. He supposed even if Zeth caught on to that, he wouldn't let it show. "Does Clan Thremael not still wander the Tirashan?"

"They do," he answered. "We are a long way from home, but we will return by the year's end. It took me forever to convince the Keeper to grant me this time away, and I intend to use it. For Astraia's sake as well. We've seen a great many things in the past months. It has been most educational." A vague answer, but Vesryn expected no less. It was a long time until the year's end. Plenty of time for Zethlasan to romp around Ferelden as he saw fit. So long as he was smart enough to stay out of trouble. Which, if he was seeking out the Inquisition on purpose, he wasn't.

Lia had drawn her bow, aiming an arrow away from the party and towards the lake. She loosed the arrow, watching it fly and strike a shambling corpse through the head some distance away. There didn't appear to be any more of them on the way, but the scout looked back to the rest of the party. "We should probably get moving, no?"

They were on their way in short order, now a party of eight, and unlike normally, Vesryn preferred to remain near the back of the group, to better keep a watch over everyone in front. It wasn't that he distrusted them all. Zeth, certainly, but Shaethra had always been perpetually dutiful, and not prone to deception of her own doing. And Astraia, well... he had not seen a thought of ill-intent from her in all of the time he'd known her. But perhaps that wasn't so long, in the greater scheme of things. And many years had passed.

The young elven mage gravitated towards Estella, attempting to subtly observe her for a few moments and utterly failing, before she finally worked up the courage to speak. "You're the Lady Inquisitor? I've heard about you." She allowed her excitement to show through a bit. "Good things, I promise. Can I... can I see it? The mark, I mean."

Estella looked predictably surprised by the question, but the expression left her easily enough. “Of course," she replied easily, working at the buckles on her light gauntlet until they came loose and sliding it off. It disappeared under her cloak somewhere, and she turned her bare right hand palm-up, extending it towards Astraia. “Um... I'd recommend not trying any magic or anything on it. I wouldn't mind, but it does tend to react a bit unpredictably when disturbed." Nevertheless, she seemed untroubled to let the younger woman make an examination of whatever level of scrutiny she wished, stepping slightly sideways so they were walking at a more comfortable distance for it.

"Of course. I—I wouldn't dream of using magic on it, or you. I'm... well." She left the thought unfinished, absorbed instead in her examination of Estella's palm. Hesitant with magic though she was, she had no qualms about reaching out to grab the Inquisitor's hand, albeit gently. She didn't touch the mark directly, instead sort of cupping under the knuckles with one hand, using her other thumb to turn Estella's hand just a bit towards her, where she leaned in slightly to look into the light. It reflected off her dark brown eyes, which went slightly wide as they lit up. "It's very pretty, I think. Not in the usual sense, but—"

"Astraia," came Zeth's voice from in front of them. He'd turned to walk backwards for a moment. "There's no need to bother the Inquisitor." Immediately Astraia let go of Estella's hand, looking between her and her brother, though the apology she offered was wordless, only written on her face.

Estella tried to head that off immediately. “You're not bothering me at all," she said, quite sincerely. “I assure you, whatever measure of examination or prodding you want to do, my dear brother has done quite a number of times over." Her eyes moved briefly to Cyrus, then back to Astraia. “He probably knows more about it than I do, honestly, if you have questions."

Cyrus himself snorted. “I don't prod, Stellulam, I study. You can hardly blame me for curiosity about an ancient magical phenomenon." He tilted his head at Astraia afterwards, though. “And I would hardly blame anyone else. If you do have questions, it's no trouble to talk about. Something ought to pass a slog through the rain, no?"

Zeth had turned back around by this point, and a small hint of a smile formed on Astraia's face. She reached to grab Estella's hand again, this time carefully tracing over the mark itself with her pointer finger. "It's true you can close the rifts with this? Mend tears in the Veil?"

Vesryn smiled to himself. He didn't expect she would be any trouble to them. Well, maybe a little if she started slinging spells around. She'd seemed nervous about it when Estella suggested against using magic on the mark, which Vesryn took as a sign of not much improvement in that regard. It wasn't surprising. He knew how the clan had felt about Astraia's grasp on magic before he'd left, and that sort of negative opinion had a way of affecting a person like her, and her motivation to improve. It was perhaps the one thing he regretted most about leaving them behind when he did.

Walking around the side of the group and up to the front, he positioned himself at Shaethra's side, matching her long, easy stride. She scowled out from under her hood, eyes always watching their sides, what lay ahead, occasionally checking behind them on Astraia. Ever watchful. Her hand never strayed far from the flanged mace that swung at her hip. She was trying to be inconspicuous about it, but it wasn't her strength, and likely a few of his own party had already noticed. Vesryn leaned in a bit closer to her as they walked.

"Enjoying the trip, Shae?" She spared him a sidelong glance, tinged with a bit of tired annoyance.

"The Keeper directs that I protect the First. That's all there is to it."

"She's quite good at her job, too," Zeth assured him. "I was never going to escape the clan without making that concession to the Keeper. But she doesn't complain at least. I think you're enjoying yourself, Shae. You're just very good at hiding it."

"You may think that, if you wish."

Zeth smiled to himself, shaking his head. He turned to look the other way, finding Marceline. "Does the Inquisition's chief ambassador often follow the Inquisitors to close rifts? This isn't likely to be a diplomatic mission." He glanced down at the bit of her armor he could see, and the hilt of her sword. "Though I imagine the poker isn't for show, is it?"

"I have been trained in its use, yes. You need not worry about me," Lady Marceline answered with a manufactured smile. She looked ahead and deigned a better answer to his first question. "Perhaps not now, but once the rift is closed and we are able to reestablish control in the area, there will be merchants and the bannorn to curry favor with. The Inquisition is always in need of goods, and if my presence will aid in the endeavor, then I am willing to wade through the muck and undead for the cause."

A twist to the corner of her lips and she tilted her head toward the elf. "However, when the negotiations are concluded, the price will reflect our effort."

Zeth returned the smirk. "How very shrewd. You're quite the intriguing woman, Lady Marceline. Perhaps I might be able to acquire a finder's fee for some of the benefits earned here? These Fereldans weren't the ones who contacted you, after all. Don't think they trust the Inquisition anymore than they trust the People." By his tone, he was only half-serious, but Vesryn didn't doubt he'd take some coin if the Inquisition was willing to grant it. He supposed he had a point. Without the Dalish, these people wouldn't have received any help at all, perhaps not until it was too late.

He glanced back to check on Astraia, almost simultaneously as Shae did the same. Her attention was still quite fully occupied with the Lady Inquisitor and her brother. "And the tear in the sky, the Breach? You were able to close something so large in the same way?"

He couldn't help but smile a little. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as bad as he'd thought.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
The trip to the local village passed without much incident, Marceline and the rest of the Inquisition personnel making small talk with Vesryn's associates. Lady Marceline didn't trust them, of course-- though that didn't have much to do with them personally. She knew nothing of these people, and it would have been next to impossible to dig up any information on them prior to their introductions. Past experiences with outside influences did not end particularly well between Anais, Borja, and Ser Durand, and Marceline would like to see this one did not end in the same manner. Of course, she was well aware that it could solely be paranoia setting in, but regardless it would do well to be cautious when amongst strangers. She would watch them, carefully, while they traveled with the Inquisition.

Eventually, they began to close in on the local village, though as in everything, it would seem to not be as simple as strolling through the gates. They could hear a ruckus over the next rise in the path, as if a fight had broken out recently. Lady Marceline spared glance between those she traveled with. "We should hurry," she stated, her hand going to the silverite mask resting on her neckline.

Cyrus, still absorbed in conversation with Estella and Astraia, glanced up at that. “There are demons here." His tone left no room for doubt, and his lip curled slightly. “Probably keeping our lovely shambling friends company." Stepping a bit away from the others, he held one of his arms slightly out to his side. With a low hum, and a sound not too unlike the crackle of static, a bluish light extended from his fingers. He shifted his grip, holding what sharpened into a swordlike shape, and stepped into whatever magic it was that moved him quickly over long distances, disappearing over the hill first.

He wasn't wrong—when Marceline crested the hill, it was to see multiple sickly grey-skinned creatures heading towards what passed for a gate in the town. Though it had been built in a strategic location, the walls of Crestwood village were low, not likely to hold back the assault for long. Alongside the undead were more exotic creatures, including quite a few demons of various sorts. Cyrus's momentum carried him past a shade; the humming sword in his hand severed its head at the neck, and he brought it around to parry a Rage demon's claws right after, his free hand throwing a bolt of lightning into the corpse furthest towards the gate. It rebounded and struck several more in the process, but there were plenty left.

Estella taking the field was nothing nearly so impressive as watching her twin do it, but the enchanted sword in her hand was bright even in the storm-dark surroundings, and she didn't hesitate, hopping into a sprint to join him before any of the creatures could breach the village's defenses. The first few corpses didn't even see her coming, and she cut three of them down from behind before a Despair demon turned to face her. It threw a sphere of ice, but she ducked and rolled under it, springing back to her feet and thrusting, finding its heart with precision. She spun them both around in time to avoid the clumsy swing of another undead's rusted blade, putting the demon between them as a shield, then casting it from the end of her saber and stepping forward again to engage the next foe.

Two arrows flew into the mix, taking down two more undead. They'd come from Lia and Shae, though the latter of the two was advancing as she loosed her arrows, soon replacing the bow and drawing her mace instead. She flowed away from the first corpse to swing at her, using the opening to smash her blunt weapon into the thing's pelvis, cracking it in several places and doubling over the undead out of necessity. Her next blow came down hard on the thing's skull, caving it in and removing the head entirely.

Vesryn waded into the front with the others in melee, making broad swings of his bardiche axe and felling a corpse or a lesser demon with each one. When he reached a rage demon, he braced to block an attack, only for the fiery creature to be frozen solid in front of him, the spell having come from Vesryn's associate Zethlasan. Vesryn glanced back only for a moment before he swung his axe through the demon, shattering it into pieces. From beside Zeth, Astraia had drawn her staff, a thin and light weapon with a small blade affixed to the top, but she only contributed small bursts of lightning magic channeled from it, aiming for corpses on the fringes of the fight with mediocre accuracy.

Lady Marceline was more measured in her approach, slowly stepping into the fray trying to keep the nearest combatants in sight. A battle was different from a duel, she had to split her focus among a number of foes instead of a single one. Still, they were undead and their shambling movements and stuttering swings were easy prey. The first walking corpse didn't even turn around before Marceline's rapier pierced its skull and scattered it into loose bones. She spun and caught the blade of the next with her main-gauche, and she thrust forward into its chest, its guard having been removed. The demons were more problematic, their movements weren't nearly as telegraphed. She sat her sights on a wisp and forced herself into a trot, weaving around shards of fade it threw at her. She sprung when she reached it, driving the rapier into the demon's chest.

Their little force was one to be reckoned with, and soon thereafter they had mopped up the last of them. The party began to gather once more and make their way toward the gate. Marceline was busy cleaning the ichor from the point of her rapier with a handkerchief by the time she stood in front of it, and she looked up to find the person who manned it. "If it would not be too much trouble, the Inquisition would ask an audience with whomever is in charge?" She asked, playing off the recent battle they just had. "I believe we have earned our entry."

An older man poked his head out from behind the wall, wearing an ill-fitting iron helm. He looked down at the grim display beyond his wooden wall, narrowing his eyes. "You folks are the Inquisition? Been begging the mayor to send for help for days. Thank'ee for coming. Boy! Open the gate, now!" With a shuffling of feet and a creaking of gears and wood, the gate of Crestwood village swung open, and the old man walked down to the opening to greet them. "Mayor's house is the big one, top of the hill. I'd offer ye hospitality, but I'm afraid we've not much to spare."

“Think nothing of it," Estella replied easily, pausing a moment to get as much of the blood off her sword as she could before sliding it back home in its sheath. She glanced at the rest of them for a moment, then apparently decided that she might as well lead the way up, when no one else immediately moved to do so.

The town itself had clearly seen better days. Most of the buildings were made of ill-looking wood with mud and grass roofs. More than a few of them sagged on their foundations. The town itself was built on a hill, with steep inclines intermittently leading from one tier up to the next. The houses tended to get a little better as they went, but arguably the people did not. A few exited their homes to see what all the fuss was about, setting eyes upon the Inquisition and its guests with weary expressions. Largely, it seemed, devoid of hope. The Inquisitor attempted to smile at a few she made eye contact with, but most simply averted their gazes if she seemed to notice them in particular, which quickly stopped her from trying again.

They reached the top of the hill, and the larger house upon it, without trouble. Estella turned to Marceline then, one hand still resting habitually over the hilt of her saber. “Would you like to be the one to speak with him, Lady Marceline?"

"Of course Lady Estella," Marceline agreed with a polite smile and a nod. Her mask hung at her neckline once more, though she did go ahead and pull back her hood to reveal moistened hair tied up into a neat bun. Now that she felt somewhat more presentable, she reached forward and knocked on the door before taking the door handle and letting herself in. Inside, the found a depressed looking man waiting to greet them, though not before Lady Marceline could beat him to it, "Monsieur Mayor, I presume?" She asked, "We are the Inquisition."

"I'd tell you to come in, but it seems I'm too late for that." The jab was only half-meant judging by his tired tone. He was an older man, at least in his late fifties, his hairline having receded at least halfway back his scalp. He rose from his chair upon seeing them enter, offering a hand for Marceline to shake if she saw fit. "Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood village, despite everything. Are you... here to stop the undead?"

She accepted the shake with a firm grip of her own. After Marceline smiled and nodded in the affirmative. "We are here to close the rift in the lake, which we believe will solve the undead issue, yes. However," she frowned. If it were that easy, then they would have made their way toward the rift but with it in the middle of the lake... "In order to do that, we first need to reach it. We wish to ask if you have any information that may help us in that regard."

"You need to reach the light in the lake?" The mayor seemed to think that was a rather incredulous idea. "It has to be coming from the caves below Old Crestwood. Darkspawn flooded it ten years ago during the Blight. Wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in. You can't deal with from afar? With magic or... something?"

"Doesn't work like that," Zethlasan said, having made his own way into the mayor's house. The other two Dalish were staying outside, but Zeth did not seem as concerned.

"I saw a dam on the way here," Lia offered. "Is there any way we can use it? Drain the lake, get closer to the rift?"

"Drain the... no. No, there must be some other way."

"Mayor, please," Marceline urged, her visage hardening. "We need to close the rift, but we cannot if it is submerged."

He grimaced, nervously wringing his hands, perhaps to alleviate some hidden pain. "You'd have to evict the bandits at the old fort to the southeast to use the dam. I can't ask you to risk your lives on our behalf. We have nothing to give."

"A fort?" Marceline asked. If they take the fort, then it could prove useful in establishing a presence in Crestwood and to keep the roads safe for trade and travel. If they were to save the area from the demons, she doubted that they would hear much protest against having an Inquisition influence nearby... "Regardless, your village and the surrounding area cannot stand up to any more assaults from the undead or demons," Marceline explained, crossing her arms as she went. "Your people are nearing their breaking point. They need what aid we can provide--do not deny them that."

"If you are set on this then... then I have no choice. Here," he handed a key to Marceline. "This key unlocks the gate to the dam controls in the fort. The rifts must be in the caves under Old Crestwood, but..." He looked to all present in the room, eyes conveying grim warning. "I would not linger there."

Marceline accepted the key gracefully, and then passed it along to Estella beside her. "Thank you, Mayor," she said with an incline to her head. "We will only stay as long as necessary, which, I hope is not long at all." She could think of better things to do with her time than to linger in damp caverns. "I believe it is time we took our leave," she added, looking at the rest of her party.

Outside, Astraia and Shaethra awaited them. The young mage leaned on her staff, curiously peering inside, but she backed away as soon as the rest were taking their leave, heading up and out of the village proper. "What did he say?" she asked. "Can we help somehow?"

“We can drain the lake by using the dam controls. Unsurprisingly, they are in a fort currently controlled by bandits." Cyrus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Apparently, Old Crestwood was flooded by darkspawn during the Blight. Conveniently, this killed off the refugee population in its entirety, and few others." His tone made clear how dubious he found that claim. “But we can get to the rift, in any case."

“Cy." Estella sighed softly. “We don't know that it didn't happen that way. It sounds a little... far-fetched, but there are definitely intelligent darkspawn that would be capable of something like that. Emissaries, and so on." She seemed to be trying to give the story the benefit of the doubt, but struggling with it. The key Marceline had given her had long since disappeared, presumably into a pocket or, if she was like her teacher in this respect, perhaps up her sleeve.

"Operating a dam would seem to require fine skills that I was unaware Darkspawn possessed," Marceline noted, her tone more in line with Cyrus's than Estella's. The protests the Mayor raised when Lia suggested they drain the dam were also suspicious, considering the state his people were in. However, it was not the best of times to ponder on it. "Regardless, we have a task at hand and we should see to it, agreed?"

It was determined quickly enough that they needed to scout the approach and find out what they were facing. Lia was sent ahead while the others found a decent spot to dig in and wait. About an hour passed, the group getting through the time by making small talk. Vesryn never seemed to bring up anything of note with Zethlasan or the other two elves, and vice versa. Quite possibly due to the company with them.

When Lia returned, she gratefully stepped under the protection of the rocky overhang that sheltered the others from the rain. "They're no Venatori, but we shouldn't take this lightly," she explained, once they had all gathered. "There doesn't seem to be a viable back entrance. None that we can all climb, anyway, and I don't think we should split up. We'll have to do this the hard way, and go through the gate. It's reinforced, but still mostly wooden."

"Astraia can handle that," Zeth pitched in, smiling pleasantly at his younger sister.

Her eyes widened. "I can?"

"It's not a small target, sis. I want to show our Inquisition friends here what you can do."

She looked between him and mostly Estella, though she glanced once at Cyrus and once at Vesryn, too. "I can get the gate open, I guess."

“I believe I might be of some assistance." Cyrus, lifting some kind of leaf out of a belt-pouch, chewed it for a moment before elaborating. “A large amount of smoke or fog should prevent them from seeing her do so before it's already done." He lifted his shoulders. “It would also help us get in without being shot down, I suspect."

“Fog's probably best," Estella added. “Less suspicious in this weather, anyway." She did pause a moment, though, and met eyes with Astraia. “If you'd rather not destroy the gate, we can find another way to do it. It's up to you."

"No, I want to," she said, her mind clearly made up now. "I... don't get to let loose very much. Really use my magic. And I'd rather use it on a gate than on other people. You guys can take care of the rest."

"We'll keep you covered," Vesryn assured her, smiling confidently. "Once the gate's down, we move in together, watch each other's backs. Don't lose track of the archers."

"I find myself looking forward to this," Zethlasan said. "Don't you, Shae?" The elven woman answered only with the flat line of her lips, her arms remaining crossed. "Well, I'm excited. Let's get to it."

“Very well. One deep fog, coming right up." Cyrus nodded briefly and stepped out from beneath the overhang, back out into the rain.

For several moments, it didn't look like he was doing anything in particular. There were no bright lights, or telltale flashes of magic, or anything like that. But after a while, something began to change in the direction of the lake itself. It was hard to discern exactly what at first, but as it drew closer, Marceline could easily tell that it was, in fact, a massive wall of thick, cloudy fog, dark grey in color. Cyrus oriented himself in the direction of the fortress, and the bank of mist and condensation went that way, too, washing over the rest of them on the way. For a moment, she could see only as far in front of her as she could reach, but then it receded on its way, cloaking the fortress instead.

Cyrus turned back and gestured that it was time for the rest of them to move. “Should last a while. We'll all want to stay somewhat close once inside, of course. Wouldn't do to be just as blind as they are."

"You're up, Skygirl," Vesryn said just before he donned his helmet, his visage vanishing behind the steel. Astraia took a deep breath, taking her staff in both hands and moved to the front of the group. Vesryn made sure to stand close beside her. He didn't have his shield, but it seemed obvious that if any arrows started coming their way, he would put his plate armor in front of Astraia without a moment's hesitation.

The elf mage had yet to cast a real spell in front of them, but as soon as she did it was perhaps apparent why. Primal magic began to glow and pulse energetically around her staff, with an obviously dangerous strength behind it. Her eyes stayed down on the spell she was forming, slowly circling the end of her staff in front of her. She formed thick and heavy rocks from the Fade, conjuring up a dense stonefist that quickly swelled and built upon itself until it was quite massive in size, at least as large as the head of a battering ram. The front end of it she molded into a dull point.

Her face locked in concentration, she glanced up to look for the gate, which was just barely visible as an outline in the fog. Letting out a grunt of effort, she stepped forward and thrust her staff, hurling the massive stonefist at an impressive speed. It didn't fly completely straight, angling a bit off to the right, but the velocity behind it made that irrelevant. It smashed into the gate and created a small explosion of wood and stone fragments as the doorway was blasted open. Whatever was barring it had been completely destroyed.

Astraia's eyes lit up, a little breathy laugh escaping her. Vesryn was quick to put a hand on her shoulder. "Nicely done. Now stay close to Shae, got it?" She blinked and nodded her understanding, backing off a few steps. Vesryn glanced back at the others. "Quickly, let's go."

The twins were both quick to react, moving forward together. “We'll head left." Estella drew both blades this time, disappearing into the fog just a half-step behind Cyrus. It stirred for a moment after, before settling back into place as though nothing had disturbed it to begin with.

Like last time, Lady Marceline was slower in her approach, though this time she planned to at least match her pace with Vesryn's. Between them, she knew that Cyrus was able to create shields, and Vesryn was outfitted in a heavy enough armor to block glancing arrows. Considering that Cyrus had already bolted ahead with his sister, she sidled up beside the elf. "How about you take the lead, Ser Vesryn?" she asked, her weapons at the ready.

"Gladly," he answered, already making his way forward. Their cohort of elves followed closely behind. Lia already had an arrow drawn back, searching for a target through the fog. She was clearly being careful with her aim, and squinting to make sure she could clearly see who she'd be shooting at. Shae also had her bow drawn and ready, sticking to the rear of the group with Astraia, who gripped her staff tightly in both hands.

They found a body at the mouth of the gate, his chest rent open with the signature manner of wound left behind by Cyrus's fade-blade. The first to investigate the destroyed gate, perhaps. Through the fog they could be seen engaging more of the bandits on the left flank. More came from the right, brandishing varying weapons in several states of armor. Some had clearly been taken by surprise, and were not properly outfitted for the fight.

The first dropped to Lia's arrow and fell in a heap onto the initial stairs. The second, an archer, turned his bow on the new attackers, but Shae's arrow found his head just in time. The bandit's arrow was loosed high into the sky as he collapsed backwards. Stepping forward, Vesryn met the first to make it into melee range, a woman with a pair of short swords that he drove back, easily taking glancing hits off his armor, which she was too imprecise to pierce through. He checked her into a wall, drawing his axe back.

Astraia looked away before the hit fell, to where her brother launched a heavy frost spell at a set of double doors leading into the fort's main building. There were heavy bangs from the other side of it, as reinforcements inside tried to join their fellow bandits. The mage forcefully turned aside a spear stab from a man that made it close enough to him. Zeth punched the blade on the bottom end of his staff into the man's unarmored midsection. A fireball erupted out the other side of him a moment later, blowing a hole in his torso a foot wide. The elf shoved him over with disdain, and looked for the next.

The door he'd sealed finally broke, and the leader of the bandits emerged: an impressively large man in what looked to be a set of old but functional knight's plate. He was steel from head to toe, carrying a huge war maul, and the very sight of him compelled the remaining bandits to fight harder.

Marceline spared a glance for their leader and promptly decided that she would allow the others to handle him. Not that she was afraid, of course, but she did not wish to face off with that rather larger maul of his unless she was given no other choice. His underlings however, were another matter. She dropped in behind Vesryn and posited on his other side, driving her rapier through the throat of a bandit who tried to flank him. Even in death he never knew she had struck. "Think it would be too much to ask if they surrendered?" Marceline asked in jest, ripping a longsword free with her main-gauche and piercing its wielder's chest.

It wasn't long before someone stepped in to engage the towering leader of the bandits. Cyrus was not unimpressive, physically, but he was certainly no titan, and stood a full head shorter than his foe. Of course, such comparisons had little meaning when magic was involved. He struck first with a heavy chain lightning spell, one that hit the bandit almost hard enough to knock him on his rear end—though he managed to stagger back in just enough time to keep his feet. The spell bounced several times, clearing out many of the others still close enough to him with a series of hissing crackles and snaps.

Turning to face the new threat, the armored warrior swung his maul up and over his shoulder with a surprising amount of speed, no doubt aiming to crush the spell-slinger in one stroke. Cyrus sidestepped, feet solid and sure, and a second blade flickered to life in his off-hand. When the bandit stepped in and grabbed for him, he strafed backwards at an angle, motions fluid and smooth. No doubt they would have to be—one hit with a weapon that mighty would surely end him, and probably crack through whatever magical shield he erected to protect himself.

He seemed to be almost intentionally allowing the game of cat-and-mouse to continue, though, choosing his direction in a way that Marceline, trained to dueling, could recognize as deliberate despite the seeming necessity of it. When a horizontal strike came in at the level of his shoulders, he took what must have been the opportunity he'd been waiting for.

Raising his left-hand blade to parry, he angled the hammer's strike off in an upward direction, jarring his own arm heavily in the process, no doubt. But it left him free to step in and cut with his right, the fade-generated sword finding the much-less-protected elbow joint of the platemail and biting deep.

The reason he'd chosen to move the fight in the direction he had became obvious a moment later. Inaudible over the sounds of the battle, Estella emerged from the fog, now behind the bandit, and slashed quickly for his legs. Like the inside of his elbows, the backs of his knees could not be protected as well as the rest of him, and at least one of the hits was deep enough to collapse him on that side, taking him to a knee. He lunged for Cyrus in front of him, apparently intent on fighting to the last.

But the incandescent blades in Cyrus's hands were faster, and found one last vulnerability in the full plate: the slight gap between helmet and gorget. A scissoring motion with both hands parted the bandit's head from his body, and he fell forward with a heavy thud.

With their leader dead, the rest of the bandits followed soon after. Now that the fort was clear, they found and unlocked the gate with the key the mayor had given them. It led back outside, though on the other side of the fort. They followed the path a ways, which lead them to a stone bridge with what seemed like a tavern at the far end, though fortunately, there were no bandits around. The locked gate probably kept them from spreading that way. Likewise, the inside of the tavern was empty, and in one of the backrooms they found the dam controls, a wheel with four spokes. Lady Marceline allowed some of the others to volunteer to turn the wheel.

The sounds of water rushing came from far away, indicating that they had succeeded in their task. Marceline then turned toward the others, "While we wait for the lake to empty, we should try to get word to Inquisition and inform them that we have taken a new fort."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
After a little bit of time to get the message sent and Lia settled in at the fort to await a reply, the rest of them were once again on their way out, this time to the drained lakebed that contained Old Crestwood. Even from this far out, Cyrus could feel the restlessness in the place, a disturbance that had little to do with the brand new rift and more, he suspected, to do with old ghosts. It was a subtle chill that sat beneath his skin, almost next to his bones, in the same place that lightning crackled and his natural connection to the fade flowed in time with his heartbeat. The ground was quite damp underfoot, almost slick in places, but his balance tended to correct itself on instinct more than by conscious thought on his part.

It was odd, the things he could notice when he devoted more of his attention to passively observing.

Vesryn, too, he suspected was ill-at-ease, but not likely for the same reason. While Stellulam and Lady Marceline led the way, their resident champion, usually inclined to do much the same, kept himself at the rear of the party, which was rather peculiar. With as much subtlety as he possessed, Cyrus let himself gradually drop back so that he was walking just about evenly, glancing aside at Vesryn.

“Not the most comfortable of reunions, I noticed." He spoke quietly, and left out the word games. He might not take things too seriously as a rule, but he was learning that this wasn't always the best approach with others, and it seemed inappropriate here, somehow. “Is there something lurking here I should be concerned about?" Personal awkwardness was one thing—unfortunate, perhaps, but tolerable. Wariness of a more general kind, however, was something to pay attention to. He should probably know which he was dealing with.

Vesryn observed their murky surroundings with a sort of grim neutrality, though his eyes often went back down to the party in front of them, and the elves they had welcomed as temporary companions. "All three of them know," he admitted, just as quietly. He didn't have to clarify what exactly they knew, as there was really only one secret Vesryn had in his repertoire, and it was a rather big one. "Their clan was the first, and only, group that I revealed myself to. Before encountering the Inquisition." If Astraia had spoken truly, that had been almost seven years ago, and he hadn't seen them since then.

"I'm actually quite proud of Astraia for not letting it slip yet." Vesryn smiled a bit at that, watching the young elf walking with the others, gravitating towards the Lady Inquisitor as she seemed tempted to do. She'd taken a liking to Stellulam, that much was clear. "And I suspect Zeth would have asked me about it, had you not been the one to fall back just now. None of them know that you all know."

Cyrus considered that for a moment, letting his eyes drift over the approaching landscape. Already, he could see the skeletal outlines of rotted buildings, the wood long eaten away by water and the tiny forms of life that grew within it. “I see." He wasn't sure why that alone would be any cause for discomfort, unless they hadn't taken it well—which didn't seem to be the issue here—or perhaps... “Do you think they would disapprove, knowing you had told us also?" It didn't really seem like anyone else's business to be disapproving or not, but then that rarely ever stopped such things.

That put a bit of a strain on Vesryn's expression. "We had differences in opinion, on what Saraya's existence meant for the People, and what, if anything, I was compelled to do about it. It was mostly between Zeth and I. I felt I had no choice but to leave, for their own good as well as mine." There was undoubtedly more to that story, but Vesryn did not seem inclined to share it, especially in the rather strained social situation they found themselves in, trailing just out of earshot of the people they were speaking of.

"Astraia has a gentle heart, and she's reasonable. She would understand. Shae would disapprove, but Shae disapproves of almost everything as far as I can tell. As for Zeth..." He scowled, then glanced at Cyrus. "If you aren't already, keep a close eye on him. He's not to be trusted."

“As you say, then." Cyrus saw no reason to pry further than that. While he might have preferred to understand more of the reasoning behind something that might well have an impact on the group's safety, he knew enough.

He hissed softly under his breath when they passed into the lakebed proper. Everything present was still waterlogged, of course; most of the weaker structural elements like doors and roofs were entirely absent from the house-frames, allowing the travelers a barely-obstructed view of the bog bodies strewn within. He almost wished he weren't paying much attention to his surroundings when he passed close enough to one to notice that the fingernails were gone. Trapped inside a building, perhaps, and unable to free herself and rise to the surface.

He didn't need to imagine what their suffering had been like. The proximity of the spirits here filled in the details every time he closed his eyes, whispering to him of their fates, letting images of rushing water and the feeling of sick, weakened bodies unable to keep their heads above it sink deep into his mind, like memories. One of his hands clenched as he felt the tiny fingers of someone he loved slip from it, lost to the water. His breath stuttered when his lungs filled with water, the world slowly darkening around him until the inevitability of his own death settled in. By then he was hardly conscious anyway, and it was almost... peaceful.

With a hard wrench, Cyrus snapped himself out of it, his body jerking involuntarily when he forced his eyes open. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs and the recollections that were not his own. It was the rift in addition to the spirits, surely—the Fade was so close here he was practically halfway there even awake. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground after that, letting the rest of them lead him through the village.

"Hold a moment," Marceline called from the head of the group. She had paused and looked toward one of the dilapidated houses, though this one stood at the top of a set of carved stone stairs. Despite the wear and rot it had experienced beneath the water, Cyrus could still make out a plaque that read Mayor Dedrick. She then turned back toward the party, at least for a moment. "Shall we investigate then?" she asked, though apparently it was more of a indication of her intentions than a suggestion, as the woman was already climbing the stairs toward the house.

Cyrus, glad of a distraction, followed her up with the rest. “Interesting that all of the furniture somehow made it out alive." His comment was dry, but there were few other plausible explanations for why the home was so empty. It wasn't like it was any less impressive than the mayor's current residence otherwise, damp notwithstanding.

Stellulam was on the other side of the room, close to the back, looking dubiously at what seemed to be a chest or strongbox of some kind. “It was left here anyway, right?" she murmured to herself, apparently debating the ethics of opening it. “Might be something important about what happened here..."

With a sigh, she crouched in front of the object, reaching up to her hair and extracting what looked to actually be a specialized lockpick of some kind. Its companion emerged from her sleeve, and with a few moments' work, a muted click issued into the room, and she opened it carefully, sorting through a few miscellaneous and irrelevant items inside before she found something. A parchment envelope, damp but mostly intact, it seemed. Carefully, she opened it, extracting the paper inside and unfolding it delicately.

“Oh dear," she murmured softly, then read aloud. “The work you ordered is done. Do what you want. I'll be in the hills trying to forget it. Robert." She grimaced, rising back into a stand and carefully replacing the letter in the envelope.

"Shocking indeed," Zethlasan said, the words laced with sarcasm. "The shem mayor offing his own people once they prove inconvenient. Seth'lin, cowardice." He shook his head. Shae just scowled from the doorway. She looked eager to be done with this place.

"He... he had this town flooded?" Astraia asked, looking quite horrified. "That man we just spoke with in the village? How could he do that?"

"Fear makes all of us weaker, Skygirl," Vesryn said gently. "If we allow it to take hold. The Blight creates fear like nothing else." He put his hand on her shoulder, though she still left her mouth ajar, trying to comprehend.

Zeth slapped an open palm lightly into the sturdy wood of his staff. "Ves has the right of that, no doubt. We should get moving. I saw the door into the caves, it's not far."

"Agreed, although I do intend to have a word with the mayor when we return," Marceline stated, her lips turned downward into a deep frown.

Cyrus nodded slightly, assuming the lead this time. There weren't many places they hadn't already passed, and so he took the group up and over the steep incline behind the mayor's old house. The cave entrance was closed over by wooden planks with a door in them, sturdy enough to have survived even this long. The lock still seemed to be operational, but a concentrated fire spell fixed that easily enough, slicing right through the rusty iron. He shouldered it open and entered the cave system.

The need for light was immediately obvious, so he provided it, several small motes of magic rising from his fingertips to float above their heads. He changed the color so that the illumination was a soft blue-white, enough to see by nut not so much that it would blind them to anything incoming. “I can feel it. Below us." What he did not tell them was that there were even more death-memories here, more powerful the closer they got to the rift. He elected to drop back near the middle of the group. There was a chance he might not catch something headed towards them, half-distracted as he was, so he let someone else take point for now.

A soft touch at his arm alerted him to the fact that Stellulam was beside him. “Are you all right?" she asked, moving her hand up to his shoulder and squeezing softly. “Is it the spirits?" She knew considerably more about his peculiarities than most did, so it probably wasn't a terribly-difficult guess.

He nodded, pulling in a deep breath more to remind himself that he indeed could than anything. “I'll be better when the rift is closed." He offered her half a smile, then turned his eyes forward.

The cave system proved to be more expansive than he'd initially suspected, punctuated everywhere with stalactites and stalagmites, from ones as thin as his little finger to ones thicker around than he was. The stone, as far as he could tell under the magelight, was striated in varying shades of beige and grey. Old torch-frames lined the walls, too old and wet to be worth using when magic would serve just as well. The cave itself was dark as a tomb—fitting, since it had become one with the flood. Their narrow pathway opened up into a much larger chamber, where a wooden walkway seemed to be the only path further down.

“Mind that; I'm not sure how sound it'll be after about a decade underwater." The drop did not look like a survivable one, either.

"Well, if it can hold me I suspect it can hold the rest of us." Vesryn tested the wood under his boot, and it held. "Might want to keep our spacing, all the same."

Down they went, in a quiet song of breaths, creaking wood, and shifting armor and leathers. The air had a chill down here, this place that had not seen any light for so long. As they went further down, the only light that reached them was a pale green one, an unnatural but familiar hue. Once they were back on solid ground of cave rock they drew their weapons, readying themselves for a fight against the demons that would undoubtedly be lingering near the rift.

By the looks of it, they were encroaching on some old dwarven ruins. Bits of their signature underground architecture began to poke through the rock. It had a very geometric, squared style to it, carved from the stone that they paid so much respect to. No doubt these ruins, and perhaps some mines they may have led to, were a subject of great interest to the villagers of Crestwood, before the Blight removed all thought of anything but survival from their minds.

The rift was just inside the dwarven ruins, in a large and open chamber that appeared to be some kind of courtyard leading into the larger town or whatever it was the dwarves had built here. It sat in a shallow pool of about a foot of water in the center of the space, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. One of the larger rifts they'd faced. Worse, a heavy thumping sound reached their ears from the back of the chamber, just as a pride demon emerged from the shadows. Whips of magical electricity uncoiled and brightened from either hand, and it gurgled a low laugh upon seeing them. Wraiths surrounded it, and an array of other demons set their gazes upon those that sought to close the Veil's tear.

"Use the space as best you can," Vesryn advised. "Take the weaker ones first, then we'll deal with the pride demon."

In the interest of being able to do that before the Pride demon started taking free hits at them, Cyrus cloaked himself in the fade and set his end point, launching himself over the intervening space with the ease of long practice. The blade formed in his hand as he went, and his momentum let him cleave cleanly through the molten rage demon he hit first. No need to worry about warping the metal of a sword when it wasn't made of metal at all. Bringing it around, he thrust, pushing it through a wraith and dispersing the creature.

The second sword was always harder to form—holding two at once was not something he'd mastered yet. But he summoned it anyway, fending off an icy projectile hurled from another part of the room by a floating, shrieking demon of despair.

Vesryn moved quickly to shore up Cyrus's right flank, engaging a pair of shades that glided across the wet surface of the dwarven carved stone. He made broad strokes of his axe, first just to get them back and respecting him, and then to cut them down. He cleaved through a wraith in one swing as well, but the rift spewed out more in its place, not easily being beaten back.

Zethlasan cast a strong spell of winter's grasp on the pride demon, though he couldn't quite encase the entire creature in ice. It did cover it from head to toe in a sheen of white, almost like a layering of frost, and the demon growled its disapproval. The damage was uncertain, but it had at least been slowed somewhat in its movements and attacks. Shae loosed arrow after arrow to the right of the group, hitting any target that Vesryn was not currently engaging, with steady accuracy, always striking near the center mass of the demons. Her shots were not intended to achieve the most possible damage, but to hit with perfect regularity. No arrow went to waste.

Astraia meanwhile seemed more determined to assist against the demons than she had with the bandits, and stepped forward beside her brother. She launched orb after orb of electrical energy from her staff, directing them to the left side of the courtyard, where she was able to keep several wraiths mostly pinned down, picking off one or two.

Estella and Lady Marceline took the opposite side, working their way towards the cluster of demons on the left. They'd reached the first wave of them when the drifting despair demon moved closer, intent on finding an easier target than Cyrus had proved to be. Gathering a large sphere of magic in front of itself, billowing with rapidly-sinking cold fog, it shot a beam of the stuff straight for Stellulam's blind side.

To her credit, she must have felt it coming to some extent, and managed to get mostly out of the way. But the beam struck her foot, quickly fusing it to the stone beneath her with a thick layer of ice, and the spell was continuous. She fought to free herself, fire sparking to life in one hand, but it only disrupted the beam with a hissing pop for a moment when she released it. Not nearly long enough to break out of the coating of ice slowly making its way up her leg.

Marceline halted her progress and stepped back to stay with Estella. A wraith was floating toward them, apparently trying to capitalize on her sudden lack of movement. However, the sharp end of a rapier stopped in midair, Marceline having dipped beside and around her to pierce it. She let the blade sink all the way to the hilt before she struck with her offhand, driving the shorter main-gauche into the approximation of its head. With the immediate threat dealt with, Marceline turned toward Estella and began to carefully chip at the ice quickly encasing her leg with her rapier.

Astraia was the first to notice their predicament, and apparently decided that she needed to do something about it. Especially once several more wraiths clustered around the despair demon, and a terror demon lurked in the distance behind them. Gritting her teeth, she wreathed her staff in arcs of electricity, the magic crackling loudly even before she set it off. She lifted her staff up and slammed the end of it down in front of her, and a blast of lightning erupted from underneath the despair demon. The spell was powerful enough to completely interrupt the despair demon, even going so far as to send it back down to the ground on its backside.

The lightning then bounced around between a few of the wraiths, inflicting significant damage on those it touched, before linked closer to the rest of the fight, shocking off a shade heading for Cyrus. Astraia's eyes went wide, and she seemed to be able to predict what her spell would do next. It jumped straight onto Estella first, shocking her before it jumped to Lady Marceline. It fizzled out after that.

A moment later, the terror demon screamed from the back of the room, disappearing into a portal it created. A light then appeared underneath Estella and Marceline, and the demon leaped up out of it, throwing both of them onto their backs, Stellulam in the midst of the shards of ice from her leg that had shattered under the force. "No!" Astraia despaired, horrified. She took several steps forward, right into the range of the demon, and launched a powerful spirit bolt from her staff into its chest, at a range where she couldn't miss. It interrupted any of the terror's screaming magic it might've intended to follow with, but the demon slashed down at the little elven mage instead.

She got her staff in the way, but the force of the swing knocked her back with a quiet ungh, throwing her to the ground. Almost immediately after she'd fallen Shaethra was sprinting past her at the demon. A heavy blow to the terror's leg took it down in height, and the Dalish elf began swinging smack after smack with her mace to the demon's head, until there was little head left to speak of. Rather than check on either of the Inquisition personnel, she returned straight to Astraia once she was done.

“Stellulam." He couldn't see through all the chaos exactly what had happened after she fell, which made it all the more necessary to get over there himself. He also felt a flare of concern for Marceline, but she'd taken the weaker hit, considering that the bolt that hit her had already bounced off his sister.

He was nearly committed to his fade-step when one of the pride demon's lightning whips got in the way, hitting the stone right under his feet. Cyrus was forced to pull up hard on the spell, canceling it before it could complete. It sent shockwaves up his legs, but he ignored them in favor of focusing on the demon. It chuckled, low and gravelly, when Cyrus circled it, turning to match him. Completely unable to conceptualize its own defeat. To believe that there was anything here that could lay it low. Perhaps he could have sympathized. Once.

Right now all he cared about was getting through it, and keeping a worried eye on the aftermath of Astraia's little mishap.

The hiss that came from Marceline sounded rather annoyed, as if anyone would be thrilled with the series of events that befell both Estella and her. She did not linger on the ground for a moment, swinging her body around to stand upright on her feet. She had dropped her weapons either when the lightning chained into Estella and her, or when the terror demon knocked them off their feet, it was unclear which. As she went to retrieve them however, she was cut off by a shade that had managed to avoid the brunt of the lightning. It caused Marceline to retreat backward and away from her weapons. Still, she proved to be a resourceful woman, as her hand went to the thick black cloak that hugged her shoulders, ripping it away from the tearaway clasp at her neck. She rolled it a few times in her offhand and waited for the shade to attack.

She needn't wait long, as the shade lunged at her with its claws. She sidestepped it, using the cloak to catch one of its claws. She then pulled, dragging the shade behind her and propelling her forward toward her weapons. She ran over to her rapier and spun, impaling the shade that had been chasing close behind. She impaled it through the body and threw up her cloaked hand to fend off its teeth. She pulled the blade free and thrust twice more before the thing disappeared into a gray cloud.

With that, Marceline looked toward Estella, and pointed her rapier at the despair demon. "Let's go," she stated plainly.

Stellulam looked a bit worse for the wear, but she'd at least stopped shaking as the aftershocks worked their way through her body. She'd kept her saber in the fall, and tightened her grip on it, nodding at Marceline. “I'm going to set your weapon on fire," she warned. A moment later, both the abassador's rapier and her own blade were alight, the yellow and orange flames bright in the dark.

The despair demon, stunned by Astraia's initial lightning strike, was only just beginning to recover when they reached it. Estella, there slightly ahead of Marceline, slashed across its chest area, the fire clearly hurting it a great deal. But it also may well have been enough to snap it out of its stupor, because it immediately tried to leap away.

Marceline had the fortune to have had positioned herself so that the demon instead leapt toward her. She flung her cloak forward, the cloth wrapping around the things face before she stepped in behind it. Its defenses completely gone, she drove her rapier into its chest as well, the flame hissing as it met flesh, before she withdrew and struck twice more. When it did finally manage to pull free of her cloak, it was greeted with the sight of Marceline's rapier lancing toward its face.

As the despair demon fell, the larger pride demon swung forward with one of its whips. When Cyrus raised his sword to block, it wrapped around the fade blade, popping loudly in his ears at such close proximity. Lifting his eyes to the demon, he let himself smirk, seeking to agitate it. “Well?"

Predictably enough, it went for the overwhelming show of strength, hauling backwards with all its might in an attempt to yank him off his feet and towards it. An attempt that surely would have succeeded, if Cyrus were interested in a mere contest of physical prowess. Instead, he simply let the sword in his hand disappear, leaving the demon to stagger heavily backward in compensation for the unnecessary force. A tiny orb of light appeared at his index finger, shooting towards the off-balance demon in an unerring line. The moment the two came in contact, it exploded with a heavy boom, cloaking the demon in flames and toppling it the rest of the way over. It hit the water with a loud sizzle, throwing up steam all around itself and thrashing to regain its feet.

He was in no mood for gloating; a quick step put him close enough to reach its throat, and he did, shaping the fade into a spear this time, stabbing downwards and punching the blade end through the demon's neck. It stilled.

Releasing a heavy breath, Cyrus left the spear where it was and stepped away. “Is everyone all right?" There was still the matter of the rift to deal with, but it appeared that all of the other demons were down. Vesryn was just removing his bardiche from the last, it seemed.

"Yes, although the same cannot be said for my cloak," Lady Marceline answered, holding it up to show that it had been singed and torn into ribbons. She seemed rather annoyed by this.

“I think so," Stellulam replied, glancing around to make sure that everyone was, indeed, still more or less on their feet. Her leathers sported a rather large scorch mark where the lightning had struck her, but if the effects lingered, she did not show as much. Sheathing her sword, she stepped forward a few paces so she was nearly directly under the rift, raising her right arm towards the greenish tear in space.

The beam of light from the mark looked more solid than they had in the past, and it seemed to cause her no pain to close it, not even when the dull bang signaled the collapse and sealing of the rift.

Astraia was on her feet again, by way of the older elven woman, who was busily checking her and ignoring the others. "I'm fine, Shae." She seemed to ignore Astraia as well. "Shae. I'm fine." Astraia looked to be incredibly embarrassed, her eyes locked on the ground and her hands clenched into balls. Finally Shae relented, returning her mace to her belt.

Zeth surveyed their handiwork. "That was all very impressive. Though I think I've had about enough of this particular cave."

“I suspect that makes all of us."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
If Zahra could’ve compared Crestwood to anything it would’ve been a strange amalgamation of the Storm Coast
 and the drearier parts of Ferelden. Whether it was the near-constant rain pelting down on their heads, or the smell of wetness assailing her nostrils, it wasn’t something she was acclimated to. Muddy boots, clothes slicked to their skin and hair flattened to their skulls became the norm. What she wouldn’t give for a warm fire and dry blanket over her shoulders, though she hadn’t complained once since trekking out with Marcy, Vesryn and his companions. Childhood friends?

She wasn’t exactly sure, as she’d just met them and unfortunately hadn’t had time to pester them with questions. However, the temptation was there. A small smile played on her lips as she recounted her arrows. She’d broken three so far. Pinned and snapped against thick skulls. They’d been traveling along the road in search for local bandits in the area. Occasionally they peeled off the mucky route, and ended up walking along old goat trails. Led by the quiet one named Shae. She didn’t talk much, which she didn’t particularly mind. A small, impish part of her wanted to ask her the inane questions, if only to be a nuisance. She’d seen the way she’d looked at her and Marcy. Unimpressed. Dutiful. How charming.

The other one might’ve entertained her curiosities far better. Apparently from what little she’d heard from Vesryn and the others, they walked in the presence of their clans First. While she’d never understood the Dalish hierarchy, she knew a little about it. Mostly from Nixium. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if she led her astray just to make a fool of her in situations like these, so she offered little input. There was an itch she wanted to scratch about halla; how they tamed them, what they were used for
 did they taste good?

She hummed low in her throat. An old chantey tune to fill the silence, and the pelting of rain against their shoulders and backs. Perfect for awful weather.

“I’ve been meaning to ask while we’re on this bloody jaunt,” she picked at the string of her bow and hastened closer to Zeth’s side, eyebrows raised, “what a younger Vesryn was like. Was he a troublemaker? A heart breaker? Studious and serious?”

Absurd question or not, these things did cross her mind. Who better to ask then those who’d known him before?

A laugh escaped Vesryn. A single one, short and clipped. Not his usual style, it was strained and the slightest bit uncomfortable. Touched a nerve maybe, but he was being a good sport about it. Zeth's own eyebrows ascended a little, as though he was pleasantly surprised that she would ask such a thing at all. "Studious and serious? No. Not unless we were dealing with very specific subjects. A trouble maker? Remind me, Ves, how did we find you originally?"

"Bleeding, broken leg, stumbling through the forest." Vesryn didn't seem ashamed to admit it. If anything he looked to be recalling the incident fondly, though his looks were not often all he felt about things. "This was eight years ago or so, Zahra. Not like we were children."

"Broken and bleeding and stumbling," Zeth repeated, smirking. "I would say we knew what kind of trouble we were getting into when we took you in, but we really didn't." He used his staff as a walking stick, the blade on the bottom end slicing into the soft ground with every other step. "And a heart breaker?" His eyes flashed deviously at Zahra. "Oh, absolutely."

"I see you're enjoying this." Vesryn hefted his big axe easily in his hands, though his grip on it was loose, relaxed. Zethlasan smiled back at him.

"One of us should, I think."

Zahra waggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. As if she were sharing secrets with a good friend over a fireplace
 a warm fire, or anywhere dry. Alas, neither accounts were true. Though anyone who was friends with Vesryn could count her as a cheery acquaintance, bow-toting and all. Her smile quibbled into a toothy grin. Even if it was at Ves’ expense, she didn’t think he’d mind a little bit of badgering. For someone so good-natured and chipper, he could be tight-lipped about certain things. She’d learned that over goblets of ale.

Suppose that not everyone was an open book—she certainly wasn’t. Not about the things that really mattered. Those were hidden pages, one that not many explored. She, however, frequently enjoyed perusing those pages, if they did not belong to her. Toeing the line of inappropriate had become a game to her. Until someone told her otherwise, it wasn’t likely she’d ever stop. Perhaps, even then she wouldn’t.

“Eight years can be a long time,” she mused with a much more tempered smile, as if she were stifling laughter but just barely, “Zeth’s painted quite a good picture. I couldn’t really imagine you as studious or serious.” There was a pause, as she picked her path alongside Zeth. She couldn’t do much about the mud sucking at her boots, but she could prevent herself from falling face first into it, “You two seem to get along really well.”

It was a statement. An observation. Nothing more, nothing less.

She wasn’t particularly sure where they were even going. Traversing across land was still
 uncomfortable, especially on foot. It was nothing like navigating the seas. Even then, she hardly had a part in plotting their voyages. She trusted that the others would know where to take them. They’d point and she’d shoot. Simple as that.

“Now a more serious question
 does it ever stop raining here? I’m not sure why the bandits would even want to settle here. No offense.”

"The merchants, undoubtedly," Marceline answered from behind them. She was wearing a different cloak than the one she had left Skyhold with, this one the standard issue russet of the Inquisition instead of her usual black and purple ensemble. "They provide easy prey for certain entrepreneurial minds that lack a decent grasp of ethics."

She smiled politely, but Zahra could tell that it was just one of her default expressions, "That is why we are dealing with the issue, after all."

From the front, Shaethra held up a hand and indicated that the group should stop. Along the main road ahead of them, they approached a natural narrowing of the path, as two separate groups of rock formations encroached on one another, leaving a space of about twenty feet between them. Either side was blanketed with thick bushes and other foliage, a few trees here and there further obstructing the view.

Zeth took Shae's warning seriously, his hands closing more tightly around his staff, and Vesryn subtly tensed as well. Shae had her bow currently in hand, an arrow already nocked. With impressive swiftness she drew it back and loosed the arrow, sending it sailing into one of the bushes. It didn't look like anything was there, but a moment later there was a heavy and wet thud, and a low groan as a bandit collapsed outwards from behind it, his body tumbling down the face of the rocks, an arrow embedded in his chest.

About a dozen more bandits charged from their hiding places, no few of them appearing from behind the rock formations they'd been obscuring themselves with. Shae simply dropped her bow, having no time to put it away, and drew her mace. The first bandit came at her with a spear. She dodged around the thrust, grabbing hold of the weapon and yanking it forward, pulling the weaker woman towards her until her legs were swept away, landing her flat on her face. She barely had time to roll over before Shae's mace thwacked down into her skull, leaving it thoroughly misshapen.

"I'm sure she doesn't need the help, but..." Vesryn was already charging forward, axe in hand, and Zeth move ahead beside him, his staff alight with a ready cold spell.

A rattling laugh crept out of Zahra’s throat before she could stop it. Wholly excited. As interesting as their conversation had been, she’d been waiting for another welcome distraction. She’d been thoroughly impressed by Shae’s ability to sight the bandits before she’d even glimpsed a shrub rustle. If she was being honest with herself, she’d hardly heard a twig snap before Shae pelted the poor bastard with an arrow. Maybe it was those long ears of theirs, attuned to things she was not. A question even she wouldn’t dare ask.

She took up her own bow and notched an arrow with practiced fingers, hardly counting a breath before loosing it into the nearest bandit's eye socket. It thumped deep and stopped the man in mid-stride, mouth gawping wide, before he fell face-first into the muck and caused one of his allies to stumble and trip over his corpse. While she’d certainly improved with her toothpick-thin blades, she could still imagine tripping in the mud and accidentally impaling herself on them. It wasn’t a chance she’d likely take.

Instead she chose to keep her distance from the advancing bandits, and pelted them with arrows from afar. She mostly aimed at their heads, but switched between their calves and legs, causing them to topple over for easy pickings. She only stopped her assault when one ventured too close, forcing her to duck underneath a wild swing and slam the middle of her bow into his exposed nose. It crunched under the blow and immediately sprayed blood across her hands, and the front of her tunic, though it gave her enough time to level a kick into his chest and send him reeling backwards.

Marceline had expertly positioned herself in between the environment and her allies so that the bandits had to trickle in to get to her. One rather over eager bandit heaved a rather large axe at her, though his technique was raw and unrefined-- that much Marceline had taught Zahra. She did not seem particularly worried about the muscled man bearing down on her, but rather annoyed that she had to go through another fight to begin with.

Lady Marceline waited and baited out a downward chop which she back stepped and allowed it to harmlessly crash into the dirt in front of her. She soon regained the step and jammed downward with her offhanded blade, the cross-guard catching the axe's haft and tearing it free from his grasp. The rapier was quick to follow, piercing the man's throat and left him gurgling. Afterward she quickly returned to Zahra's side and turned her back on her, perhaps trusting the pirate would guard it for her.

Zeth swept out in front of himself with his staff as three bandits approached simultaneously. Ice sprung forth from the ground like eager teeth waiting to bite into prey. It formed a nearly waist high wall, but more importantly an array of icy spikes stretched forward, impaling the bandits as they rushed ahead. Their blood stained the ice red as they slowly went limp, their weapons clattering against the magic that had killed them.

Vesryn pulled his axe free from the bandit that had attempted to bring him down. The man found little success. With the calm and quiet restored, Ves surveyed their surroundings, apparently finding it to his liking. "What do you intend to do next then, Zeth? Once you're done scouring this area."

"I thought perhaps we would come pay you a visit at Skyhold, see it for ourselves." He crouched down, watching the three bodies he'd impaled slide ever so slowly down the ice. He then tilted his head to look at Vesryn. "Astraia seems to be enjoying herself. I wouldn't want to take her away from that so quickly."

"That I can agree with. We'd be glad to have her." His eyes glanced to Marceline for a second, before he turned to check on Shae. She was busy making a quick check over the bodies of the bandits for any obvious valuables. "What do you say, Shaethra? Think you'd like to see the seat of the Inquisition?"

She glanced up, her expression neutral under her hood, and then she went back to her work.

Marceline glanced up from the rapier she was polishing with her handkerchief and nodded sagely. "Indeed, it would be in poor taste not to extend the invitation after the aid you have given us," she said, though her features were even. She did like playing her cards close to her chest.

Vesryn’s friends weren’t pushovers, that was for sure.

Not that Zahra expected any less from them—Dalish tended to be wily individuals, hardier by far. She made a whooping nose and hunkered down beside Shae, eyes alight.

“Color me impressed. You’ve a good eye,” another mischievous smile tugged at her lips, “and better aim. What other surprises are you hiding?”

The elf woman scrutinized Zahra for a second, pausing midway through swiping a coin pouch from the first one she had killed. There was something there, perhaps, for just a second... but maybe Zahra was just seeing things.

"None for you, shem." She swiped the coin pouch and pocketed it.

The response hadn’t wiped the smile from Zahra’s face. Quite the opposite. It seemed as if Skyhold would become a much more interesting place, at least for awhile.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
Marceline, Leon, and Rilien stood in a hall in the lower levels of Skyhold. In front of them a door, flanked by two guards. It wasn't the dungeon, as the man who waited inside wasn't under arrest yet, but he was an unknown entity, and Marceline wished that he would be come a little more known before they decided to lock him up, or let him have free reign of the castle. From the information she had, he had saved Cyrus, Estella, and the others on the other side of something that they called an Eluvian. A device that a mole planted into their ranks had used to escape after poisoning Cyrus and stealing his notes on the breach.

It was surprising how much could break in a span of only a few days. Not only did the attack put questions in her mind about the Inquisition's security, but also cast suspicion on all other personnel in the Inquisition. There was many long days ahead of her yet, but for now, they had to deal with the elf waiting behind the door in front of them. "His name is Harellan," and really, that was the only thing they knew about him. Other than Cyrus also knew him, but he was still in no shape to be questioned. The man had saved them yes, but that did not eliminate him as a possible threat. Not with that track record.

"How do you feel we should proceed?" Marceline asked the other two advisors.

“We should not be hostile," Leon said, crossing his arms over his chest. He hadn't dressed to intimidate, either, judging by the simple tunic and trousers he wore. But then perhaps his physique alone served well enough for that. “Suspicious or not, he did save one of our Inquisitors, and several other people. I think we ought to simply ask him what we want to know, and see what he says. No doubt we should stay sharp and take everything with a grain of salt, but it would hardly be fair to assume the worst because we've already dealt with it."

“My agents have thus far been able to find no information on him at all." Rilien did not sound disturbed by this, but perhaps that was only because it was impossible for tranquil to in fact be disturbed by anything. “We will continue to look, but for the moment we are at the informational disadvantage, and he is likely to know that. We should not present ourselves as if it is otherwise. But if we are sufficiently solicitous, he may be unguarded in his replies. I will watch for signs of deception."

He paused a moment for the information to digest, then opened the door without knocking, entering first with Marceline and Leon just behind.

It was a room appointed for such tasks as interrogation, and as such it was bare of any furniture save a wooden table with a chair on either side of it. Rilien stood with his back to the wall, leaving the unoccupied chair open. The other sat a most-curious-looking elf.

He wasn't Dalish; that much was clear from the absence of tattoos on his face. But he certainly didn't look like a city elf, either. It was hard to tell for sure since he was seated, but he was probably in the vicinity of six feet in height, built somewhere between Rilien and Vesryn. His eyes tracked their entrance quite keenly—a soft spring green, like the underside of mature leaves. His hair was worn in a long tail, but the sides and back had been shorn away, making the points of his ears all the more prominent. He had, apparently, voluntarily relinquished his armor and supplies, and wore a well-crafted linen tunic, plain green save for the swirling teardrop embroidered in gold thread on the upper part of his sleeve.

Most striking, perhaps, was how completely at ease he seemed; he smiled slightly at their entrance and stood, confirming the estimate of his height. He gave a little bow before standing at attention, clearly waiting for Marceline to take her seat before he resumed his.

"Andaran atish'an, Inquisition. Or perhaps I should say good day. I thought you might be by to see me soon."

Marceline inclined her head in response to the greeting, though she did not put it into words. He was unfailingly polite, which was refreshing, considering the type they usually had to have the Inquisitors judge. Not that this man was intended to face their judgment regardless, but it was nice to have someone who spoke cordially for once. Still, she didn't let her guard down in the face of his honeyed words.

"Of course, and as you can imagine, we have some questions for you," Marceline began, though she paused for a moment. "But first, please allow me to apologize for your accommodations, but considering recent events, I hope that you understand the necessity for all of this," she stated politely.

"If you do not mind?" she started, figuring it would be best for both parties if they were to begin the questioning as soon as possible, "I would like to ask, quite plainly if I may, who you are, Serah?"

The elf resumed his seat, folding his hands together on the tabletop in the universal negotiation signal of good faith. He tilted his head to the side a little, blinking as though perplexed. "Forgive me, my lady, for that is a very broad question, and I am not entirely certain of how to answer it to your satisfaction. My name is Harellan, and as you can see, I am an elf, which I confess makes it rather difficult to be anyone of particular importance in the world." His done did not vary from its thoughtful cordiality when he said so; there was no bitterness to be found in it despite the fact that the words themselves conveyed a rather bitter truth.

"I am also a mage, if that fact is of any particular significance. I have found that some do tend to care."

“And your connection to Cyrus Avenarius?" Leon spoke from his spot against the wall, flanking Marceline on the opposite side from Rilien. They likely made a rather daunting trio, not that Harellan was giving any indication of it. “The reports are clear that you acted as though you knew him, and he you as well."

"Ah, of course." Harellan nodded easily, though a hint of melancholy seemed to seep into his smile for just a moment. "We have indeed met; it was I who first taught him the dirth'ena enasalin. What you would call... the way of the Knight-Enchanter?" He didn't seem entirely sure of the translation, but continued anyway. "We parted ways about two years ago now. I was surprised to see him again so soon."

"Which brings us to the next question," Marceline stated, "If you do not mind me asking, how was it that you ran into him and the others when you did?" she asked, keeping any accusations out of her tone. It seemed like a rather large coincidence that he was there when they needed him the most, but Marceline didn't put much faith in coincidence "We, of course, appreciate the aid rendered, but regardless, I am curious," she said with a shrug.

"It's... difficult to explain." Harellan issued a soft breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "The eluvians are all connected, you see, through a central place called the Between, or sometimes the Crossroads. It is not quite the Fade, but it has some similar properties. It is possible to key certain mirrors to the blood or password of a particular person, but it is also possible to sense changes in the Between itself, if you know what to look for." He lifted his shoulders. "Changes such as an inactive eluvian becoming active. As you might imagine, there are very few people who have access to even one, fewer still who know how to operate them. I was quite curious who had recently opened one, and followed the trail I found."

“Fortuitous." Rilien's monotone didn't convey anything in particular, but that in itself lent it a certain impression of skepticism.

"On the contrary: it is most infelicitous news that those cultists—Venatori, if I recall—know how to use them. The knowledge must be less rare than I thought. My own presence was a matter of habit rather than luck; I do not like not knowing what occurs there. As this has aptly demonstrated... the risk is considerable."

"We are in agreement," Marceline said. She was not particularly fond of the thought that they had what amounted to a back door into the heart of the Inquisition just laying around. They had soldiers posted by the mirror, but it was still uncomfortable knowledge that if they could somehow bypass the safeguards then they could theoretically be attacked. However, that was not her area of expertise, so she would allow Leon and Rilien to handle it.

She then shook her head and spoke again, "I am sorry, I am afraid I do not fully understand these eluvians, only what has been reported." Which was that it was used in an attempted assassination and subterfuge and led to what she suspected was a Venatori encampment. "If you would be so kind as to shed light on what they are, I would be thankful."

Harellan sat back in his seat a bit, leaving his hands still in the open and visible. "In simplest terms, they are transport, of sorts. Portals, if you like. For each eluvian that exists here, a match exists in the Between. As I said, they're quite safe when protected by passwords or other sorts of gatekeeping, but if left open they are as vulnerable as any unlocked door." He arched a dark brow. "Once, they connected all of Elvhenan, the ancient kingdom of the elves. But the world was much different then, and many have since been destroyed or otherwise lost. Far fewer remain."

“So why come through this one, then, if you had so many to choose from? Is it simply a matter of seeing your student safe, or did you have some cause for seeking out the Inquisition specifically?" It was clear that this was the crux of the matter, as far as Leon was concerned; Marceline could tell that he'd been waiting to ask the question for some time now.

Something changed in Harellan's expression. It was difficult to pick out exactly what, but it made him look older somehow. His age was hard to pin down already, and the shift only complicated matters. "I confess my motives are mostly selfish; I would like to remain where my student is, though I don't think he would find the suggestion particularly welcome. I fear my use to you would be quite limited; I am not so talented as he is, nor so inclined to the field of battle. But... I might be useful in other ways. I have some experience teaching, as you may have guessed. I believe in this respect I could be of particular help to the Lady Inquisitor."

“How so?" There was something not-quite-neutral about Rilien's question, but pinning it down was impossible.

"Her magic. Cyrus has described it to me. I believe I may be able to cultivate her talents in a way most other mages could not. Otherwise... I have some experience with the keeping of animals, if I might humbly earn my keep here in that way."

Marceline didn't answer immediately, but instead turned toward Rilien expectantly. While Estella was the Inquisitor, she was Rilien's pupil as well and she wished for his opinion on the matter.

“I have never been able to get her to commit to magic as a course of study. She has not wanted to, and I have therefore not insisted. If she should change her mind, I would be unsuitable as an instructor regardless." He gave no further assessment than that.

Marceline nodded and turned back to Harellan. "We still must discuss matters, among each other and with the Lady Inquisitor. It should be her decision, not ours. Ser Leonhardt?" she asked.

“That much seems fair," Leon agreed. “But it would likewise be fair to allow Harellan to make the case to her himself. In any event, I see no reason to keep you here. For now, we will appoint you a room in the barracks, if you would find the arrangement acceptable."

"That would be more than adequate. My thanks."

Marceline nodded and rose as she spoke, "And thank you Ser Harellan, for your patience."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Kurokiku
It was fortunate that Cyrus's debriefing with the Inquisition's lovely panel of advisors was not scheduled until the afternoon, because he woke up at about midday with the worst headache he'd had in years, and an unfortunately-complete recollection of the way the night before had gone. He couldn't say he'd intended to share that particular story with anyone, especially not within earshot of Stellulam, but... it hadn't turned out as badly as he'd expected. He'd long since accepted that the memory of that day would haunt him for the rest of his life. Unlike those who had killed only in defense of self or others, he knew what it was like to spill the blood of an innocent helpless to defend himself. To spill the blood of a friend. It was a stain on his soul, if such a thing existed. It probably shouldn't go away.

He lacked the strength to move, at first, remaining where he was on Stellulam's sofa and trying to slowly open his eyes and accustom them to the light. He hadn't dreamed—but of course he couldn't, anymore. Gone were the days when he wandered further afield at night than he ever did during the day. Now he just... blacked out for a while; lost track of everything. It felt unnatural, strange and wrong, and he was never able to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. Unless, apparently, he had the assistance of very strong drink.

He needed to get up and bathe, among other things. He knew this, but couldn't quite seem to find the motivation or will to achieve it. He was lethargic, heavy in the limbs, and the splitting pain in his head made it difficult to dredge up the effort required. More than that, though, he just... didn't really see a reason. With a soft groan, he extracted his arm from between his body and the back of the sofa, laying it across his stomach instead, but that was as far as his first effort took him. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent to do, anymore. His experiments were impossible, his research inapplicable. He no longer had anything to offer the Inquisition, save perhaps a sword arm better than some but worse than others. And what was one more of those, in the grand scheme of things?

He would stay for Stellulam, but all she required was his presence, and he could be just as well from here as anywhere. Maybe better, since her office was just a staircase below at the moment. If she wanted him for something, he would be easy to find.

But... there was perhaps one more thing he could do, at least. With more time to think about matters—and he'd done little else for days—he'd become relatively certain that he knew who the Venatori's leader was. And that seemed like important information that for the moment only he was likely to possess. It was time he let the others know, so that more useful people could decide what to do about it, and then carry out those plans.

Getting himself cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes took the batter part of half an hour because he moved slowly in his recovery, but he didn't bother with the more polished touches to his appearance. His hair he left to air-dry, and it curled a bit near his nape as a result. It probably needed a cut. His shirt was just a loose, white linen thing, tucked into grey trousers and his well-traveled boots. His face looked like he'd been through hell: sunken cheeks, hollowed eyes, chapped lips, even, and a very fine layer of black stubble. But he was clean, and even that felt oddly like a victory on this particular day.

He made it down to Marceline's office on time for the meeting, at least; Estella's tranquil tutor let him in when he knocked. He mustered half a bow from somewhere, but the effortless light air of it was gone, leaving only the bare minimum motion of rote instead of grace.

Lady Marceline stood on the other side of her desk, where she leaned over and appeared to be discussing something with Larissa, who sat in her chair. When Cyrus entered, she turned to greet him and nodded politely, and added, "Lord Cyrus," before she glanced back at Larissa. The elven woman nodded succinctly and retrieved a ledger from one of Marceline's drawers as well as a quill and inkwell.

With whatever affairs that they were discussing apparently settled, Marceline finally turned to face Cyrus more fully, though not before she reached for a half empty wineglass that waited for her on the corner of her desk. Larissa's eyes went to the glass as well, though only for a moment before she too started to look toward Cyrus. "If you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to take any seat you see," she said, gesturing toward the finely upholstered chairs and couch, as well as the stiffer ones situated in front of her desk.

He wasn't particularly inclined to do anything, honestly. But he supposed sitting was marginally better than standing, for present purposes, so he nodded slightly, taking a seat in one of the firm-backed chairs in front of the desk and leaning back with a sigh likely only audible to himself. Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, but blinked them open again soon after.

“We met the Venatori's leader, on the other side of the eluvian." He spoke without preamble, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. The pounding behind his eyes hadn't abated, not even with the help of an alchemical pain-reliever. He'd used to hate the very thought of putting something like that into his body. Of disrupting the natural harmony between his chemistry and his magic. But there was hardly any point in such reservations anymore. What did they protect, now?

He lifted dull eyes to meet Marceline's, arching an eyebrow without humor. “I know who he is now. I don't think it'll mean much to anyone else, but I can at least tell you what little I'm aware of. Not sure if you want to take notes or something." He gestured vaguely with a hand before he let it fall back to his leg with a soft thud.

"Larissa?" She asked, tilting her head in the woman's direction.

"Ready, ma'am," she said after dipping the quill tip into the inkwell. It appeared that they had been prepared to take notes regardless.

Satisfied, Marceline then turned back to Cyrus and nodded, "All information helps, even the smallest piece. Now, who is this man?" Marceline asked, leaning heavily on the lip of her desk. She had an arm tucked across her body while the other held the wineglass to her lips, where they rested while she awaited Cyrus's explanation.

Cyrus huffed. It might have been a laugh, at some point, but he didn't really have the energy for it right now. “If anybody had told me it was him, I'd have thought the whole enterprise doomed to fail. He has a habit of doing that, but only because he picks such... lofty ambitions." Not that he was really in a place to be criticizing anyone else for wanting too much or aiming too high, really. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving it curved over his mouth for a moment before dropping it to his own opposite shoulder.

“His name is Alesius. Marcus Alesius, and unsurprisingly, he is a Magister. Though certainly not one with much clout in the Imperium as it is. He's... honestly something of a laughingstock, but his magic is formidable enough that few would dare mock him to his face. So they just all do it behind his back instead, as politicians tend to prefer."

Marceline sighed and shook her head. "I know of his name, this Marcus," she revealed, letting the glass fall away from her lips. "There was an incident at Chateau Haine some years ago that I believe involved him as well as an... acquaintance of mine. From what I recollect, this Marcus had also had audiences with the Empress herself at that time," she said, glancing back at Larissa. At the pause, Larissa returned the look and nodded in agreement.

She then looked back at Cyrus, "It is a surprise then to hear that his own people held such a low opinion on him."

Cyrus shrugged. “Back when he was an apprentice, he worked under Magister Cécilius. His magic was always better than his master's, basically as soon as he'd learned the fundamentals. But Cécilius had the more powerful family. Predictably enough, Marcus wanted an engagement to his daughter to reinforce the connection. The bond of apprenticeship is second only to those; it's not uncommon for apprentices to eventually marry into the family, if they're well-liked by the Magister." Fortunately for both himself and Chryseis, Cassius had never insisted on anything of the sort, though there were always going to be vague insinuations. They just never came to anything.

“The rumors say he decided to prove himself in deed rather than word. Personally, I suspect wanting to marry into his teacher's family had little to do with it. But he infiltrated the Qunari—posed as a convert, hid his magic. They put him into the Ben-Hassrath, which meant he and his partner were handling a lot of sensitive information. Five years later, she has a list of the Qunari operatives in the Imperium and he has her in Cécilius's basement." Cyrus grimaced. “Of course, it wasn't the fact that he tortured her that earned the ire of the Magisterium. It was the fact that he failed to do it well enough to get a peep out of her. And then she pretended to be dead and dug her way out of her grave, they say. You can imagine what a spectacular failure that was for him. Thwarted by a half-dead woman. Everything he's done since hasn't succeeded either; that's why he tried other courts in the first place, I suppose."

“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" Leon asked. “How he fell in with Corypheus, anything about his resources or likely plans?" From the sound of it, he knew the questions were a bit of a reach, but most likely he found them worthwhile to ask anyway.

“Probably it was a desperation move." Cyrus narrowed his eyes; it was really too bright in here, with the daylight filtering in from outside. “But... I will say this. Alesius is remembered for his failures, but he has bounced back from each of them. He overreaches occasionally, to be sure, but there's a certain brilliance to his thinking all the same. It would be unwise to underestimate him. Quite a lot of people want him dead, and yet he is not. That itself should serve as warning." Few survived in Tevinter very long with no allies, and perhaps aside from Leta, Marcus had none.

"Much of the same could be said of us," Marceline noted evenly.

Leon nodded slowly. “I believe that should cover all of our questions, then." He'd clearly noticed that Cyrus was not quite himself, if the furrow in his brow was anything to go by. Once Marceline and Rilien had confirmed, his lips thinned a bit. “There is one last thing, though. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me for a while, Cyrus?"

He wasn't really expecting the request, and for a moment, he considered simply declining. But he supposed he owed Leon his life now, whatever it was still worth, so he found himself nodding. "Very well." He stood with a soft grunt of effort and followed Leon from Marceline's office.

Leon did not immediately makes his intentions nor their destination clear, instead leading Cyrus through the keep and out the front door. It wasn't until they were up on the walls that he finally stopped, leaning forward on the crenelations and bracing himself with his hands. “Apologies. I suppose the light level might not be all the comfortable. If you'd prefer to go indoors, I'd understand."

Cyrus shook his head, slowly enough not to agitate his headache. "Considering how much I drank last night, I probably deserve it." His face pulled into a grim frown, but he did turn away from the wall, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. This high up, he could see the soldiers practicing on the training grounds below. The mages Aurora led were just in sight; he watched one of them fling a lightning spell and felt for a brief moment as though it had struck him square in the chest.

He exhaled softly, turning his eyes away to watch the arms practice instead, blinking back the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes. He felt... empty. Hollow. Like a shell. All the ways he'd heard others describe tranquil, and yet this might be worse. Because he felt the loss. He still reflexively reached for his magic every time he wanted a light or to warm cold tea or something as simple as a book on a far shelf. It hadn't been much more than a week in total, but still he felt as though it would never be otherwise. This would never be normal for him.

He wasn't sure he wanted it to be.

Cyrus steadied himself with a breath. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?" He knew that by now, Stellulam had told her three advisors and fellow Inquisitor of what had become of him, and as of last night, he could be relatively sure that both Vesryn and Zahra knew as well. Asala of course had been there when he'd first learned. That was plenty more people than he would've liked to have told, but each had been necessary, in a sense. If he had his way, there'd be no more. At least not until he figured out what he wanted to do with himself.

“I'm sorry, Cyrus." Leon still stared out at the landscape beyond the wall. His eyes were narrow, mouth set into a deep scowl. He looked angry, almost, though it didn't seem to be directed anywhere in particular. “That this happened... and that I did that to you."

It honestly took Cyrus a moment to figure out what he was talking about. But then it came back. A burning feeling, like his body was being incinerated from the inside, bones scorched and blackened, something in the Fade searing the corruption in his blood. He understood, now, in a way he had not before, why all the metaphors about Andraste's pyre were as they were. Not because he was any great martyr, of course, but because he knew now what it felt like for something to burn and be somehow pure at the same time. If he had to describe it, that was what he'd call it: holy fire, in his flesh and blood. It rather stood to reason that he'd be burned, didn't it?

Exhaling a short breath at his meandering train of thought, Cyrus shook his head. "As I recall, I demanded that you do it." Not that anything about that point was especially clear in memory, with the notable exception of pain. "I will try not to hold saving my life against you." His tone nearly dripped with irony, but there was a grain of truth in it, too, perhaps, considering how little he thought of what life was available to him now. Many mages would rather die than be rendered tranquil. He had figured himself among them.

At least he felt no such inclinations at present.

“Even so." Leon did not seem particularly assuaged by Cyrus's words, pushing back from the wall and turning to face him better. “That... I've done it often enough to know the kind of pain it puts people through. Others have called it a necessity, but it is torture, and I don't..." He heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly prefer not to remember I can do it. Regardless of the result, I am sorry I did it. Caused you that kind of pain."

Cyrus could see this wasn't an argument he was going to win. And he wasn't particularly inclined to try. Leon knew his own capacities better than anyone, and he had no desire to try and tell him differently. It had hurt. If that was what the apology was for, then... fair enough. "Consider yourself forgiven." He managed a very thin half-smile. "I am in your debt, Commander. If ever you should find yourself in need of... whatever I can do now, name the favor."

“I won't forget it," Leon said, his own smile mild. “In the meantime, is there something the Inquisition can provide you? You prefer swords, if I recall correctly. We could supply you with the steel kind, at least."

Cyrus gave that some thought. He supposed he would have to do his best to be useful again eventually. He wasn't going to do that laying about in Stellulam's room and trying to forget. "I'm not sure I'll be in shape for anything for a couple of months, at least." It was difficult to admit, but he was going to need time to acclimatize to the facts of his situation, and learn to adjust for them. But adapt he must—even if he wasn't strictly needed, he knew himself well enough to know that he would be unable to stand the idea of being locked up here in Skyhold while Stellulam and his other... friends ventured into danger. He'd be restless, perhaps eventually mad.

"But... yes. Two, if you can spare them. Longblades, preferably of lighter make, but nothing so thin as a rapier, please. I'll supply the rest." After a letter to his steward in Minrathous, anyway. But that shouldn't take longer to get here than it would take him to be ready for it.

Something akin to relief passed over Leon's face at that. “Consider it done."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The crackle of the flames burst to life as Lady Marceline stirred the hearth with a fire poker. The fire lit the seating area of her office nicely, and chased away the chill from the outside air. It was among the top reasons that she had chosen that particular room to serve as her office. That, and it also served as a central location, just off to the side of the main hall and connected with the war room through another door. It was convenient for everyone, from the diplomats she entertained to the Inquisition personnel themselves. She had taken great pains to ensure that the office was both comfortable, and functional, as well as putting her own personal tastes into it. She glanced up above the mantle to take in the family portrait she had commissioned.

She returned to her place on the couch that faced the fireplace and took the glass of wine that waited for her on an nearby end table. Estella was present as well, as she had news she wished to discuss. However, Marceline was also waiting on a few others, so that left both of them patiently waiting. Honestly, it was just like the man to keep her waiting-- she'd been more surprised if he'd beaten anyone to her office. "I apologize Estella, but Michaël tends to do things at his own pace," she said, taking a sip of her wine. Of course, if he did things at her pace, then he would not be the man that she fell in love with.

“Hm?" Estella glanced up. She was sitting in one of the office's armchairs, apparently lost in thought about something or other. She blinked, however, clearing her eyes and giving no indication of what had her preoccupied. “Oh, it's no problem." She didn't seem to mind much either way, though she did appear to be a little puzzled by the summons, and why MichĂ€el's presence was necessary in the first place. If so, she was much too polite to mention it.

A knock soon came at her door, drawing her attention. It soon opened and revealed Larissa, with Michaël trailing not far behind. Surprisingly, he had brought someone as well, as Khari filed in soon after. "Larissa caught you two during training then?" Marceline asked. She didn't mind that Michaël had brought Khari along; he was fond of the woman and enjoyed training her. She was happy that he had something to put his mind to, Michaël did not do well with idle moments. Honestly, if it hadn't been Khari, then it would have been Pierre. Michaël smiled brightly and took a chair adjacent to her and scooted it over to be closer to her. She tried to ignore the obnoxious scraping noise.

If Estella might have been confused as to why she was present, Khari was definitely so. She wore it openly scrawled across her face, dropping gracelessly into the chair next to the Inquisitor's. “Are we getting more manners lessons? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can do as well as Mick when it comes to that." She shrugged, glancing back and forth between them.

"I doubt it, mon ours, Michaël answered with that grin of his.

Marceline chuckled lightly and shifted in her place in order to slide closer to Michaël, "You must remember, Khari, we are Orlesian. It is in our blood. Despite Micky's... unique mannerisms, he can be quite civilized when the time comes. But no, no lessons today," she added, causing him to shoot Khari a smug look of satisfaction. It lasted all the way until the moment that Larissa could no longer contain her giggle.

Once she managed to get a hold on it again, Larissa raised a hand shook her head. "I'm sorry, it will not happen again milord," she said, hiding her smile. She had taken a seat at Marceline's desk, but did not work on anything. Marceline had a sneaking suspicion that everyone but her enjoyed sitting at her desk. Instead Larissa's attention was on them, patiently waiting for Marceline to explain why she had gathered Michaël and Estella. She knew what this was about, of course, Larissa had been there when she first read the letter.

"Sure, whatever. You say that now," Michaël answered Larissa with a wave of his hand.

Khari stuck her tongue out at MichĂ€el, but seemed to gather herself back into some semblance of presentability quickly enough, arching an eyebrow at Marceline. “Okay..." She drew the word out on the 'a'. “So what, then?"

"I received a letter from Lord Mathis. You remember him, yes?" Marceline asked, her attention alighting Estella for a moment. "He is the Marquis of Collines Verts, a portion of which neighbors our own estate. He visited for a time some months ago--I do not know if you saw him," she said for Khari's sake. She was not present when she introduced him and his niece to the Inquisitors. "Regardless, he sends his best wishes," she said, focusing on Estella again, "And expresses his appreciation to the Inquisition for hosting him and his niece."

Michaël raised an eyebrow. He knew that that wasn't all the letter entailed, he'd played the Game himself long enough to the letter obviously had something else in it. "I am sensing there is a 'but' coming."

Marceline nodded, "I will save you all the rest of the pleasantries--of which there were no few. He speaks glowingly of the work that the Inquisition does, and the effort he personally believes I pour into it."

"To butter you up, undoubtedly," Michaël added with a shrug.

Marceline chuckled again, and nodded in agreement. She was glad Michaël was present, he brought a... refreshing breath of fresh air to her office. He certainly helped to keep her sane. "Yes, undoubtedly, but the 'but' you spoke of Micky. He wishes that I take his niece, Lady Félicité as an apprentice and protégée."

Larissa cooed from her desk, "The request obviously was not as forward milady made it sound. There was much flowery language and praise involved. The butter milord so eloquently put it," she said with a light smile.

Estella frowned slightly, resting her hands carefully in her lap. “Isn't that... isn't that a bit dangerous? I mean, Skyhold is well-defended, from the outside, but if someone could make it in and hurt Cyrus the way Leta did, shouldn't he be worried about leaving his niece under the protection of people in such a publicly-contentious position?" Her concern seemed to be for the young lady more than anything; her brow furrowed over her eyes, and the frown did not ease.

"Yes, it is certainly a dangerous position, but I believe Mathis understands this," Marceline sighed. Of course Félicité would be in danger as her apprentice, the Inquisition as a whole was not a completely safe haven--as recent events surely demonstrated. Marceline frowned, she had brought the idea of tightening Inquisition security up with the other advisors, so at least they would all be safe in Skyhold. It was enough to worry for them when they left the keep's walls, she did not also want to have to worry about them while they remained within them.

Larissa was the next to speak. "In fact, he may count on it as a sort of... preparatory method. If she is able to handle the dangers of the Inquisition, then she will be well prepared to handle the dangers that will come when she finally assumes the title of Marquise of Collines Verts."

Marceline nodded in agreement. As dangerous as it was, she would no doubt earn the necessary experience to smoothly run her estate when the time comes. "As I understand it, she does not hold any reservations against the proposal herself," she allowed herself a tight smile for a moment. "If she is anything like her mother, then I am not surprised to hear that. The Ambroises were--are, I suppose I should say... bravely ambitious," Marceline noted.

"Sound familiar?" Michaël added, reaching over to place a comforting hand on her knee. "There can be no reward without risk."

“Uh..." Khari still seemed to not be sure she should even be in the room in the first place, but she was bold enough to interject anyway. “Sure, maybe she needs to be prepared for the possibility of assassination or whatever—sorry Stel—but there's gotta be better way to do that than risking being someplace where a fucking lyrium dragon might fly over the walls some morning." She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “He's got an angle, right? Something he wants out of this that's not in the fine print or footnotes or whatever you call it?"

Estella looked thoughtful for a moment, not perturbed by the nature of Khari's comment. She seemed to alight on something; her face shifted until she was wearing an expression of mild disgust, actually, followed swiftly by something almost describable as pity. “Oh, he's not..." She trailed off and sighed. “You think he's trying to arrange something more permanent than an apprenticeship, right? With FĂ©licitĂ© and Pierre or something?" Her lips thinned.

“That's not... it's hardly worth the risk. I mean... it's her life. You aren't going to accept, are you, Lady Marceline? Did you need me to tell him that the Inquisition officially disallows that kind of apprenticeship so it's not a personal rejection?" It seemed to be her guess as to the reason for her presence in the discussion.

"It is not that easy, Estella," Marceline shook her head. She had much of the same worries that Estella had--maybe even more. "Mathis made... declining rather difficult, I am afraid," she said, with a sigh. Michaël tightened his grip on her knee and nodded, unsurprised. If they wanted it enough, the nobility were difficult to fend off until they got their desires.

"As I said, Mathis is Marquis of Collines Verts, what is essentially a portion of Orlais's breadbasket. In return for apprenticing Félicité, and undoubtedly the renown that would come with that, he offered trade deal that would see the Inquisition able to buy the crops produced by his estate at just above cost, as well as any other support that he could offer, which would help us greatly, as well as win us an important ally in Orlais," Marceline explained, her frown deepening.

The resources that Mathis could offer could help the Inquisition a great deal, and they were... enticing. "And I fear that if we were to decline, then he may see it as a insult--or at least play it as such. We would lose an ally, and not only that, but the goods we already purchase from his estate may also see an increase in price because of it. That would prove to be... unfortunate."

Michaël was quiet while she spoke, and appeared thoughtful throughout, and it wasn't until Marceline finished that he began. "And Pierre? Yes, I can see Mathis planning something like," he said with a shake of his head. "He courted Marceline, you know?" he explained for Khari, "But obviously, he did not win that one," he said with a smile while he rubbed Marceline's knee. Marceline looked at him and returned his smile warmly. "Had they married instead, then they would have united their lands and both of their houses would have benefited from the union. His loss, honestly," He added. Marceline gave him a frown, but shook her head. He was correct, after all.

"He may be planning on attempting to arrange something similar with Pierre, yes. And that is what truly worries me," she added. "He has not expressed it directly, perhaps he hopes it would... happen naturally during her tenure here," she said with a deep frown.

Estella took a deep breath. “We should not be bargaining with the lives of children, no matter what it will get us." She said it surprisingly firmly, insistently. “I understand that your personal history is complicated, and that the political implications are many. But the Marquis does not control the only fertile lands in Orlais. There are other possible alliances to work towards. Other things we can try that do not involve putting innocents at considerable risk by bringing them here." She sat straight in her chair, meeting Marceline's eyes directly.

“Your personal family affairs, what you think of the attempt to match or any of that—I won't trouble you with my thoughts on those things, because they're none of mine or the Inquisition's business in the slightest. But this is a move that the Inquisition will be making, and a decision that the Inquisition will be responsible for. Perhaps the others might disagree, but I am not comfortable with what this would say about us. What we're willing to do to achieve our aims. If Lady FĂ©licitĂ© were of age and consented, perhaps that would be different. But she's a child, Lady Marceline. No child should be in peril for the schemes of adults." The cadence of her voice never wavered from its firm softness, but it was clear that she felt quite strongly about the matter, and it would take more than the promise of resources to sway her.

Marceline couldn't help but smile warmly at the woman's fire. She was... proud to hear the certainty in her voice, and wished that she could hear it more often. It was clear to her that there was to be no debating on the matter, and at that Marceline frowned. She wished it could be otherwise. "I respectfully disagree," she stated evenly. "This proposal gains us much, and we need all of the aid that we can afford. I understand your grievances Lady Estella," she continued. She did agree with Estella on a few of her points. It was dangerous, and she was uncomfortable to be bartering with lives as well, but she also believed that they needed all the help they can get, no matter the circumstances. She would do what she must to see that the Inquisition succeeded.

"But, I am afraid I have already made my decision," Marceline revealed, her voice never leaving its even cadence. Underneath however, she did not like having to decide like this or having to argue with Estella. "Lord Mathis asked that I specifically, be the one to apprentice Lady Félicité, not the Inquisition, and this will be my decision, and one that I will be responsible for," she stated equally as firm. "I truly wish that it was so simple, Estella, I truly do, but it is not. Corypheus threatens more than just the Inquisition, and we are still in desperate need of allies, resources, and support."

The Inquisition was growing by the day, and not only that, but they now had presences in both Orlais and Ferelden that would also require resources. They could not wait while they tried to win allies elsewhere. "If these resources will give us an edge, then I will take it." It was difficult choice, but she did not join the Inquisition expecting them all to be simple.

She intended to do everything in her power to keep Lady Félicité safe as she possibly could while she remained with the Inquisition, and would take all necessary precautions to ensure that she remained out of harm's way, but Marceline did not think that it would change Estella's mind. "I truly do apologize, Lady Estella," she added, sincerely.

“I see." There was a certain strain in Estella's voice, as if she were exerting conscious effort to remain as neutral as possible. Her face was impressively-neutral, almost as hard to read as Ser Rilien's. “If you have already decided, I suppose there is not much I or anyone else can do." She stood, bowing a fraction stiffly.

When she straightened, she met Marceline's eyes again. “But I would think that someone as politically astute as you are, Lady Marceline, would realize that even if you were the one he asked, your acceptance says something about us all. His resources do not go to you, after all. They go to us. I... hope that this turns out as well as you anticipate. Because it will not be only you that takes the blame if it does not." She said the last with a trace of sadness, then turned and left without a dismissal.

“Uh." Khari broke the uncomfortable silence that descended. “I don't really know shit about this, but... might wanna have another think about this kinda stuff, Marcy. The Inquisitors are supposed to be the ones in charge, right?" She shrugged, then glanced quickly at MichĂ€el. “Sorry, skipping the rest of practice. Gotta go... you know." She jabbed a thumb back over her shoulder and about-faced without waiting for responses from either of them.

“Stel—" The door closed, cutting off anything further.

Larissa shuffled at her desk, and she too stood and made for the door, though not before she paused for a moment. "Milady. I will go check on the young Lord, make sure he is keeping out of trouble," she explained, and once Marceline nodded her acknowledgment, Larissa filed out of the door as well.

She exhaled sharply and her face fell into her hands. She felt... a lot more tired than she had moments ago, and it was starting to become a usual feeling of late, she had found. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass that waited for her on the nearby end table and downed it instantly. It gave Michaël time to stand from his own chair and go to the couch next to her. He drew her close, and let her lay her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and said nothing, letting her mind fall away to the rhythm of his breathing and the crackle of the flames in front of her.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air, and it was giving Lady Marceline a headache. That, and a number of other factors.

The Exalted Plains, a region of the Dales in Orlais had recently played host to a front in the Orlesian civil war, or the War of the Lions as it was also known. The place had been beautiful, once, before it was ravaged by war and blood. Lady Marceline and the rest of the Inquisition had received a missive from her father, Marshall of the Loyalist forces. The letter was not unusual, Marceline often received them from her father, and they had always comforted her with the knowledge that he was still okay, and the war had not yet taken him. However, his most recent letter did anything but.

This time, he had written to request her, and the Inquisition's aid. Demons had infested the Plains, and forced the armies to turn their attentions away from each other and on them. From the tone of the letter, it sounded as if the situation was dire, and that both sides were losing ground to the demons. It worried her, to hear that her father was now facing a force of demons, with no real way to get rid of them short of an Inquisitor.

While they could not interfere in the civil war of a nation, they could deal with the rifts and rid the Plains of demons. As valiantly as the Chevaliers fought, they could not hope to defeat what must seem like a limitless force of demons. At the very least, Marceline had hoped that once the demons were gone, that both sides could come to a ceasefire--at least until a time in which a more permanent solution could be found. She may be able to sleep a bit easier at night to know that her father was no longer in any immediate danger. Probably not, all things accounted for, but it would be at least some semblance of peace of mind, for one thing at least.

As it was her father who had sent the letter, she had accompanied the rest of the Inquisition into the field. Not only accompany, but she took point as they approached the battlefield. She wished that their pace was quicker, but was intelligent enough to know the value of patience. Still, that did not help with the knowledge that her father was somewhere out there, fighting against demons. Beside her, Michaël rode and she knew he was worried as well. For her father, yes, but by the many glances he'd given her during the journey, he was worried about her as well.

"I am fine, Micky," she said after the latest glance, perhaps a little more tersely than she meant to. He grunted in answer, something she took as him not entirely believing her.

Ser Leonhardt, riding a bit behind but still within earshot, glanced towards the horizon. Or at least it seemed like he did; it was hard to say for sure when he wore the helmet. “We shouldn't be much further out," he said, voice slightly muffled and slightly echoing. He was still easily audible, however.

A scout emerged from behind one of the hills on their right, one of the Inquisition's. He signaled with a low whistle, and waved an all clear. That was their cue to lead the horses off the main road, and they did so quickly, picking up the pace a bit to urge their mounts over the incline. They descended down a slope after that, following the scout into a patch of dry ravines, with pathways forming naturally between high rock walls. A few bridges attempted to span them, but most had been destroyed, either by time or by the more recent fighting. In either case, going into the shadow of the cliffs led them to the scout camp.

Lia was waiting for them, bow in hand. She looked on edge. By the looks of things, the scouts were dealing with several wounded, though none of them looked seriously injured. She waved a half-hearted greeting and met them at the edge of the camp.

"Lady Marceline. Commander. Glad you guys could make it in one piece. This place is a mess, worse than the Hinterlands ever were. You didn't encounter any trouble on the way in I hope?"

Marceline shook her head, "We met only a few demons, stragglers I believe. Nothing that we could not sufficiently deal with ourselves," Lady Marceline answered. She glanced behind her, toward Asala, but it seemed as if the young woman did not need to be asked, as she was already off of her horse and heading toward the injured scouts. Instead, she nodded and turned back toward Lia. "Was it them that did this?" Marceline asked.

"Bandits, actually," Lia replied grimly. "Or rebels, or whatever. Scum. We've encountered a group called Freemen of the Dales here. Recent, mostly deserters from one side or the other. Which means they're better trained than average highwaymen. Took us by surprise while we were dealing with some demons. We managed to get clear, though." A scout groaned from the camp behind her, prompting Lia to turn her head and look on in concern for a moment, but she shook it off. "I'm not sure if they're based somewhere here, or if they've got larger operations elsewhere. Oh, uh." She glanced around the head of one of the horses, trying to find Khari's eyes. "I spotted a Dalish clan across the Plains. Staying clear of the fighting, I think. I couldn't spare anyone to find out what clan, though."

“Yeah... I think I know who that is." Khari nodded to Lia, an expression of thanks, it seemed. “Probably won't be an issue, though. They'd prefer not to get involved if possible."

"Makes sense." Lia looked back to Marceline. "Gaspard's forces are the closest, or at least a portion of them. They're holding the ramparts north of here against the demons. Can't say how well they're doing, and we don't have the manpower to assist. Well, now we do."

Romulus nodded. "I'll do what I can for the rifts."

"Cool. I can take you out of the ravines, but I'll need to come back here after that. Bit too busy managing my people to come along. We've got our hands full here."

"Any word of my father?" Marceline added tentatively. She tried to wash the worry out of her voice before she spoke, but she was afraid she was not able to get it all, judging by the comforting hand Michaël placed on her back.

"No," Lia answered, in a carefully measured tone. "I'm sorry. Trying to break through to either side was too great a risk, and I've got wounded to take care of already." She glanced sideways for a moment, and then gestured. "Let me just get my horse, and we'll head out now."

Marceline frowned and nodded, "I understand, thank you Lia."

They waited for Lia to get mounted, and the followed her through the ravine. The air as the rode proved to be oppressive, at least, it had for Marceline. It felt as if a demon or these Freeman Lia spoke of could ambush them at any moment. Marceline kept her eyes to their flanks, hoping to catch them before that could happen. The smell of blood and death soon pervaded the air, and Marceline figured that meant that they were getting close. Soon enough, she was proven correct, as they soon caught sight of the ramparts over the next bend.

A squad of Chevaliers were posted near what she could tell was the entrance-- a wooden bridge over a moat. Inside was a series of wooden barricades and a number of trenches. "Those are Gaspard's men alright," Michaël noted, and Marceline agreed. They wore the Grand Duke's color, red, accented with a bronze hued armor. Michaël sighed deeply beside her and shook his head, "I remember fighting in ramparts like those... trench warfare is never easy," he said sounding rather tired himself. Marceline glanced at him and placed a hand over his own, and gave it a comforting squeeze. He was pulled from a battlefield just like this one to serve with the Inquisition with her. Seeing it again... couldn't have been easy.

"Good luck. I hope your search goes well," Lia said, wheeling her horse about. She took off back for the scout camp.

As they drew closer, it was easier to see that the trenches themselves were filled with fog or mist; it smelled vaguely rancid as well. That was unsurprising; oftentimes, all there was time for in situations like this was burning the bodies, if that, and the demons were no doubt further complicating matters.

Their horses' hooves almost crunched over dried, yellow-brown grass; the hasty grey-wood construction of the ramparts was hardly a nicer sight to look upon. The bridge over to the main portion of the holdings was occupied by two chevaliers, one of them wearing an armband that suggested at least some officer rank or other. They were both immediately cautious of the approaching band of mounted soldiers, drawing their weapons and holding them ready.

"Who goes?" demanded the officer. The other looked ready to give a signal to the rest of the squad at any moment.

"The Inquisition, ser," Marceline answered. She was a bit on edge as she spoke, as she did not know how well the Chevaliers would react to meeting both Michaël and herself. He was once an enemy chevalier, and she herself was the daughter of the Marshall of the opposition's forces. However, their stance seemed to relax once she introduced themselves as the Inquisition, though they still kept their weapons in their hands.

The guards exchanged glances between each other before they looked back to her and the one spoke again, "You are here... about the demons, yes." There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

Lady Marceline nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, ser. We are," she said, glancing at Romulus. "This is our Inquisitor, Romulus," She said, introducing him to the soldier.

A flash of recognition crossed the Chevalier's face and he placed a hand over his heart in a salute. "Oh, good," the one soldier answered, deeply exhaling. "Well met Inquisitor," he added. "We have been trying to retake the ramparts from the dead... They rise here, somewhere within the trenches," she said, tossing a wary glance over his shoulder and into the trenches in question. Marceline also noticed Michaël wincing when the soldier spoke of the trenches.

"Have you..." Marceline began, "Have you heard any news of Marshall Lucas LĂ©cuyer?"

The soldier then squinted at her and then nodded his head, "You are his daughter, yes? We had heard that the Inquisition employed her--you. No milady, I am afraid I have not," he answered, seeming rather apologetic about it. The gesture did manage to relax Marceline a little, but still. "Communications have been difficult, since the demons. Perhaps our commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx would know, but we have retreated to Fort Revasan. He has ordered it locked down until we have cleared the ramparts of the demons. It has been going... poorly," the soldier said, shaking his head.

“Where do you need reinforcements?" Ser Leonhardt asked, stepping forward slightly to make himself more visible, perhaps, though that was hardly an issue. “Is there a rift nearby here causing the trouble, or some location they seem to be dispersing from?"

"Deeper inside," the soldier answered, pointing toward the center of the ramparts. "There is a pit filled with corpses, and a... strange glowing light resting above it," He explained.

"The rift," Marceline stated, "That is the source of these demons, and the corpse pit may be the reason for all of the undead," she continued, glancing at Leon.

"Yes, there is another rampart, closer to the fort with the same affliction. We were given horns and orders to sound them once they have been cleared, to let the fort know they have been dealt with," the soldier said. "You will be able to gain entry afterward."

“Rift, huh?" Khari shrugged, glancing at Romulus for a moment. “Think we've got that covered. Let's get to it." She seemed, if anything, a little excited by the prospect, but it was subdued when compared with her usual expressions of the same.

Romulus did not look as excited, reaching into a pouch on his belt and extracting a small vial from it. He'd pulled the cork and downed its contents as quickly as it appeared, shaking his head briefly at the strength of it and blinking rapidly for a few seconds. His blade and shield in hand, he dismounted, starting forward.

Zahra wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her mouth formed a hard line. Unlike Khari, she hadn’t looked all that excited since they’d arrived in the Exalted Plains. Perhaps, it was the exertion of swinging on and off their horses, taking care of the straggler-demons Marcy had talked about. Exhausting work. She, too, dismounted but held the horses reins, as if she didn’t truly want to walk any further. She exhaled softly through her nose, “More Undead. Great.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Yonbibuns
Undead. Maggot-infested corpses crawling out from all those damned trenches, swaying like drunkards on their broken limbs, clacking their finger bones across too-heavy great swords, staring across at them with sightless sockets
 Zahra never wanted to see them again after Crestwood. Apparently life had a funny way of spitting in their faces. Not only did they have to deal with demons, but the undead, too. She was a fan of neither abominations. She couldn’t tell if the entire place smelt like wet dog or death. Maybe a putrid combination of both. She couldn’t decide which was worse. She’d already decided she hated it.

Hated that there was a beauty here, too. Buried beneath old ruins, and muddy trenches; hidden under centuries of war and slaughter and a stubbornness that prevented people from letting go of the place. Who would choose to live here? She wasn’t sure. The Dalish did. She supposed there was something worth holding onto. Though them being here was still important. She understood that well enough. Marceline’s father was here, somewhere: fighting a war of his own. Hopefully still alive. Marceline was worried. Rightfully so. The pinch to her brows, and the faraway gaze, read plain as day. However, it wasn’t looking promising. From all the corpses they’d seen face down in the muck
 they weren’t faring well.

Who could blame them for faltering? Undead creatures, and more demons than she could shake a stick at were hunkered across the hills. Skulking through the various trenches and palisades as if they owned the place. Bastards. Apparently there were bandits too—you’d think that they would’ve been busy fending off a common enemy rather than pilfering those who fell beneath them. Opportunists; something she also understood. These days, she agreed less and less with the sentiment.

They were approaching a bridge. Surrounded by the sharp wooden spikes, piercing up towards the sky like spines set across the lip of the trenches—presumably to keep their enemies at bay. There were armored bodies, as well as remnants of the undead, rankled through them, as if both had been pushed and impaled. A last stand that ended badly for both parties. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Burnt flesh, rotting flesh; insects and wet earth. An awful mixture. Smoke wept into the gray skies. Everything felt so bloody heavy.

A soon as they were halfway across the wooden bridge, the moans began. A crooning sound above the eerie silence. Two arrows thudded in front of Rom’s feet, twanging to a halt. It didn’t take long for the source of the noise, and assault, to reveal themselves. Several undead were peeling out of the inner structure, clambering out of the trenches, steel-plated or wearing leathers. The insignia's etched across their chests and backs were familiar. Another volley of arrows sang through the air, zipping past their heads.

Zahra was already notching her own arrow, ducking behind a row of wooden spikes to give her some cover.

“Hold your noses and have at it, eh?" Khari was, predictably enough, the first into the fray, red braid trailing behind her like a brighter version of one of the drooping pennants still affixed to the occasional stake in the palisade. Proud battle-line markers once, signs of greyed-out fatigue and decay now. But not her.

She body-checked one of the undead back into the pit it had crawled out of. From the thudding and wet squelches, she'd delayed the ascent of at least a few more. Her cleaver mowed down another, putrefying flesh no match for solid steel, however chipped and cracking the blade had become over time. Like her, perhaps, always coming away with a new mark or bruise or scar, but undiminished. Glorying in the fact, even, if the throaty sound of her laughter was anything to go by. She spun, chopping into another's torso all the way to the spine and casting it off her blade with a foot. Back into the pit it went, still for good this time.

Leon moved to his work with a soft little sigh, almost under his breath, but Zahra could hear it. It sounded exasperated and perhaps a little bit fond; it was almost certainly directed at Khari's enthusiasm. or rather the woman herself. For all his mildness, he was certainly no less violent when it came right down to it, shouldering his way to the front with a sort of deliberate intention, though the expression on his face was left to guesswork. The helmet obscured him considerably.

When the first of the creatures swung a mace for him, he simply weathered the blow, letting it clang off his plate armor. Abruptly, he reached for the weapon on its rebound, giving a hard tug and yanking the possessed corpse forward into his knee. The muffled snap was most likely the cracking of its spine or pelvic bone—he'd hit too low for it to only be ribs. He shoved it back into the pit as well, turning smoothly to slam his armored gauntlet into the next one's unprotected head, snapping its neck back with a slightly-sharper crunch. It dropped like a stone.

Michaël sighed as well, though Zahra could tell his was far more earnest and detached. He lacked the spirit and enthusiasm Khari held for the battle at hand, and even seemed tentative to jump in with the rest. He gave Lady Marceline one last glance before he pulled his armored mask over his face and dove into the battle behind the others. The sound of a pair of longswords scraping out of their sheathes accompanied his plunge into the undead.

The first shambling corpse didn't get the chance to attack him, his first blade piercing the thing's chest before the other looped around and lopped off its rotten head. A heavy kick saw the corpse dislodged from his blade and crashing into another that was caught behind it. With the next step, he twisted his body and began a spin while he held both blades out. A full rotation saw the blades crash into the next one, tearing through its arm and digging deep into its torso. The force of momentum saw the swords rip free of its body, leaving the undead to twirl limply into the ground.

Lady Marceline stood a safe distance behind him, and dealt with any undead that managed to get around him. Zahra could tell that the stress of worry was beginning to affect her as her technique suffered, and was replaced by a yet to be seen fierceness.

Rom took the sides of the fight, not bothering with the confined quarters of the trenches and instead climbing onto the ramparts around them, where some of those undead archers had taken up positions. He sprinted forward, staying low, catching one arrow on his shield as he went, and stepping in swiftly to meet the first archer before it could draw another projectile. Their bodies were weak and decayed; he reached out, grabbing the thing's head and sawing through the neck, cutting it clean off. The corpse continued to stumble around without its head, but he soon kicked it over and sent it tumbling away.

A second was behind it, already aiming, but Rom ducked low, the arrow passing over his shoulder as he lunged in. He reached with his left hand, grabbing hold of the creature's exposed spine. It hissed in displeasure, but a few seconds and a green glow later it had exploded in half, the small burst of energy from his mark obliterating that block of its spine. It fell in two pieces to the ground. Rom had been about to move on when the top half grabbed hold of him, empty hands clutching at his boots. He yanked his foot free and stomped down on its head, lip curling in disgust.

Asala remained in the rear, though her presence in the fight could still be felt. Barriers sprung to life to in front of whomever needed it most, blocking the arrows from the undead that Romulus had yet to get to. When her barriers were doing that, however, she was using them to funnel and stagger their foes into their frontline fighters so that they wouldn't get overwhelmed. The layout of the ramparts helped her in that regard, the tighter quarters requiring less extensive use of her spell. However, once every now and then, an undead was crushed by the careening force of a shield being swept across it.

Several arrows sliced through the air and thumped into soft-fleshed skulls, felling or incapacitating them for the others to finish off. Plucked in quick succession from behind the general safety of the wooden spikes. A terse grin tugged at the corners of her lips, though it felt more like a grimace on her face. She could see everyone from where she was, advancing down into the trenches, and circling around the main body of undead. Marcy had not escaped her vision either. Her struggles, or sluggish movements, did not go by unnoticed. Zahra shouldered the bow in lieu of her rapiers and stepped down into the muck beside her.

“I’ve got your back—” the rest of her words were interrupted by a clang of metal as a flanged mace bit down overhead. She parried the blow, and allowed the mace to sink its teeth across the blade, dragging the gawping creature off-balance, so that she could sever its head from its shoulders with her second blade. It thumped and rolled away from their feet. The body shuddered and flopped to the side, still as a corpse should be. It hadn’t taken her long to regroup as she circled to Marcy’s flank and swept an incoming blow away. She’d never seen Marcy fight like this before
 but if she was faltering, she would be her blade.

Though it came slower than usual, Marcy's rapier lashed out all the same and pierced the forehead of the undead that Zahra had just deflected. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she nodded, the appreciation surprisingly clear in her usually subdued body language, and though she wore her silverite mask, her crystal blue eyes read it as well.

The undead couldn't stand against their small group, and as they advanced deeper into the ramparts, the sounds of other fights rang over theirs. The squad of Chevaliers they'd seen were not want to stand around and watch while the Inquisition dealt with their problem for them. With the extra hands, it wasn't long before they'd fought their way to the center of the encampment. Their destination was clear, as ahead of them a rift pulsed with energy above a pit. The smell of death and decay wafting from the pit was almost overpowering, probably holding who knew how many corpses for the rift to raise.

"Romulus, please?" Marcy asked, burying her nose within the shoulder of her cape.

Even Rom appeared bothered by the stench, suppressing a cough. He lifted his hand, the mark crackling to life and latching onto the rift. The number of dead here meant that the Veil had been weakened significantly more than usual. Or at least, that was how these things usually went. More dead, more demons. Still, he didn't seem to have any great difficulty in getting the rift to snap shut with a loud crack, allowing them to freely access the bodies. As soon as he wasn't required, Rom made to put some distance between the dead and himself.

"Asala, can you," she paused for a moment to cough and shook her head, "Can you set fire to the bodies? They deserve better but... We must ensure that the undead will not continue to rise," she added.

Asala had a spell in her hand and pressed to her face, and judging by her reactions to the scent it appeared to be filtering the air far better than their clothes were. She nodded and quickly made her way to the pit, tossing down a small fire spell. Though not in her usual repertoire, the bodies were dry enough that the flame caught instantly, and in only a few moments the whole pit was engulfed. Still, the scent lingered, and with the issue dealt with, they didn't need to linger so they made their way back to the bridge.

Along the way, they ran into the soldier they'd spoken to earlier, and though he seemed more battle worn than when they first met, it was clear that their actions had raised his spirits. When they approached, the soldier was in the midst of ordering his squad to mop up any undead that were left and then take defensive positions around the ramparts. "Hail, Inquisition," he said, raising a hand in greeting, before he placed his hand over his heart in a greeting. "We are... truly grateful, for your aid. We could not have closed the rift, as you say, on our own," he said.

"You are welcome, Ser," Marceline answered with a polite bow, though even Zahra could tell that she was anxious to keep moving. Her father was not there, after all, and undoubtedly the woman wished him found soon.

The soldier scratched his head, almost ashamed in asking, "I fear there remains one more, to the north. If Fort Revasan is to be opened, it will need to be dealt with as well." Another soldier approached the first as he spoke, a horn in hand. He received it and turned back to the group, "But for this one, we can handle the rest." With that, he blew into it, sounding it with a deep breath. The call would reach deep into the plains, and into the fort in question. "We wish you luck, Inquisition, and... I hope you find your father well, Lady Marceline," he added.

With a distinct direction to head in, Khari took the lead. Of those present, she seemed least affected by the pervasive smell of death, though why so was hard to say. In any case, it made sense enough to have someone with heavier armament in the front, and it worked out for the better when they reached the northern ramparts on horseback.

The battle there had spilled out onto the surrounding plains, undead having shuffled away from their pits to give ambling pursuit to what looked like only a few heavily-injured chevaliers. Clearly, these had not fared as well as their comrades to the south, but they fought on grimly. Upon catching sight of them, Khari spurred her horse forward, the momentum of its charge carrying her past three corpses before she used her legs to wheel it around. The blade of her cleaver came away black-red with foul ichor, but then she was maneuvering back into the fray, and Zahra's attention forced to her own battles.

There were more, this time, but they were no mightier, and the Inquisition did not flag. When the last had fallen, Khari, still mounted, shook her sword free of as much blood as possible and set it across her lap. “Fort Revasan now, right?" She seemed eager to get there, if without mentioning why.

“Indeed," Leon confirmed, flicking his armored fingers to cast the blood off his gauntlets. He swung back astride his horse with deceptive lightness, pointing her nose to the east. The clicking of his tongue was audible, though trapped behind his helm, and this time, he led.

The plains were oddly empty, for the battlegrounds of a Civil War. But then, by now surely even the soldiers out here had heard that peace talks were imminent. At least imminent by political standards. So the fighting in the fields had died down, but not nearly for long enough that the wildlife had resumed normal activity in the area. Until the fort itself came into view over the horizon, they and their mounts were the only living things to be seen for as far as Zahra could tell.

Fort Revasan was built upon a rock formation, tucked back against the edge of the forest in the rear. Elevated well above most of its surroundings, the well-maintained edifice was only quite small for such a building. But then, it was likely also quite old, a better testament to its effectiveness than mere capacity. They were forced to approach the gate no more than two abreast; Leon dropped back to allow Michaël to ride beside Marceline. He seemed to be inclined to leave the talking to her.

A small team of chevaliers stood guard at the mouth of the gate. On their approach, they shifted into a defensive stance, no few shields rising to greet them. Their caution was warranted as a number of lifeless corpses littered the path, many pushed off to the side and out of the way. Rotten blood was even still present on the chevalier's weapons. "Halt!" one called, "Not a step further. What business do you have with Fort Revasan?" he asked suspiciously. Who could blame him, with that they had to contend with.

"The Inquisition, Ser," Marcy answered. The name seemed to have relaxed a few of them, but regardless their shields and weapons remained raised. "We have aided your men in closing the rifts and cleared the undead from the ramparts. You have heard the horns, no? We wish to speak with your commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx," Marcy said, the impatience growing in her voice. It was subtle, but Zahra saw Michaël lean in and rest a hand in the small of her back. The touch seemed to take some of the tension out of her shoulders.

The soldiers exchanged glances amongst each other before they finally set their weapons aside. "We have, milady. That was your doing then?" the chevalier asked, who received a nod of Marcy's head in response. "You have our thanks then. The Marshall will want to see you," the chevalier then glanced toward the gate and shouted something in Orlesian. Not long after, the gates leading into the fort parted and the chevaliers moved to allow them passage.

The inside appeared as old as the outside, the masonry having cracked from age and grass growing between the stones that made up the floor. A number of chevaliers resided inside, in various states of rest. Upon their admittance, many of their eyes were turned to them, some curious, some suspicious. However, Marshall Proulx was easily made out from the ordinary rank and file. The man was outfitted in finely crafted bronze colored armor with an ornate tallhelm, accented with the Grand Duke's scarlet red. He and what appeared to be a few of his advisors stood over a table that held what was most likely a map of the region.

"The Inquisition, yes?" he said, stepping around the table to greet them properly. "We heard the horns sounding from here, I assume we have you to thank for clearing out the dead from the ramparts?" he asked.

"Yes, Ser," was the only answer Marcy offered.

"Maker's breath, then there's hope for us yet," he said.

However, before he could go much further, Marceline posited a question of her own. "Marshall, if I may?" she began, and continued without waiting for his answer, "Your men said that you may be our best chance for any news of my father--Marshall Lucas LĂ©cuyer?" she asked, worry and impatience infecting her tone.

"Lucas... Lady Marceline then?" he asked, tilting his head, though his face was obscured by his tallhelm. "Uh, yes. I sent scouts out before we locked the gates. The last they saw was that he and his men were falling back to the old Citadelle du Corbeau, fending off undead all the while. We have... not heard of them since, I fear," he said, and through his tone, it was clear he did not have much hope for his chances. "Lucas was a good man, despite our being on different sides of the war," he added.

Marcy didn't have much to say after that, instead sighing deeply and leaving the conversation outright, heading into some other part of the fort. Michaël lingered for a moment after, but spared Leon an apologetic glance before chasing after her.

Leon took up the thread of conversation easily enough, but he didn't dither before asking the question he seemed to find salient. “The Citadelle. Is there anything we should know about it?"

The Marshall's eyes followed Marcy for a moment before they returned to Leon's. "Heavily defended, built to outlast anything thrown against it. and ancient elven make, much like this fort. I am afraid I do not know much more than that, Lucas was keen on keeping us as far away as possible in spite of our many attempts, as I am sure you can understand, but if the demons have gotten inside..." he said with a shake of his head. "He had honor, unlike these undead curs," he added, spitting through his tallhelm.

A sigh also sifted from Zahra’s lips as she rounded to Leon’s right side, arms crossed over her chest. There was a spattering of gore freckled across her cheek and nose, though she hadn’t taken any notice. She doubted she looked any worse than the others, especially Khari. The way she traipsed out of battles, one might’ve thought that she’d doused herself in blood and
 ichor. She glanced over her shoulder at Marceline, hounded closely by her husband. Only for a moment. While she harbored the same doubts, she understood holding onto the hope that her father was alive.

“Had. Was. Poor words, serah,” she didn’t feel as if she needed to explain herself. Realistic as she was, she might’ve chosen a gentler route. Probably only because she considered Marcy a friend. Besides, there was no proof that he’d perished. Not yet, at least. “I’d bet a hundred gold that we’ll find more surprises than we’d like inside. Best not to keep them waiting.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
"Marcy, wait."

Michaël's voice barely registered, Lady Marceline's mind working far to fast for her own good. She had tried to get a handle on her emotions, but the thoughts of her father fighting off what must seem like an endless onslaught of undead always resurfaced. She knew the others could tell too, it wasn't something she could play off. Her feelings in this were written clearly on sleeve. She was both ashamed and embarrassed to have let them see the weakness, but she couldn't help it.

If he was fighting against Gaspard's troops alone, he would be away from the bulk of the fighting, organizing the men and formulating strategies, safely tucked away in a command tent. But by the Marshall's own words he was being pushed back by the undead. She knew her father, Lucas was not one to be the first one in a retreat--he'd fight alongside his men the entire way. He would put his men's lives above his own. It was the honorable thing to do, but dammit, it worried her.

"Marcy," Michaël's voice rang again, this time followed by a firm hand on her shoulder. He turned her to face him and placed his other hand on the opposite shoulder. "Calm down. This is not you," he said, dropping his shoulders so as to be eye-level with her.

"Is it not?" she snapped back, "Do you know how worried I was when it was you fighting in the war? And now it is my father, except he is fighting undead monsters. I thought I was done with this when I got you back, Micky, but now it is my father," she said, shaking her head. At least she could expect some form of clemency from Gaspard's troops, demons and undead were not merciful, nor did they rest.

"Marcy," he said again, this time a tone of chiding in his voice. "Ser Lucas is a tough bastard, it will take more than shambling corpses to bring him down, his pride wouldn't allow it. Think about it. If he made it back to the Citadelle, then with the way it is built, he could defend it for months."

She could feel some of the tension leaving her as he spoke. He was correct. Her father was resourceful, he would not be brought down so easily. She sighed and nodded in agreement, while he continued speaking, "But he will need our help, just as Ser Proulx did. We are the only ones who can close those rifts. Come on Marcy, he is waiting on you."

She nodded in agreement and finally allowed herself to smile at him. While the worry was still present, and her mind continued to wander into dark places, she was at least steeled enough to keep moving forward. She reached out and drew him to a hug, whispering, "Thank you Micky," into his ear before letting him go.

A throat cleared softly behind her. Ser Leonhardt, having removed his helmet temporarily, stood a polite distance away. “Lady Marceline. Ser MichaĂ«l. We're ready to make for the Citadelle. There was little of use they could tell us about it, but... we'll see when we get there." He paused a moment, glancing between them almost uncomfortably before violet eyes settled on Marceline. “For what it's worth, the situation may not be as impossible as it seems. I have fought more demons than I care to count; sound military strategy isn't that different from what you'd use to defend against humans. Given the recency, there is much cause for hope." He didn't sound like he was merely trying to reassure her, either—though perhaps it would be unwise to underestimate a Seeker's ability to deceive, he seemed quite genuine.

"Of course, Ser Leon. We should hurry, in any case," she agreed. She spared a glance for Michaël, and inclined her head for him to follow before she began to make her way to their horses.

Once all of them were once again mounted, they set out from Fort Revasan. The journey, as those before, was rather uninteresting; landscape blurred by around them as they pushed the horses into a swift, ground-eating canter.

The Citadelle itself was from the outside built entirely into a stone wall, the only break being a wooden gate, flanked by two large statues of wolves. Torches burned in sconces at the gate, a sure sign of occupation, but as the Inquisition approached, there was a heavy banging sound, followed by a cracking split: the gate had burst open from within.

Khari was off her horse before it had even stopped, sliding off the saddle and already reaching back for her sword. She brought it around in just enough time to block a heavy ice spell. It coated the blade in frost, tiny spiderweb cracks appearing in the battered metal and filling with pale ice. She hissed when it got all the way up to her hand, but did not stop, barreling forward towards the splintered gate and swinging for the creature that had emerged.

It was a twisted thing, a corpse like most of the others, but clearly swifter and more aware. And able to use magic. An Arcane Horror, then. Certainly not a trivial foe. Khari swung and missed, the creature shifting quickly out of her way. Her sword clanged off the stone underfoot with a harsh sound, but she didn't relent, using the momentum of the rebound to keep moving, forcing it away from the gate towards the others, and open space enough to fight it many-against-one.

Leon moved forward to meet it, a heavy punch nearly connecting with the Horror's midsection. Instead, it glanced off the creature's emaciated ribcage, or so it seemed, producing a thud but not near the wet cracks and crunches that were usually indicative of his blows against the weak flesh and bones of the undead. It issued a wave of telekinetic force, a spell of some kind, evidently. Leon was forced a hard step backwards, and Khari several, though she kept her feet. With the time unimpeded, the Horror moved its hands, generating a blood-red sphere of energy which sank into the ground just in front of them.

With thuds and showers of soil and debris, more corpses emerged, just behind the rear line of the Inquisition. These looked to be stronger than the usual dead—most of them were fully armored in rusted plate or chain, and carried weapons that still looked to have honed edges, if encrusted in grave dirt. The shapes of their helms were more similar to the one Vesryn was known to wear than any chevalier's mask and helm she'd ever seen.

Leon's attention remained on the Horror; he went almost still for a moment. As if in response, the creature's limbs locked up as though it were paralyzed in place; how long it would hold was impossible to say, but it seemed to be unable to do much but hold itself in the air.

Romulus was quick to attempt to capitalize on the opening, sprinting in from behind on the Arcane Horror and leaping up onto its back, stabbing his blade down where he could find purchase. His aim was thrown off by the fact that his interference seemed to get the creature moving again, and its feet set down on the ground with the added weight thrown onto its back. It shrieked in pain at the weapon piercing into it, but was quick to respond, throwing a bolt of spirit magic that struck the Inquisitor and threw him from its back. Turning about, it unleashed a barrage of smaller spirit projectiles, twisting and spinning through the air in clusters of three, impossible to block. Romulus did his best to dodge them after scrambling to his feet, blocking one or two on his shield, but more slipped through, driving him further backwards.

"Um, undead behind us," Asala said, turning her back on the Horror and facing the encroaching undead. Barriers were already springing to her hands, but these undead were unlike the rank and file, and would undoubtedly prove much more trouble than their lone mage could handle on her own. Fortunately she was not alone.

Michaël took the first few steps away from the Horror and replied. "I see them, girl. Let's keep them away from the others," he said before cautiously moving toward them.

"Asala, keep him safe," Marceline asked, before turning her attention on the Horror to her front. With its attention focused on Romulus, it wouldn't see her slip in behind it. Several quick steps brought her within range, and she drew back her rapier and thrust, aiming for the center of the spine poking through its gaunt skin. It proved tough to bite through, but she had hit it square enough that it did punch through. She withdrew the rapier in order to strike again, but the one was enough to take its attention off of Romulus and onto her. Before she could connect with the second strike, it whirled around and brought the knuckles of its skeletal hand across the side of her face with surprising force.

It was enough to tear the silverite mask from her face and leave a bead of blood dripping from her temple. Disoriented, Marceline stumbled a couple of paces away, and by the time she regained her senses, the Horror was already in the process of readying another spell, this one intended for her.

It probably shouldn't have taken its eyes off its more heavily-armed opponents. Khari slammed into the Horror from behind, leading with the blade of her sword. She shattered one of its shoulderblades, from the dull crunching sound, but more alarming was the sharper, uncomfortably-grating snap. With a clang, the top third of her blade fell to the stone below; Khari looked for a moment wide-eyed and unsure.

That was enough; the Horror did not waste time trying to strike her physically, instead throwing a cannonball-sized orb of flames directly for the elf. It struck her in the chest, knocking her from her feet and forcing her to deal with putting it out before she'd be of any use otherwise. The Horror took the opportunity to evade, disappearing in a plume of smoke and reappearing considerably to everyone's left. It hurled several more of the fireballs for the rest of them, relentless in its aggression.

Leon pursued, ducking under one fireball and deflecting the other with a swift motion of his gauntlet. It was difficult to tell if he was hurt by the need to do it, under all the armor, but from the way the metal smoked faintly even afterwards, it was a fair bet he'd been burned beneath it. This fact did not stop him from interrupting the next spell with the same hand, slamming it upwards into the Horror's jaw and snapping its head back.

The creature was dazed, but before he could finish it off, one of the other corpses escaped Michaël, Asala, and Zahra's attempts to keep them pinned and slashed at his back. He whirled to counter, leaving the Horror listing awkwardly sideways, still, it seemed, insensate.

Before the Horror could make another move the Inquisitor was on it, having charged back into the fight from being thrown away earlier. He tackled it fully to the ground, shield hand slamming into one of its wrists and redirecting a last fireball off to the side. His blade plunged down into it, first its chest, and then when it didn't die its face, once, twice, a third time. The Horror's jaw held on by a thin string of decayed flesh, and then fell away entirely, the undead abomination making struggling gurgles as it attempted to rise.

Romulus ripped his blade free, getting halfway to his feet before the Horror made one last attempt at a lunge upwards. Growling, Romulus stabbed his blade back down one more time, puncturing through the corpse's skull and ending it. He planted his foot on its chest and shoved it off, the thing falling back down in a heap. Any of the remaining undead it had raised around it fell as well, their bodies animated only through the Arcane Horror's power. Romulus glanced around at the party's other members, eyes lingering on Khari for a moment. He glanced down at the broken piece of her sword, then back to her, obviously unsure what, if anything, to say.

She didn't seem quite sure what, if anything, to say herself. For what seemed a long moment, she just stared at her broken sword, still fixed to one of her hands by rapidly-melting ice. Her lips parted, but then closed again. She cleared her throat, putting what remained of the sword back in the system of straps she suspended it from on her shoulders, and stooped to pick up the fragmented end, turning it over in her fingers.

“Guess I hit harder than I figured." She half-smiled, but it was thin; the joke fell more than a little flat. Shaking her head, she gripped the chunk of metal by the blunt side and turned towards the broken gate. “Don't uh... don't think we're gonna get a better invitation. Let's go."

"Yes... Let's," Marceline answered as she rose. She gingerly rubbed the side of her temple as she did, wincing from the lingering pain. Michaël soon, approached however, and stopped in front of her. His own armor was covered in ichor, but fortunately none of his blood. He did seem tired, though not tired enough not to pull the gauntlet off of his hand to rub the streak of blood off of her face. He offered her an apologetic smile, one she repaid with a sincere smile of her own. She gave him a gentle squeeze before moving to fetch her mask and slipping it around her belt.

With the battle done, Marceline led the others to the now open gate leading into the Citadelle, but stopped only a few steps in. A overpowering rumbling noise reverberated through the stronghold and its source was unmistakable. A large gout of flame swung haphazardly and bathed the ruined stonework of what seemed like a courtyard in fire. Scorch marks guided the flame's pattern, and the little wood remained was burning into ember. Marceline's heart sank with each pass of the fire. "Oh no," she stated, mutedly and taking a step backward. She was unable to get far however, as she backed into Michaël.

"I do not see any bodies here," he stated plainly, "They are probably deeper in the Citadelle, away from... whatever this is."

“It moves at regular intervals," Leon said quietly. “There is nothing to fear if we are swift." Glancing at the rest, as though to check that they were in form to be doing so. Nodding, he was the first to step out into the courtyard, apparently confident that he understood the patterns of the device's motion. Given the size of the fort, they didn't actually have that far to go, and all of them were able to make it inside the gate entrance on the other side before they were in any real danger of falling under the range of the beam.

From there, it was a climb to the top of the fortress, strewn with the bodies of the dead, both human and in some cases, longer-dead human. Demons, of course, dispersed on death and left nothing behind except the occasional dusting of ash or similar.

At the top of the Citadelle, they were met with another set of heavy wooden doors surrounded with a number of bodies--all wearing the purple of the Empress. The doors were gouged and scratched, claw marks biting deep into the wood, but it remained standing, tall and solid. There was no immediate way to open them, having no handles or bars to pull nor push. Marceline stood staring at the door for a moment, wondering if her father could truly be behind them, before Michaël's voice brought her elsewhere.

"This looks like the mechanism to open the door... and hopefully shut down these defenses," he said, pointing toward a large spoked wheel atop a stone ledge. "Commander, if you could give me a hand?" Michaël asked before moving to take one of the spokes in hand. Marceline had wandered from the door to watch them turn the wheel, and given the effort Michaël was applying, it appeared the wheel connected to somewhere deep within the keep. A moment later, and a loud thunk reverberated through the Citadelle, followed by an arcane racket--something she assumed was the magical defenses shutting down. Behind them, the heavy wooden doors swung open.

Marceline did not wait long before approached the doors, and within she was met with another set, this time made of iron bars and a frightened looking chevalier on the other side. He too wore the purple of Empress Celene, but more than that, she recognized her father's crest emboldened on the shoulder of his silver armor. She felt relief, for a moment, before the chevalier opened his mouth. "H-halt! Come no closer!" He stammered, "We have... We have swords!" he tried to threaten.

That was about all Lady Marceline could take. The only thing standing between and knowing what had become of her father was another chevalier blocking her entrance. Her brows furrowed and her frowned deepened in insult. She was tired of answering these questions with who they were, and what they were doing there, at frankly, she did not care what they thought at the moment. They were clearly not undead, nor demons--and by the lack thereof, had obviously dealt with them. "Hear me well, Chevalier. If you do not open this door right this moment," she said, in a calm monotone that belied the cold burn in the back of her throat, "I will see that you are stripped of both rank and title, and placed among the common soldier, am I understood? Now take me to my father this instant."

Marceline's pledge seemed to have jogged his memory, as he winced with recognition. "Lady Marceline! Uh, yes, of course. Right this instant. Understood," he said, ripping a set of keys from somewhere in his armor before fumbling with them trying to get them in the gate's keyhold before he roused anymore of Lady Marceline's wrath. In short time, the gates swung open, and she didn't waste any time waiting around to listen to the Chevalier's apologies, though she could hear Michaël offering some of his own behind her.

As Marceline descended deeper into the Citadelle, the noted that her father's troops were worse for wear that those of Marshall Proulx's. Their armor was damaged and they all seemed so... tired. But as she strode past them, their interest piqued, and those that sat began to stand. She could tell that some knew who she was, by those who inclined their heads as she passed-- a gesture she returned. Eventually, the Citadelle opened into a larger room, and sitting on a table against the far wall, she saw that familiar face. "Father," she murmured, all of her worry and dread evaporating in a single moment.

"Marcy?" her father asked. Lucas was not in the best shape she had ever seen him in. The top half of his armor was peeled away and placed in a heap beside the table. He was also without the headdress that came with his station, though she noticed that in a broken mess on the table beside him. He wore a dirty linen shirt, the sleeves of which were ripped, and the reason was apparent. Tatters of the cloth were used to sling his left arm, seemingly broken. He seemed... older, than she remembered, but facing against an army of demons and undead could do that to a man. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. "You are late," he said with a controlled smile, standing from the table where he sat.

He wasn't especially tall, or broad but he made up for it with sheer presence. Even injured and tired, Lucas stood with a proud and straight stance, and he greeted her with his head held high and an indomitable smile. "But we are here," she replied, crossing the room to stand in front of him. Marceline basked in his presence for a moment, as she used to do when she was once a young girl, before slowly wrapping him into a hug, one he returned with his sole good arm. "I am glad to find you... well," she said.

"Of course. I hope you did not expect any less," he said easily.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari brought her sword around to block just in time, gritting her teeth against the unpleasant metallic clang. Her breath was hard and fast in her lungs, but steady, even as Mick bore down with enough force to push her backwards, feet dragging in the dirt of the ring. Her lips peeled back, pulling into a snarl beneath the metal mask on her face, and Khari broke the lock by shifting abruptly to the side. She swung quickly for his midsection in the moment he needed to compensate for the force, but his right-hand sword turned hers aside at the last moment.

Close, but nothing.

It felt like this was the longest she'd been able to last against him. Time was a tricky thing in the middle of a fight, but often they reset dozens of times in a session. Her goal wasn't ever to win as such, but to never make the same mistake twice. Eventually she'd run out. She was doing pretty well for herself this time, though, and maybe if she kept her focus she could finally find the weak spot she knew had to be lurking somewhere.

They clashed again—she was much better at watching out for the offhand sword now, so the feint to the stronghand one didn't fool her, and she parried the blow actually intended to hit. She was vaguely aware of someone approaching the training ring, but they didn't register to her as armed and hostile, so she ignored them, swinging for Mick's legs on a step in.

He swung both swords parallel with each other, intercepting her blade before it could strike him. She was strong, but she didn't have the gift of Mick's size and she found his swords hard to budge. He didn't press his advantage from there however, as whoever had approached caused him to pause. "Hold up, mon ours, we have a visitor," he said, gesturing behind her with a tilt of his chin.

Khari huffed with frustration, a bit ticked that the fight had been stopped before she'd seen how long she could make it go. She wasn't in an especially charitable mood when she swung to see who it was, lowering the dull practice blade, and she couldn't say that got too much better when she found the answer.

“Oh hey, Marcy." She glanced at Mick, arching her eyebrows. “Practice over for today, then?" She figured if the Inquisition's ambassador was coming all the way down here for something, she probably needed to see her husband about family or business stuff. That was understandable enough, if a bit disappointing from her own perspective. She could always go see if Ves or Stel or Cy were done early enough to spar instead, she supposed.

Mick didn't answer immediately, instead looking over her head to Marceline and then up to the sky, judging the position of the sun. "Yeah, that will be it for today, though we will make up for it up next time, deal?" he offered. He wore a smile, and seemed to have enjoyed the challenge that she'd given him, and even he appeared to be a bit disappointed to have to stop. He glanced up at his wife one more time and nodded.

"I had hoped to catch you when you two were done," Marceline answered, shaking her head seeming rather disappointed in her own timing. "Khari, if you would kindly give me a moment of your time? There are some things I wish to discuss with you. Sorry, Micky," she added, giving her husband an apologetic smile.

For his part, he simply laughed and shrugged. "I'm sure, but why do you make it sound so serious?" he asked with goodnatured grin.

"Habit," she sighed in answer.

“Uh." Khari wasn't really sure how to answer, but frankly, she probably didn't really have options in the first place. Marcy used nice words for it, most of the time, but she was kind of at least partly in charge here, and Khari was not. The only thing she could think of was that she might be in trouble for taking Rom along when she went to see her family, because they weren't known allies and he was an Inquisitor and Marcy was kind of obsessed with keeping them away from anything that might give them a papercut. Or so it seemed sometimes.

But well... whatever. She'd deal with it if she had to. “Sure. Lead the way, I guess." She racked her practice sword, sloughing off her armor at a decent, if not rushed, pace and putting that in a neat pile to deal with later. It left her in a loose black tunic and dark brown trousers, tucked into her boots. She didn't wear a sword anymore—not since Intercessor had broken. The one she'd borrowed from the armory to replace it was in her room at the barracks. She didn't feel the same, carrying it around.

"Thank you," Marceline replied with a polite incline, which of course caused Mick to chuckle again.

Though, it did not last long, when he realized he'd be left to his own devices. He glanced down at the armor she'd shucked, and he shrugged. "I will see to your armor, I suppose," he said, before making his way over to it.

Marceline smiled and then departed, making her way along the familiar path back to the keep. As she walked, she spoke, perhaps in an attempt to start a bit of small talk, "Training is going well, I presume?" she asked.

Khari shrugged. “It's going. Feels like I'm getting better, so that's good, obviously." She found herself with a silence and not much else to say, so she turned her eyes out on the path as though she hadn't seen everything on it more times than she could count. She kind of wished she just knew what the hell this was about; she could count the number of times she and Marcy had really talked about anything on the fingers of one hand. And that was if she were being generous about what qualified as talking.

Lady Marceline hummed in answer, though did not offer much more. Apparently she decided that the attempt at small talk ended in failure, and therefore decided against trying again, as she remained silent the rest of the way to the keep. The path to Marcy's office was the usual one, through the main hall and at the door on the left. Once they reached the door, she opened it and stepped through, holding it open to then allow Khari to follow through.

Upon entering her office, there was a relatively new face in the Inquisition. A young blond woman sat at Marcy's chair, with Larissa lingering over her shoulder and pointing something out on a sheet of parchment. Apparently, this was the woman Marcy had spoken about during their last meaning, young Lady Félicité. From what she little she had heard, she'd been at Skyhold for the better part of a week or two. Though she acknowledged their entrance with a flick of her eyes, they immediately turned back to Larissa continuing to speak about the business at hand. "My uncle has the DuRellions' trust, a word from him will surely ease tensions," she said.

Larissa nodded in agreement, "If you can get word to Lord Mathis about this then, it would be of great help," she said before turning to greet Khari and Marcy, "Khari, milady," she said inclining her head to both before straightening.

"I will start on the letter soon then," Félicité answered, before she too turned to greet the two with a smile and incline of her head.

Marcy returned their greetings and spoke, "It sounds as if you two have been busy," she said with a proud smile, "I apologize, but may I have a moment to speak with Khari alone? I will find you afterward, I promise."

"Of course," Félicité spoke, rising from Marcy's desk. "Larissa, you said the Keep has a garden? I would very much like to see it." she asked kindly, which Larissa answered with a smile of her own before they finally departed, letting Marcy shut the door behind them.

She shook her head and stepped into the large room more fully then. "Mathis did not mention how much she knew of the Game before she arrived. The young woman is already quite... skillful," Marcy noted.

Yeah, and still not an adult. But Khari figured Stel had said most of what there was to say about that already, and it wasn't like her saying anything else was going to make any difference anyway. Even so, that didn't mean she had to wait around for Marcy to get to the point here. Surely there was one; she didn't seem like the kind of person to waste her own time, anyway.

“If you say so." She shrugged a little bit. “Uh... I'm just gonna ask. What's this all about, Marcy? 'Cause if it's about my clan, Rom was never in any danger. And I can promise you I would have been twice as mad as you if I turned out to be wrong about that. Which I wasn't."

Marcy actually seemed surprised for a moment before she shook her head, "Oh, no, no, do not worry. This is about an entirely different topic, I promise-- and I am not about to admonish you for anything either," she added waving it off. To her credit, she didn't seem upset or anything close to it, but that could just be another face she liked to put on. "I have no right to have any say on personal matters such as these. However, for whatever it is worth, it did sound as if it went far better than when I brought Michaël home to meet my parents," she said, though she said it with a nostalgic smile.

Khari didn't really see where the analogy was supposed to be there. “Uh... no offense, Marcy, but unless your parents thought you were dead up to that point and Mick was there to make sure you didn't run away before you got up the guts to tell them something that had been scratching at you since you were twelve, I'm not really sure the situations make sense as comparisons." Rom had come along because she'd asked him to be moral support while she tried to face possibly the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do in her life. Whatever Marcy thought the similarity was supposed to be there, Khari wasn't seeing it.

And she wasn't really comfortable talking about it any more than she already had. “So... are you gonna tell me what I'm here for? Because I suck at guessing. We'd be here all day."

Marcy only sighed and shook her head, though she did have a quirk of a smile near the end. "Ah, yes. I apologize, one moment please," she said before finally stepping away from Khari and started making her way to her desk. Instead of taking a seat at it, she knelt beside it and opened one of the larger drawers on the side. It didn't take any shuffling to find what she was looking for, and a second later she was returning to Khari with it in hand. It was a small darkly stained wooden box, but the oddest thing was a large purple bow keeping the lid closed.

She looked down at it for a moment and for once actually seemed awkward, as if she was unsure how to proceed from there. "It is a... gift. For you," she said, holding it out for Khari to take. "I wanted to personally thank you... for Michaël," she said, with what actually appeared to be genuine emotion written on her face.

For Mick? Khari didn't really understand what she meant by that, and accepted the box cautiously. It wasn't too heavy or anything, but there was enough heft to it to suggest that something maybe made of wood or metal was inside. Almost tentatively, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Khari tugged at the amethyst-colored ribbon, letting it fall away and lifting the lid of the box.

A soft breath hissed out from between her teeth when she laid eyes on the object inside. It was a mask, silverite from the sheen of it, styled in the battle-ready fashion of a chevalier's. The lines etched into it were similar to her vallaslin, centered on the cheeks and brow but sweeping further back and to the sides, sized to scale with the whole mask. They'd been blackened in an interesting way, rendered smoky grey against the bright silver.

No sooner had she taken that in than Khari was shaking her head emphatically. “No, no, no." She cleared her throat awkwardly, tearing her eyes from the object in the box to Marcy, her lips parting, then closing again, as she tried to find the words to explain. “Marcy, I can't... I can't accept this. I don't deserve it."

Marcy was quiet for a moment, tentative, though she did not appear upset. "Is there... a particular reason you say that?"

It was difficult to explain. Not in the sense that Khari didn't have the words—they were right there. The difficult part was, and always had been, explaining herself to anyone else in the way that got at the core of things. That bypassed her usual defenses and was just as honest as it was blunt. She swallowed. “I haven't earned it. This... this is something a chevalier wears. I haven't earned the right to it."

Her explanation seemed to put Marcy at ease, or at least enough so that she smiled genuinely. "I see. Regardless, I will not take it back," she answered, "It was crafted with you specifically in mind, and it will fit no one else." The formality that usually obscured her intentions seemed to ebb away, leaving her seeming surprisingly earnest with her words. "You need not wear it until such a time comes that you feel you have earned it, or you may throw it away, or hide it forever if you so desire. All that I ask is that you accept it... Please, you've done more for Michaël than you know."

Khari shook her head again, loose curls bouncing against the sides of her face. “I won't take it, Marcy. I can't. You don't understand—things like this might not be hard for you to come by, but this is... this is everything I want." Not the object itself, but what the act of wearing it would mean. “And there's only one way for me to earn it, no matter what you think I've done for Mick. I can't accept it. Not even just to get rid of it."

Not that she would; she could appreciate fine craftsmanship well enough, even if she was a shitty crafter herself. She sighed harshly, trying to find another way to put this so that it would make sense. “Look. Why don't..." She expelled another breath. “Keep it. And then... when I'm a chevalier—when I've earned this—give it to me again. And then you can refuse to take no for an answer. 'Cause I'm sorry, but right now, you're gonna have to."

"I see that you believe in this very strongly," Marcy said with a disappointed sigh, "Very well then, I will... hold on to this for you," she said, holding her hands out to take this gift back. "However, I would have you understand this Khari," she began, slowly closing the lid to the box, "At the time where I am compelled to begin calling you Ser Khari, you will accept this gift-- even if I must have Micky force it onto your face," she said, sternly... Though her visage soon broke with a smile, indicating the joke for what it was. "By then, I doubt I will even have to ask him."

Khari frowned, but nodded. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say." She probably wouldn't feel wrong about accepting something like this then—and it was pretty awesome, as far as masks went. She still wasn't sure Marcy had really understood her reasons, exactly, not in any significant way, but she thought maybe she'd gotten her point across enough for now.

“Anyway, uh... thanks for the thought, anyhow." It wasn't like Marcy could have known how she felt about this stuff, after all.

"Of course," Marceline said, with an incline of her head. "And thank you, Khari."

“...Sure thing, I guess."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
The day's practice was going well.

Once more, Lady Marceline found herself in the practice yard, rapier in hand and across from Zahra. However, today they had an additional student in their presence. On the other side of Zahra, Lady Félicité stood with a rapier of her own in hand. To the young woman's credit, Mathis did not send her to Skyhold completely unprepared, but it was clear that the woman never had been in a true fight nor perhaps even had a reason to be in one. Marceline could see it in her pace and movements. There was slow hesitation where there should be none, her thrusts were far too measured and predictable, both evidence of a practice regimen that did not expect to be utilized. It was a base, however, and something that could be built off of.

Zahra was a different story. She was growing, in both technique and speed. She'd come a long way from the woman who came to her with a decorative blade. Even Marceline had to admit her progress had made her proud-- though wisely, she would perhaps keep that knowledge to herself. There was no telling what the good Captain would do with that information, and she would prefer to keep all the ammunition she could out of her quiver, so to speak.

"You must be more decisive, Félicité," Marceline coached, "If someone wishes to do you harm, they will not wait patiently for you to act first, agreed Captain?"

Off a little to their side, Pierre watched the practice with great interest. Lady Marceline was not in charge of his self defense training, that honor fell to her husband. Their styles were exceptionally different and she felt for the child. Michaël didn't pull any punches, but regardless he was a fine teacher, and his style suited Pierre far better than hers. Though not a chevalier yet, it was clear that once he grew into his body, he would have the size of one. Even now, he was nearly her height and would soon surpass her in another year. However, for now, he sat curiously as he watched the practice, resting his chin on a crossguard of his own sheathed blade.

“Right,” Zahra hummed her assent. Sweat had already begun beading her brow. While she’d grown in leaps and bounds under Marceline’s tutelage, particularly compared to the poor performance in the beginning of her lessons, her endurance
 left a little to be desired. If the enemy could be felled quickly, there wasn’t any doubt she’d come out breathing. Facing someone who could parry her swings, and dance around with the intention of tiring her out? She’d be a puddle exhaustion; hands planted on knees, exposed neck begging to be cut into.

She stepped in beside FĂ©licitĂ© and patted her shoulder, eyeing her feet curiously. Manners, of course, were always optional for Riptide’s captain. If she understood who, or which family, the young woman belonged to, she certainly wasn’t showing it. It was doubtful, anyhow. She swept her rapier in front of them, eyes alight. “Gotta pretend like it’s real, kid—someone’s trying to end your life. Would you let them?” A rattling laugh sounded as she pointed the blade towards the sky, swirled it into a circle, before dropping it back to her side.

“Everything is a battle. Even lessons,” she stated over her shoulder, eyebrow raising a fraction, “An example, perhaps?” Her track record against Marceline was laughable. A number she admitted under her breath, rather than aloud. Twenty? One of them may have conveniently forgotten. Either way, she seemed to enjoy their sparring sessions, even if she was the one who ended up in the dirt.

"Try not to go too fast," Pierre called from the side, "Félicité cannot learn anything if you are going too fast to see!" he noted, followed by grin pointed toward the young woman herself. Marceline had seen that same grin plastered to Michaël's maw... It appeared as if their son was learning more from him than just self defense. Félicité for her part only laughed in response and nodded in agreement.

"Yes, if you do not mind, Lady Marceline?" she added.

Marceline shook her head, but she could not shake the smile. "Of course, I will try. Captain?" she called, raising her practice rapier so that it was parallel to the ground. She never was the first to move in these practices, nor did she intend to be the first.

Zahra’s grin only brightened. If she was anything, she was persistent as hell. It showed in her technique, or lack thereof. She lacked Marceline’s proprietary patience, her caution and discipline. Many things, actually. She operated with a devil-may-care attitude and squashed caution under her boots, instead of throwing it to the wind. She did not, however, hesitate. Ever. Neither did she wait for the other person to strike first.

An awful habit that usually had consequences.

She scuffed the ground with her boot and rounded her blade in front of her, mimicking Marceline’s stance. Hers, while decent, had obvious flaws; chinks that could be taken advantage of. At times, it was a ruse. Difficult to tell with someone like her. There was a slight bow of her head. As good as any indication that the match would begin. She advanced at a decent pace. Not quite running—perhaps, because that would’ve ended the match rather quickly. As soon as she closed the distance, her wild eyes widened, and she lunged, swinging for Marceline’s hip.

Marceline stepped backward in anticipation of the lunge. Now with a wider view of Zahra and her maneuver Marceline deftly countered, her own rapier fluttering to her side in an attempt to bat away the swing. Had she been equipped with her main-gauche, she would've then retaken the step and gone on the offensive with the dagger, but as it was a practice, and she was without the implement, she simply took another step back and reset her position to wait for a more opportune moment to strike.

"Always watch your opponent," she added, for Félicité's benefit, her own eyes never leaving Zahra.

Bat away it did. Marceline’s swift movement kept Zahra’s momentum flowing past her. It appeared as if it had taken her a moment to realize that she had to turn on her heels, in order to keep her flank from being exposed. The wry grin hadn’t left her lips, though she looked momentarily embarrassed as she circled around. She kept a relatively lax hold on her blade, until she licked her lips, and lunged again. This time, she aimed higher. Towards her shoulders.

From the way she angled her feet, it appeared as if she were anticipating to throw her weight to the side, afterwards. Perhaps, to level another strike to her opposing side.

She didn't throw herself out of range this time, Marceline would never be able to press an offensive if she always acted on defense. The longer the fight drew out, the more mistakes the opponent could potentially make, yes, but the same could be said for her. It was a delicate line to keep in balance, one that a single misstep could throw out of balance. It was unlike the Game in that regard.

Marceline dropped into a crouch, Zahra's blade whistling over her head, and from her low position struck upward with her own rapier. The move left Zahra in a more favorable position from above, but it also painted Marceline as a smaller target that she could protect. Give and take, as it were.

Though Marceline’s crouch had left Zahra in a better position, she’d been forced on the defensive, bringing the training rapier to deflect her strike in a less graceful manner. It appeared as if it had been an instinctive move, rather than one she’d been expecting to make. As clever as she could be, her style lacked the finesse of a chess board. She operated in equal measures of pure instinct and dumb luck—which was apparent with all the scars she’d acquired as of late, still managing to walk among them with little more than a grimace, and frequent trips to Asala’s clinic.

She took two steps back with a huff and grinned wide, eyeing Marceline through a lidded gaze. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if Zahra were enjoying herself, which wasn’t all too surprising given that she’d always tried to weasel out of her studies in order to spar and practice. She could’ve learned a thing or two from FĂ©licité’s measured, concise movements. Hers were made of wild things. She swayed to the side, then the other, before attempting to circle around and level another strike from above, a wild aim that seemed to have no particular direction.

Zahra's steps backward allowed Marceline enough time to rise back onto her feet, her stance reset. She eyed her opponent cautiously and when she circled, pivoted on her heels to follow her. When the blade came down, Marceline foot slid back, not to escape, but to brace herself. She caught the blade and its wild aim with her own, and let it slide all the way to the crossguard. She twisted her wrist to try and get a better hold and then attempted to swing both blades into a wide circle in front of them to try and dislodge Zahra's blade from her hand.

From the widening of Zahra’s eyes, she hadn’t expected the slender pommel to twist from her grasp. It was clear that she’d been trying to wrest it in her grip, or at least keep it in hand, but Marceline had been too quick to allow any such attempt. Now weaponless, and in close proximity, it appeared as if she wasn’t prepared to end the match just yet.

Another huff sounded. An intake of air, before there was a flurry of movement as her rapier spun through the air towards Pierre. She ducked her head and lurched forward in a brazen attempt to tackle her to the ground and keep her from leveling her blade at her throat in an obvious checkmate.

Marceline's attention was drawn away from the fight only for a moment, her eyes following the flight path of the rapier toward her son. However, she was not able to see where the weapon had landed, as a heavy force slammed into her and she felt the sensation of falling before coming to a sudden, and somewhat painful stop. A soft grunt was the only thing she could say as she lay on her back on the ground.

As soon as Marceline thumped on the ground, and their momentum halted, the weight lifted from her. Zahra peered down from her vantage point, chest rising from the exertion of such a maneuver. “What happened
 to watching your opponent?” A small, innocuous jibe. Breathless. One that couldn’t possibly be held in. A somewhat sheepish grin splayed across her lips as she rolled off and rose back to her feet, offering one of her hands.

She glanced sidelong and arched one of her eyebrows. Her smile wobbled a fraction. The smallest sign of concern rising as soon as the dust was settling at their feet, “No one hurt, ya?”

Marceline's gaze also darted over to the side. Pierre looked a little stunned, the sheath of his own sword held out across him, and Zahra's sword on the ground in front. Even at that distance, she could see the cracks etching across the scabbard, undoubtedly where he had fended off the flying sword. He spared a glance at it once more before looking back up at Zahra and giving her the thumbs up. "Fine, just fine. Just surprised is all. I was not expecting to be a part of the lesson, honestly," he said with a laugh. Zahra made a noise of approval. More a whoop, when she noted Pierre’s quick deflection.

Lady Félicité was by his side in the next moment, as if to ensure that he was really alright. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Luckily I was watching," he joked at his mother's expense. "I will just need a new sheath," he noted, peeling the splinters off of it.

Once she was sure Pierre was fine, Marceline finally accepted the Zahra's hand and pulled herself off. Fortunately, the only thing injured was her pride. As much as she wanted push the blame off somewhere else, the fact remained. She lost focus for a moment, and it was in that moment that she had lost. She brushed the dust off of her and nodded. "And now you see what happens when you take your eyes off of your opponent," she stated, "Even for a moment." She frowned when she looked at Zahra, but it did not last long before shifting into a smile.

If Zahra’s beaming smile was anything to go by, she’d be remembering this particular sparring match for ages to come. Even if it was won by less than honorable means, it was still her first victory. She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, planting her hands on her hips. Whether she was being mindful or not, she didn’t rub it in Marceline’s face.

Perhaps, she was saving that for later.

“I must say, your boy’s got reflexes,” she noted with a grin, and nodded her head, “maybe he should watch all our sparring matches.” As if by him being present, she’d have more chances at upping her tally. An unlikely gamble. She rubbed at the back of her neck and watched as Pierre picked at the slivers of wood cracked across his scabbard, “Hope that wasn’t
 uh, a gift. Or anything.” She glanced back at Marceline, as if to confirm.

Marceline shook her head, but Pierre answered. "No, nothing of the sort," he answered, partially drawing the blade to reveal an ordinary blunted practice blade, "It is just the one I use to practice with father." He then let it slide back into its sheath and stood, snatching Zahra's blade off the ground as he did.

"Micky does fine work," Lady Marceline noted. Pierre then handed Lady Félicité his own blade to hold for a moment to cross the distance between him and the two of them, giving her rapier a few practice swings before offering it to her, pommel first.

"Next time, I'll watch from behind a wall or something," he added with a grin.

"That would be... prudent, yes," Marceline agreed.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
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They cried out in rage to gods
Who did not answer.
And they would have vengeance upon
The gods of broken promises.
And through them, vengeance
On the Maker and His world.
-Canticle of Silence, 3:15
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The beam was very thin.

Of course, Rilien himself could traverse it without the faintest trace of difficulty. He didn't ask her to do anything he could not demonstrate himself, but that left a rather small number of things off the table. Apparently, deft maneuvers on inch-thick bars were not excluded. While she'd never been afraid of heights in any way, and the bar itself was only about four feet off the ground, the probability of taking a tumble was rather high.

Sturdiness was not a concern; she'd watched it hold Rilien's weight steadily through jumps and the like without even bending much. “Uh. If I fall, don't laugh too hard at me, please." Estella pursed her lips faintly in Ves's general direction, suspecting that it was an impossible request but making it anyway. They'd just finished warmups; Rilien had set her tasks for the next hour and disappeared upstairs, probably to take care of Spymaster business. He'd be back to check on her shortly, no doubt.

Holding her arms out to either side, she stepped up onto the bar, trying to get a sense for the feel of it under her boots. Maybe she should take them off for the first couple of passes? That had helped with the two-inch one she'd been working on before this.

"Saraya likes the way that teacher of yours thinks." Ves was not training, not currently anyway. He'd brought his gear along for when they would spar later, but for the moment he'd brought that bench from outside inside and he was sprawled out on it, his gear piled next to it behind his head. The lion pelt was a pillow now, and he held a book open in one hand. A recommendation Estella had made for him when he asked about an epic he might be interested in reading. In general he'd been coming around, to her office, and her practices, more and more, and he seemed to enjoy simply being there. Probably attempting to ensure she stayed sane. He never got in the way of her work, unless his presence itself was a distraction, which he was obviously not trying for.

"If it helps, I won't watch. Or I'll tell you some of the ways Saraya had me train a decade ago. Or I'll try that when you're done, make sure you can get a laugh, too." The corners of his lips quirked upwards. He probably meant he'd attempt it without Saraya's help.

She smiled, already feeling a bit better about her doubtless many future failures at this exercise. He had a way of doing that—making her feel like sometimes it wasn't so bad. She supposed the ever-present sense of humor had a lot to do with that, but part of it was surely just that baffling attentiveness of his, the way it just seemed to intrinsically matter what she thought or felt or wanted. Frankly she wasn't entirely sure what to do with that, but in this case at least, the answer was easy enough.

“I shan't deprive you of a good laugh, but perhaps either of the other possibilities will suffice to soothe my wounded pride." But she wasn't one to delay the inevitable, so, stretching her arms out to either side, she took her first step forward on the beam. The solidity was actually a bit jarring; she might have preferred a bit of give and flex in it. No doubt Rilien knew that and had very intentionally denied her any sliver of mercy. She was steady for the first three steps, balance solid enough, but she faltered on the fourth, tsking under her breath and rotating herself sideways for stability so her feet were perpendicular instead of parallel to the bar. Still she wobbled like an erratic pendulum, but she didn't give up, trying to find her center of balance again.

Recovery was a near thing, but she did it, breathing out a relieved sigh and allowing herself to stand still for a moment, to make sure she was actually properly centered again.

“You're too tentative." The voice came abruptly from behind her. Apparently, Rilien had returned earlier than he'd indicated planning to.

Estella never heard him approaching. Not ever. And, of course, it turned out she hadn't managed to center her balance well enough to recover from the little jump that his sudden words produced; she leaned forward too far and fell right off. The only consolation was that she managed to land on her feet instead of her face.

He paused long enough for her to collect herself, blinking slowly. “And also not paying attention to your surroundings. Ought I ask Vesryn to leave, next time?" The question was delivered as blandly as anything he ever said, but the flicker of amusement behind his eyes wasn't something she could miss anymore. That he wasn't serious was clear enough even to the uninitiated, because he handed her a parchment envelope rather than waiting for any kind of answer.

“This came for you. The seal is Arlesans; I thought you would wish to know as soon as it arrived."

Estella's brows arched; she felt a slightly-uncomfortable twist in her gut that she ignored, taking the envelope and examining the seal for a moment. Dark red wax; that was the right color, certainly. The elegant, almost beautiful handwriting on the front did in fact bear her name, and no reference to Lady Marceline or Rilien, through whom most of the Inquisition's official business was received. Frowning slightly, she flipped it back over and broke the seal, carefully extracting the letter inside.

She read over it several times before carefully folding it back over, pursing her lips into a thin line and glancing back up at Rilien. “Do you think you could get Leon and Lady Marceline in a meeting space of some kind in about half an hour? I'm going to need to request some Inquisition resources, I think."

“Of course." Rilien did not ask her why. Clearly, he simply assumed that her reasons for making such a request would be sufficient. “We will use the war room. I estimate approximately fifteen minutes, if neither of them are otherwise indisposed." He nodded, then exited the tower, apparently headed toward Leon's office first.

Ves snapped the book shut, setting it down on top of his gear and sitting upright, turning to put his feet on the ground. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "Bad news?" His look was one of concern as much as curiosity, but the question as always wasn't asked forcefully.

She nodded. “A friend of mine. He's... in trouble." With a little sigh, she rolled out her shoulders. Practice would be cut short for today, it seemed. “He thinks—and I think—I might be able to help, though. So perhaps the bad news is only temporary." Estella tilted her head. “Mind coming with me to the meeting? I think I'm going to have to explain to Lady Marceline why letting me take a few of my friends to Val Royeaux to help another friend is a good idea. And we don't, um. See eye to eye on that kind of thing, sometimes."

Truthfully, she wasn't looking forward to the prospect.

"Sounds like a bit of a balancing act ahead of you." He stood, grabbing his cloak and smiling a little. "Sorry, that was terrible. 'Course I'll come."

She snorted in a rather embarrassingly unladylike way, but couldn't quite bring herself to care. The joke deserved it. “I'll be walking a thin line, to be sure," she drawled in reply, gathering up her gear to leave.

By the time she'd stowed everything in her office, it was about time to be in the war room anyway, so they made their way over directly, entering with no fanfare to find Rilien, Leon, and Lady Marceline were all already present. Estella offered a thin smile, standing on the opposite side of the map table from the three of them. “Sorry to call you here so suddenly," she said quietly. “But there's a request I'd like to make. If possible, I would like to take some members of the Irregulars to Val Royeaux, probably for about a week. A friend of mine, Julien D'Artignon, has requested my help. I intend to give it to him, but I know it's unwise of me to go alone."

Whatever Marceline thought of the request, it didn't appear on her face, but rather she took the news evenly. "What type of help, may I ask?" she predictably asked.

Estella pursed her lips. “He's been accused of treason and sedition against the crown. He maintains his innocence, and claims that he was framed. He has requested that I, as the Inquisitor and a neutral party with no political stake in the matter, conduct an investigation, as he believes his trial was too hasty." Given the timeline, she suspected he was right, but she wasn't sure what to make of it yet.

“He's been... he's been sentenced to death."

The news seemed to catch Lady Marceline by surprise, as the obvious shock managed to crack her even features. "Did you receive any other details on the matter? What has he been suspected of to be tried for treason?"

Estella hesitated. “He was... sparing with the details. Probably because he didn't want the letter to be intercepted. He's just asked that I hear him out, where he's being held. He's in La Flùche." Full name La Flùche Noire, it was Val Royeaux's prison tower for criminals whose crimes were either especially severe or committed directly against the Empress. Few who went there were expected to ever go anywhere else but the guillotine or the gallows. Estella knew Julien wasn't what anyone would call a crown loyalist, and she also knew he was more reckless and cavalier than he should be about his own reputation and arguably safety, but sedition?

She didn't think he was capable of that.

Lady Marceline was quiet and slipped into thought after that. She rested her chin on her hand as she stared into the map onto the table. She appeared to internally debate something within herself before she finally sighed and spoke again. "I apologize if this seems personal Estella, but I must ask. How close are you with the Marquis?"

It wasn't an unexpected question. She was asking quite a bit here, and while Rilien already knew the answers, or most of them, Estella knew it was only fair that she give the relevant information to the others as well. She sighed, glancing down at the letter in her hand, and the script that bore her name. Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius. He'd say something like that without a trace of irony, then laugh when she frowned at him for it, wave a hand and apologize: sorry, sorry. Stel.

“He's my friend," she repeated. “A dear one. Someone with a good heart, who doesn't deserve to die for something he didn't do." Maybe he had done it. But she liked to believe he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't lie about something so important. Even for him. So if it was her he was asking for help, then he was likely both innocent and truly desperate.

Once more Marceline took her time before she replied, most likely gauging and choosing her words well before she spoke them. "That may be so, but if it were only so easy," she said with a slight shake of her head. There remained a worried look to her face, even as she continued to gaze into Estella's face, like she was searching for something.

"You do understand the risks that involving yourself in this would pose?" Marceline asked, though she was still gentle in tone. "This will not be seen as you just aiding a personal friend, but as the Inquisition as a whole involving themselves in another governing body's justice system," she let the knowledge sit for a moment before she added, "I need not tell you in how many countless ways this intervention may be taken, or the risks posed to the Inquisition and our reputation. The actions you take may set an undesired precedent and reflect poorly back on us."

Estella pursed her lips, pulling in a deep breath. Precedents were indeed important, and she understood that very well. It was part of why she and Lady Marceline had argued the last time they spoke about something political. She straightened slightly. Though Rilien's expression was neutral as ever, she could see that Leon was a bit concerned too; he at least made no attempt to hide as much. Fortunately, she had an explanation that she thought would satisfy them, in terms of the Inquisition's interests, even if it wasn't the one she personally considered the most important.

She straightened, letting her shoulders fall back and her eyes move carefully between the three of them. “I understand the risk, but... viewed a certain way, the opportunity is greater." Estella glanced down at her hand, turning the letter over in her fingers for a moment while she gathered the words she wanted. “Think of how we must look to the rest of the world right now: a fledgling army grown strong, by absorbing nearly all the mages and templars left in the south, and volunteers from multiple nations. A body like that, only increasing in strength, holed up in an impressive fortress in the mountains, a place that's effectively neither Ferelden nor Orlais nor anywhere else." The effort it would take to get border patrols or any kind of decent force up the Frostbacks on any regular basis was far too much to bother with.

“And this army, this unknown, has already intervened in another country's civil war. Not to mention in the siege of an important Bannorn in another country. We've taken prisoners and judged them on our own, without input from the realms in which they've committed crimes. We exiled the Grey Wardens from the south, without so much as consulting anyone else. This organization is run, officially, by two people from the most hated country in Thedas and claims, or at least does not disclaim, some kind of... divine authority or privilege. We answer to no one but ourselves, and it's clear enough by our actions that we work well outside the bounds of political sovereignty that other people think are of utmost importance." She shook her head. “Right now, if I were a noble in some other country, I'd be quite wary of the Inquisition. Especially when there's so little evidence of what its moral character is. Fighting Corypheus hardly takes righteousness—only a desire to survive. They have no reason to believe anything especially good of us right now, and much reason to fear the worst—that we'll become a conquering army someday, when everything else is done."

She looked back up, expelling a breath from her nose. “This could be an opportunity to lay some of those fears to rest. To show that we are willing and able to act within the bounds of a nation's laws, and to show that what we're interested in is doing what is right. Julien hasn't promised the Inquisition anything, and I don't intend to ask him to. What he has done is ask for our help. If we find the truth, and bring it through the court system like everyone does, then we will be showing both that we respect the authority of Orlais over her citizens and also that we respect and care about justice. That we don't just sit idle when the innocent are maligned." Estella paused.

“With all due respect, those are things we need to do better at showing."

Marceline frowned. "There will be some who will not see it as such, but rather one more drastic overreach in our already questionable authority. This may provide them more ammunition against us, but..." she stated, before sighing, "You may be correct in that this may solidify support from those who do not understand yet where we sit and prove that we are able to peacefully coexist with other nations and act under their rule--if the best possible outcome were to occur," she added sharply. "If the opposite were to occur, then we may irrevocably damage our reputation, and sour the opinions of those we wished to gain trust from. It is risk, with an uncertain outcome."

She went quiet again before she appeared to have decided upon something internally, "Yet, it is clear where your heart lies, and I cannot fault that. I can only hope that others will see the act with the same sincerity as you do, if you were to succeed." She sighed and nodded her approval, though it was abundantly clear she still had a number of misgivings.

"Very well, I shall accompany you on this matter."

Estella was immediately uncomfortable with the suggestion, but she wasn't sure how to put the discomfort into words. At least not ones that would convey her point the way she wanted it. She hesitated for a long moment. Too long, surely. “Um. I was actually hoping to take Rilien, if that was all right. And Cy and Ves, too. I thought a small group would be for the best, and if there's something I really need to know about someone, well... I don't know anyone better at teaching me things I need to know than he is." She half-smiled at her teacher, who nodded his understanding, but it faded when she returned her eyes to Lady Marceline.

“I wouldn't want to take two of the three of you away from Skyhold, not for something like this. If possible, I'd like the disruption to our usual ways of doing things to be minimal." All of that was true, though... it certainly wasn't the whole truth.

Marceline frowned again, this time even deeper. "Lady Estella, though I do not doubt your skills and Rilien's, this will affect many an opinion in Orlais, and as such is a rather important matter. Larissa will be able handle my affairs in my absence, but I believe it is important that I assist you in any way that I possibly can, and I cannot do that while remaining at Skyhold."

Estella's shoulders slumped. This wasn't going well at all. Her eyes found the floor and she shifted, betraying her discomfort even as she kept her expression as neutral as she could. Biting the inside of her lip, she took a few breaths. Maybe Lady Marceline was right. Maybe there wasn't really any way she should be trusted to handle sensitive matters like this herself. It would be just typical, wouldn't it? She'd go into something, try her very hardest, and still not be good enough. Maybe she was letting other things, other successes, get to her head, but... if she tried a million times, surely even she was bound to succeed once or twice. Just by chance. Maybe... maybe it would be better, to bring along someone who really knew what they were doing so that if her successes had just been chance, then...

Maybe she should leave the important things to others. But Julien had asked for her help, and that didn't happen often. All of this was on her shoulders because of happenstance; surely she shouldn't be getting a big head now. The only things she'd accomplished were her accomplishments because of that. Because of things that weren't about her at all. The mark, or... or the rest of it. Those were really the things that mattered, weren't they? Her friends would say otherwise, but they were her friends—it was practically obligatory for them to think she mattered apart from all that. Much as she might want this to be about that, helping her friends, the truth was that it was so much bigger. And she wasn't equipped for bigger.

“If you really didn't doubt my skills, Lady Marceline," she said, smiling thinly, “I don't think you'd be insisting. But maybe you're right to doubt. You must be; I'm sure you know the court better than I do." She cleared her throat softly.

“Perhaps she knows the court better." Rilen's eyes were slightly narrowed. “But I am the one who knows you. You are adequate to the task. You would be without my assistance, though I am at your service if you so wish." He crossed his arms, his posture the closest thing to displeasure she might have ever seen him express. “If Lady Marceline needs evidence of your competence, she is welcome to take my words as such. And I am competent enough to handle a situation of this magnitude, as well as assess your capacity for the same." He said the last completely flatly, as though it should have been obvious. “I remind her that I have spent many years in court as well."

"I remember Ser Rilien, and that is why I believe that between the three of us, we will be able to come to a fitting resolution," she stated, nearly as evenly as Rilien. However, then her features went stone hard and she turned her attention back on Estella. "I do not know what opinions or regard that you believe that I hold you in, Lady Estella, but I assure you that they are quite a bit higher than you believe. I apologize if you feel as if my insistence is meant in anyway as an insult to you, or Ser Rilien," she said, sparing the Tranquil a glance, "But you must realize that I simply wish for you to employ every tool you have at your disposal, and that includes myself."

Her features softened, but did not entirely leave their even territory. "You must understand, that if my expertise would aid you in any way, then I would not hesitate in giving it at a moment's notice," She then sighed and her head dipped a fraction, "But, you are the Inquisitor, and if you believe that I am better served in Skyhold, then I will remain."

She was quiet for a time afterward and each moment that passed, the steel seemed to drain from her face. "One more thing I wish you to know, Estella," she said, though this time there was genuine emotion in her tone, "As a mother, worry comes to me easily. Each time one of you-- any of you-- leaves the Keep, I cannot help but worry for your wellbeing, and recent events only served to add to that. I fear... you may have misconstrued this worry as something else entirely, and for that I apologize."

Estella felt something uncomfortable drop into the pit of her stomach, remaining where it was despite her best efforts to dislodge it by force of will alone. Her eyes immediately fell back to the ground. But Rilien's confidence was enough to assure her that she was doing the right thing—she trusted her teacher absolutely. The thing to do was not make a big production of this: to conduct their investigation quietly and with the truth in mind, for the sake of a man she felt was likely to be innocent. There wasn't any need to drag anything into it beyond that. Deeds spoke for themselves. She'd seen people build real trust, real cooperation between very different parties by letting their honesty, forthrightness, and care show through in what they did, rather than what they said. Maybe she wasn't the best choice, but she'd had the best examples to learn from.

And if Rilien thought she could do those examples justice, then... she could. She could do this her way. Estella knew she had to try.

Swallowing, she took in a deep breath. “That's, um... that's kind of you, Lady Marceline. But I think—I think I should try to do this the way I was planning on doing it. You have my word that if we find ourselves in a bind, we'll send word. I'll be careful, and I'll trust Rilien to know better than me if we disagree." It was about all she could offer by way of reassurance.

Marceline's eyes flicked to Rilien for a moment, like she wanted to ask him something, but apparently she decided better of it and turned back instead to Estella. "Very well, Inquisitor. You do what you believe you must," Marceline said, slipping back into her guarded tone, though it felt even more so than the last time.

Estella worked not to flinch. Her eyebrows drew together a little, but she kept her face smooth and impassive, controlling her reaction to the shift back in tone by reminding herself of what Rilien had said. Ves's steady presence at her back helped, as did the fact that Leon at least favored her with his usual mild smile.

“We'll look after things while you're gone, of course, as I'm sure the others will as well. Best of luck, Estella."

She managed to smile a bit in return. “Thank you. I think I'll go find Cy, and then we'll leave early tomorrow morning. Leon. Rilien. Lady Marceline." She nodded to each in sequence, then turned on her heel to face the door. Estella was well aware that much of her hidden unease made it to her face when only Ves could see it, but she didn't linger long in the room, pushing the door open with the palm of her left hand and trying not to hurry out.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by Talisman
It felt as if it'd been ages since she'd last left her office. Marceline began to suspect that she spent more time in that little room than out of it, reading and rereading letters and reports, as well as writing a number herself. However, with Larissa and Félicité acting as an aide and Pierre lingering nearby more often, she found the work to be far more manageable with more hands. It was actually one of the reasons she was able to find herself outside the doors of her office without a sense that there was something that required her attention. When she left, they had only a small amount of correspondence to respond to, and nothing that required her personal attention.

Estella and the others had returned to Skyhold about a week ago, along with word that Julien received a stay of execution, and the fact that there was no great backlash for the Inquisition as a result. It appeared that they had all acquitted themselves very well, and was no small burden that was lifted from her mind. With her newly found free time, Marceline used it to brew tea over the fireplace in her office. She had heard from Leon that Estella was particularly fond of tea, and had actually went so far as to donate from his own supply. So it was that she crossed the short distance between her office and Estella's on the other side of the main hall.

The teapot still steamed on the tray she carried, accompanied with a few cups and tins of milk and sugar. Once she reached Estella's door, she transferred the tray to one hand so that she was able to knock with the other, before she renewed the grip and awaited the answer.

It was not Estella that answered the door, but Vesryn. The tall elf pulled it open wide, stepping back as he did with a broad smile. He looked to be in rather high spirits. He held the door with one hand, leaning on it slightly, eyes dropping for a moment to the tea. His other hand held open a book, the pages against his leg.

"Hello," he greeted amicably. "That smells excellent."

"Hello Serah Vesryn," Marceline answered with a dainty curtsy. She then took a glance down at the teapot on the tray and spoke again, "I agree. Lemongrass, I believe," she said, with a rise of her brow. At least, that was what Leon said. "I was told that Lady Estella was fond of tea, and since I am not busy at the moment, I thought we could share. If," she added, her eyes drifting past Vesryn and into Estella's office proper, "She is likewise unoccupied."

“Lady Marceline?" She couldn't quite see Estella, but apparently the Inquisitor had heard her voice. A moment later, she appeared next to Vesryn, head tilted to the side. Her eyes fell to the tea tray, then widened with something like surprise. “Oh, um, of course. Please, come in. You can set that down right on the table over here." She ducked back into the room, shuffling the remnants of what looked like an earlier meal for two off the low table settled in the midst of a cluster of armchairs.

The office as a whole was decorated comfortably, but not in any way that could be described as ornate. From the bookshelves molded to the curved wall about halfway around, it served more than the one purpose, and the furniture reflected that as well. It was clear that Estella had visitors quite regularly, and touches of those presences still lingered. One of the end tables had a thick magical text on it, a few pages of parchment tucked into the front. A thick, dark green roughspun blanket was folded neatly over the back of a couch on the other side, a bit at-odds with the rest of the colors in the room. A lute was propped against the wall behind the desk, and of course Vesryn himself was physically present, apparently not just for a quick drop-in, either.

Estella was, as a rule, rather skilled in concealing her emotions, but discomfort lingered in the slight jerkiness of her movements, and she moved around the papers on the desk without really committing to putting them anywhere. Letters, it seemed, though it was impossible to tell from this distance who they were to or from. “Please, um... make yourself comfortable. Anywhere's fine, of course."

Marceline nodded and placed the tray where she was told before taking another glance around the room. Her eyes lingered on the lute for a moment before she turned back to Estella and smiled. "Thank you, but," she said first alighting on the papers on her desk, and then Vesyrn before she continued, "You are sure that I am not intruding, yes?" She said, something approaching apology in her tone.

"Not at all," Vesryn answered, letting the door swing back almost closed as he walked over to the desk. He was the first to help himself to some of the tea, pouring a cup before he headed back over to the couch. His hard-to-miss lion pelt cloak was draped over one arm of it, and it was this arm his propped his head against when he settled back down. "I'll just be reading over here. And thank you for the tea." He smiled, propping one hand behind his head and lifting the book back up before his eyes.

Estella looked indecisive for a moment, before her expression smoothed over again and she left her spot behind the desk, approaching the table and pouring another cup of tea. She set it on the side of the table closest to Marceline with a tentative smile before getting herself one as well. She spooned a little bit of sugar into it before perching herself on the end of one of the armchairs, angling her legs to the side and crossing them at the ankles. She appeared to be without shoes, thick socks serving for warmth as winter drew near.

She inhaled the scent of the tea and visibly eased, just a fraction, taking a sip before she ventured to speak. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Marceline. I'm... a bit surprised to see you, if I may say so." Estella's smile faded a bit, though she didn't seem to be unhappy, exactly. Maybe only a bit uncomfortable, or puzzled. “N-not that you're unwelcome of course. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

Marceline accepted the tea with a nod of gratitude and added a spoonful of sugar and milk to go with it. She spent a moment absently stirring the cup, before she shook her head. "It is nothing serious," she answered pulling the spoon from her tea cup and watched as the liquid stopped spinning. Finally, she deigned to take a sip of it herself and smiled with the taste. It was good tea, as far as tea went. "I just wanted to ask how Val Royeaux went."

Estella considered that for a moment, wrapping her hands around her teacup. A little curl of steam wafted from the surface of the liquid inside. The Inquisitor's expression was thoughtful when she replied. “I think it went about as well as it could have, honestly. I'd have preferred to be able to free Julien, but he seems quite happy with how things ended up, and it's probably better to let the retrial proceed as normal." Something seemed to occur to her a moment later, and she brightened a little. “Oh. I might not have said this earlier, but... he's planning to help us. The Inquisition. Arlesans is good farmland, and he's offered to send us food as soon as he can."

Marceline smiled, "That is good to hear, I am glad that everything worked out well, and our forces will certainly enjoy the extra food." She then took another sip of her tea before she gazed at Estella once more, this time a look of curiosity in her features. She spoke before it turned into an awkward stare, "Tell me Estella," she said, placing the teacup back onto its plate, "When was the last time you were in Court? Aside from the most recent instance, of course," Marceline asked.

Estella's brows knit a little bit. “Well... 'court' isn't usually the right word for what I did. I didn't really go to any major formal gatherings or anything. But, um, I had friends who moved in those circles. Some of them I was around regularly up until the Conclave happened." Her eyes fell at the mention of that, but she seemed to gather herself rather quickly. “Being Rilien's student means I've met a lot of Lady Aurelie's bards, of course; some of them are around the same age as me, and I used to spend a fair amount of time at The Roost. Other than that, well... I've worked for a few people, and made a few friends that way."

A small smile tugged at her mouth. “It's not like I've ever bent a Grand Duke's ear or anything. Most of the people I know aren't really, um." The expression faded. “Well, Julien has the most status, and he's a bit... well, most of his peers aren't fond of him, whatever they might say to his face." Draining the last of her tea, Estella poured herself another, glancing up at Marceline while she stirred in the sugar. “I'm sure it's quite a different experience from yours, right?"

Marceline's head tilted side to side and she thought, indicating that maybe their experiences weren't worlds apart. "Not entirely, there's certainly some overlap. I have been privy to the formal gatherings yes, but..." she began, shrugging, "You are not missing much. Many are there just to be there and be seen," she said with a shrug. "Myself included," she admitted. It was part of the game, to be seen, and to one-up your peers in status and appearance.

"Speaking of Lady Aurelie's bards, tell me, is the name Swallow familiar?" Marceline asked in curiosity.

Estella nodded once. “It's Larissa's nom de guerre, isn't it? Rilien mentioned that to me once. We never met back then, but I guess she's been working for you for quite a while, so that makes sense."

"She has," Marceline nodded, "Long enough to have acted as Pierre's nanny when he was younger," she revealed with a chuckle, "I do not know if you have had the pleasure of hearing it yet, but Larissa has an exquisite singing voice--thus the songbird nom de guerre. Used to be, Pierre could not sleep unless she sang to him," she smiled, but there was a dull ache when she said it, and the smile slowly melted away. "She looked after him when I had to leave to be present for important engagements. I suppose she still does," she stated.

“It must have been hard, though," Estella said quietly. “Even knowing he was in good hands, knowing that they weren't yours." She sat back a little, pulling her legs up to tuck into the armchair next to her. “I guess... I don't really know much about that, from either side of it, really. But being away from your home so often for court things... that seems like it would be difficult. Especially if you had a family there waiting." She appeared to be thinking about something in particular then, because her face took on a sort of troubled expression for just a moment before she smoothed it away.

“I'm sorry... I didn't mean to be presumptive. It's not really any of my business or anything, so, um. You just looked a little..." She didn't finish the sentence, perhaps trusting that what she'd already said was sufficient.

Marceline raised her hand, and shook her head in a gesture that was meant to say that no harm had been done. "It's fine Estella, truly," then she smiled, though it was one of melancholy. "It is still hard, I'm afraid. I still feel as if I am keeping them waiting, even with them here. I fear my work gets more attention than they do."

She paused for a moment before she gave Estella another apologetic smile, "I apologize, Estella, it's my turn to be sorry. I did not mean to put my problems on you."

Estella shook her head at once, and rather emphatically. “Please don't apologize for that, Lady Marceline. There's no need. You're not burdening me with anything. And... I'm glad you felt like you could tell me that. I'm not—" she hesitated. “I hope you don't see me as unreasonable, or childish or anything. I know we've... disagreed. Especially recently. And I'll be honest, I think we're likely to disagree in the future. We're very different, after all." She smiled a little wryly, glancing down into the cup she held atop her knee and letting the expression fade.

“But that's... it's okay. To disagree. I want you to know that I'm not... I'm not against you. Even when we do." She hummed almost uncertainly, like the words weren't quite the ones she wanted. “I'm always willing to listen to what you have to say. If it's about the Inquisition, or even if it's just about... other things. I'm sure you have your family for that, but if you ever feel like someone else's perspective would make a difference, well. For whatever it's worth, you can have mine." She cleared her throat a tad awkwardly. “Not that I have anything so wise to say about this. I bet... I bet you could afford a few more breaks, though. The letters aren't always as urgent as they seem, I know that much. Not when you stack them up next to the other things. Simple as they might be by comparison."

Her eyes flicked to Vesryn, still reading, for half a second, but then she returned them to Marceline. “We're only mortal, Lady Marceline, temporary and flawed and fragile. I think it's okay to act like it sometimes." Estella offered a thin smile.

Marceline nodded, though she didn't immediately say anything. Eventually however, she said something. "You are kind, Estella," She said, quieter than before, but with a warm smile, "Thank you." She was quiet again, and thoughtful, before she spoke once more. "You are correct, about needing breaks. This," she said, gesturing toward the tea set in front of them, "This was nice. I would like to do this more, if you would be so kind as to entertain me."

Almost immediately, the Inquisitor nodded, her smile strengthening until it no longer looked like it would crack and fall away at any moment. “Of course. I'd be glad to. Maybe next time, we could go for a walk? The fresh air often helps me put things in perspective. I'm sure we both spend more time than we should in offices, anyway."

"Perhaps next time we can talk of something more... cheerful," Lady Marceline offered.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
On the Firstday of the year 9:43 Dragon, the Inquisition marshaled the elite of their forces for an operation on the snow-covered, frozen-through lake below their home at Skyhold.

All of the Irregulars had been called into action, and a number of personal friends and allies. Rom normally would've reluctantly made his way out into the snow, bundled head to toe in furs and cloaks, but the operation in question sounded promisingly fun, in large part because it was going to be directed by Khari. Some other kind of exercise the young Dalish had practiced in their spare time, he suspected. If that was the case, he was absolutely interested, and made his way out the gate with almost a spring in his step. It was hampered a bit by the deep snow.

The surface was a little more packed down on the lake's surface, but still soft from the fresh layer made by last night's snowfall. A small crowd had assembled below, some of them easily recognizable from a distance, like Khari from her red hair or Vesryn from his lion's pelt cloak. He looked to be one of the later arrivals, but not the last. Out on the lake a sort of large playing area had been established with Inquisition flags marking separate zones, which appeared to have been altered somewhat significantly since the last time Rom had seen them. The snow had been sculpted quite intentionally, from the looks of it, laid out to resemble uneven terrain punctuated by walls of varying heights and angles, placed somewhat irregularly. There were even some pillars made out of ice jutting out of the landscape, a few straight upwards, and others leaned or collapsed. Most likely, magic had been needed to achieve that particular effect.

He made his way over to Khari, waving to a few of the others in greeting on his way. He stopped next to her, a grin working its way onto his face. "Happy Firstday to you. What's all this?"

“Happy Firstday!" She grinned back. Presently, Khari stood near to the center of the field, next to Leon. They'd been talking about something that seemed to have caught her interest; her enthusiasm was palpable. “We're playing something called capture the flag. Leon's teaching me how to be a strategist, so I'm having a match against him today."

She turned her attention to the commander for a moment, resting her hands on her hips. “So... are we gonna give everyone the rules now? Looks like most everybody I invited showed up." The last few did seem to be trickling in now, among them Lia, Ithilian, and Amalia even. She'd apparently asked quite a number to be here—at a glance, it looked like thirty or thirty-five people.

"I think we can do that, yes." Leon clapped his hands together loud enough to draw attention, then hopped up into a low snow wall to make sure everyone could see him. Not that he really needed to worry much about that in general. "Happy Firstday, everyone. I'm happy to see all of you here to help with our exercises today. For those of you who don't know yet, we're going to be playing a game of capture the flag. The team captains will be myself and Khari—for today at least, we're the commanders, and you're the armies, as it were." He paused there, smiling mildly.

"If you've never played before, the game is really quite simple. One half of this field belongs to each team. Crossing into enemy territory puts you at risk—if you are captured, you have to enter the designated prison area. Capture occurs if you're brought to the ground or incapacitated in some way, but do avoid any actual knockouts, of course." He pointed to two opposite corners of the fields, delineated by rough squares bounded by snow walls about as tall as Rom was.

"If you can breach the prison, you can free your allies by touching them. The final goal, of course, is to capture the enemy flag and bring it back to your own side." Another pause. When it was clear everyone followed, he continued. "Of course, it goes without saying that offensive magic is not allowed, but barriers are fine. One per caster at a time, though, and if it gets broken, you have to keep it down for ten seconds. Imprisoned mages may not cast. Please do follow the rulings of our designated referees when they arise." He gestured slightly behind him, where Lady Marceline, her assistants, and Zee's navigator Nixium stood.

"Now if that all makes sense, go ahead and gather here so we can split the teams."

Khari hopped up on the wall next to Leon as everyone else gathered closer. They had apparently decided already that she was picking first. Crossing her arms over her chest, she cast her eyes over the assembled members of the Inquisition. It was an impressive group, to say the least, warriors, scouts, mages, and people who slid freely between groups. It was unlikely there were many poor choices, but it was also easy to see that this was part of the strategy of the game as well.

It wasn't more than a few seconds before her jade-green eyes met his, though. She flashed her teeth in a wide smile. “I pick Rom." Not even a bit of hesitation in the decision, either.

He grinned back as he walked over to join her side. "Smart choice." From the sounds of the rules, he would be very good at this game, since bringing people to the ground was something he knew how to do quite well, and there were few enough people here that he felt would be difficult to get into that state. Half of them were going to end up on his team.

Not Amalia, though. The Tal-Vashoth woman was first picked by Leon, and Rom couldn't help but feel that was in direct reply to Khari's pick. Judging from what he'd heard of how her spar with Khari had gone, Amalia was going to be the toughest person to pin down here. Well, except perhaps for Estella, who was next picked by Khari. Teleportation seemed just a bit unfair, especially now that the other Inquisitor seemed to have gotten a solid understanding of how to do it at will with her mark.

The picks continued, back and forth. Asala to Leon, the chevalier Mick to Khari, Rilien to Leon, the Dalish Ithilian to Khari. The one-eyed elf shared a look and an amused twist of his lips with Amalia as he made his way onto the other team. Vesryn was picked next by Leon, giving a sweeping bow to the audience as he joined his side. He'd pulled the lion's head of his cloak up over his hair, looking rather ridiculous, but he seemed to enjoy it. Indeed, the steadily growing crowd on the hillsides surrounding the playing area seemed to enjoy it as well. Rom wondered if this wasn't going to become a regular diversion for the Inquisition. He could already see it potentially becoming quite competitive.

On and on the picking went, until all of the players were divided. Khari's team received an extra member, their 16th, due to the uneven amount, but Rom suspected the tiny advantage wouldn't amount to much. He largely tuned out most of the initial round of trash talking going one way or the other, instead making his way out onto the playing field with the others on his team to survey the landscape. There was going to be a lot more to this than just speed and hand to hand ability.

He could see Lia quietly pointing something out about the other side's terrain to Ithilian next to her. The older elf looked to be indulging her enthusiasm as best as he was able. Aurora and Astraia, also picked to be on Khari's team, stood nearby undoubtedly talking tactics as well, though an unmistakable grin was present on Aurora's face. Estella and her fellow Argent Lion Donnelly were seemingly not too concerned with strategics, already shoving playfully at each other a bit. Clearly, at least some of those present were glad for the reprieve the game represented.

It was easy to pick out a few of the more familiar faces on the other side as well. Cyrus stood with his arms crossed immediately next to Asala, squinting at Rom's side of the field and speaking to her, it looked like. Probably about how to make best strategic use of her magic, or something similar. Vesryn busied himself by packing down a snowball, surely the first of many. Leon was speaking to Amalia, it looked like, though he wasn't facing them, so it was hard to say for sure. Her face indicated a certain degree of amusement; her eyes periodically scanned the opposite side of the field. Rilien was there too; it wasn't long before Leon called his whole team towards himself.

Zahra had taken a stand next to two of her crew-mates, Nuka and Garland. Though, there was a sour look on her face as she gently shoved him away from her, planting one of her hands on her hips. Perhaps, exasperated that they’d been chosen on the same team. The bearded carpenter had taken to leering at her, excitedly discussing what sounded like some sort of strategy. Apparently, Nuka was having none of it. The dwarf’s arms were crossed over her chest as she scanned the perceived battlefield. From Leon’s side, Sparrow had placed herself near Amalia and Rilien. She, too, seemed to be scanning the field. Her smile was far more somber than Aurora’s, though still present. There was a sense that she was trying to appear much less enthusiastic than she was.

Once everyone was in place and more or less organized, Khari clapped her hands together. “All right everybody, strategy time!" The group gathered in a loose circle relatively quickly, more than a few of them looking pretty interested in how they were going to be approaching the game.

“First thing's first: we have an even number, so everyone pick yourself a partner." She clapped Rom on the shoulder with some exuberance. “There's a lot of sneaky types on the other team, and you can hardly defend if someone tackles you from behind, so watch your partner's back and trust them to do the same for you." There was a bit of shuffling around as everyone complied.

“All right. Lia, Ithilian, I want you guys on high ground. If they try and flank us or pull anything funny, signal us. If it's important to not shout it at me, just run it to me or something. You've got discretion if you need to come down, but we need information on their movements. Leon's a crafty bastard." She crossed her arms. “Stel and Donnelly, you're the prison rescue team. If we lose more than four people, try and get them out. Stay with the main group otherwise."

With a moment's more consideration, she glanced at her mentor. “Mick, you and Pierre are in charge of guarding our prison. We're gonna try and get their mages out of the game as soon as we can, so we need to make sure they stay out. Astraia, Zee, you guys are guarding the flag. Everyone else is with me—right in the thick of it. Mages first. It's not even really worth going after the flag until Asala's out anyway. Probably Harellan, too. Make sense?"

Zahra’s mouth twisted into a grin as she nodded her head, moving to Astraia’s side. There was no doubt that she’d do everything in her power to make sure that their flag remained out of grubby hands. “Aye, Commander,” she gave a mock salute, accompanied by a sly wink, “Sorry—always wanted to say that.”

"Would Leon even let them cross the border, do you think?" Estella considered that for a moment, and then her eyes lit with understanding. "Oh. Our first move is a kidnapping, then." She nodded, half-smiling. Her partner Donnelly was full-out grinning, clearly eager to get started.

"Can we do that?" Astraia asked, lowering the scarf from her face and glancing at the assembled crew of women overlooking the playing field, those that would be officiating the match. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands without her staff, but instead chose to crouch in the snow, poking her fingers into the snow for balance.

Rom shrugged. "We can until they tell us we can't." She laughed quietly back at him. Rom certainly had no qualms with playing a little dirty, and obviously Khari didn't either. This was no war, after all.

Their plan settled, the team prepared to engage the enemy. Lia and Ithilian had soon passed from sight when Rom looked away for a moment, but he didn't doubt they'd picked out separate locations high up on their side to use as concealed lookout points. Good for surprising those that wandered too close as well as keeping track of the playing field. Astraia and Zee hung back, while the rest formed up in a loose group along the center.

A few moments later, the game was officially underway.

Khari's strategy, unsurprisingly, involved leading from the front. She charged across the line in the middle of the field with intent, sidestepping Widget's attempt to grab her by the legs and bring her down immediately. Leon's side looked to have a few more people in the field team than they did, which meant fewer in other places, but from where they were, it wasn't easy to see who was where.

What had been a charge was forced to a halt, the teams fanning out and trying to choose their targets wisely. In enemy territory, they'd have to be more careful—they could hold down their foes or run around them, but taking them out for longer than that wasn't possible on their own turf. Khari was eyeing Cor, who stood directly in her way, arms out to either side, knees bent.

She almost certainly didn't notice the fact that Cyrus was trying to flank her, edging closer as if to get within lunging distance.

Rom, however, was doing his job as Khari's partner on the field, and made his move on Cyrus just as he committed to the flank attack on Khari. There wasn't any chance to get him thrown in their jail since they were on the enemy side, but Rom could at least get Cyrus thrown in the snow. He wasn't a weak opponent in the slightest, but the opening advantage Rom had in the engagement allowed him to get leverage underneath Cyrus after a few moves, at which point he lifted him up end over end and dumped him on his back in the snow.

Dashing away a few steps, Rom glanced to make sure Khari had handled her own end of things. "Not sure this push is going to work..."

They were certainly meeting with a formidable defense. Leon's group had been more cautious, and sent fewer people over the center line. Most of those that had crossed returned shortly anyway, a sure sign of a fake-out, designed to close the attackers in and prevent them from escaping. Not easy, as Cyrus had discovered, but certainly a strategy that took into account Khari's tendency to aggression.

The defenders weren't tentative on their own ground; Leon himself was quite the opposite, taking Reed to ground before evading a bodycheck from Hissrad, one of the few people on their team who could nearly match him for size. He wound up locked with the Lion hands closed around the Qunari's backswept horns, both of them struggling to keep traction in the snow. In the end, it was Hissrad who fell, Leon pinning him to the ground with an armbar. With a low chuckle, he rose again, jogging obligingly to the jail.

On the other side, one of Khari's mages in Aurora found her advance halted by one of Leon's in Harellan. The two were locked up in fisticuffs, which Aurora appeared to be quite a deft practitioner in, and brought to mind Amalia in her movements, but Harellan seemed able to counter her at every turn. Still, Aurora was enjoying herself, if the happy grin spread across her face was anything to go by.

One of Leon’s more brutish mages, Sparrow, was sneaking behind the lines towards Aurora’s flank. Slugging through the snow in furtive, careful steps. Quietly. What she intended to do was anyone’s guess, but it appeared as if her goal was interrupted when a roar ripped through the sound of brawling at their sides—it belonged to a much shorter individual, Khari’s wee dwarf plowing through the snow as if she were parting through the tides.

Snow flew from her hands, as she closed the distance and flung herself bodily into the white-haired woman. From the widening of Sparrow’s eyes, she certainly hadn’t expected it. They tumbled into the snow. Somehow, Sparrow managed to roll away from Nuka’s hands; regaining her feet as soon as the dwarf had. Now, they circled each other. Hands held out wide, eyes focused. Snow stuck to their clothes and hair, but there was a sense that they were having fun.

To the side, past the grappling pair, Brialle was moving much quicker through the snow. Perhaps her lithe frame had to do with it, or else she had more tricks up her sleeves than she’d shown the others. A soft hum sounded and disappeared just as quickly.

Overall, the defenders' tactics left them in a good position—several of Khari's players were taken prisoner within a relatively short span of time. In addition to Reed and Hissrad, Leon managed to bring down Garland, and Cyrus just barely caught Thalia on her way back over the line to their side. Nuka, despite valiant effort, wound up a prisoner as well, when Sparrow got an assist from Rashad.

Khari looked unsure about ordering the retreat when a cry went up from behind. It was only then that two conspicuous absences made sense: neither Amalia nor Rilien had made an appearance on the field, and they seemed odd choices for guarding either their flag or their prison. Apparently, they'd made an early attempt to take the other flag, and Astraia and Zee must have been having some trouble holding them off.

“Shit. Back over the line, guys, we can't let them get the flag!" Khari broke away from Cor and charged back, knocking Rhys to the side to make way for the withdrawal.

Fortunately, the intervention of Ithilian and Lia prevented the attempted theft, but neither Rilien nor Amalia was captured as a result, only repelled. The prisoner count was looking very good for the other team. Their next move almost certainly had to be evening the odds a bit; Khari's attention swung to Estella and Donnelly. “If we keep them busy, can you get past Ves?"

Estella exhaled a soft breath, halfway to a laugh, from the sound of it. "We'll see what we can do." She paused, exchanged a look with Donnelly, then grimaced. "Just, uh... make sure we don't have to get past Leon, Amalia, or Rilien." They veered off after that, ducking behind a snow wall and disappearing from sight.

With a heavy numerical advantage, Leon clearly felt comfortable taking the offensive. He and the majority of his field team crossed the center line. The commander wore a smile edged with a fair bit more confidence than he usually displayed. He opened his arms out to either side, arching an eyebrow at Khari in obvious invitation.

Rom was tempted to laugh. He might've, if the invitation hadn't spelled serious danger for their team here. "If ever there was a time not to accept a challenge..." He left unsaid that this was probably it. If Khari was going to be bringing Leon down, however unlikely that was, it wasn't going to happen in time for them to save their flag. It was the quickest people they needed to keep engaged, not the strongest. With their numbers thinned momentarily, Ithilian and Lia had made their way down from their positions to shore up the defense. Lia swooped in quietly to take out Cor from behind, sending him off to their prison with a grin.

"Their defense is weak now, Khari!" she advised, though what exactly should be done about that was left to their leader. Their own defense was hampered and not going to last long, not until Estella could get back with their imprisoned friends.

“No mercy!" Khari grinned. “Bring 'em all down!" She looked very tempted to engage Leon, all caution to the contrary, but she did eventually avoid him, moving to head off the light-footed Brialle instead.

They fought more to avoid being overwhelmed than anything, often finding themselves in two-on-one situations where they had to just prevent themselves from getting pinned down. Eventually the opening became clear: Leon's side was weak in defense, only a few kept in reserve. "This might be our chance," he said to Khari beside him, shoving Cyrus away to create some space. Their defense would crumble quickly without them, with even with them it wasn't going great, and it was hard to say if Estella and Donnelly would be successful in time, or if they'd succeed at all. Best to make a show of it rather than crumble slowly.

They made a break for it, taking off out of their own zone and into enemy territory. Rom could hear Signy call out their move from somewhere on his right, but with any luck there wouldn't be more than one or two people capable of responding to the attack. Before long both the flag and the prison came in sight.

They arrived just as Estella and Donnelly were making their move. Or rather, Estella was. Donnelly remained just out of Vesryn's line of sight, meaning that Estella was clearly the decoy. She jogged in a half-circle, not attempting to conceal her presence, waving jauntily at the other team's prison guard.

"So, Ves." She smiled, pulling to a stop several feet beyond his immediate reach, but close enough that it was more or less a taunt in and of itself. Settling her hands on her hips, she tilted her head to the side. "How do you figure this is going to go?"

"Well, the jail's getting pretty cramped, but I think we can find a spot for you," he smiled mischievously back at her, a fat snowball already in hand. He had a few more ready to go behind him, a personal arsenal he'd been working on since his arrival there. "A lovely suite for your extended stay." He lobbed the snowball at her head, not hard enough to hurt if it actually hit, and then made a lunging reach, trying to ensnare her arm.

"Sounds quai—" Estella yelped, ducking the snowball, but not quite twisting far enough away to avoid the grab. That, however, might have been quite intentional, because she stepped in towards him without needing to be pulled, hooking one of her feet behind one of his and trying to bring them both to ground.

That was Donnelly's signal, clearly; he sprinted from behind cover and towards the jail cell, ducking inside and touching Hissrad's shoulder first.

The prison warden didn't seem to care all that much that his charges were escaping. He and Estella had both gone to the ground, and despite the fact that she was already out once she was down and not pinning Vesryn, his greatest concern seemed to be shoving snow in her hair while laughing. The templar captain SĂ©verine made a swift run away from her defense of the flag to help slow the escaping prisoners, leaving only Asala there on guard. Rom took that as their cue to move in. It was the best chance they'd get.

“If you can pin her, I've got the barrier." Khari split off from his trajectory slightly, as though to go around slightly and approach from the side. With only one barrier, Asala'a options would certainly be limited.

"Huh, well... Help?" She asked impotently. A quick glance around would reveal no one within distance to swoop in and save, in spite of her frantic glances to find evidence to the contrary. Once they began to encroach however, Asala decided to apparently go on the offensive, her hands lit up with fade energy as she called on a barrier. Instead of enveloping herself in one of her bubbles, one sprang to life around the flag while she took a step backward. There, she settled into a martial arts stance, knees bent, hands extended, and elbows loose.

It lasted all the way up until Khari and Rom took one more step toward her, where she immediately abandoned it, and began to run around the bubble, trying to keep her distance from them. "Two against one isn't fair!" she whined as she ran.

Khari snorted. “Two against one and a barrier, you mean." She seemed less inclined to care about chasing Asala and more about breaking the barrier to get at the flag, which was probably wise if they only had a limited amount of time before defenders would be rushing back towards it again. She threw herself into the bubble shoulder first, bouncing off mostly harmlessly, then grunted and tried again. The hit was harder that time. No doubt enough of them would do the job, but they might not have time for so many hits.

"Khari," Rom said, grabbing her shoulder when she reared back for another strike. Asala's barriers had stood up to more than punches, and he doubted they had the time to beat them down. Instead, he gestured for her to circle around the flag to the left, while he took the right. Asala's barriers were stronger, but she was not faster than either of them, and would probably find it harder to keep a shield up while being tackled to the ground.

“Right." Khari stepped back from the shield, then immediately went left, picking up into a sprint with her usual indefatigable energy. Her arms, she spread out to either side, watching Asala intently to try and pick out the direction she'd flee in. The grin on her face suggested that she was not intimidated by Asala's full foot in height advantage.

And obviously, she did not want to test Khari's ferocity. Instead of trying to get around her, Asala turned tail and ran away from her, letting out an exaggerated squeal as she fled. Laughter punctuated each yelp, however, so at least she was having fun.

Rom was more efficient than ferocious, diving to ensnare Asala's legs and bring her down. Immediately he scrambled for her hands, pinning them to the ground and making sure she had no easy way to continue casting her barriers. He could hear heavy footfalls coming their way, though, obviously not Khari's. Turning to look, he saw SĂ©verine rushing back, apparently having done all she could with the escaping prisoners. Rom met Khari's eyes, wild with excitement. "Get the flag, go!"

She made a lunge for it, snatching it up from where it had been staked in the ground, pole and all. It wouldn't make a bit of difference if SĂ©verine managed to catch her, so she bolted, sprinting at full tilt towards the center line. Following her trajectory, he could see a commotion on their side of the field. Even as Khari just barely brushed by the templar captain's outstretched hands, their own flag was airborne, Amalia tossing it deftly to Rilien and immediately throwing herself at the closest of those giving chase, which looked to be Aurora.

They went to the ground, and Rilien was across the line three strides later, flag in-hand and victory conditions met. Khari stopped only about three yards from the line, brandishing the flag in her hand with some humor at Leon.

“You sneaky bastard. We were this close." she gestured to the roughly ten feet separating herself from the line.

Leon smiled in his usual mild fashion. "That you were." He didn't seem like he'd been particularly concerned, though. "Now... what do you think I'm going to say about your opener?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella was nearly soaked through from melted snow, flakes of it yet clinging to her clothes and in particular her hair. Ves's fault, of course. But the game had taken a fair amount of effort out of everyone, so she was far from alone in her bedraggled appearance. Those were offset by the clear enjoyment on most of the faces present; in addition to being physically demanding, the game had been a lot of fun, something she thought they all sorely needed. Though her team were not the victors, she was feeling pretty good, all things considered.

She wasn't sure exactly who suggested heading to the Herald's Rest afterwards to warm up by the tavern's fires, but most everyone seemed to think it was a good idea, and so they began their trek back to Skyhold proper, passing under the gates with most of the conversation still revolving around the game. Khari and Leon seemed to be taking that most seriously; probably he was giving her actual feedback on her strategy. That was what it had been for, after all. Estella couldn't help but smile to herself at the thought. Khari was really... it was almost like she could see her friend finding herself, and growing into that person she was going to be someday. She hadn't ever really seen something like that before. It was pretty incredible.

The main gate closed behind them, meaning that the tavern was in sight. Estella tried to dust a few more snowflakes off herself; the group of them would be tracking a lot of water into the pub, after all. She squeezed a fair bit more out of her ponytail.

"I think hot food and a fire are going to be just about perfect at the moment," she mused. She was walking closest to Ves and Cy, so they were probably the only ones who heard. Not that she particularly required a response to that.

"Add drinks to that and it might just be enough to recover from my wrath," Ves added teasingly. He'd taken the lion's pelt off his head, the cloak draped over his shoulders normally now. He hadn't exerted himself quite as much as most of the others, the majority of his efforts going into playfully harassing Estella. Apparently his team had been more than enough to carry him to victory.

"The wrath of Lord Snowball," Romulus added from behind them, having overheard Ves's louder voice. "A terrible thing to witness."

Vesryn turned to walk backwards, grinning in surprise. "Was that a joke from the Lord Inquisitor?" He glanced at Estella, lowering his voice. "It's a sign, I think. Going to be a good year." He turned back around, walking with a spring in his step. He'd pointed out a few Inquisition soldiers on their way back up, who had taken to using their shields as makeshift sleds. Some were more effective than others at it, but Vesryn had been certain his own tower shield would outdo them all. No doubt he'd want to try it before long.

"And here we are." He made sure to be the first of their three to reach the door to the Herald's Rest, pulling it open for her and Cy. "After you..." The look in his eye had become mischievous again, giving away that he knew something she didn't.

The Herald’s Rest looked entirely transformed—as if they’d stepped into another tavern altogether. It certainly wasn’t anything Estella remembered. Someone had gone to great lengths to decorate every nook and cranny; including the rafters overhead. Long streamers of purple and blues hung from the wooden beams. Paper stars were tied to their ends, folded in varying sizes. The wind moved them about as Vesryn opened the door. The light was softer here, perhaps intentionally so. Several decorative lanterns offered a warm ambiance, set in the middle of each table. Flickering candlelight shone a soft ember, though if one were to glance at the ceiling
 small, shadowy stars painted there. Dancing each time the light flickered.

The fireplace had been lit and decorated as well. Though some space had been left in the center, bereft of any furniture. There were, however, a pair of chairs and lutes, set off to the side. Cards, dice, and several unusual games were set atop one of the furthest tables. Some of the residents of the tavern were moving to designated locations behind the bar, all grins as the door was pushed open.

All of the tables had been pushed together in a horseshoe shape, and as if the Maker had heard Estella’s musing wish, they had already been prepared for a feast. Brialle was setting the last of the plates across the tables; expression merry. Clearly she’d disappeared sometime during the festivities. Now, it became clear where she’d gone off to. She brushed her hands off across the front of her apron and gave a little flourish towards the tables, neatly set with an array of silver platters. Cups and plates, as well as folded napkins were set at each table. Gaudy pillows and soft furs were placed along the benches. The arrangement was stifling to say the least. It was difficult to know where to begin.

The smell greeted them soon after they passed the threshold of the door. The largest table had a platter of still-sizzling round roast in a bed of jewel-sized potatoes, paired with onions, garlic and various herbs, as well as four bowls of cooked vegetables at its side. Another platter took up most of the space: several roasted pheasants and stuffed birds arrayed in a line. To the side, various cheeses and freshly-baked breads; cakes and tarts and small, fist-sized pies. The selection of wine was impressive, as well. Each table had three bottles surrounding the lanterns. Squinting from the door, the bottles themselves looked awfully familiar to Estella. Off to the side, three casks of something sat at the ready.

There was a larger cake, as well. Set across the nearest table, candles already lit. Whoever had done it had taken measures to layer it three times, with white icing as the filling. Strawberries and raspberries were set across the lip.

It became clear what this was: a celebration.

There were only a few things Estella could think of to be celebrating in quite this fashion. And for it to be this day in particular—could it really be? Her hand moved up to her mouth; she turned around, backing a few paces more into the room, only to observe Cy and Zee exchanging some kind of mutual congratulations in gestures. She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, letting her hand drop a few inches, just enough to speak.

"Is... is this...?"

Her brother arched an eyebrow, clearly somewhat amused by her reaction. “What else would it be?" He tilted his head to the side, his tone softening along with his expression, shifting from the wry to the wholly sincere. “Happy birthday, Stellulam."

Estella made a soft noise, something akin to a muffled squeak. All of this was really...?

She'd never really celebrated her birthday. There hadn't been a whole lot of cause to do so, in Tevinter, and any recognition of the event was usually something quiet, swallowed up easily by the more general festive mood of Firstday. And after, well. Maybe there'd been more to celebrate, but she'd never really told anyone when it was. So she knew right away that the idea had to have been Cyrus's—and surely he was the only one who knew her preferred brandy. But this had Zee's fingerprints all over it, even before considering that Brialle was certainly responsible for the food itself. And the look on Ves's face could only mean he'd known as well, and probably had something to do with it all.

It was kind of funny, that in the middle of this big beautiful decorated room with all the things to look at, she couldn't quite make herself turn around. "I'm... everyone, I... you're going to make me cry," she said, only half-joking. She could feel emotion welling up in her chest, pressing against her heart in a way that was wonderful and terrible and made her feel so full of warmth and love and happiness.

Her lips trembled; Estella did the only thing she could thing to do. She launched herself for her brother, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. She could feel him return it just as strongly, his arms around her shoulders. They were still dripping water on the floor and all, but it bothered him no more than her. "Thank you, Cy." she mumbled it into his shirt, then let go with one arm to motion the other two over as well. "You're not getting out of this either. Blame yourselves for helping."

"Best Firstday ever?" Ves asked, making his way over to them as the others took up the door, everyone piling into the tavern's warmth. He worked himself into the hug, pressing his lips briefly against the wet hair on the side of Estella's head. "I think so. Happy birthday, you two."

A laugh sounded as Zahra entered through the door. Her footsteps sounded jaunty. There was a little skip in her step as she approached them. Though it was the expression on her lips that said it all. Like a kitten who’d gotten into all the milk. She weaseled her way into the hug and settled a hand softly against the back of Estella’s head, “Happy birthday, Stel. You too, Cy.” She patted Vesryn on the back with her other hand and grinned broadly, “Knew you could do it, Ves. Well done.”

“All right, all right. This is all very touching, but the rest of us can't eat till you sit down, Stel, so park it." Khari, all big grins and false huffiness, pointed to an empty bench near the center of things, just big enough to seat the four of them still standing.

Cyrus snorted under his breath, breaking the hug first and gesturing the rest of them to precede him. He sat on Stel's left, between her and Zee, leaving the right side for Vesryn. True to form among friends, there wasn't really any standing on ceremony after that, and everyone happily dug in. Cy poured a snifter full from one of the bottles of brandy; up close there was no mistaking that it was the honeyed kind from Vol Dorma. He pushed it towards her with a knowing smile. “Remember the time we drank an entire bottle of this next to the pond in the Chantry garden?"

"I remember," Estella replied archly, "but I'm quite surprised you do." He'd done most of the drinking, after all. They were fifteen, and he'd stolen it from Cassius, and it was more his idea than hers to even do it, but that was sort of the way of things back then.

Glancing across the table, she noted that Asala didn't have any sort of cup next to her. "Do you want to try some, Asala? It's my favorite—it's sweet enough that it won't burn too much, if you're not used to drinking." She took up the half-empty bottle and set it down halfway across the table, so Asala could reach it easily if she so desired.

“Of course, she would,” Zahra’s grin only widened as she stood up and reached over the table. She filled Asala’s cup with the brandy and set the bottle back down on the table. Like always, it didn’t seem as if she would take no for an answer. There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she plopped back down in her chair and filled her own glass with red wine, watching her from her peripherals. Her expression hadn’t simpered in the slightest. “There’s no better day to let loose. You know, have a little fun. Unless it’s a little too strong for you.”

It sounded awfully like a challenge.

Asala pursed her lips and stuck her tongue out at Zee in response to her challenge. The glass in front of her, however, she gave a more tentative gaze before she took a hold of it. She held it up in front of her for a moment, before looking at everyone else who had gathered around and shrugged. "Cheers," she said, taking a drink of the brandy. The reaction was subtle at first, but still noticeable. Her shoulders hitch slightly and there was a twitch to her head as she guided the glass back down to the table. She tried to hide a small cough before she nodded. "It's good," she smiled through another twitch.

Estella raised her brows a little—it probably wasn't entirely wise to take Zee's advice in this particular case, but she knew that their raider friend wouldn't do any real harm, so she elected to keep her silence about it.

As the food gradually disappeared, a few of the partygoers stood, mingling more freely amongst themselves. Not long after, Rilien and Brialle both took up the lutes next to the chairs. It seemed minimal conferral was necessary before they struck upon a song they both knew, and music filled the tavern, a light sort of tune that made for easy dancing. Eventually, Larissa made her way up toward them too, adding her practiced voice to the song. No few of the guests took the easy hint, while others lingered in their seats.

There was just enough brandy warming Estella's body for her to turn to Ves. "What do you think?" she asked, half smiling. "Am I clear to dance in public, or would that be far too embarrassing for the both of us?" She knew she'd improved considerably, of course—the words were too light to be completely serious.

"I think if they don't like your dancing, they'll just have to deal with it." Ves looked pleasantly surprised that she'd asked first, and pushed his chair back. It had been adorned with his white pelt since he sat down, the combined heat of the tavern and the brandy and the bodies prompting him to dress as though it were summer. She'd never known him to flush from embarrassment, so it was likely the brandy that colored his face as he stood and offered his hand down to her. "Shall we?"

She nodded, fitting her hand into his and rising to extract herself from the bench. They slid easily into the small knot of other dancers, and Estella didn't let herself think about how well she was remembering the motions, or how clumsy she was or was not being. It was her birthday party, dammit, and he was right. If she was dancing badly, everyone else could just deal with it.

Around them, others joined the floor; Lia and Astraia to one end, Khari and Cor not trying very hard to follow any recognizable pattern in another. It looked like either Aurora had asked Donnelly to join her or the other way around, because they were in the mix as well. Donnelly was far too red in the face for it to be entirely because of alcohol, but he was grinning like a fool. Estella almost laughed at him, but she kind of knew what that felt like, these days.

“I don't think I need to ask if you can dance." Surprise of all surprises, Cy was the speaker, his tone more playful than she'd heard in a while. He swept a deliberately overly-fancy bow at Zee of all people, his smile entirely facetious. “So I suppose what is left to ask is whether you'd do me the honor, dear Captain."

From the looks of it, Zahra had a smudge of red across her cheeks as well. A mixture of wine, and brandy and whatever else she’d extracted from the ridiculously large kegs pushed up into the corner of the tavern. She inclined her head at him and arched a sly eyebrow as she took up his hand in hers and rose from her seat. A laugh was ready on her lips. Perhaps, because he was right about her knowing how to dance. Or else, he’d surprised her in some other way. Drunk or no, her movements were languid. Graceful, even. “With pleasure.”

Surprisingly enough, she allowed him to lead her on between the other dancers and twirled to the beat of the quickened notes. Brialle and Larissa’s dulcet voices rose around them, as they sang something merrier. She danced as if no one was watching anyway. All wild hair and toothy grins. Though it appeared as if she were still being attentive to Cyrus’ lead.

When the first song ended and the next began, the partners rotated freely. Estella wound up with her brother, and then Cor, and then Khari, which made her grin. They found themselves next to Zee again, who had apparently dragged Asala onto the floor at some point. On their other side, a perplexed-looking Leon was attempting to mimic Sparrow's steps. Estella was sure that if he was used to any kind of dancing, this wasn't it, but he was catching on.

Asala appeared to have been trying to attack the drinks that Zee had poured her, as she had vibrant flush to her face, and her steps were anything but sure. However, the blush stripped away what inhibitions she might've had, since she was laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. On one pass, she was close enough to hear her speak. "You have... the prettiest hair," Asala said cheerily, having plucked a lock from Zee's shoulders and running her fingers through it.

Apparently, this was not at all what Zahra was expecting. A spluttering cough sounded. If it was at all possible, her ears reddened a more mottled shade. Her cough transformed itself into nervous chuckle as she spun her in a circle. Perhaps, to cause a bit of distance, before dragging her back in and taking up one of her hands, eyes alight. “Y-yes, well. Thank you, kitten.” Whatever momentary lapse of composure there was soon disappeared as she lead them into a more sprightly dance, tossing her head in another one of her telltale laughs.

It wasn't long after that someone—Leon, it seemed—produced a deck of cards from somewhere. He waved them slightly at the assembled. "Anyone interested in playing? I'm open to suggestions for games."

Estella glanced at Khari, then shrugged. "How about it?"

“Sure!" Khari, slightly red under her freckles and vallaslin, likely wouldn't have minded just about anything at the moment. Linking her arm with Estella's, she walked them over to the table, which a few people were hastily clearing off. “What are we gonna play?"

“Wicked Grace is the standard in these situations, is it not?" The sly look on Cyrus's face suggested that the input was meant more to provide him some amusement than to encourage adherence to any sort of tradition. “Who are the contenders, then?" He made a show of glancing around.

“How devious,” The cooed statement was more of a tease than anything else as Zahra approached the table and plopped down in one of the benches. Elbows already placed on the table. It seemed as if she were already volunteering to play as well. She smiled and arched one of her eyebrows, “I take it you won’t be joining us?”

Off to her right side, and a few seats down, Sparrow had already seated herself and was scouring the table for the other contenders. There was a slight tilt to her lips, barely a smile, though from her posture, she seemed confident in her ability to participate. She hadn’t said a word. Perhaps, that was the beginning of the game she planned to play.

Marceline on the other hand seemed to float toward the table, taking a seat on the other side deftly. Unsurprisingly she had a wine glass in hand, and she held it close to her mouth as she eyed the other contenders. A rather predatory look had fixed itself on her face, though she was smiling, but for what it was worth did seem to be enjoying herself, if the tiny stain of wine on her collar was anything to go by. "It has been a long time since I last played Wicked Grace, so forgive me if I seem rusty," she said with a quick flutter in the corner of her lips. Michaël however, backed down shaking his head as he found a seat within watching distance.

Asala on the other looked like she thought about it, but before she decided anything turned toward Cyrus with a little sway. "Wicked Grace?" She asked.

Estella wasn't quite close enough to hear whatever words her brother used to explain the key points of the game, but her face soon lit up in a blush, and she shook her head intently. A moment passed however and she glanced at the table, and she spoke again, loud enough for Estella to hear. "I think I will watch, thank you."

"I'm in," Romulus declared, rejoining the group now that the dancing was done. He looked quite at ease with the idea of playing cards. Perhaps it was something he'd gained experience in back in Tevinter.

Vesryn no doubt had experience as well, as anyone that had spent time in a mercenary company would. "Well, at least I won't have far to go after I've lost my clothes to you all," said Vesryn, picking his spot at the table and plopping himself down into it. "Shame, really." It seemed he had experience both at winning and losing, and it was hard to tell which one he was looking forward to more, judging by the gleam in his eye.

Estella situated herself at the table as well, next to Khari, settling into her chair while Leon shuffled his deck and dealt everyone their hands. It looked like there were going to be eight players in total, then: herself, Leon, Ves, Romulus, Khari, Zee, Sparrow, and Marcy. She wasn't exactly surprised that Cy was electing not to participate, but she didn't comment on the choice, preferring not to risk making him uncomfortable about it.

When her first two cards were in front of her, she slid them facedown to the edge of the table and turned the corners up for a quick look. Not great, but not bad. She could make something of that—the game was mostly about bluffing anyway.

The turn started to the dealer's left, with Khari.

Along with the cards, everyone had received a small stack of chips, the necessary skill buffer before clothing items started to go. Khari looked at her cards, picking them up rather than leaving them on the table, but she held them close to her chest. Picking up two chips from the top of her pile, she gave them a little toss into the middle, starting the bet off relatively conservatively.

Estella matched the bet, more interested in using the first round to gauge strategy and the comparative strength of everyone's Gracefaces rather than winning it outright. Rilien had taught her to play, after all, and he always had an eye to the long game.

Romulus folded immediately, apparently having received quite a dreadful hand and not feeling like attempting a bluff. Ves, however, went for a raise, doubling the amount that Khari had thrown in. "Don't be shy now, little bear. No glory in that."

“No glory in losing, either." Khari apparently wasn't going to be so easily goaded this time around.

"This is not the best game to play, if one is indeed shy," Lady Marceline mused, as she too folded.

Sparrow made a small noise in the back of her throat as she folded as well. A sigh sifted from her lips as she arched an eyebrow and watched the others. Her expression bore a fine resemblance to a mask; comparatively calmer to the aggression she’d shown on the battlefield. Though, she kept one of her elbows on the table, fingers loose.

Zahra tossed her head back in a laugh, fanning her face with her cards. It was difficult to tell if she had a good Graceface, a decent set of cards, or was just enjoying herself. Her eyes were alight as she, too, raised the bet by one, pinching the chips from her little pile and pushing them forward, “Let’s be honest, that’s the best part of the game.”

The first hand went to Estella, when her cards proved superior to those few who'd stuck out the betting rounds. It was enough that she pulled forward a sizeable number of chips. Over the next few, she built her lead, and learned quite quickly that the ones to watch for were Leon, Lady Marceline, Romulus, and Sparrow. By what she guessed was the halfway point in the game, she had a stack of chips about triple the size of the one she'd started with. Leon had about broken even, and looked a little relieved by the fact when the game temporarily paused for cake and he actually took stock of the others.

Romulus had won and lost, but his losses were almost always modest, and his wins were substantial. It left him with more than he started with, but not as much as Estella had accrued. It was enough that he was starting to look quietly pleased with himself, though he was able to keep any tells related to his hands well in check. He spent most of the break observing the other piles of chips, or lack thereof in the case of those that started losing clothing.

Ves was among the first of these, having already lost his boots. Instead of his socks he'd elected to lose his shirt instead, claiming that he put quite a great value on the warmth of his toes. Truly, he looked more entertained by losing than the successful players did by winning, and before long he'd put the lion's pelt on his head again, the paws of which settled somewhere over his abdominal muscles. He was obviously enjoying himself, and the effect he knew he could have on others, whether it was wanted or not. He did actually seem to be trying, he was just... rather recklessly brave with his cards when there was no reason to be, and made bluffs that were all too easy to call.

Estella had stopped looking at him directly, which was thankfully easy enough given that he was next to her, but that just made things difficult for other reasons. Fortunately, she was good at nothing so much as narrowing her focus when she needed to, and compartmentalizing. Both were talents she was making good use of presently.

Khari was down to one sock, but she obviously had very different priorities from Ves when it came to which articles she was willing to lose, as her shirt remained quite in place. The fault in her strategy was simply that her Graceface—like her face at every other time—was very readable; she actually knew quite well when to fold and when to hold, so to speak.

Cyrus seemed to be highly amused by what unfolded in front of him; he'd insinuated himself between Estella and Khari, and only a few well-placed elbows had stopped him from giving hints to the opposition.

Zahra’s expression had twisted itself with each bluff called and article lost—she’d been accumulating a pile of clothes at the foot of her chair, rather than any chips she’d been so confident in winning. She didn’t seem to particularly mind losing her clothes, but appeared more frustrated at the fact that she’d been caught trying to steal from the discard pile. Her Graceface hadn’t held up nearly as well as she may have hoped for. She’d lost her boots and socks and was in the process of unfastening her vest, revealing lacy undergarments, mumbling something about another bloody awful hand and cursed cards.

Sparrow was doing much better than her nearly naked neighbour. In fact, it didn’t appear as if she were missing anything at all. Estella may have spotted her remove one of her boots
 but aside from that, she’d been slowly gaining on her. The expression on her face hadn’t changed, though a pinch of amusement crinkled at the corners of her eyes.

Marceline had not been lying when she said she had been rusty, losing a number of her chips due to playing overly cautiously. However, as her wine glass steadily drained, she grew bolder, and it didn't help matters that she seemed to have slid back into the groove of it by the intermission, having begun the process of winning her chips back. The fact did not seem to be lost on her, as she began to exude an air of confidence, or perhaps it was just her Graceface. It was always hard to tell with Marceline, but for once, she did seem to be enjoying herself, laughing easier as the flush on her cheeks grew.

Asala on the other hand, had spent her time wandering around the table and taking peeks at everyone's cards. The sway she'd obtained had gotten worse, as she held another glass of whatever Zee had deigned to pour her. She'd apparently gotten over the bite of the alcohol, or maybe had enough that it didn't matter any more. Either way, the liquor had done its job of getting her to open up and act without any of her lingering reticence. Eventually, she came to hover behind Vesryn, her attention divided between his cards and the lion's pelt on his head. At least, until the pelt won out, and she began to lovingly stroke its head.

"If you lose," she started, swaying slightly in the breeze, "I want to wear him. If you lose. But I believe in you." She added with a beaming smile.

"Ah, but first I would have to bet him," Ves replied, tilting his head back so that his eyes could peer up at the drunken Qunari from between two of the lion's teeth. Apparently he didn't mind being pet by her, or at least he was more skilled at concealing those reactions. "And there are some things I'm not willing to leave to chance." He grinned, though, and pushed the pelt back from his head. "Who am I to deny that face, though? Go on, try not to get any of that brandy on it." He shrugged off the pelt and handed it up to her. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to undress me."

“Think you're doing plenty of that all by yourself, Ves." Khari rolled her eyes at him in an exaggerated fashion, taking a large gulp from her tankard in the meantime.

She appeared to think the next round was one worth staking her luck on, though, because her remaining sock went in the initial round, followed by her shirt, something which she didn't appear to have any real reservations about. The cloth bands she used to bind herself weren't even half as racy as Zee's undergarments, to be sure. Her training had clearly been good for her; she grinned a little and flexed her bicep, patting the swell of muscle with her other hand. “You're welcome, everyone." Her tone was quite sarcastic, but either the drink or a considerable amount of self-confidence meant she did at least seem to be quite unashamed.

For just a moment, Estella's blank visage cracked; she snickered. Romulus shifted more in his seat than he had since the game started, but by the time Estella could direct her gaze in his direction, he'd fixed his eyes firmly on his cards.

Rather surprisingly, Asala didn't blush at Ves's remark, and seemed to have handled it smoothly. She accepted the lion's pelt giddily and threw it over her head, her horns spaced just right so that they framed the lion's snout. She spun a bit in place, letting the rest of the cloak flutter, before she settled down and continuing to pet the paw that was draped over her chest. She adjusted for a moment before she finally looked back down to Vesyrn. "It is not me you should worry about, Ves," she said, before tossing a gaze toward Estella and her pile of chips.

After that, her neck sunk into her shoulders as she giggled to herself, and began to make her rounds around the table again, probably on the lookout for more clothing to steal.

The round continued, a few people losing additional chips or articles to the betting. When everyone left turned over their cards, Khari cursed. Her hand was only the second-strongest, meaning Romulus took the round. “I'm out." She declared it firmly. “I like you guys a lot, but not enough to take my pants off." She eyed her tunic, and then Romulus, tipping her head sideways and grinning at him.

“Do best friend ever privileges get me my tunic back, or are you gonna leave me out in the cold?"

Romulus was either surprised that he'd won, or more likely just flustered at the situation he'd been caught in, which was probably obvious to almost everyone in the room, save for those that had consumed copious amounts of drink and the particularly oblivious. "Uh, yeah," he laughed awkwardly, taking his secured chips and pushing the tunic back in her direction.

"Well, probably best for me to quit now, while I'm ahead," Ves said, smiling slyly at Estella. "It seems my attempt to throw you off your game was unsuccessful. Remarkable focus you have there."

She cleared her throat, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, careful to meet his. He hardly needed her to confirm that he was testing her concentration. He knew it already, the smarmy rakehell. "Is that what that was?" she replied with feigned obliviousness, tone light and airy. "I hadn't noticed."

Zahra hadn’t fared well at all. The neat pile of clothes had become an unruly mess kicked to the side of her chair. There was a pull to her thick eyebrows as she leaned closer to the table in what may have been an attempt to hide her breasts, arms crossed over them. She’d already peeled off her pants, though she’d been lucky enough to have been knocked out of the game before she entirely embarrassed herself. Whether it was the warmth of brandy in her belly that made her not care at her state of undress or some sort of unspoken habit, she didn’t seem all that disturbed.

“I’m out,” The captain waggled her eyebrows at them and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “The flirting at this table is palpable though. Very entertaining.” It appeared she didn’t mind so much. The losing bit. Her grin had already begun pulling up the corners of her mouth.

Sparrow hummed a sound of assent before sliding her own cards across the table. A smile stretched the scar across her face, seeming far more genuine, and breaking the composure she’d built so far, “Me too.” Her state of undress was far less discernible, though she bent to pull on her socks and lace her boots. Afterwards, she rose from her seat and inclined her head in a nod before wandering off towards the fireplace where Brialle, Rilien and Larissa still lingered. Possibly discussing music and the like.

That left four: Leon, Estella, Romulus, and Lady Marceline.

Leon put up a valiant effort, but he was clearly not as experienced a player as the others, and his ability to hide his tells only served so well against three people who understood the strategic components of this particular game very well. He recused himself after the loss of his shirt, which Estella returned to him right after, given the apparent discomfort it caused him.

She couldn't really fathom why, but perhaps he was self-conscious about the number of scars he had. That, she could certainly relate to.

Getting from three to two took much longer, at which point Romulus lost out by a narrow margin and took his leave from the table. Lady Marceline was a crafty opponent, but Stel had played this game against someone with literally no tells, and had refined her Graceface to compete. Though the margin of victory wasn't wide, it was more than enough to ensure that even her boots remained on her person, and Lady Marceline conceded about an hour after the game had begun.

At that point, she stood, recognizing the signs of the party winding down. Most of the guests had things to do in the morning and had understandably left during the game, and the tavern was beginning to look a bit like a ruin. Estella caught sight of Asala under a table and flinched.

"That floor is not going to be comfortable," she mused, glancing at Leon. "Can you help me with her?"

He nodded. "Of course."

Estella crouched next to the Qunari woman, picking someone's sock off one of her horns with a fondly-exasperated sigh. Ves's pelt proved a little harder to extract, but she was sure he'd prefer to get it back intact and relatively clean, so they worked it out from underneath Asala and returned it to its rightful owner.

She doubted Leon needed any help carrying her, but at least she could open the doors. After a few goodbyes, thank-yous, and a gesture towards Asala in lieu of a lengthier explanation, they departed.

After the healer was safe in bed—and turned on her side—Leon left a glass of water and a health potion on her nightstand, along with a note in Estella's handwriting.

Water first, then the potion. You had a bit too much fun last night, but there's nothing to worry about.

And for once, there really wasn't.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
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The Old Gods will call to you,
From their ancient prisons they will sing.
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The First of My children, lost to night.
—Canticle of Silence 3:6
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Lady Marceline had called a meeting with the Inquistors, and the other advisors, all of whom were now gathered in her office. The reason why should be clear to them, as it was not secret that the Inquisition had at large received an invitation from none other than the Crown Prince himself. The immaculately penned letter hung loosely in her fingertips at present as she leaned against her desk, her other hand hovering in front of her mouth, hiding it as she absently chewed her lip. It'd be easy for them to tell that she was at least a bit anxious, but this was a matter of great importance to both the Inquisition, and to herself personally. It would have been difficult for her to hide no matter who she was.

A time and place for peace talks for the Orlesian civil war had finally been decided, and a possible end to the war that had been tearing her homeland apart for the last few years was only a about a month and a half away in the Winter Palace, in Halamshiral. Lucien had asked the Inquisition, and their Inquisitors, to act as a sort of neutral party.

However, it would be a formal event and there was no doubt in her mind that it would resemble more of a fĂȘte than a peace conference. The Game would be in full effect, as all those present would attempt to win and edge and advance their station and renown. It was the Orlesian way, with the theatrics and glitter to the hide the blades at each others throats.

"Where do we even begin?" Marceline asked, glancing to her sides where Rilien and Leon both flanked her. There was a lot to prepare for, and they had a month and a half to do it.

"...might I suggest the beginning?" Estella blinked, glancing at her fellow Inquisitor for a moment, then at the others, starting with her brother and ending with Ser Rilien. "I'm guessing everyone here who has an approach to dealing with the nobility has a slightly different take. I, for one, could use a refresher in the basics." She smiled benignly. "Perhaps some demonstrations of the kinds of things we might have to deal with, what questions might come up and that sort of thing?"

Leon looked thoughtful. "I doubt we have time for exact rundowns on every little thing, so it's probably best to go for the gist, yes."

“Personally, I think the how-tos of the things we'll have to do are most important." Cyrus shrugged from his place at Estella's side. “Greetings, fielding likely questions, how to act around people of different stations. Some of us occupy markedly different ones now than we used to, particularly our illustrious leaders. Perhaps it would be good to know what to apologize for and what to stand firm on." He paused a moment, then smiled slightly. “I can certainly model an insufferable aristocrat, if anyone would like to practice being face-to-face with one."

Ser Rilien met Romulus's eyes directly. “How many events of a similar sort have you attended in the past, Romulus?"

The Inquisitor's eyes widened ever so slightly at that, either with incredulity or perhaps some form of fear that he clearly did not experience on a regular basis in battle. He made what looked to be an uncontrolled glance towards Estella, tearing it away towards Leon, finally coming back to Rilien, though they did not rest there for long. "None, I'm afraid." After that his eyes fell a bit lower, wandering around and searching for something to fixate themselves on. "I'm, uh... I'm no Bard, I was never trained for that sort of thing. If there were guests, I mostly just stood with the others, and only acted if called upon. Which I rarely was."

Marceline chewed her lip some more. She had noticed how he acted with her when she was around. In hindsight, she perhaps should have done something about it earlier, and she cursed herself for not acting upon it until now. Still, they would all have to put the work in to ensure that the Inquisition put in a good showing at the Winter Palace. She made a conscious effort to stop the chewing of her lip, and let her hands fall loosely to her sides, before finally resting them behind her back. Estella she had confidence in, she had proven herself time and time again to be an apt player. Romulus on the other hand... They would have to see to it that he was up to speed by the time they reached Halamshiral.

"Romulus," Marceline began, as gentle as she could manage, "First, you'll have to maintain eye contact when you speak," she said, gesturing toward her own eyes, though she let the sympathy remain in her face. She could not imagine how he was feeling, up until a few years ago, his role was quite the opposite than his present occupation. It would be difficult to break that in only a month and some days. "Keep it in mind and work on it. Some of the sterner nobility will either see it as weakness or as an insult."

"Do you remember how any of these guests, or even Chryseis had acted in these situations?" she asked.

"She was different for every one," he answered. He was attempting the eye contact; frequently his eyes darted up to hers, but they could never remain there. A few seconds later they'd fall to somewhere else, down or sideways or to the window or the desk. "It depended on if they were an ally, an enemy, or someone she hadn't pegged as either. She had no friends. She was..." He let his eyes fall fully, probably in thought, parsing through memories of a very unpleasant and prolonged period of his life. "Never herself. Sometimes I didn't recognize her, or have a clue if she meant half the things she was saying. They spoke, they ate... Chryseis rarely hosted social gatherings, and I never went with her to any at other places." The last part he said as though he thought the idea was a little ridiculous.

“Chryseis and the Imperium aren't the best examples of what to do here, I think." Cyrus sighed a bit, and shook his head. “If you don't mind my saying so, Lady Marceline, neither Romulus nor anyone else needs to be learning how to 'wear a mask,' so to speak." He frowned slightly, the way someone might if they'd smelled something that didn't agree with them, particularly. “Better to be themselves in a slightly more polished fashion, I think."

Rilien nodded. “We would do well to appear above the fray in any case. There is no need for elaborate ruses. Only the necessary motions and a few choice deflection tactics."

"I completely agree Cyrus," Marceline answered, "Certainly manufacturing a mask is not what we want," she continued, sparing a glance for both Romulus and Estella. Not that they even had time to attempt to do so, even if they wished. "I do wish for you to be yourselves, as much as possible," she said, nodding to Cyrus in agreement, "but I want you to be confident in doing so-- or at least, feigning confidence."

"Maybe we can practice together?" Estella asked the question, turning to orient herself towards Romulus. "Like Cyrus said. Suppose I'm a noblewoman, and you're the Lord Inquisitor. If I approach you, I'm going to introduce myself, probably because I'm very interested in learning more about the Inquisition. So..." She smiled a little wryly, then dropped into a well-practiced curtsy, not entirely unlike the one she'd demonstrated during Lord Mathis's visit.

"And here I'd say something like. 'Lord Inquisitor. It's an honor to meet you. My name is...'" She trailed off, apparently not having thought quite that far ahead. "'Fiorella Costanza, and this is my husband Sabino.'" She gestured for Leon to approach and stand next to her, which he did obligingly, his smile a tad droll. He bowed properly, though, clearly intent on actually helping.

"It is at this point, you would return the bow and formally introduce yourself as well. Remember, however, to make eye contact and to project confidence," she directed. Of course, saying these things were simple in comparison to actually doing so, but with enough practice, hopefully it would come. She did not expect anyone to excel at anything for the first moment.

Romulus nodded uneasily, having already turned to face Estella and Leon. He looked like he felt a bit foolish, but he performed a stiff, unpracticed bow all the same. The eye contact was made, though being faced with two people made him unsure where to keep them, and he keep bouncing back and forth between the two. "Lady, Lord," he said, managing to look at the correct one for the corresponding titles. He paused immediately after, though, unsure. "Is it Lady and Lord that I use, or...?" He trailed off, apparently deciding it could be answered later, and turned his eyes back on Estella and Leon.

"I am Romulus, I'm... the Inquisitor." He blinked a few times, reddening. "You already know that."

Estella's smile brightened. "So we did," she agreed, with gentle humor. "I was just telling Sabino the other day that having you here can surely only be good for the talks. I wish they were handling things a little more directly, but I think you get used to all of the Orlesian trappings after a while." She affected a sigh, then moved her eyes slightly behind Romulus, as if only just then noticing something.

"Ah, but it seems you've brought a friend. Might we have an introduction?" From where she was looking, she could only intend to mean Cyrus.

He took the cue with some ease, stepping up beside Romulus as though a member of his party or entourage. “Typically, the person with rank in a situation introduces anyone with them, which is you. Unless one of us were already known to Stellulam, in which case of course the mutual acquaintance does the introducing. A name alone will suffice, unless there's something else they really need to know, such as an important title. But they'll probably assume Lord or Lady for the humans, at least." He nodded towards Estella and Leon, his tone as mild as his sister's. “Try introducing me?"

"This is Cyrus," he said, turning just his upper body towards him and doing nothing whatsoever with his hands, which remained firmly clasped in front of him. "Uh, Cyrus Avenarius. He's... um." He struggled for a bit, obviously thinking he had more to add, but not sure what it was before he'd blurted words, and then looked at Estella, clearly confusing himself. "He's your—uh, Estella's—the Lady Inquisitor's brother." He grimaced at himself, his eyes falling away from all of them. "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"

"Well, that certainly was," Marceline admitted, though she smiled as as she spoke. she let her hands fall away from behind her and she took a more relaxed posture as she approached them. "But it was only a start. It will come in time. Time and practice, I promise. You need not impress anyone," she continued, inflecting a comforting smile. "We do not intend to throw you to the wolves unprepared, as it were."

"I don't think it was that bad, honestly," Estella replied. "You should have seen me the first time Master Horatio brought me along to a formal event. I was a wreck." She shook her head, relaxing her posture and placing her hands on her hips. "To answer your earlier question, Lord and Lady will do for almost everyone. There are forms of address that make finer distinctions, but you won't have to worry about those. The only exceptions are Commander Lucien and the Empress, and I promise you that he won't care in the slightest whether you you address him properly or not. The empress is either 'Your Radiance' or 'Your Imperial Majesty.'"

She brought a hand up to her mouth, dragging the pad of her index finger along her lower lip. "But really, I think the essentials are just the things we practiced just now, answering intrusive questions gracefully, and then dancing. It's not impossible to learn in a month and a half. And if I'm saying so, it must be true." She half-smiled in a typically self-effacing manner, but there was some humor to it.

"You aren't the only one that needs to learn, either," Leon mused. "We certainly won't be sending you in there by yourselves; I expect most or all of the Irregulars will participate. Perhaps it would be good to set up group lessons on this sort of thing? It would be easier if everyone learned the same things in the same ways, I suspect." He paused a moment, a look of clear amusement flickering over his face. "I can only imagine how much work Khari needs before we can set her on the nobility."

Estella snorted. "That's a very different sense of 'bear mauls the wolves,' I think."

"Oh Maker," Marceline replied with a small laugh.

“I'll help." Cyrus held up a hand, though not in an entirely-serious fashion, from the fact that he turned it into a jaunty mock-salute. “As mentioned, I have experience being exactly the sort of deplorable snob we have to worry about. And hence dealing with others of the same sort."

Rilien, too, nodded to indicate his willingness to assist, turning a flat gaze to Marceline. “It seems appropriate to conduct such business here, given the space. Perhaps a few times a week until we depart for Halamshiral?"

"I agree," Marceline nodded, "I will have everyone aid us as well," she added. Between her, Michaël, Pierre, Larissa, and Félicité , they should have more than enough hands to focus their studies.

"With that settled... Romulus, would you care to try again?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella had only seldom been to Halamshiral during her years in Orlais with the Lions. Usually if they were in the region, they simply stayed at Lydes, Commander Lucien's home, which was the next dukedom west, so to speak. Despite this, though, she remembered it well. Aside from the cities of Lydes and Arlesans, it was the only major Orlesian settlement without an Alienage, though the reason was a little more insidious in this case: the entire place was mostly populated by elves, and so the majority of the city was theirs to mixed results, while the walled-off High Quarter contained the estates belonging to nobility.

It wasn't entirely unlike Kirkwall would have been, if Lowtown had been mostly elves and melded with the Alienage. There were better and worse parts, but it did tend quite heavily to worse. The path in off the Imperial Highway was quite neat, however, the cobblestones relatively smooth under Nox's feet.

She rode at the front of the Inquisition's formation not because of any particular desire to do so, but because she was the one who knew the way. The other Lions in the army had volunteered to be in charge of the supplies, and thus they were about a day behind, meaning she was the only one who knew how to get to the seldom-used Drakon estate within the city proper. It wasn't too far from the Winter Palace, but after a while, all the fanciest houses started to blend together, she supposed.

They were not alone in entering the city today; another group was slightly ahead of them, a noble of some sort and his household, she supposed. The area was rife with evidence that more had passed this way; where usually there were merchant carts on the street, they had all been cleared away to create the widest possible thoroughfare, and a crowd had gathered along the pedestrian paths to watch the travelers arrive. Someone was flying the Inquisition's banner in the formation behind her, she was sure. They must have been, because the crowd was thickening with onlookers, and she could occasionally hear calls of her name or title, or Romulus's, or just general murmuring with the word 'Inquisition' interspersed.

She resisted the urge to pull up the hood on her cloak and blend back into the column of riders. The feeling of so many eyes on them—on her—would almost certainly never cease to make her profoundly uneasy. The best she could do was refuse to let it show.

If the eyes were making Ves uncomfortable, he certainly wasn't showing it. He rode beside Estella in his armor and lion cloak to brace against the air, which was still crisp and quite cool as winter waned. His smile was controlled, but appearing entirely earnest. Not giddy or overly excited, but obviously in good spirits. He offered brief waves and nods to those that caught his eye, or those that greeted him first. Few if any knew his name, but it wasn't hard to see he made about as much if not more of an impression on the elves that heavily populated the city than the Inquisitors themselves. Certainly more than Romulus, who rode somewhere behind them, quiet as a mouse.

"I do believe we're the oddest assemblage of individuals they've ever seen," Ves commented quietly, just for Estella to hear, or any riding particularly close behind her. He offered another wave, flashing a charming smile. Champion of the Inquisition, indeed.

Khari seemed to be enjoying herself, too; a glance back proved that she was the one bearing the standard, the pole of the banner fitted into a special cup on the left side of her saddle. She waved back at anyone who seemed to be waving at her, or even in her general direction, though her anonymity was such that it was hard to imagine anyone knowing her name in particular.

“We're still the oddest assemblage I've ever seen." Cyrus's words were laconic, drawling. He didn't look precisely comfortable, but he sat his saddle with good posture, not making quite the same attempt to stay beneath notice as Romulus was.

"Agreed," Marceline noted, tossing him a sidelong smirk. She rode in the saddle of her own personal black Orlesian charger as comfortable as ever, the eyes of the crowds ineffective against her.

Asala however, was a different story. She had her shoulders up to her ears in an attempt to make a shell of herself, and also rode beside Leon, probably in hopes of hiding in his shadow.

Zahra seemed most comfortable in this situation, which wasn’t all that surprising given her aptitude for soaking in attention. A smile wriggled itself on her face as she reigned her buckskin steed closer to Asala’s flank and leaned forward in her saddle, propping an elbow on the saddle-horn and resting her chin across her knuckles. She seemed pleased by those who cat-called names, the Inquisition, or whatever else as they passed. Faces peering up at them. Waggling fingers pointing. “No need to hide, kitten. They’re just curious. Big goddamn heroes, and all that.”

Their progress took them over Halamshiral's main thoroughfare and eventually to the gates of the High Quarter. They loomed tall, thick bars of wrought iron set in pale sandstone, pulled, she'd once been told, from quarries far to the west, where it was mined in the desert before transport. Carved into each of the square pillars on either side of the gate were reliefs of battle-scenes, moments from history long ago, gilded with gold and silver.

The gates were already open for the procession in front of them, and they were able to pass through without difficulty. The change in their surroundings was immediately obvious: there wasn't a house here Estella could ever dream of owning. They all bespoke old money and taste; only the most prominent and old families were allowed estates in Halamshiral, those with the title of Marquis or above, basically. Most of those were walled off too, but not so much that the chĂąteaux themselves weren't visible, planted upon each plot of land amidst elaborate gardens and increasingly-embellished architectural features.

She led the Inquisition towards the center of the Quarter, and then around to the left. The house she was aiming for was at the end of the row there, as imposing and grand as any of the others, its edifice primarily a matter of tawny stone blocks with graceful columns in the traditional Orlesian style supporting the entryway. It was large enough to have a few modest cylindrical towers amidst the complex silhouette of its roof, which was a cool, grey-blue slate. The best feature of the house itself was probably its many windows, the panels of glass inset into the stone and polished to a brilliant shine. The grounds were well-kept; the path towards the entrance was flanked by lawn, which gradually faded into flowerbeds and weeping willow trees, only just beginning to bud at this time of year. It was more subdued than ostentatious, but whoever kept them did not allow the house to overpower the grounds it rested upon.

They were greeted at the gate by a small group of people, most of them apparently servants, from the simple, tidy manner of their dress. But among them was a very familiar face.

Estella felt an immense sense of relief first, followed by a warm wave of affection. Nox was still moving when she swung off his saddle, hitting the ground lightly and running, dignity be damned.

Commander Lucien was exactly as she remembered him. Certainly a very tall man, his presence amounted to so much more than his height and his build. He carried himself with a certain kind of unshakable, quiet confidence, one that rolled off him in waves, like a warm ocean current and about as comforting, to her at least. He kept himself well, of course, dark brown hair trimmed to fall no further than his shoulders, a slight wave in the texture that did not lessen the impression of fastidious neatness. He wore his beard very close to his tanned face; it was only dark, even stubble at the moment. The armor he'd chosen was simple enough: chain and a few plates in gleaming, polished silverite. The cloak at his back was maroon, clasped at his left shoulder with a silver pin in the shape of a Lion, identical to the one she wore.

He opened his arms easily at her approach, and she jumped into them without a moment's hesitation. The soft oof he made was surely only for effect, and the fact that he ruffled her hair hard enough to muss it only for his own amusement.

"Well hello, Estella." He laughed softly when her arms tightened for a moment before she stepped away, both of them smiling. "It's good to see you." The words were a common sentiment, between comrades long parted, but his tone and bearing brought a distinctive, personal warmth to them that few others had.

"You, too," she replied, sure she couldn't quite manage the same but trying her best anyway.

His grey eyes narrowed a little, pulling at the thin white scar that bisected one eyebrow and continued on the cheekbone below. He moved his attention up to the others, then, where the house's servants were already assisting with the horses, leading them away towards a stable tucked off to the side of the property. "Made new friends, I see. Welcome, Inquisition. For as long as you're here, I hope you'll think of my house as yours." He swept a bow before those assembled, then straightened back to his full height.

"Accordingly... please call me Lucien."

"My house looks lovely, indeed," remarked Ves, striding up steadily and getting his first look at the Commander of the Argent Lions. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lucien. Vesryn Cormyth, at your service." He offered his arm out, apparently preferring something along the lines of a warrior's clasp to a handshake or salute. "I've heard many great things."

Lucien grasped his forearm without the faintest hesitation, grip firm but clearly not uncomfortably so. "I'm always concerned to learn that people have heard things. Living up to the reputation my friends give me isn't easy." With a slight nod, he let go of Ves's arm. "It's good to meet you as well, though. Nice to put faces to the names I've read about." He paused a moment, then glanced at the others.

"Might I ask which one of you is Romulus?"

He looked to have already been making his way towards the front, but upon having his name called Romulus drew up before Lucien. He'd been rehearsing greetings for just these moments, Estella knew, but something about actually standing in front of Lucien was obviously throwing him off. "I am, Commander. Uh, Lucien." He subtly grit his teeth for a passing moment, clearly displeased with himself, but pushed on. "My thanks for the invitation, and for allowing us a place to stay within Halamshiral."

Lucien's warmth didn't falter in the face of a little awkwardness. Estella knew it had faced far worse and survived, after all. "On the contrary," he said, "I am the one who owes the thanks, to you in particular. As events have been relayed to me, you helped my people on the day of the Conclave, and without that help, I'd have lost my lieutenant. My friend. Words aren't enough, but I hope you'll accept them anyway." He held out a hand, in much the same manner Ves had, his smile smaller but no less genuine than it had been.

"It was..." Romulus looked like he wanted to add something else, perhaps refute the need to thank him. It was nothing, or it was complicated, or he didn't have a real choice or say in the matter. Whatever he was thinking about saying, however, he kept inside, and instead grasped Lucien's arm, not nearly as enthusiastically as Ves had, but deliberately all the same. "You're welcome. I hope I can be of some use again here."

There was an odd, high-pitched noise from somewhere back in the crowd, soft and nearly impossible to hear. The source was difficult to identify, at least until a bright red head of unruly hair appeared next in the queue. Khari was wearing an easily-readable combination of excitement, awe, and nervousness splashed across her face, but the first clearly won out, because as no sooner had Romulus let go of Lucien's hand than she was there, wide-eyed and grinning.

“Hi." Her voice was strangely breathless, and she seemed to realize it, clearing her throat and smacking a hand against her sternum before trying again. “I'm, uh—you're Lucien Drakon. This is—this is amazing." She thrust out a hand, her face slightly too red for the chill alone to explain.

Lucien looked, to Estella who knew his expressions well, like he was trying to contain a bit of laughter. Admittedly, she was too. Khari, usually so full of bravado and confidence, was clearly more than a little flustered, but then Estella had expected about as much. He represented in a very obvious way essentially everything her friend wanted to be. The best example of it, in Estella's admittedly very biased opinion.

But he took Khari's arm exactly the same way he'd taken Ves's and Romulus's, patting her elbow once with his other hand. "So I am," he agreed amiably. "But now I'm at a disadvantage: you know my name, and I've no idea what to call you."

“Oh. Right. Khari—I'm Khari." She still looked a bit dazed, but at least the question returned her to some form of clarity, enough that she was able to remember to actually let go of his hand and allow the others to introduce themselves.

Cyrus did so with considerably less fanfare; Rilien needed no introduction at all, of course. Leon was next, the only member of the group Lucien had to look up at to any degree.

Zahra had been preoccupied the entire walk to his home. The grandeur of his estate. Things she probably hadn’t seen before, certainly not in a place like Halamshiral. It appeared as if she were sizing him up. Perhaps, quite literally. Seeing how Lucien was still much taller than she was. Her footsteps were far more assured than Khari’s, and her grip was about the same, mimicking the others by snatching up his forearm. She stared up at his face, and grinned wide, “Captain Zahra Tavish at your service, as well. Always nice to have a warm welcome. In a beautiful home.” A thick eyebrow raised as she released his arm, “We won’t make a mess. Promise.”

"Glad to hear it," Lucien said easily. "A pleasure, Zahra."

"Commander," Michaël greeted, a cheerful smile on his face. "It's good to see you again," he added, taking his turn to offer a handshake.

Marceline stood off to the side of her husband, Pierre standing next beside her. "Your Highness," she greeted amicably, dipping into a curtsy, while her son bowed.

Lucien looked slightly disappointed to be addressed so formally, but he recovered swiftly, graciously dipping his chin to Lady Marceline after he'd shaken Michaël's hand. "Nice to see you three again," he said, shaking his head. "Though it's almost like meeting a brand-new person every time I see Pierre, I must admit. You were what? Twelve the last time?" It seemed to be a basically rhetorical question, in any case.

With the introductions complete for now, Lucien took half a step backwards, gesturing at the house behind him. "I imagine you all might like to rest after your journey," he said, half-smiling. "As there's about a fortnight left until the Empress's fĂȘte, there is plenty of time to do just that. I reiterate that the grounds are open to you. If you've a wish to go out riding or use the practice ring on the property or wander the gardens, there's no need to ask. Both myself and my father will be in and out over the next two weeks; please feel free to ask either of us, or any of the staff, if you find yourself in need of something you lack. Your rooms are all in the south part of the house; I'll take you there now."

The southern wing of the manor proved to be every bit as rich and well-kept as the rest of it. The Drakons clearly favored furniture and furnishings selected for their craftsmanship. Most of it was deceptively simple, but made of materials like Antivan teak and the Imperium's marble, absent the gilt and flourish in favor of neatness and precision. Of note was the art—Estella recognized a few of the paintings she passed as Lucien's work, but others were definitely not, and she knew that for all his talents, he did not sculpt or throw clay, though whoever had chosen the decorations had an eye for such things as well.

The rooms proved more than spacious, grander by a considerable margin than most of those at Skyhold. She chose one near the end of the hall, what was left when everyone else had found a door. Pausing in front of it, she turned back to the man who had been her Commander.

It was peculiar, standing here with him now. She was an Inquisitor, and he in this moment clearly a Prince, and it was at once the same as and very different from being a Lieutenant and a Commander in the same mercenary company. Both of them had been runaways in one sense and exiles in another, and he'd always given her hope that she wouldn't have to be those things forever.

Now... Estella wasn't sure what to make of now.

He looked like he understood. Because of course he would—he was Commander Lucien, and he always did. He expelled a deep, slow breath, and reached forward to place a large hand on her shoulder. It didn't produce even the slightest hint of the fear it once had, only comfort. He squeezed, and she leaned into it a little, letting a tiny smile twist her mouth.

"Everything's changed," she murmured.

Lucien hummed, shaking his head. "Not everything." He eased his grip on her shoulder and patted it once before letting his hand drop. "Welcome back, Estella."

Even if it was only temporary and they both knew it, the words meant a lot to her. She swallowed thickly, then dipped her chin. "Thanks, Lucien."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
Lady Marceline smiled as she opened the door to greet the last woman to arrive. Asala waited on the other side, a sheepish smile to her own lips and she timidly inclined her head and entered, quietly making her way toward the rest of the ladies. Marceline briefly pondered the thought that she was able to intimidate a Qunari woman for a moment, and what that said about her before she shrugged and shut the door behind her. Some days back she had asked for all the women of the Inquisition's Irregulars to gather together before the ball to help each other get dressed for the occasion. As they were representing the Inquisition, they would need to look their absolute best, and between them she expected they could do that. Some of them required a little polish, after all.

"Asala, there is food and drink over there if you find yourself hungry," she added, pointing toward the table at the far wall. They had plenty of time before the Ball, but they would not only need to get dressed and address the matter of their makeup, but also talk about the night's plans. With Asala finally having arrived, Marceline turned toward the gathered women and put her hands together, glancing between of them. "Now that we are all here, I believe we can finally begin. Unless there are any objections?"

Khari appeared to be eating the finger-sandwiches at a rate they weren't really meant for. Still dressed, as all of them were, in the ordinary, comfortable garments of a normal day; at least she wasn't getting crumbs on anything important. She raised a hand partway into the air. “Uh, yeah... remind me again why I can't wear trousers?" She shot a glare and an obvious frown in the direction of the garment bag she'd brought with her, not making any attempt to hide her distaste. “I mean, if Corypheus is really planning to assassinate some people, shouldn't we be able to move around better when we need to fight?"

Marceline didn't immediately answer. Instead she tossed glance toward Estella, wordlessly asking if she could field it instead. While she could have answered, it would sound so much more convincing if it came from Estella, and hopefully calm some of them down a little. Marceline hadn't missed the fact that some of them seemed a bit nervous about the steadily approaching ball.

Estella blinked, but to her credit she seemed to understand what was being asked of her. "The conventions of attire are pretty silly," she agreed, shaking her head. She was nursing a cup of tea, one leg over the other, only a slight bob in her foot to give so much as a hint that she might not be entirely free of nerves herself. "But one positive is that it's a lot easier to conceal something under a skirt than in what the men will be wearing. Not a whole sword, of course, but not nothing." She half-smiled into her teacup, taking a sip.

"I think you could get away with wearing your boots underneath, too, which is nice." That part seemed specifically directed at Khari. "Just don't step on anyone's toes or they'll be able to tell."

Khari seemed to consider that for a moment, but it was pretty clear that Estella had won her over even before the boots came into it. Probably because of the 'concealed weapons' part. “I guess I did kind of suck last time Ril tried to teach us how to do that. If the skirt makes it easier, I can deal with it." She sighed, stuffing another cucumber sandwich triangle whole into her mouth. They weren't too large, but even so she clearly hadn't quite grasped the concept of foods meant for nibbling delicately, to say the least. At least she swallowed before speaking.

“Okay. So how does this work, Marcy? I thought all dresses were the same, but then someone said something about slips and petty coats or something. What gives?"

It seemed as if Zahra had something else on her mind. It was difficult to tell if she was simply lost in thought or as nervous as the others were with the impending ball looming around the corner. Though, she didn’t seem like the type to be all that bothered by much. Balls, gowns, and pointy shoes included. Behaving herself would be another issue altogether. Like Khari, she’d chosen plainer fare of clothes; comfortable, easy to move in. Her eyebrows were drawn, and her gaze seemed focused on nothing in particular. She had her hands planted on her hips and offered no quips, no tease ready on her tongue. She did, however, turn to regard Marceline when Khari posed another pertinent question.

Marceline chuckled and shook her head, "Some Orlesian women would consider what you just said blasphemy. Most are rather proud of their dresses, and I can most certainly assure you that they are not all the same." Marceline thought about it for a moment before she added, "In fact, it is quite gauche to show up at a function in the same dress as someone else--but that is neither here nor there," she waved off. Glancing between Khari and Asala, who also seemed a bit confused herself, she realized that not all of them knew the mechanics of what went into a dress. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, letting her chin rest on the back of her hand for a moment as she slipped into thought on how to best explain in. She then glanced down at her own dress and shrugged, figuring that a demonstration would help more than just telling them what each bit was.

While it was not the dress she would wear for the ball, the fact remained that it was still a finely made dress would serve her purpose just fine. "The dresses we will wear tonight are not all just one piece, but multiple pieces. So it is not as if we can just put them on and be ready, which is why we need more time than the men," she explained. "That is the case for the dresses we will be wearing tonight, and just like the one I am wearing now," she stated, holding her arms up to give them a better view of the dress.

She then grabbed the shoulders of her own dress. "This part is the gown," she said, "And it goes to about here," she said, reached down to about her waist and picked up the tail. "This however," she continued, reaching for the article wrapping around her chest, "is a corset. They can either be worn under the gown, or over it. Asala," she said, glancing at the taller woman. She twitched at her name being called only for a moment before her attention focused entirely on her. "You need not worry about that. I... do not believe that they make them in your size," Marceline said with an apologetic smile, though Asala seemed relieved instead.

"After that you have the petticoat, or skirt, as Estella mentioned," she said, tugging at it, "And the slip, which goes underneath all of that," she pulled at the white garment that peaked out just below her neckline. "It is... complicated," she admitted, "But that is why I called you all here instead of just giving it to you and hoping for the best. I will ensure that each and every one of you will look your very best tonight."

"Well," Estella said, setting her teacup back down gently on its saucer. "I suppose we ought to get started, then." She stood, making her way to where several garment bags had been set carefully over a chair. Each bore a label, presumably the name of who it was for. "Let's see. Asala, this one's yours." She handed the longest of the bags to the young Qunari woman, then the next to Khari, and the third to Zahra.

"I've done this... a few times, anyway, so I can help with laces and things too if anyone needs it." She paused, tilting her head at the resident pirate captain. "What did you get, Zee? Nothing too complicated, I hope?" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Huh?” Zahra seemed to almost startle as soon as Estella pushed the bag into her arms. It was gone just as quickly. A momentary lapse. A sheepish smile quickly tipped the corners of her lips up, however, and the faraway gaze sifted into amusement. She gave the bag a little shake, as if she could discern its contents that way and plopped down on a nearby chair, setting it at her feet.

“Let’s have a peek, then.” Royal purple fabric peeped out as she began pulling the contents out into her lap. She held it up to her cheek and laughed. It had certainly been chosen with care, seeing how it suited her dusky complexion. As soon as she pulled out the dress itself, she’d hopped back to her feet in order to hold it flush against her body. The details were exquisite, ribbed with green lace and off-white brocades patterned over a bare back. The middle appeared tighter, and draped down into ruffles below her waistline. It would most definitely need to be picked up to avoid tripping over. “Wow. You’ve really outdone yourself, Marcy. Not that I had any doubts.”

“You do look splendid, by the way.” She tossed her a wink and dug her hand further into the bag. From the sound of rattling at the bottom, there might have been jewelry included to finish the ensemble. She pulled out a matching green slip and the aforementioned corset. It was just as bit as glamorous as the other articles even if its purpose was to restrain and restrict. There was a pucker to her lips, as she pinched the corset between forefinger and thumb, “But must we wear these contraptions? They look
 painful.”

"They're not the most comfortable," Estella agreed, "but if you use them right, they aren't painful. The key is not to pull too tight." She carefully took the corset from Zahra's hand, reorienting it so that it was the right way up and giving her a broad smile. "If you want to start with the slip, we can go from there."

Khari was apparently quite far ahead, in that she'd already shucked off her ordinary clothing and donned the slip that came with her dress. It was quite simple, nothing more than plain ivory satin, which meant it probably wasn't going to show anywhere on the gown proper. Unfortunately, she seemed to have been stymied there. “Uh... how do I even get this part on? I feel like I'll rip it or something if I do it wrong."

She held the length of deep green fustian velvet away from her body like it was contagious. In fairness, it was a bit complicated-looking. The elbow-length sleeves, bodice, and a deep inverted triangle over each side and the back were embroidered with dark golden feather-pattern brocade, while the skirt layered beneath was a more humble, straightforward silk. It still looked entirely too elaborate for her comfort, and the way her face was scrunched was making that obvious enough. She shot Estella a look of clear puzzlement. “Help?"

"There's a joke in here about losing your pants in front of us," Estella replied with some humor, though she did move to assist, to her credit. "Uh, looks like yours is one where the corset actually goes on first, so... put that down for a moment."

In the meantime, Zahra seemed to be faring quite better. Whether or not it was from experience or dumb luck was anyone’s guess. She’d unbuttoned her tunic and slipped it off, as well as her pants; like Khari, modesty accounted for nothing at all. She pulled the slip over her head and pushed back any disobedient curls from her face, snatching up her own corset and turning to watch Estella and Khari expectantly. A soft, inflective hum sounded at the back of her throat.

Khari managed to bark a laugh, the line of her shoulders easing considerably. Tossing the gown rather too haphazardly over the edge of an armchair, she picked up the corset, turned it around several times, then apparently gave up. “Yeah, I have no idea how to work this. Lace me?" She held the whalebone-and-coutille contraption out towards Estella.

The Lady Inquisitor accepted it readily, moving to stand behind her friend and leaning around her so as to settle the band of reinforced fabric around Khari's abdomen. "Lift your arms for me?" When the elf complied, Estella loosely did the laces, then paused. "Uh, so this is the part that might smart a little. I'm going to pull this tight, but once you start moving around in it, it'll adjust a little, okay?" Another pause. "Maybe, uh... grab hold of the back of that chair or something. You're going to want to be braced."

Khari's mouth pulled to the side. “Uhhh... okay?" As Estella had advised, she leaned down at a slight angle and gripped the back of the nearest armchair, setting her feet wider apart for stability. Her braid fell forward over her shoulder in the process, ensuring no hair would get caught—never a pleasant experience, that. “Ready when you are. Let's do it." The seriousness was almost akin to someone gearing up for battle, which was perhaps fair enough, all things considered.

"All right, then." Estella had clearly caught on to the attitude with which Khari was approaching the whole thing, and was quite amused. "On three. One, two—" She pulled before three, tightening the thing while Khari was still relaxed and unprepared for it, her tug efficient and no more forceful than necessary. Deftly, she tied the laces to make sure they stayed where she'd gotten them, then stepped back.

“You said three!" Khari's protest was followed without pause by a grunt, and then a string of soft words under her breath, probably nothing suitable for polite company. At that distance, only Estella and Zahra would know for sure. She straightened, laying her palms on her ribcage and grimacing. “Okay, you're right, it doesn't hurt. But it's pretty ridiculously uncomfortable." She eyed the gown again and sighed. “I think I can figure this bit out, though. Thanks, Stel."

The look on Zahra’s face throughout the whole ordeal had paled considerably. A shadow of a smile and a snort sounded when she heard Khari’s string of choice curse words, spluttered out between her huffing complaint. The way she was holding the corset in her hands, slightly away from her body suggested she no longer wanted the thing bound around her midsection. Certainly not after witnessing that. “I, uh. That looked
 I don’t know. That was a little bit more than I imagined.”

She glanced towards Asala and arched her eyebrows, draping the corset across her shoulder. “Lucky for you there’s no death-trap your size. I’m green with envy.” She was dragging out the inevitable, plucking at the laces dangling from the backing. There was no excuse for her. This was in her size, after all. She glanced Estella’s way to ensure that she still had time to stall.

Estella seemed content to let her, merely offering a shrug. "You don't have to wear one. I certainly won't make you." She glanced at Marceline, though, as if unsure whether her opinion on that matter would be shared.

"To be fair, you all perhaps do not even need them to be that tight," Marceline answered. Like the others, she had also slipped out of her first dress and was now in the process of donning her second. She had already put on her slip, in her case a vibrant purple satin. However, she was currently working on sliding her gown on, with her corset resting on a nearby chair. From the exquisite look of it and magnificent embroidery, it was clear that it was meant to be worn on the outside. The gown she was currently working with was all black, with silver embroidery and white lace along the neckline, base, and sleeves. Her corset likewise sported the same color scheme, however, instead of more purple, there were accents of the Inquisition's russet along the side.

"Just tight enough so that they do not fall off during... strenuous activity,"' she noted with a raise of a brow. She of course, both meant dancing and foiling an assassination plot. There was a chance that some, if not all of them would need all of their mobility to ensure the night was a success, so she was more lax about their dress. "But no, with your physique, I do not believe a corset is necessary, if you would truly rather go without," she said with a shrug. It wouldn't make much of a difference if it was worn under their gown. "Though, you do lose a place to keep another blade," she said with a wink.

She finally slipped on her gown and reached behind her to lace what she could reach before glancing toward Asala. "Can you help? I cannot reach the top laces," she said as she turned and lifted her hair to give the woman access to them. Asala had also donned her slip, a soft gold, though she had not gotten to her gown yet. Instead, she stared at it as it sat in another chair, like it was about to bite her. The gown itself was a lovely white and gold piece, with darker gray accents to match her skin tone. When Marceline asked for her help, she twitched a bit before quietly nodding. "Um. Sure. These?" she asked, as she tugged at the lace.

"Yes, just make sure the top one is tied off with a bow," Marceline added.

Across the room, Khari's struggle with her gown continued. She apparently attempted pulling it over her head at first, before realizing that it was meant to be stepped into and fiddling with the ribbons at the back. “Seriously, why is every part of this so... fussy?" She scowled at the garment as though that would help anything, but apparently decided to slow down, taking more care with the fastenings. Her brows remained furrowed, however, a rather inordinate amount of concentration etched into face as she attempted to learn what was clearly an entirely new set of skills on the fly.

At one point, she yanked her hand back quickly, grimacing at it before popping her index finger into her mouth. At a guess, she must have caught it on one of the hooks meant to keep the ribbons in place. She gave no indication of pain, though, humming around the obstruction in a way that sounded like discontented grumbling more than anything. One of the phrases sounded suspiciously like 'torture device.'

A moment later, she glanced up and caught Marcy's eye. “Uh, so... I was gonna ask this earlier but I never really got the chance. What exactly is the plan? I know how to curtsy and introduce myself and pretend like I give a shit whether someone's a baron or a duke, but I still dunno what we're actually supposed to be looking for here." She blinked. “Am I just supposed to bodyguard? Because I can kinda do that, but that's not really what this is for, right?" She jabbed balefully at the dress.

"Correct," Marceline answered. Were she supposed to be seen as just a bodyguard, then she would have sent off for a suit of armor, but they would all need the mobility that being a patron of the ball gave them. In the meantime, Marceline had managed to get her gown tied on, with a nice bow at the top as instructed, and was now currently helping Asala slip into her own. She gestured which arms go into which holes, and how to step into it, before she began to tie the back on herself. In contrast to Marceline's tall and rather modest neckline, Asala's proved to be rather deeper and wider in order to show more of her ashen skin tone, which worked well with the dress she'd picked out for her.

"But regardless we should still watch out for each other and keep each other safe," she added, glancing around at Asala, who nodded in agreement. She smiled, and continued to work on her lacing. "First and foremost, in the future that Cyrus and Romulus saw, many of the key players of Orlesian nobility were assassinated," she paused for a moment before continuing, "Including myself. This ball presents the perfect opportunity to deal a blow to Orlais by taking out many important figures in a single night. We should ensure that they remain safe for the duration."

Marceline finished the last lace on Asala's dress, who spun once to test it. After it did not fly off she turned toward Marceline and dipped into a curtsy before she grinned. Marceline chuckled and nodded her approval, before Asala went back to her bag. Marceline then glanced at the rest and continued. "Corypheus undoubtedly has agents embedded within the court, so we must also find out who they are, and deal with them as well. However, this may prove to be difficult, if they are adept players of the Game," with that, she went to her own corset and began to wrap it around herself as well. She glanced back to Khari and shrugged. "Care to help?" She asked, indicating toward the laces on corset.

Khari looked dubious for a moment, but apparently any excuse to step away from her own issue was a welcome one. “Okay. Not too tight, right?" She walked around behind Marceline and took the laces in a firm grip, giving a few tentative tugs before she figured out the necessary amount of force to budge things.

“Say when, Marcy, because I sure don't know."

"That's enough," Marceline stated just before it reached the point of uncomfortable. As it was meant to be worn on the outside, it couldn't be loose, else it would be seen as sloppy, but fortunately the extra layers between her and it left enough room that it wasn't too terrible to wear. It was one of the reasons she preferred her corset on the outside.

After that, Marceline continued. "After all of that, we must also ensure that we win approval of the court. The people we meet tonight may have resources they are willing to share if we were to impress. At the very least, we do not wish for these people to dislike us. That would make my job... difficult, in the future," she said with a furrowed brow. She would have to deal with these people later, and it would be easier if they liked them.

"I would also like to see the peace talks reach a favorable resolution, though we are not to directly affect anything. We were invited as an impartial party, after all." Marceline added.

Estella, her garment bag draped over one arm, made a soft noise at that. "Well... impartial, maybe. But I'm not sure that will translate into inactive. Somehow I think that all of this is connected, and anything we do about the assassination plot will probably end up affecting the peace talks as well." She lifted her shoulders, meeting Marceline's eyes. "I can understand wanting to be neutral; I'm just not sure how realistic that is, all things considered."

With a small sigh and a slight shake of her head, she stepped behind a shoulder-height screen, tugging her tunic up over her head and then setting it over the top of the cover.

Marceline sighed and nodded in agreement, "You may be correct." If they were to foil an assassination directed toward Celene, then they would be seen as being on the loyalist side, and vice versa with Gaspard. Even then, if both were to be unaffected, that would not translate into a favorable result, and they needed one. Orlais needed to direct its focus on Corypheus, not on each other. Marceline, however, did not enjoy the idea of the Inquisition being the one who had a hand in deciding who won the throne in the end. But perhaps it was too late to think of such things. "In any case, we must be careful. At the very least, I wish to see everyone of the Inquisition leave the ball intact."

Khari snorted, tugging at the neckline of the dress she'd finally gotten herself into. It was much shallower than Asala's, but did extend all the way out to her shoulders, making it obvious that the elf's copious freckles were not limited to her face. “I think we can all agree about that." She grimaced, then shot a look at Zahra. “How're you doing there, Zee?" Bending, Khari started working her feet back into her boots, apparently taking Estella at her word that it would be acceptable to wear them.

Zahra’s response didn’t come quickly—she was focused on something else in the room. Peeping between her curls as she bent down to retrieve the corset she’d discarded moments ago. Though it may have been imagined, she seemed to be stealing glances across the room. Watching the flutter of gold spinning in a small circle. That is, until Khari swung a look in her direction and she turned away, chortling a quick laugh. She pushed her hair out of her face, “Getting by. This is a lot more difficult than I thought it’d be. Lords and ladies, I don’t know how they do it.”

There was a pause, as she watched Estella disappear behind one of the screens. She arched an eyebrow, “I thought we’d be all cozy with each other by now. Especially after that cheeky game of Wicked Grace.” Fortunately for the one in question, she hadn’t tiptoed over to invade her privacy. Though it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. What with that twinkle in her eye. Instead she hummed over her corset and let out a soft sigh.

"You'll recall that I won that," Estella retorted, flashing a small smile over the screen. "Less coziness involved in that."

Apparently Marceline’s suggestion had convinced Zahra that the corset might be useful as an extra utility. A belt of sorts, rather than a contraption made to make them look thinner. She stepped into it and pulled it up to her ribs, holding it in place with a strained look on her face. Her eyebrows were drawn together. Initially she tried to reach behind her back to reach the dangling laces, but found it nigh impossible no matter how much she stretched and wriggled her fingertips. “I, uh, I think I’ll need help getting this thing on too, if you wouldn’t mind. Gently.”

“Here, lemme." Khari, boots firmly on her feet, moved to help, a little more confident this time since she'd done it once already now. She seemed inclined to follow Zahra's instruction, though, and only pulled until the laces were snug. “I think that's all right, yeah?" She smacked the other woman on the bicep with the back of her hand. “Looking good, Zee. Fanciest pirate I ever saw."

Zahra stretched her arms above her head as if to test her mobility in the cursed contraption. She flashed Khari a thumbs up and grinned at her over her shoulder, “That’s perfect. Torsos intact. I can breathe.” There was a pause, as she knuckled at her nose, and scooped up her dress, slipping into it in much the same fashion as the others had done. Low-cut and baring her shoulders, as well as her back. Perfectly suitable for a pirate. “I’d say I clean up pretty well. So do you. Never thought I’d see you in a dress. Lucky me.”

She appeared as if she had something else to say, but a mischievous smile smothered it down as she retrieved her boots from behind one of the chairs. As if she thought better of it. Perhaps she would say something to Khari at a later time. She pulled her knee-high boots back on and ruffled the frills of her dress, assuring they could not be seen.

"Technically we're not done yet," Estella pointed out, carefully smoothing down her skirt as she stepped out from behind the screen.

The Lady Inquisitor, perhaps fittingly, had a slightly more ornate gown than most of the others, though not by much. The bodice, high collar, and deep, belled sleeves were all deep crimson, delicate lace layered over thick muslin. The lace became the upper skirt, draped neatly over a simple white silk petticoat, creating a striking contrast between the reflective, almost liquid shine of the silk and the fine details in the lace, evocative of swirling flames. A touch of the Inquisition, rendered subtly rather than overtly. Though the collar encircled her neck, there was a gap after that until her shoulders, where the sleeves started up again, saving it from perhaps being too conservative in that respect. The silhouette was clean, free of ruffles or frills, and rather elegant because of it.

She half-smiled at the others. "Hair and all that. Shouldn't take nearly as long, though."

Khari returned the smile with a grin. “Gods, you know you're just like... so pretty it's stupid, right?" She shook her head, which seemed to remind her about the hair comment, because she took her long braid in both hands after. “Dunno if there's much to be done about this." She flopped the end of it back and forth and rolled her eyes.

Estella looked a little pinker than usual at the compliment, but only shook her head by way of response.

At that point, however, their strategics were interrupted by a knock at the door. “If you are all decent, I am entering." The straightforward delivery and utterly flat tone could only belong to Ser Rilien.

Khari shrugged. “I'm never decent, but we're not naked."

With no reaction to the joke, the tranquil opened the door and stepped smoothly inside before closing it behind him. Under one arm, he carried some kind of box; the other hand went to the strap of a satchel he carried over his back. Clearly, his preparations were taken care of; the crisp, sienna-colored tunic he wore was considerably more embroidered than even his usual attire, in the Inquisition's gold, and tan trousers tucked neatly into his boots.

Striding to the nearest table, he eased the satchel off his shoulder and set it down; the heavy sound it made even with such care taken was a giveaway to what it contained. “You will want to arm yourselves. I have included sheaths and straps for various parts of the body; I suggest you take care with the concealment. If you are discovered to have weapons, this will end poorly for us."

“Rather foreboding of you, Rilien. Though you do look rather dashing. Are you dressing the boys as well?” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and flashed a smile, even if it wouldn’t be reciprocated. She didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. She was already crossing towards the satchel he’d deposited on the table, snapping it open and rifling through its contents. She took two daggers with their accompanying straps; presumably one for her ankle, and another for her corset.

She hummed and held one up to her bust line. “Now, how does one hide a sharp, pointy object in a corset? Between the breasts? Up the back? I’d prefer not to gouge myself in the middle of a dance.” Modesty did not run in her veins. She seemed to be posing the question to Rilien as well—for whatever reason. Supposing a Spymaster would know these things just as well as a woman would.

"Usually the back," Estella replied. "Most corsets are structured enough that it won't show there, if the blade is thin enough. So you'll want to save the bigger one for your leg." She selected herself a couple of daggers as well, handing a pair to Khari, too. "I'm guessing Asala won't be needing any, and that Lady Marceline has her own." It didn't seem to be a question; more of a statement, and she briefly glanced at the two of them when she made it.

Lady Marceline glanced over toward Estella when she mentioned in her name. She'd taken a roll of fabric from a nearby table, and currently held it in her hands as she looked. Something of a knowing smile graced her features as she rolled the fabric out across the table, and displaying her own miniature arsenal. A number of blades of different sized waited for their proper homes on her person. "Of course I do," she answered and plucked the first up, testing its edge.

Asala on the other hand simply shrugged, her hands raised with palms facing out. "Magic," she noted before punctuating it by wiggling her fingers back and forth.

That reply more than clear, Estella addressed her teacher. "What's the box for, Rilien?"

Khari hiked up her skirt far enough to slide one of the knives into her left boot. The other went into the right, given that she didn't have anything on the outside to hold it with.

Rilien merely held the small box out towards Estella. “Your hair." He blinked, remaining where he was until she took it from him, and then glancing once around the room at the rest of them. “We're departing shortly. It is advisable to be on time. Ser Lucien ought not be more than fashionably late." As abruptly as he'd arrived, the Spymaster departed.

With the caution in mind, the rest of the preparations went quickly enough. Estella took care of Khari and Zahra's hair: to the elf's bright red mane, she only added a small crown braid, leaving the rest of it to fall naturally, if a bit tamer than usual. Zahra wound up with an Orlesian braid, a few choice waves left artfully loose to feather about her face and neck.

Her own, Estella braided back from both temples, gathering at the middle and allowing it to join the rest thereafter. When she opened the box, she smiled to herself: Rilien had either purchased, or—more likely—made an ornament out of what seemed to be mother-of-pearl and silverite, formed into a delicate, almost lifelike lily, which she pinned in one of the braids, just behind her left ear.

Marceline had added volume to her hair and rolled only the ends to give them a gentle curl. Her hair, as always, was immaculate, a point of pride for her, if she was being quite honest. She had managed to get it to a point where it had a nice bounce whenever she moved, which had been her initial goal. Otherwise, she left it be, confident that its natural black color would be more than enough to stand out. She however, did don an expensive silverite necklace, the gemstone of which was nothing other than a jewel of jet. Once she was satisfied, she moved to help Asala with her ornamentation.

Before she had started on her, She'd started the rolls for Asala's. Now, with enough time when she took the rollers out, her long white hair gaining some volume of its own as the curls sprung up. Asala took a moment to swing to and fro, watch as the curls that she could see bounce around her shoulders before she began to giggle. The laugh proved to be infectious as Marceline also found herself chuckling, before holding up a length of russet ribbon. She beckoned for the taller woman to bend down so that she could reach her hair without fetching a step stool. Once Asala acquiesced, Marceline began to tie the ribbon off just to the side of her horn, giving her that final bit of pop she was looking for.

With a bit of cosmetic work for those who wanted it, they were as ready as they were going to get, down to the matching masks, the one thing that would unify all of them as members of the Inquisition. Estella pulled in a breath, then glanced at Marceline. "I guess it's time, isn't it?"

"I do believe so," Marceline answered, tossing a glance at the rest of the ladies. "We should not keep them waiting, then. Yes?" she added, making her way toward the door before pulling the latch, and holding it for all of them to file through. Once they had all filed out, Marceline followed suit, and shut the door behind them.

Eventually they made their way back to the foyer, where they began to descend the staircase to the ground floor, where the men waited for them.

The gentlemen of the Inquisition had, of course, also cleaned up for the occasion, in colors almost as varied as the ones the women sported. In addition to Rilien, Leon had opted for Inquisition hues. Actually, it wouldn't be all that surprising if he'd asked the Spymaster to arrange them. He had never seemed the type to know much about anything sartorial outside of uniforms and armor. Indeed, his discomfort was a bit obvious; he tugged a bit at the white sleeves of the shirt under his doublet, which was russet and gold. He'd opted for the darker umber almost everywhere else, from his trousers to the tie keeping his hair neatly gathered at his nape.

"As I suspected." The amused comment was Lucien's. "The lot of you are going to make quite the impression, I should think." He made one of those himself, really, in the green and silver of House Drakon, with the trademark mask, designed to resemble a dragon's wings. There were only two of them left in the country, and neither was frequently spotted in court.

"Well, this is a sight I'd quite like to remember," Vesryn commented. His doublet of silk brocade was a deep blue, snugly fit across his upper body and fastened asymmetrically up the left side of his chest. His white blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, smooth and shiny, and rather prominently displaying his ears, something uncommon for him given the way his hair was typically left loose. Judging by his posture he wasn't ill at ease at all, even if he'd never been to any event of this particular sort. He softly touched Estella's upper arm as she passed, leaning in slightly to whisper something in her ear with a hint of a smirk. Whatever it was, it flushed her nearly as red as her gown, but she looked like she was trying to contain a smile, too.

The Lord Inquisitor was wearing more of a scowl, at least until he laid eyes on the women descending towards him. His left side was obscured by an inky black half cloak, draping down past his marked hand. His tunic was crisp darkened samite, a dark grey roughly the shade of his eyes. He tugged a bit awkwardly at the belt fastening the shirt in at his waist. His boots as well were dark, and they looked both soft and flexible. In all, it was a clean look, and much less flashy than Vesryn's, for a purpose that seemed rather obvious.

It was about as obvious as the way he gaped at Khari for a moment, before he collected himself, tearing his eyes away towards nothing in particular and clearing his throat. "I feel ridiculous," he muttered. "Does anyone else feel like an idiot?"

“You don't look like an idiot." Khari said it with confidence, shrugging her shoulders, the usual half-cocked grin firmly in place on her face. “We all clean up really fancy, yeah?" Her finery was doing a poor job of likewise rendering her mannerisms any more delicate or refined than usual. She was just Khari, same as always, only shuffling around slightly awkwardly trying not to trip on her hem.

“Goodness knows that's the important thing." Cyrus's tone was arid, but a trace of humor showed on his face. He'd elected for a familiar color scheme—they had to be his family's. Indigo and sable, accented with silver wherever metal or ornate threading was necessary. The cape he wore was in the Imperial style. Paludamentum, they were called, usually only donned by those with some history of military service. Perhaps that was appropriate, all things considered.

Rilien, hands folded into his sleeves, tilted his head. “We ought to be going. The carriages are waiting." As good as his word, he opened the door at the front of the foyer and held it open to allow the others to pass. “Do remember to keep your wits about you. Like us, others in attendance will be much more dangerous than they appear."

A whistle punctuated Rilien's words, issued from behind them. Marceline only had to glance up to find the culprit, Michaël was already replacing the fingers in his mouth with a stricken grin. Had she worn less makeup, it'd been easy enough to see the blush creep into her cheeks, but thankfully the only thing that betrayed her was a wobbly smile that only took a moment to right itself. He noticed it, of course. She knew he hadn't missed it. He never did.

Pierre however, coughed into his hand and turned away. Rolling her eyes at her son for the moment, she turned and gauged the rest of them. "If this is everybody, then Ser Rilien is correct. We should be making our way," she stated, before outstretching her arm. It wasn't a moment later that Michaël was by her side, taking it into his own.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
The Winter Palace was really big, and really... fancy.

Khari might have used a different word, like beautiful or something, except it didn't seem that way to her. It was overdone, in a way, gold and ivory and jewels and marble just dripping all over the place. There was hardly anywhere to rest her eyes that wasn't more shiny than the last spot, and this was just the exterior. She wasn't sure she could imagine a place that would make her feel less like she belonged. Considering just how ungainly she felt in all this silk and velvet, well... the impression probably wasn't wrong.

Good thing she didn't give a shit. She was here with her friends, for her friends, and everyone else could go take a long walk off a short pier if they didn't like it. Trying to keep that in mind, Khari trailed a bit behind some of the others, who all followed Lucien as he made his way up the central path leading to the entrance.

It was a chilly night; despite that there were quite a lot of people milling around in the garden. It wasn't completely impossible to overhear the whispers that followed as they passed, sliding through the air like hissing snakes. She could almost feel them on her skin. She thought she could make out words like Inquisition and Tevinter and elf, but that might have just been her imagination filling in the gaps. Grimacing, Khari picked up her feet and marched a little faster.

The building ahead loomed; the edifice actually kind of reminded her of a big cake—layers built in tiers around the same middle point, narrowing as her eyes moved up. The outside was white stone and pale blue slate, the windows arched to points that perfectly matched the open shapes leading out to balconies, verandas, and the like. Even the ivy was disciplined, reaching no further down or out than the groundskeepers wanted. Gold capped all the towers around the central bit, and the middle spire especially. A pennant that had to be five times her height and breadth hung from one of the upper floors down the very center line, its blue and gold giving the entire building a spine. Magelights lit the way up the path, bathing everything in silver and white.

She let out a soft breath, reassuring herself of the weight of the daggers in her boots. She wasn't afraid, exactly, but she was nervous. She knew how easily she could screw this up for everyone, and they needed to succeed. If Corypheus managed to tear apart Orlais, then... well, it would be bad news for everyone.

“I'm not impressed." She muttered that to Rom and Cy, who were closest to her. “I think they could have used more gold, don't you?" It didn't take particular adroitness to detect her sarcasm.

“Don't say that until you've seen the inside." Cyrus adjusted his mask, frowning slightly in the process.

Zahra seemed rather impressed by the sight of it all—the Winter Palace in all its glory. A far cry from anything she might have seen aboard the Riptide, trouncing about on the waves. A further contrast would’ve been the seaside fishing shacks she had once lived in, in Llomeryn or Khari’s flying land-ships jostling down woodland paths. She, did, however seem to grow anxious as they approached. Itched, rather. Her expression was pinched and she appeared to be looking across the crowd of garden-millers. Eyes raking. Searching faces.

She rounded up to Cyrus’s side, and let out a soft sigh. One that she may not have realized she was holding in. “Pulled out all the stops, didn’t they?” She smoothed her hands across the front of her dress and readjusted herself. A sliver of boot oft appeared whenever she took longer strides to match theirs. Short legs, and all that. “Hope the food is just as good.” As they’d been told before, having a glass of wine was acceptable. Anything more would hamper their ability to think properly. That wouldn’t do. Much to the captain’s dismay.

"There are many powerful players in attendance tonight, which means many people to try and impress," Marcy began, glancing over Mick's shoulder toward them. "So yes, I expect the food to be rather exquisite."

"And the wine," Mick added with a grin for Marcy's benefit.

It caused her to chuckle lightly and she nodded in agreement. "Especially the wine."

Khari was definitely not planning on partaking of any of that. They were here to stop an assassination, after all. Plus it was already going to be hard enough not to make a fool of herself. Any other night, maybe she'd have at least wanted to see what all the food fuss was about, but... she was close enough to losing her sandwiches from earlier at the moment anyway. She resisted the urge to sigh; they were approaching the entrance.

It took conscious effort to pull her spine straight, but she did it. Hell if she was going to let anyone here know this intimidated her. Lucien got them past the guards, and the massive double doors swung open to admit the Inquisition.

She nearly reeled backwards. Dazzling was the word she wanted, in the literal sense. Khari blinked several times and tried to find something to focus on that wasn't blindingly-gold. Her eyes settled on Rom, but that was a bad idea for other reasons, so she slid them to Zee instead. Dark purple was nice to look at.

“Okay, you were right, Cy, I take it back." After a bit more adjusting, the entranceway was less overwhelming and she could actually make out some of the details.

Warm light bathed the gold statues flanking either side of the long hallway; the arched ceiling above was supported by two rows of narrow marble columns in pale white. The floor tiles even had gold leaf in them, pressed into more marble and what looked like lapis or something else meant to capture the complementary blue. All the drapes were blue, too, pulled back away from gleaming windows which just reflected more light. Practically everything glittered, including the people. Khari glanced down at herself; apparently the embroidery in her gown was picking up some of it, too, glinting against the darker green. At least she wasn't in yellow like Asala. Marcy's black made a lot more sense now.

“So... what now? We go say hi to Celene or...?" She let her attention bounce between the several people who might have some kind of answer for her.

"For now, we wait to be formally announced," Marcy answered, finally allowing Mick the use of his arm again. "There are certain courtesies we much observe first, unfortunately," she added with an apologetic smile, though it was tinged with a bit of humor. "But until then," she said, looking away and to someone across the hall, "We socialize." She then turned to face the other party and gingerly curtsied in their direction.

That seemed to be a cue, and the group split themselves into more manageable groups. Probably a few people had an idea of how that was supposed to go, but she wasn't exactly one of them. What she did know was that while Marcy handled the first comers, Khari wound up with Rom and Leon. She wasn't sure how this was going to go, exactly—none of them were exactly the best at this court stuff.

“So... socialize, huh?" She tapped the toe of her boot against the ground. “Any ideas, guys? Because otherwise I'm probably gonna go talk to the first person I see, and I feel like that's probably not a great idea."

Perhaps fortunately, Leon didn't have to answer—their group was approached by a couple. They were both perhaps in their middle age, though it didn't show all that well on their deep complexions. The woman's gown was a rather bold shade of orange, like a tropical fruit, accented with green to temper the effect of the room's brightness, perhaps. The man whose arm she had in hers was dressed in the green to match, with an orange sash. His expression was something like fond exasperation; her eyes were lit with some combination of determination, enthusiasm, and curiosity, visible even despite the obstruction of the mask.

"Lord Inquisitor." She greeted Rom first, dropping into a curtsey that seemed to be directed at all three of them. "It's an honor to meet you. My name is Fiorella Costanza. This is my husband, Sabino." She gestured to the man beside her, who put his hand to his heart and bowed.

Khari knew Rom's reactions well enough to know that he almost had to contain a laugh. It was understandable, too; Fiorella had been Stel's default personality to assume in their practice sessions leading up to the event, whenever she'd needed to impersonate a noblewoman for them. If anything, Rom actually looked a little relieved behind the silverite of his mask. "Lady Fiorella, Lord Sabino," he bowed for them, a well practiced motion by now, "the honor is mine. I've heard nothing but good things from Estella. Please, call me Romulus." There had been some discussion as to whether or not to use his birth name, Tavio Abeita, over the one the Tevinter Chantry brothers had given him, but in the end it had of course been left up to Rom, and obviously he'd made his decision.

He gestured to the others with him. According to what they'd been taught, it was on him to introduce his choice of companions. "Allow me to introduce Ser Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of our military forces, and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, a member of our force of Irregulars."

"And a pleasure to meet you both as well," Fiorella replied, apparently quite genuine in the sentiment. "I'm flattered to know Estella has spoken well of us—though admittedly not terribly surprised, all things considered."

Sabino nodded; now that the introductions were over, the other parties to the conversation could participate without breach of etiquette. "She speaks of you, as well. Good things, likewise. I'd say welcome, but... I don't think everyone here has a welcoming attitude, if you take my meaning." He grimaced a bit, and shook his head.

Fiorella pursed her lips. "That is true, I suppose. But please: I want you to know that we are glad to have you here. If you like, just call us by our names, and we're here if there's anything we can help you with. I don't think you'll find it easy, being here, but I trust that His Highness has a reason for inviting you. And that you had a reason to accept." For a moment, a flicker of worry passed over her face, but it was soon gone.

Khari, whose nose had been wrinkled for the duration of her introduction, felt her eyebrows hike up beneath her mask. That was awfully kind, but then... they did seem to be friends of Stel's, so maybe that just made good sense.

“Khari." She amended her introduction because they were friendly; she knew why her whole name was necessary here, after all. “And, uh... do you know who exactly's against us here? Or why?" Some parts of it were pretty obvious, but if they had some special information, it couldn't hurt to know, surely.

Fiorella half-smiled. "Your Inquisition is unconventional in the extreme, my dear," she replied, the lilt of her Antivan accent coming through quite clearly. "There are people who won't like that on principle. You did just walk three elves and a Qunari into the middle of the Empress's fĂȘte. A large number will take exception just to that, before your organization's politics are even considered. Don't... be too surprised if some people refuse to speak to you, in particular." She seemed to think the reason for that specifically needed no finer a point.

"It may sound unintuitive, but if it were only rampant racism, you might have an easier time," Sabino added. "But there's also the fact that both of your leaders are from the Imperium, in one fashion or another. They certainly have Imperial names." He paused, expression softening slightly. "It's quite a strong name, by the way. Romulus. Has a bit of weight to it."

"And if we do bring politics into it?" Leon asked, glancing about the room as though to spot a threat. As though any threat would so easily reveal itself here.

With a sigh, Fiorella shook her head. "Well... we are here with the ostensible aim of ending the Civil War. Your Inquisition is already known to have aided the Empress's forces, at one point. But you arrived with the Crown Prince. He's not officially in contention for the throne—that's between Her Majesty and the Grand Duke. But that doesn't stop some people from wondering. From seeing you as a threat to their position, whatever it may be. I don't envy your task, to say the least."

"We'll do our best to navigate our way through," Rom promised. For all his rehearsal of how to act around them, he actually looked mostly at ease. These two were an easy pair to speak with, at any rate. "Any other names you think we should be aware of here? People to watch out for?" If the Empress or the Grand Duke were going to try anything tonight, they almost certainly wouldn't be doing it in person, after all.

Fiorella hesitated, meaning Sabino was quicker on the draw with a reply. "Lady Elodie is still not pleased with the outcome of Lord Julien's trial—Estella was involved in that. She's also generally very unpleasant, but she has the Empress's ear. I would be careful around her. And also... The Grand Duke's sister, Florianne. She's in the inner circles of both parties in a Civil War. If she's not planning something, I'm the court jester." His tone was quite dry, suggesting nothing of the sort.

Khari committed the names to memory, though she really had no idea who they referred to. She might have heard about Elodie from Stel once or twice, but she didn't remember the exact context. Something about her last time in Orlais. Still... now if they met, Khari would know to be on the lookout. Not that she planned on being anything but with anyone around here.

But the conversation had reached the time limit of politeness; Fiorella and Sabino took their leave with one more round of bows—much less formal—all the way around, and Khari heaved a sigh.

“Maybe we'll get lucky and everyone we run into will be like them."

She wasn't counting on it, though.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
So far Rom was managing to stay afloat solely because there wasn't much required by him in the way of conversation-making.

The predictions they'd made in their practice were proving to be right; everyone wanted to meet the Inquisition, more specifically the Inquisitors themselves, which meant that there was barely time for more than introductions before they needed to move on to someone else. The nobles themselves seemed to realize this, most not attempting to take up more than a few seconds of his time. Those that did were more often than not muscled in on by others before they could offer much. Rom was well-practiced in introductions by this point, though Khari's full name became a serious mouthful after the first few times he said it. He hoped she could forgive him for the excessive use of it.

Estella was likewise buried in eager Orlesians hoping to meet her. It was hard to tell, but Rom suspected the Lady Inquisitor was drawing a larger crowd than the Lord, though not by much. She was certainly more approachable, but it could be easily argued that Rom was more intriguing. The stories about him were somewhat wilder and more varied. Not to say rumor about Estella had been anything resembling mundane. He shared a sympathetic look with her when they passed once; it was all he had time for.

He was eager to be moving on, to get all these introductions out of the way so they could get to the real work they were here for. At some point they would be called inside the ballroom to introduce themselves to the Empress, but until then they were supposedly meant to enjoy themselves socializing. Rom had started out focused, taking down names and linking them with the variety of masks he saw, hoping he might be able to remember most, if not all of them. Now, though... he could barely remember most of the names right after they were said. Many of them had such thick Orlesian accents he couldn't even understand them on the first try, and the masks and dresses and doublets all started to blend together after a time.

"Is this the Lord Inquisitor, then?" asked a man in a burgundy doublet, drawing Rom's attention to his left. His mask was gold, or gilded rather, with a supremely pointed nose and eyebrows that gave him the look of being perpetually amused. He leaned against the nearby banister. "I've caught you at last. Lord Jaspar Droz, of Jader." That explained his much less severe accent. Jader was situated right on the border of Ferelden, and saw much wider range in its population.

"A pleasure, Lord Jaspar," Rom greeted with a short bow, the motion almost subconscious by this point. "I am the Lord Inquisitor, yes. My name is Romulus. Allow me to introduce—"

"Ser Leonhardt Albrecht and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, yes, yes," Jaspar interrupted. "We have limited time, so perhaps we can skip what I've already overheard." He cleared his throat, taking a step away from the banister towards them. "I've been following the Inquisition's work quite closely. A bit hard not to, in Jader. Quite remarkable things you've done."

Next to Rom, Khari shifted a bit; one of her hands found her hip. She'd been struggling a bit as the introductions continued; it was obvious enough that her attention had flagged, but something about the cadence or tone Lord Jaspar used snapped it back into focus on the conversation. “Not that surprising, is it?" She bared her teeth in a smile that didn't quite reach genuine friendliness. Though perhaps one would have to be familiar with her inventory of them to know that. “Tends to be what happens when you put a bunch of remarkable people in an exceptional situation."

"We have done what we can with our lot," Leon added, considerably more modestly. Rom had been able to glean that he had at least some experience with events like this; he'd taught as much as he learned at the etiquette practices, and seemed to have a considerable amount of endurance for repetitive introductions. Though it would clearly be a mistake to say he was enjoying himself, as they'd been urged to do. The natural fact that his height and coloration made him stand out in a crowd bothered him a little more here than it did among soldiers, apparently—he held himself just uncomfortably enough that it was noticeable. "But there is yet much to do."

"Indeed," Jaspar said, nodding, "what the Inquisition intends to do in the future has been a subject of much debate among the nobility." Through the slits in his mask Rom could see his eyes narrow. "You have already demonstrated great audacity, building an army that answers to no nation, occupying a fortress in Fereldan lands, marching your army through southern Orlais when it pleases you..." Though the words were phrased almost as accusation, the tone that accompanied them was entirely pleasant, in the obviously disingenuous way. Somehow it made it seem more acidic than if he were spitting with anger.

"Makes the good people of Orlais wonder what your intentions truly are. You in particular, Lord Inquisitor." Jaspar tilted his head at Rom slightly, examining him. Not for the first time Rom wished he were without his own mask, as he felt foolish behind it. Such a stupid quirk of their culture. "There are many who believe you showed your true colors when you attempted to prop yourself up as a descendant of blessed Andraste herself. As if being declared the Lady's Herald was not enough!"

"I was deceived by a carefully constructed lie," Rom said. "We all were." He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. The air was not as cool in here as it had been outside, with all the people waiting for the ceremonies to officially begin.

Jaspar scoffed softly. "Of course, of course. A lie the Inquisition seemed all too ready to go along with." His eyes then shifted to Khari, and he hummed in thought momentarily. "Istimaethoriel... no city elf name. I'd not be surprised to see Dalish markings behind that mask of yours. Tell me, elf, did you believe your Herald to be descended from Andraste herself, as apparently all the Inquisition's leadership did?"

“Didn't matter to me when they said he was, didn't matter to me when they said he wasn't." Khari tilted her chin up a little; it wasn't hard to read the stubborn twist to her mouth. Mask or not, she might as well have been barefaced. The honesty practically rolled off her in waves. “He's a leader worth following, with a cause worth fighting for, no matter whose blood he is." She shrugged, but her expression was too hard for the motion to have any of the carelessness it might have otherwise implied. “I don't need any god's authority to tell me that. My eyes'll do just fine."

"Silly of me to expect any kind of piety from an elf, I suppose," Jaspar said, almost laughing as though it were indeed a rather funny joke he'd just told. Of all the possible subjects, this was the one Rom felt the worst about discussing, if only because he still felt he had no decent way of justifying it. His motives had been selfish above all. It hadn't been about the Inquisition or Andraste or the Maker for him, but about the rush of finding out who his family had been, and trying to do something, anything to feel like he belonged to that.

"You are still a High Seeker, are you not Ser Leonhardt?" Rom started looking about as Jaspar continued, wondering if anyone else would come to muscle in here, but he seemed to have chosen his moment well. "As of when the Inquisition came through Jader on this mad quest, the Herald had not yet been named Inquisitor. This leads me to believe you granted him the title after he was proven a fraud. Does this Inquisition make a habit of rewarding heresy? Idiocy? Both?"

"The heretics are dead," Leon replied mildly, blinking at Jaspar with an unperturbed expression. "The Lord Inquisitor killed them both himself, actually." He tilted his head a few degrees to the side. "It was due to him the deception was discovered, and due to him it was ended. The sacrifice of what could have been great personal gain for the sake of the truth over deception and right over wrong is best rewarded wherever it occurs, I have found."

He glanced for a moment at Rom, and then his eyes moved briefly to Khari. "I have been most pleased to discover that ours is, above all else, an organization of faith. Faith that what is best in us and the world will triumph. I have learned a great many lessons in it myself, some of them from impious elves. I find that this fact does not sit so poorly with my own faith in the Maker."

Rom was immensely grateful that he had his friends at his back for this. They'd worded his defense far better than he could have hoped to do himself. Even Lord Jaspar, who seemed so intent on despising him, obviously had to reconsider his next move. In the end, he smiled pleasantly. "Well spoken, Ser. It's plain to see the Inquisition did not come to Halamshiral unprepared. As for your Lord Inquisitor, I will have to reserve judge—"

A bell sounded clearly, cutting through the din of conversation permeating the room. It seemed it was time, then, for the formal introductions to the Empress and the court to take place. Rom bowed his head rather than wait for Jaspar to finish his thought. "It's been a pleasure, Lord Jaspar. I hope you have a pleasant evening." Accepting the nod of the man's head as enough of a farewell, Rom led the way towards the great double doors separating them from the ballroom. He walked closed enough to nearly bump shoulders with Khari. "Thanks for that, both of you."

Leon actually smiled a bit at that. "Not at all. I didn't even have to say anything untrue."

“What Leon said." Khari leaned slightly sideways to knock her bare shoulder into his arm for just a moment. “We've got your back." She pushed a sigh through her nose; observing the flow of the crowd in front of them. “Marcy says I don't get to meet the really important people, though, so I'm gonna have to watch it from a bit further away this time." From the way her mask shifted, she'd wrinkled her nose in a familiar fashion.

“You'll do fine anyhow. If it's really an emergency, give the signal and I'll sneak behind her and make funny faces or something. I'll bring Zee with me." She patted his back once, firmly, before breaking off to walk next to Vesryn and the aforementioned pirate who, along with Asala, weren't really noble enough to merit a direct introduction to the Empress. Zahra’s demeanor belied a remarkably indifferent proclivity. She had been watching. Intently. However, she didn’t seem to like Jaspar’s attitude. Nobles be damned. She did appear to be relieved that she hadn’t needed to say anything at all though. As soon as Khari joined them at their sides, she shifted and made a comment. Barely audible. Her smile was indicative of a joke.

Rom couldn't help but grin, the upward turn of his lips just visible below the bottom of his mask. Unlike dealing with random lords that took issue with the Inquisition's actions, Rom had done a great deal of practicing for meeting the Empress. Likely he wouldn't have to say much, as the formal introductions would be very brief, after which point the Empress would undoubtedly have more pressing matters to attend to. Still, there would be words exchanged, and Rom wanted to make sure the ones that came out of his mouth did nothing to damage the Inquisition.

A small group of guards permitted the Inquisition's party of nobles to enter the grand ballroom, with the others soon following behind, though they were directed to the sides rather than the staircase leading down and through the center of the room. Rom's eyes had just about absorbed all the gold, marble, and glittering surfaces they could handle for one night, but the ceiling in here was vaulted much higher than the entryway had been, the walls draped in banners of royal blue.

A crier noted their entrance, withdrawing the scroll at his back and unfurling it as Lucien led the party down the steps. There they waited for the announcement, which was only a few seconds in the coming. "And now, presenting: His Imperial Highness Lucien Thibault Drakon, Prince of the Empire, Duke of Lydes, and Commander of the Argent Lions. And accompanying him..." A pause, as the crier took in the first few names on the list.

"The Heralds of Andraste: Lady Inquisitor Estella Severa Calligenia Avenarius, and Lord Inquisitor Romulus." He almost wished he had a few more names, so as to not seem as a footnote compared to the others he stood with, but Rom did his best not to seem that way, and stood with straight-backed posture as he had been instructed.

The woman on the other side of the ballroom floor from them, behind a marble railing atop the mirrored staircase, needed no introduction. Empress Celene Valmont I looked radiant as expected, at least from this distance. Her hair was a very light blonde, done up in an elaborate bun to keep it out of the way of the glittering ornament of what appeared to be a large sun affixed to the back of her dress. Her color for the night was unsurprisingly blue, and her mask, unlike many of the others, exposed her nose and much of her cheeks, doing little to hide her somewhat gaunt features. She curtsied to the three that were presented to her.

They returned it, bows from Romulus and Lucien, and a graceful curtsy from Estella. The ballroom floor had been left empty and clear for them to cross, and Lucien started them forward, keeping only a pace in front of the Inquisitors. Estella shot a brief glance at Rom, wearing a small smile. "Shall we?" The question was soft, just a little offering of solidarity.

He was glad for it, and glad that they had been introduced side by side. Nodding, they walked that way, remaining just a pace behind the Crown Prince, who proved to be an easy man to follow. He had a presence that neither of them could hope to match, and Rom had a feeling there were just as many eyes on Lucien as the two newcomer Inquisitors.

"Accompanying the Inquisitors," the crier continued, as they made their way slowly across the ballroom floor, "High Seeker Leonhardt Engelram Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition."

"Lady Marceline Élise BenoĂźt, Comtesse of the West Banks and Ambassador for the Inquisition, and her husband Lord MichaĂ«l Durant BenoĂźt, Comte of the West Banks."

The pair had entered as one, Lady Marceline's arm wound around Michaël's. She curtsied, while her husband slipped into a deep bow. From the smile apparent on her face, she seemed rather proud of the moment, having been formally introduced, while Michaël at the very least seemed happy for his wife, as his eyes were on her as much as they were on the royalty.

"Lord Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius, Praefectus of Vantania." At this point it seemed the flurry of Tevinter names were starting to wear thin on the Orlesians, and unlike the other two Cyrus was not an Inquisitor or Herald of Andraste. The welcome was not openly impolite, but still of a perceptibly different mood.

Since Cyrus was behind them, it was impossible to know exactly how he reacted to that fact, but it was hard to imagine him letting it bother him much. His initial reception within the Inquisition had been openly chilly—there were still some members of staff who never got within ten feet of him. It seemed unlikely this would perturb him if that didn't.

"And Serah Rilien Falavel, Seneschal of the Inquisition."

Surprisingly, Rilien seemed rather more popular than most; or at least people were interested to note his appearance, from the slight hum of murmuring that passed through the crowd at that announcement.

Though it seemed much longer than it probably actually was, the distance they had to cross did not last forever, and the bows and curtsies were repeated when they reached speaking distance, standing on the other raised side of the ballroom floor. Celene occupied the balcony in front of and above them, alone for the moment, though no doubt her closest attendants were not far.

As befitted her status, the Empress was the first to speak. "Lucien. It has been quite some time since you graced our court with your presence. You even managed to nudge our Lord-General into an appearance, we've seen." The cadence of her words was light, practiced, diplomatic; even the humor seemed pre-planned, lacking the spontaneity of genuine amusement. Were it not for the familiar form of address, it would have been impossible to tell they were related at all.

"Your Majesty," Lucien rose with apparent ease from his bow, but he didn't refer so casually to the Empress as she did to him. "It has been some time; it is my hope that no more such prolonged absences will be necessary." Despite his relative formality, he still managed to sound quite genuine, almost warm.

Celene inclined her head, just faintly. "And such interesting guests you've brought with you. Lady Inquisitor, Lord Inquisitor. We've heard much of the both of you. We daresay you're the talk of Orlais these days. Perhaps the talk of Thedas, in time." An inscrutable smile curled her lips, painted petal-pink. "Tell us, how do you find Halamshiral?"

"I've never seen a city like it, Your Majesty," Rom replied truthfully. This was indeed one of the questions that had been expected. The proper responses, as he'd learned, involved not piling on false compliments and kissing feet. The Orlesians preferred things to be more interesting than that. "It feels like a place where the unexpected might occur around every corner."

The Empress's expression did not falter. "So it is," she agreed. "And we do believe you have brought quite a bit of the unexpected with you, as well." Behind her mask, her eyes narrowed just a fraction. "The unexpected comes in many flavors, Inquisition. Which, we wonder, are you?"

Estella straightened, giving a visual cue that she would field that one. Reading it easily, Celene turned her attention to the other Inquisitor.

"The moment we said, I doubt it would any longer be so unexpected," she replied. "So I'm sure Your Majesty will understand if we can't say."

The sharp look in Celene's face only grew more acute, but it seemed to be in some sense the correct answer, for she did not press, instead moving the topic onwards. "In that case, perhaps we will observe it in action. Welcome to the Winter Palace, Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom. We look forward to the night's events." A graceful decline of her chin dismissed them, and Celene herself turned from the group to depart, leaving them to climb the stairs to the left and ascend back to the upper level.

That went well enough, Rom thought. The others were arriving behind him by now, and the attention of the ballroom was steadily dispersing as the guests turned their eyes on each other. Rom tugged a bit at the hem of his tunic, wishing his clothes would start to feel more comfortable. If nothing else, he supposed it kept him on edge. He exhaled a breath now that he was certain the entire ballroom wouldn't hear it and take note.

"I suppose we should be getting to work, then."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Cyrus wasn't unused to the weight of eyes. Not even the disapproving ones. No matter the stage of his life, there'd always been someone who disapproved—that was probably just inherent with occupying any position of moderate importance. And he had been important, once, in the Imperium. Now he supposed any he had was mostly derivative, extrapolated from his modest title and the fact that he had the same last name as the Lady Inquisitor.

But he was also accustomed to turning opinions in his favor, when he had the opportunity to actually engage with those that disapproved. Wit and charisma made light of many sins, and a fetching-enough smile could pick up the slack on the rest. It was something he was sure Lady Marceline knew well, also, though no doubt she didn't have quite so many detractors. She, after all, wasn't a nasty Tevinter.

The group had split, and he'd found himself keeping company with the Ambassador and her husband, who also seemed to enjoy a fairly good reputation here. He supposed his own ability to mostly make up for the offensiveness of his nationality meant that this group would be expected to do any diplomatic heavy lifting, at least of the kind that didn't require an actual Inquisitor. Shame. He'd much rather have spent the evening with the likes of Zahra or Vesryn or Khari—much more offensive to the local sensibilities, and much less concerned with them. But needs must.

He adjusted his mask, internally displeased with the fact that it hampered his peripheral vision so much. The knife in his boot was little reassurance when he wanted his swords. How easy it would have been, if he'd still—

“So, Lady Marceline... where do you suggest we begin?" Cyrus didn't let himself finish his previous thought. Now was not the time. He presumed Marceline had some contact or other she wanted to lean on for information, and that he would be tagging along for the duration.

"With our friends," Marceline answered deftly. She had been scanning the many masks of the ball since they had arrived, and presumably, she had made out a few of these so-called friends during that time. She had paused her scanning in order to look back to him, "Do you remember the good Lord Abernache from Therinfall Redoubt?" She frowned at the thought, the memory of their first encounter with the red templars not a fond one. "It would do us well to visit with him, as he does owe his life to us after all," she added with a smile.

“'Good' seems like a bit of an overstatement." Cyrus certainly remembered him, bloviating lackwit that he was. He didn't try to hide the flash of distaste on his face. “I suppose that if we have to talk to him, it's best to get it over with." He eyed a passing servant, or more accurately, the flutes of champagne she carried on her tray, but then sighed through his nose. Unlike some people, he considered keeping his wits important. Particularly on a night like this, when all the usual mayhem and murder was going to begin at a surprise moment and probably with considerable attempt at concealment.

He arched his eyebrows beneath his mask. “Lead on then, milady. I can't spot him in a crowd; and you're the ambassador here. I promise to smile and look as pretty as possible. I'll even keep the sarcasm to a minimum." He didn't specify how much the minimum was.

"You say that as if you believe he would catch even that," Michaël noted, suppressing a chuckle. It appeared as if Marceline's husband shared Cyrus's judgment on the Lord. However, unlike Cyrus, he did snatch a flute from the serving girl's tray and took a quick sip, tossing a wink at him afterward.

Marceline sighed, but shrugged as well. "Please, let us try to be kind to our allies, in spite of their... quirks," Marceline admitted, though she did soon add, "His gossip has always been somewhat reliable, and he has spoken well of the Inquisition." With that, she turned and proceeded across the floor, leaving her husband to walk behind her with Cyrus. It wasn't long before she lead them straight to the man in question. At their appearance, he broke off whatever conversation he was having with a pair of ladies and turned toward them excitedly. Apparently, also saving the women he had been speaking to, as they swiftly made their exit now that his attention was no longer on them.

"Lady Marceline! It is a pleasure to see you well. Ser, you as well," he added for Michaël, who replied with a good-natured smile, a tilt of his head, and a tilt of his champagne flute in the other direction. "I had hoped the Inquisition would put in their appearance in this quaint soirée. Things are intensely more interesting when you are about."

Marceline smiled easily and curtsied politely, "Lord Abernache," she greeted smoothly.

Cyrus did his best to suppress his desire to roll his eyes. More interesting—as though this was all by way of entertainment. Then again, for the court, it probably was. They wouldn't have to get out there and fight Corypheus. That was what the Inquisition was for. “Lord Abernache." He drawled the name dryly, his bow a bit lackadaisical. “It's good to know we're so welcome. How are you finding the festivities?" The question was innocuous, but it would let him talk about whatever thing he thought would keep their interest. Maybe if his gossip was as good as Marcy said, there would be something of use in the reply.

The Lord didn't seem to notice Cyrus's choice and diction of words, or if he had, he was too excited to share his experiences to care. "I have not been disappointed, I am happy to say," the Lord admitted, his grin easily seen even beneath the large mask he wore. "There are many fascinating individuals in attendance, your Inquisition included. For example," Abernache said, his grin twisting as if he held some sort of enticing secret. He glanced to his sides, checking the distance between them and the next part and leaned in toward Marceline, who to her credit did not move, neither away nor toward.

"I've heard that there has been a sighting of a Harlequin amidst our festivities."

The news caused Marceline to tilt her head in answer. "Has there now? That is most interesting," Marceline agreed. Abernache reeled himself back in and nodded, apparently pleased at himself for being able to surprise her. She then turned toward Cyrus and thought for a moment. "A Harlequin is an assassin associated with the House of Repose, an Orlesian order dating back hundreds of years ago," she explained for his benefit.

Cyrus blinked. Assassins proper, rather than Bards? That was interesting. He wondered how the two groups stacked up against one another, if they did at all. Maybe they were simply intended for different circumstances. “Well, I think that confirms what was already obvious: someone had plans to kill someone else tonight." Who the planner and the target were was more elusive information, and the part they really needed, but still. It wasn't nothing.

Admittedly, Cyrus tuned out large pieces of the conversation after that, mostly due to the fact that Lord Abernache was dominating it. Lady Marceline was more than competent enough to pick out anything relevant, and Cyrus was more interested in observing the other guests as they went about their cutthroat business. All veiled in pretty words, of course, but... well, frankly it was almost nostalgic in its pomposity and opulence. Tevinter was much the same, however unique both groups liked to think they were.

"Cyrus!" The voice wasn't entirely familiar, though the use of his first name so casually narrowed down the possible speakers by quite a margin. It didn't take too long for them to appear in his field of vision: she, as it turned out. The black-and-white mask was familiar enough, as well as her small stature and the relative deepness of her complexion. She looked a bit awkward in her light blue dress, a simple construction, but one with rather too much tulle for her size. "I was hoping I'd find you."

Gemma seemed genuinely enthused to see him, and approached without much apparent regard for the fact that Abernache was still speaking. Her eyes did flicker to him once, but then they settled back on Cyrus, and she drew within slightly more polite speaking distance, coming to a stop about three feet away from him. "Fancy meeting you here." The comment was clearly quite tongue-in-cheek; his last letter to her had indicated that he'd be here, and her reply had informed him of the same.

“Gemma." Cyrus felt a smile working its way onto his face. He expected a serious scientist like herself had little patience for such gatherings; certainly her manners in approach were imperfect according to the specific rules of the court. If she knew, he could hardly imagine she cared. As it was a chance to escape the frightful boredom of Abernache's company, he didn't either. “A most pleasant surprise. How have you been?"

She waved a hand almost absently, looking as much like she was swatting something away as anything more graceful. "Oh, well enough. I'm testing the degradation of those toxins in sunlight, like you suggested. The results have been interesting so far. I think I might have invented a new type of hallucinogen by accident, but I'm keeping a lid on it for now until I can figure out the side effects. Don't want to give it to anyone for the obvious reasons." Gemma crossed her arms. "One disadvantage to living on the clean side of town is that you can't just go catch yourself a rat, you know? Have to hike half an hour down to the slum just for a shot at one. Then you feel bad for stealing somebody's dinner, like as not." She shook her head.

His smile only grew wider as she spoke. Cyrus found her eccentricity rather endearing. No doubt it had the opposite effect on some others. “Rather sad state of things, when that's the exchange. Perhaps you could offset? Bring someone dinner, take the rat as payment. Very small-scale philanthropy, but better than nothing, no?" He was only half-joking. Breezily as she'd put it, Val Royeaux's slums were not a nice place to live, and it wouldn't at all surprise him if the city's poorest did occasionally find themselves forced to dine on rodents.

Gemma apparently took the suggestion seriously; her brows furrowed heavily, the small crease they created visible over the upper edge of her mask. "Not a bad solution. We can't feed everyone, of course, but I'd feel better about it, at least." Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Anyway. That's not actually what I came here to talk to you about." Settling her fists on her hips, she angled her chin up. Admittedly, she was quite a lot shorter than he was. "There are lots of things happening at this party. I've been here since it started, and I thought you'd want to know about some of them. Since you're with the Inquisition and all."

Cyrus blinked. Well, he could certainly count on Gemma's observations to have merit, and if she was offering them to him, he saw no reason not to accept. “Very well. What should I know?"

Her posture eased for a moment, a small smile turning her lips before it fled. "Well, for starters, there are an awful lot of people missing already. Servants, mostly, but here's the thing: there's also a Herald." She paused, then amended. "Not one of yours, obviously. One of the Council of Heralds. They decide who has the most noble blood and all that nonsense. And I've heard that the Grand Duke is particularly displeased with the lot of them, so you might want to start your inquiries with him." She shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her bare shoulders.

"And then of course there's the fact that only The Nest has any Bards here, which is just suspicious. Usually all of the organizations are allowed. Now the restriction could just be the Empress defending herself, or it could be something more insidious. I don't know—people are confusing and stupid. I'm better with corpses, which is why I'm telling you all this instead of looking into it myself."

Missing persons and a suspiciously-restricted guest list, was it? Well, the parts were all there, but he doubted the connection was so straightforward as the Bards disappearing the people in question. Especially if Gaspard was the one with a claim against the Heralds and Celene the one who'd selected the entertainers. Multiple interesting threads, then, and the beginning of each placed in the Inquisition's hands.

He couldn't help but wonder what skeins they'd be unraveling tonight.

“Thank you, Gemma." Her observations had been genuinely edifying, even if she was better with the dead than the living. “I'm sure we'll be wanting to look into all of this. You and Eugùne will be around for the evening, won't you?" He didn't especially want to encounter any situations where her expertise and the friend she used to disguise it would be necessary, but... it was a clear possibility.

"Can't really leave before it's over," she pointed out. "Even the barely-qualified to attend have their reputations to uphold, after all."

“I see." He exhaled a bit heavily through his nose. “Well... please be careful. I'm sure you know that, but... I'd hate for you to get caught in any crossfire." He offered a minute smile; it was true, even if he knew there was little way he could enforce his preferences. She was still so young, even if he knew she was an intelligent adult by any standard.

"So would I," she replied smartly, flashing him a bright smile. "Don't you worry: I intend to stay as far away from the danger as possible. Trouble is, it's around every corner in these parts." A slight purse of her lips, and then: "Let me know though. If you need us to look at a body or something. We want to help, both EugĂšne and I. We owe you, for last time." Ducking her head, Gemma turned and disappeared back into the crowd, her small stature easily letting her fade into the menagerie.

Cyrus, on the other hand, could avail himself of no such anonymity, discreetly signaling to Marceline and MichaĂ«l that he needed to talk to them. Once they'd managed to extricate themselves from Abernache's company, he summarized his findings in as few words as possible. “We're not the best suited to ask servants about their missing colleagues, but we might pass the information to the others, if possible. I see no reason not to make inquiry about this vanished Herald, however. Can you get us an introduction to Gaspard?"

"Of course," Marceline said confidently with a nod of her head. "He may even wish to speak with us, if we make our presence known. As Lord Abernache noted, we are most interesting," she said with a short chuckle. Before they could start to make their way, however, Michaël raised his hand.

"As much as I'd like to meet the Grand Duke," he began with a self-deprecating grin, "I believe I would be much better suited to running Cyrus's information to the others, yes?"

Marceline frowned, but nodded her agreement, "Do not have too much fun without me," she stated, her smile returning. Her comment caused him to laugh and he nodded, dipping into a large, exaggerated bow before taking his leave. With her husband having taken his leave, Marceline spared Cyrus one last glance before she began to make her way, surely toward the Grand Duke. As to be expected, after making their way through groups of people, taking a moment here and there to rub hands with a few, Gaspard was soon in sight. He was alone, save for a large glass of wine in his hand. Before they were able to get too close, they were intercepted by what had to be his entourage.

"Hold there," the bodyguard stopped them for a moment, juggling his glance between Marceline and Cyrus, "Do you have personal business with the Grand Duke?" he asked mildly.

There was a rather heavy sigh from behind the guard. "Henri, let them pass. That is the Inquisition. If I can be sure anyone isn't trying to kill me, I suppose it is them."

With a small grimace only they could see, Henri inclined his head, stepping aside to allow the two of them to draw within striking distance of his employer. Once all the bows had been exchanged, Gaspard eyed them over the rim of his glass. Upon closer inspection, it looked to contain something significantly stronger than wine, though the Grand Duke himself did not seem at all incapacitated. Perhaps it was only his first.

"Well... not even important enough to merit a visit from the Inquisitors themselves, I see. That's just my luck, really." He wore a clear frown, etching lines quite deeply into his darkly-stubbled face, or what of it was visible beneath his bronzed mask. "Who are you lot, then?"

The frown that snapped to Marceline's lips was almost audible. It was obvious that she wasn't very happy with the fact that Gaspard didn't know who she was, and her pride must have been hurt a little in the process. Regardless of the state of her pride however, she nevertheless dipped into a low bow and introduced herself. "Your Highness, I am Lady Marceline Benoßt, née Lécuyer, of the Inquisition, and my associate here," she gestured to Cyrus, "is Lord Cyrus Avenarius." She added, managing another mild smile.

"Well, there's a name I know, at least. Avenarius was the Lady Inquisitor, yes?" The question seemed to be entirely rhetorical. He took a large gulp from his glass and eyed the both of them. "Gaspard de Chalons, which you knew, or you wouldn't have bothered me. What exactly is it you want to ask?"

Cyrus waited a heartbeat, rather expecting that Lady Marceline would respond, but when none was immediately forthcoming, he spoke first. “I can think of a few things." He lifted his shoulders, deliberately letting his eyes fall to the glass. “Most obvious is why a potential claimant to the Orlesian throne is out here drinking instead of in there, playing your strange little Game with the others. Ceding quite a lot of advantage to Celene right from the start, aren't you?"

The easy answer was that he had some other move planned that he believed would render all such maneuvering irrelevant. Cyrus didn't have much more than a first impression and some rumors to go on, but Gaspard didn't come across as a subtle man. Likely his plan would not be that subtle either. One fell swoop, then, and probably a forceful one. But that was only a preliminary hypothesis. Confirmation was necessary.

Gaspard scoffed so hard he might as well have spat, for the distaste it conveyed. "Why bother? My dear cousin has the Council of Heralds wrapped around her little finger. She always has." He tossed the rest of his drink back in one motion, and set it down on the wooden table next to him with a heavy thud. His lip curled slightly.

"Did you know I was supposed to be Emperor? Emperor Judicael I had four living grandchildren at the time, and I was the oldest of them. After Florian's death, we all had an equal claim otherwise: I and my sister Florianne were Judicael's daughter Melisande's children, and she was the eldest. Celene and her sister Veronique, Maker rest her soul, were the daughters of the younger Reynaud. So it should have been me." His face twisted; he shook his head. "But Celene charmed the Council, and so they decided that the Valmont name was of greater value than my mother's blood, and handed the crown to a snake." He grunted.

"And look at all she's done with it, no? Such a wonderful state our country is in."

Marceline agreed with a sigh and a tired nod of her head. "Wonderful indeed. I still have family on the field,", undoubtedly speaking of her father, "I am happy enough that this occasion managed to halt the fighting, at least for a time. Still, we have not come to trouble you with my family matters," she said, waving off the thought.

She then glanced at Cyrus and then back to Gaspard, an inquisitive tilt to her head now. "I fear that there are forces about that desire to keep our nation in the civil war, or worse," She said with a bit more firmness, "We have heard rumors of a missing Herald, and were curious to know if you have any information on the matter?" She said without accusation in her tone

"One of those pompous bastards is missing?" Gaspard blinked, pouring himself another drink. "Good for him. He doesn't have to deal with all this farce. I would say I hope he's enjoying himself, but I really don't, considering." He took another liberal swallow.

“Surely your first attempt at the throne was a while ago." Given his age, and Celene's, and how long she'd ruled, it couldn't have been recent. “A bit strange to be upset at the Council when it might well have different members now, no?" He doubted Gemma would have mentioned the conflict if she meant a very old one. Which meant there was something a bit more recent. “If we ask around, are we going to hear of any altercations this evening, perhaps?" Gaspard seemed to be direct, for a nobleman. He'd probably respond best to the same.

Gaspard bobbed his head, apparently untroubled by the admission. "I'd thought new council members would be a chance," he said, frustration leaking into his voice. "But they're all the same. Had a shouting match with one of the junior members. Not... my proudest moment, but it was disappointing to learn that every last one of them is still my cousin's lapdog." Cyrus could almost see the pieces click together for him. "It's not Philippe, is it? The missing one? He is the one I argued with."

Cyrus thought the question was a genuine one, which suggested that Gaspard was not responsible for the disappearance. Not that he knew which Herald it was, either. No doubt the Grand Duke had some nefarious plan or another, but Cyrus didn't think he was indirect or dissembling enough to pull of such a good appearance of ignorance without actually lacking the right information. So of this, at least, it was probably safe to clear him. Which meant they had to turn their attention elsewhere.

“Not sure, honestly." He made the admission with a slight shrug. “In any case, enjoy your evening, Grand Duke. It's bound to be eventful. Lady Marceline?" He offered her his arm, more as a formality and polite gesture than anything. He could at least escort her as far as MichaĂ«l.

“Seems like a good time to check in with everyone else, doesn't it?" That, he said in a much lower voice as they departed. There were bound to be a great deal of accumulated tidbits by now, surely.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Intrigue in Halamshiral was no exaggeration and as much as Zahra had begun hating the Game they spoke of, it breathed life through the palace’s hallways. A necessary evil. Perhaps it was the same throughout all of Orlais. She’d have to ask Rillien someday. She supposed he was the only one aside from Marceline that might have an idea why they operated that way. Tittering behind their hands; like clever foxes crawling into hen houses. Just as deadly as a blade poised against someone’s spine. Difficult waters to navigate. One she didn’t envy anyone having to live through each day. No one else seemed at all bothered by any of it. Some even seemed to enjoy it. Chaos.

Reconvening with the others was their only option if they wanted to move forward and keep their foothold, even she understood that. Snippets of information clasped in the palm of a frighteningly clever mentor. Someone named Q. As bullheaded as she could be, she understood the necessity for anonymity. Keeping things hush-hush. No one wanted to paint a target on their own back by aligning themselves with the Inquisition. Speaking such a thing aloud would be foolish. Even if it wasn’t true, she felt like the walls had ears. It reminded her a little of the Raiders of the Waking Sea
 though raiders were far more uncouth in their methods. Affiliate yourself with the wrong ship and risk the ire of another. The end result would be the same.

She walked slightly ahead of Vesryn and Stel, cutting through the crowd with the ease of someone who didn’t particularly care about raising her voice in order to get people to move out of the way. Only occasionally pausing to make sure she hadn’t lost them in a wayward horde of people, fluttering fans and tossing their head in laughter. High-pitched. Coquettish. Eyes still hounded their footsteps—though she’d noted long ago who they seemed so enthralled with. The Lady Inquisitor on the arm of an elven lad. It brought back Stel’s earlier conversation. Of how it might affect things in the future. For her, for him. It only made the determined jut of her chin harsher, returning sterner glares that bellied what the fuck are you looking at without so much as uttering a word.

As soon as they reentered the main chamber where dancing was supposed to take place, Zahra spotted Khari and the others walking back in as well. She drew a hand up towards her mask and crooked a finger. Beckoning them over. Though a better place would be crucial to speaking openly. Too many ears. Too many eyes. She glanced around the room and spotted a fairly empty balcony. A couple were just walking back inside, and from what she could see from where she stood, it spanned wide, and was deep enough to station themselves away from the large, blue double-doors.

“This way. There’s a much better place to talk over there,” she led the way once more, and settled herself against the white-gilded railing surrounding the balcony. There were various potted plants to accompany them, but little else. As she’d surmised, they were alone.

Vesryn unwound his arm from Stel's so that he could take a moment to stretch and breathe in a bit of the cooler night air. It was a lot less stuffy out here than it was inside. He turned about to settle his rear on the balcony railing, momentarily pulling the mask from his face so he could rub at a spot. Perhaps it was ill-fitting in some way. "It's interesting, as parties go, but not at all my style. Can't imagine how anyone could enjoy this regularly." He did, however, offer a momentary grin to Stel. "Though it isn't all bad."

She shook her head faintly, half a smile appearing on her face only to fade a moment later. "Sure, if we don't think about the murder plots and all the staring." With a short sigh, she turned to the others, giving no sign of any fatigue she might be feeling, though surely there had to be some. "Anyway... did anyone come across anything interesting? We've got a few things, for sure, but I'm not sure they're all connected."

“Lady Aurelie believes that someone close to the Empress is going to make a move tonight. Most likely a woman." Rilien went ahead and elaborated upon Stel's remark, speaking for their group's discoveries in his usual clipped, efficient manner. His hands disappeared into his sleeves; he had to be keeping weapons in there, surely. “Also, Q of the Cendredoights has been in contact. She wants a meeting with Estella. A discreet one." He clearly expected this to mean something to at least a few of those present. Maybe just the leadership, though from the way Cyrus crossed his arms and shifted his weight to the left, it might've rung a bell for him, too.

“A final note: there is a chance something of importance is occurring in the palace gardens tonight as well, though we know not what."

"It has something to do with the fact that several servants are missing, most likely," Leon replied. He held his mask loosely at his side as well, a few red marks on his face where it had pressed slightly awkwardly into his fair skin. It didn't seem to sit too well on his angles. They were hardly custom-molded, after all—there hadn't been nearly enough time for that. "There are three thus far, and they were all sent to the gardens beforehand." He paused, his brows knitting thoughtfully. "The woman we spoke to mentioned that they all work for the same employer, gathering information. If Q is here, it wouldn't surprise me if that was her. Might be worth asking her about, but we're going to need to investigate in any case."

Reaching up, he rubbed at the back of his neck, as though trying to ease some ache there. "I understand there was also some kind of missing member of the Council of Heralds?" He glanced towards the third group, none of whom had yet spoken.

Cyrus, leaning sideways against the balcony rail, dipped his head in a small nod. “Some fellow named Philippe. Had a rather unpleasant encounter with the Grand Duke earlier this evening. It seems likely to me that Gaspard is planning something, but I don't think he did that. He was too candid about the earlier altercation. Very upset that the lot of them won't acknowledge his claim to the throne, though. If he thinks he's out of peaceful options..."

"Then he might be bringing his civil war here," Vesryn finished. He blinked, rubbing a moment longer at his head before he returned the mask into place. "I didn't meet him, but from what I've heard he isn't the sort to employ assassins. If he wanted to try something the brute force way, well... he would need a fairly significant force to muscle his way into control of the palace."

"And he'd need to hide its approach as well," Rom added. "Only the guards are openly carrying weapons, and while there's no lack of them, there's no way they've all been bought by Gaspard." He exhaled, taking a moment to adjust the collar of his shirt. "In any case, I'm going to investigate the missing servants. We have a way in to the restricted areas, but I'd rather not go alone." It went without saying that none of them should go anywhere on their own tonight. But anyone going with Rom into off-limits parts of the palace would need a certain degree of subtlety, which immediately ruled out a few of their number.

"I should meet Q," Estella added, smoothing her hands down her skirt in what might have been a nervous gesture. "To the extent possible, it might be best to bring only the familiar faces to that. She wouldn't want to be any more widely-known than absolutely necessary."

Leon looked to agree, considering the rest of the others for a moment. "That's Cyrus, Vesryn, and Rilien, then. I'll go with you, Romulus, but we should take at least one other." His eyes landed on Zahra. "Captain? Would you be averse?"

Zahra tipped an imaginary hat and offered up a bright, shit-eating grin, “Of course. I’m at your service, darling.” A lot of this was going straight over the top of her head—she certainly wasn’t acquainted with anyone of noble-blood outside of the Inquisition. Assassins and bards. Bought guardsmen and missing people. It was enough to warrant a headache. Fortunately she was in good company.

Marceline had leaned against the railing, allowing the cool breeze to tussle the ends of her hair as she listened along with the plan. Unlike Vesryn and Leon, she did not remove her mask. In fact, she seemed comfortable in it, but of course with Marceline that was to be expected. Her mask had to have been custom made for someone like her, and probably fit better than any one of theirs. However, she was not the one to speak, but rather her husband, who had also decided to keep his mask on. "That leaves Asala, Khari, Marcy and I," Michaël stated, splitting looks between them before landing on Marceline.

A thoughtful line spread across her mouth and she nodded in agreement. "We should remain behind, so that the Inquisition maintains a presence. We can also deflect any questions that may come up concerning your whereabouts in the interim," she answered.

“Very well." Rilien paused, satisfied with the arrangement insofar as he ever seemed satisfied with anything, but then his eyes moved back towards the ballroom, almost as if perceiving something the rest had not yet noticed. “The Grand Duchess is approaching us." It went without saying that everyone not currently wearing a mask ought to replace it, and that all strategic discussions needed to cease immediately. The last thing they wanted to be doing was giving anything important away to anyone who could not be trusted implicitly.

Leon replaced his mask with a grimace. "Bit irregular, for someone with that much rank to approach us, isn't it?" Though the question was surely pertinent, there was no time to answer it.

The woman who must have been the Grand Duchess crossed the threshold onto the balcony they occupied, only then announcing her presence at all. Indeed, she'd been entirely silent up to then as far as the general noise level allowed them to differentiate. She might have been able to approach undetected quite a bit more closely if not for Rilien. Now that she had their attention, though, she picked up one side of her full grey skirt and curtsied. Light from the mage-lanterns inside glinted off the silverite of her mask when she straightened. "Inquisition," she greeted, half-smiling. Her accent was a delicate touch on the edges of her voice rather than the thick filter it was in some other cases. Though her hair had long gone light grey with age, it seemed, her posture showed no hint of it, and the near half-circle of the mask left the lines around her dark eyes hidden.

"I apologize for the intrusion, but Her Majesty wished you to know that the dancing will begin at the top of the hour. She understands your time here had thus far proven to be... trying, in some respects." Her eyes flickered very obviously to Khari there, a slight shift in her body language suggesting some kind of reaction quickly concealed. A slight tilting-up of the chin, a straightening of her spine. What if anything it indicated wasn't clear—it was gone much too quickly.

"It is her hope that you may yet find greater cause to enjoy yourselves—and perhaps that some of the demeanors that have chilled to you might yet warm once more." She paused, appearing almost hesitant for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. "I have the same hope. It was not effortless to arrange for these negotiations, I'm sure you can imagine. I would like very much for them to be successful." She seemed to be implying something with that, though as ever with these people, it was hard to say what.

"As do we your Highness, I assure you," Marceline answered. At some point during her approach, she'd gently pushed herself off of the railing in order to stand straight and proper in order to receive the Grand Duchess. Upon her intrusion, Marceline returned the curtsy in a timely fashion and listened with a pleasant smile to her lips. Her smile never faltered as the duchess spoke. "I thank you for your concern, and for taking the time to come speak to us," she with a grateful tilt of her head. "I believe that once the Inquisition and those who comprise her are better understood, that the attitudes toward us will indeed shift for the better."

Marceline's smile shifted again, a subtle thing, not unlike the shifting of the duchess's posture a moment ago, though hers felt lighter in action. "However, the Inquisition has always been an organization of action, so perhaps the dancing will be the perfect opportunity for us to begin demonstrating such."

"Then I look forward to seeing it. The unexpected is always an interesting touch on things, no?" She curtsied again, apparently requiring no reply to her question. Not drawing out her departure, she disappeared, leaving them to make their way back into the castle's interior alone.

Stel was frowning slightly. Zahra was close enough to hear her mutter something under her breath about a garden or something, but if she had some insight, she wasn't inclined to share it. "The top of the hour is probably only forty minutes from now," she pointed out. "We need to be quick, to make it back in time. We'll definitely be missed if we don't, now."

The wheels were back in motion. Time was of the essence. Forty minutes. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Zahra couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much hidden between the Grand Duchess’ words. A mask behind a mask; an annoyance, in her opinion. She figured Khari would agree with her on that one. The quicker they dealt with this business the better. They hadn’t had time to warm to anything since coming into the palace, with their hackles raised and blades at the ready.

She pushed herself away from the railing and straightened her shoulders with a soft exhale. They’d be splitting up again and scouring the enormous palace for who-knows-what. Information. Missing servants. A Herald. She just hoped that it wouldn’t cause them more trouble than they were already biting off. Not that she doubted in their success. She’d been betting on them since the beginning
 even so, she settled her hand on Stel’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze, rounding to her side, “Smooth sails. Let’s get this done.”

Good luck. As if they ever needed it.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
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 MichaĂ«l 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."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Getting the servants back to the kitchen proved to be a bit of a task, considering the fact that they both had to be carried, and their captive dragged, while still maintaining as much stealth as possible. Not a simple task by any estimation, but fortunately the kitchens were before they needed to worry overmuch about running into anyone they did not know.

Syl was present when the other two were brought in; her relief was palpable, and her gratitude such that she acquiesced easily when Leon asked her convey the hostage—alive—to the Lord-General, along with a message penned hastily in Leon's own handwriting. He was confident that if anyone would have a place to keep the man under guard while the Inquisition moved about, it would be him. He was also quite sure that it would be done; Lucien had indicated that his father was a reliable ally.

Of course, this alone did not solve all of their problems. Though he'd made some effort not to end up soaked, Leon hadn't cared about that nearly enough to actually avoid water, and so there were several large, slightly-darker patches on the umber-colored tunic he wore. Hopefully they would dry soon. He'd at least managed to avoid blood, having needed no knives to aid him in the fight. The same could not be said for the other two; though he could notice the darker patches on Zahra's dress or Romulus's shirt, he hoped that was only because he knew to look, and not because they were obvious in general. The kitchen servants gave them towels to take care of what they could, but Leon was keenly feeling the time.

No sooner had they departed the kitchen than a deep chime rang out over the grounds—the top of the hour approached. Shooting at glance at the other two, Leon abandoned the effort at stealth for the moment and broke into a run. Fortunately, the side hallways had been emptied due to the hour, and there was no one to spot three members of the Inquisition moving as fast as they could reasonably manage for the ballroom.

The chimes were still ringing when they made it to their destination, though it looked as though most everyone was already lining up for the first dance, partners in tow. Leon tsked under his breath. "You two go," he said quietly, glancing around. "I'll figure something out." It would look quite bad for them if any of them abstained, but for no one would it look worse than Romulus.

Romulus had hastily thrown his mask back on only a few seconds prior. Close inspection of him revealed that there was a bit of a tremor running through him, though it might be unfair to say that he looked particularly nervous. He had practiced this part quite thoroughly in Skyhold, learning the steps and repeating them until he could perform the routine blindfolded even in a crowd. Still, he didn't look enthused at all now that the time to do it for real had come.

He shrugged slightly at Zahra. "Looks like we're partners to start."

“I couldn’t pick a better one.” There was a sense that Zahra was saying it more for his benefit then her own. She smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, and readjusted the mask on her face. It had been sitting slightly askew; and there was a stubborn twig stuck in her hair just above her ear. Besides that she looked a little worse for wear from tussle they’d just experienced. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away.

She inclined her head in the direction of the dance floor and linked her arm through his, leading him out towards it. From what Leon could see from their retreating backs, she’d given his arm a squeeze and whispered something under her breath. You’re okay. Let’s do this. The words were lost with the last chime. No doubt she’d had her own lessons in Skyhold
 though they might’ve had more to do with etiquette than anything else, light on her feet as she was.

Leon, meanwhile, had a bit of a conundrum on his hands: he needed to find someone who might not mind doing him a favor and dancing. Not a terribly simple matter when the majority of the dancing crowd was ready to go. He also hadn't exactly spend much of his time so far meeting new people, which meant options were quite few. He couldn't reasonably expect himself to convince anyone he'd been admiring them from afar, either: plenty of kinds of lies came easily to him, but he was still an awkward Chantry boy at heart in this one particular way.

"Ser Leonhardt!" The call wasn't loud enough to be called shouting or yelling, but it did carry well. He turned towards the source, finding that Lady Fiorella was making her way towards him. Lord Sabino was nowhere to be seen. She paused just a moment to curtsy, then spoke in a much lower voice. "Forgive me the presumption, but you have the look of a fellow rather at a loss." She half-smiled.

"I'm not sure where you've been for the last near-hour, but I'm going to guess you were not filling your dance card."

She had him there. "No, milady," he admitted. "I'm afraid it's quite empty."

"Well, not exactly an exciting way to help, but I did promise I would, so perhaps you wouldn't mind dancing with little old me?" It was clearly a joke; though she was considerably older than him, she didn't qualify as 'old' in his perception. Little was rather true, though; she couldn't have been any taller than Khari. Perhaps an inch or two shorter, even.

He felt a stab of his usual discomfit with his own size, but shook his head. Mostly he was relieved. "It isn't the most glamorous favor," he said, nodding his agreement, "but I would very much appreciate it all the same."

"Good. Let's hurry before they start without us." Lady Fiorella took his arm and navigated them through the crowd, chuckling under her breath. "I never have this easy a time moving around at these things. I think they're all scared to run into you." For some reason, this clearly amused her greatly.

They made it to the end of the line of dancers in the nick of time. Leon glanced down the row, noting that for the most part, the members of the Inquisition had started paired with one another. Matters were becoming more urgent; whatever plots were in motion were surely nearing their completion already. The best thing to do would be to figure out what they were doing without wasting time. If he planned this right, he might be able to get all the information he needed during the dance itself. Worth trying, anyway. He memorized the initial arrangement of the dancers and did some internal calculation. Unsurprisingly, Vesryn and Estella were together. Lined up next to them were Cyrus and Rilien, then Marceline and Michaël, then Khari and Asala. Several pairs of other courtiers, then Lucien and the Lord-General's aide, more strangers, and then Romulus and Zahra, who'd clearly found their places.

This was feasible. The opening dance would involve a lot of partner switching. If he could remember how the pattern went far enough in advance, he might be able to get to speak with the few people necessary to cover the bases, so to speak. The strategic puzzle of it was rather a nice distraction from the fact that he'd surely be exchanging a lot of empty pleasantries with courtiers in the meantime.

From the side of the room, the Bards began to play. Leon took a step forward, meeting Lady Fiorella's raised hand with his own, grateful that only minimal contact was necessary at any point, and also that Orlesians generally didn't care who led, who followed, or what gender combinations were involved.

He spent the first part of the dance letting the adrenaline come down from the fight and run earlier, a process which was always quite slow for him. A side-effect, perhaps, of his condition. Lady Fiorella didn't try to force conversation, for which he was grateful. Then the first switch came, and Leon found his left palm pressed to Lady Marceline's right.

"Gaspard planned to hold the nobles hostage if the Heralds didn't hand him the crown," he said without preamble. "We've got a witness to this effect in the Lord-General's custody. Was everything uneventful in here?"

"Not as such, no," she replied. "There was an incident with one of the Heralds, Phillipe, the one Gaspard was seen with earlier. Lord Julien found him murdered, with Gaspard's blade still stuck in his chest," she explained just as quickly. She let a glance fall around them for a moment before she quickly continued, "It would be obvious to everyone that someone is attempting to frame him from the scene, save the Grand Duke himself. Julien suggested that we trail Gaspard once he hears, in order to gather more information."

It wasn't entirely surprising that the missing Herald was dead, nor that someone would frame Gaspard for it. That the frame-up was obvious rather than subtle was a bit odd, but Marceline's hypothesis explained that well enough. He thought about it for a bit, then sighed softly.

"He's not the most dissembling man, no. It shouldn't be that difficult to follow him. Perhaps you could take Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus to do it? The important part would be stopping the trap, whatever it turns out to be." If it was a straightforward attempt at murder, those three would indubitably be a lot of help. If not, well, they'd still do as well as anyone else.

"Ooh! I'm sorry," Leon overheard Asala's voice from behind Marceline. A look up revealed the woman in question, dancing with Romulus. Apparently, she must have accidentally stepped on his toes, as she stared at their feet, and looked a little bashful about the incident.

Romulus was grimacing. He didn't have the hardest boots, and Asala was not a small woman. "Relax," he reminded her. "I've seen you do this right before."

"That was different," she pouted quietly. As quickly as they came however, they faded back into the rest of the crowd.

Marceline considered Leon's words for a moment as well, before she too nodded in agreement. "Yes, we will be able to handle it. I will pass the plan along."

To his left, Estella transitioned easily from Rilien's company to Lucien's; she seemed about as relaxed as she could be, given the situation. No doubt her good fortune in partners thus far had a great deal to do with that.

Leon turned with the music, away from Marceline, and then found himself needing to adjust down by several inches. It was not an unwelcome change, however; he spared his first genuine smile of the dance for Khari. "Broken any toes yet?"

She grinned at him. “Nope. Still just the nose. I like Cy and Asala, though. Worked extra hard not to step on them." She fell silent as the footwork moved through one of the more complex sequences. She wasn't practiced enough yet that she could do those without thinking about them, but to her credit, she was quite smooth in her motions when she was able to concentrate like this. “I'm guessing Marcy told you about the dead guy and the dagger, right?" Apparently, she'd been able to keep track of at least some of the partner-switching as well.

Khari's dress swished softly around her ankles as they spun apart, then back together again. She seemed to particularly enjoy that part. “Also, uh... why are you wet, Leon?" She raised an eyebrow at a rapidly-drying spot on his shoulder.

"There was a bit of an altercation near a water feature," he confessed. "I'll tell you about it in more detail later if you like, but the short version is that Gaspard hired some mercenaries and we ran afoul of them in our investigations of the garden." He shook his head slightly, lifting his hand to spin her again, this time still in contact for the process. "Anything else I should know on your end?"

“I missed a fight?" Khari gave an exaggerated groan of frustration. “I always miss the fun part." With a huff, he completed her spin and took a step backwards before they both moved to the left.

Leon was pretty sure she usually was the 'fun part' of whatever situation she was in, but he neglected to make the point at this particular moment.

“Stop making that face, I’m not even stepping on your toes,” came a familiar voice off to Leon’s right shoulder, carrying itself to his opposing side. A flash of royal purple came into his view and fluttered in a circle. It appeared as if Cyrus was leading Zahra, obviously being the superior dancer; though she was trying to wrest some sort of control and failing miserably. To her credit, she was keeping up. Barely.

“What face? I'm not making any face in particular; I'm in fact always this handsome. The mask is a tragedy, I know." From the lofty tone of Cyrus's voice, he wasn't being at all serious; he seemed to be enjoying himself, actually. “I'm only being careful. The boots are a charmingly-rebellious touch, just not necessarily one I want touching me, you understand."

There was a loud ha sound as Zahra attempted to force Cyrus into a spin and was instead forced to slide her foot forward, chasing his retreating feet with hers, like a fox on a hunt. “My apologies, serah lordling. How presumptuous of me to dismiss your allure.” Her voice had lauded into a noxious, feigned cadence. Perhaps her best impression of the ladies she’d seen in Orlais.

There was a stomping noise. Then another laugh. Genuine, this time. It was apparent she’d missed her mark.

“I'll do my best to recover from the utter heartbreak you have just dealt me, dear captain. But I fear I shall never be the same. I hope you can live with the guilt of ruining me for anyone else." Cyrus gracefully stepped out from another attempt to stomp on his feet, grinning at Zahra in a way that suggested he was goading her more than actually concerned with stopping her from doing so. They faded from earshot after that, swallowed temporarily by the throng.

“Actually though." Khari, having been momentarily distracted by Zahra and Cyrus's exchange, returned to the matter at hand. “Yes. Ril says Lucien thinks someone's trying to kill him. He wants to use himself as bait to draw them out, and is asking for some of us to go with, just in case." From the way her mouth pulled to the side, she doubted very much he'd need it.

It was... quite the risky plan. Leon presumed this was some diluted version of the evidence Lucien had for this conclusion, but even if so. His brows furrowed beneath his mask; his lips thinned contemplatively, and he almost missed a step in the next sequence, distracted as he was. Fortunately, he avoided crushing Khari's toes. He doubted she would have cared even if he had—he'd seen her ignore levels of pain that would probably bring most to their knees. He still had no desire to inflict any on her.

He had a feeling Estella and Rilien would both want to be present for that, and he couldn't blame them. Lucien was more than just an ally to them, and more than just a potential claimant for the throne. He wouldn't keep them from assisting him if it were possible. He didn't think they'd be quite enough alone, though, and mentally he ran through the list of who was left.

"If Rilien and Estella go, could you be sure Asala knows to go as well?" It was very important to keep Lucien alive, and no doubt between them, that group would manage about as well as anyone."I believe Lady Marceline will be collecting you for another assassination problem," he added. He knew she was Asala's partner to begin with, which meant she'd surely wind up with her at the end as well. It made her ideal for passing the message, in any case.

Khari brightened a little at this suggestion. “Sure. I'll make sure everyone knows. Looks like it's time to switch, though. I'll see you in a bit, Leon." She stepped away, the smoothness of her gait hitching awkwardly when she caught sight of the person moving in exactly the opposite direction. Apparently Romulus was her next partner, and it seemed Khari was a bit nonplussed by that. She recovered quickly, though, and finished her movement without hesitation.

“Look at you. Four partners in, and dancing still hasn't killed ya."

A bit of his tension seemed to ease at that. Or maybe it just shifted into something else. "We'll see when we're done here, I guess." The dancers shifted, and they passed out of sight.

Not far from Leon, Estella and Cyrus met up as well; the latter tossed him a jaunty mock-salute when they made accidental eye contact. The twins had quite possibly learned dancing in each others' company; they certainly seemed to move like they were very familiar with this dimension of each other in addition to the rest.

Leon, for his part, found himself partnered with Zahra. "Dizzy yet? I can't tell if I'm spinning or the room is."

Zahra’s laugh came easily as she took his hand in hers and momentarily swayed. Possibly to keep from spinning anymore than they had to. “I think it’s a bit of both. For once, I’m glad I haven’t had anything to drink.” She made a humming sound in the back of her throat and grinned wider, waggling an eyebrow and leading them further away from an oncoming couple. Strangers, from the looks of it.

A sweep of purple followed her steps as she followed through another spin, albeit at a slower pace. Casual. Languid. It enabled her to swing back in towards his chest and draw herself closer, hand poised to their side—close enough to speak without being heard. The height difference was on par with Khari’s; distinctive enough to warrant bending down, though she occasionally bobbed up, bringing herself up on her toes. “Anything of note?”

Leon scoffed softly, a sound of humor rather than irritation, though he sobered quickly enough with the question. "Quite a lot. So far we have two attempted assassinations upcoming, and people who are going to try and stop both. Did Cyrus or Vesryn have anything of interest to pass on? I haven't been able to speak with anyone who went to the meeting with Q."

From the expression on Zahra’s face, she seemed halfway between an exasperated sigh and a groan that might’ve said she expected such impossible odds stacked against them. She pursed her lips and spun them in a slow circle, before back-stepping into a square pattern. “Apparently Corypheus isn’t the only schemer here. Q wants the Empress deposed. We’re to steal a document hidden in the royal wing library. Personal offices. A contract of payment for Gaspard’s head.”

This time, she allowed the sigh to slip past her lips, “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Oh wonderful. At least that was a very big clue as to who wanted Gaspard dead. If they could find the contract and it did tie back to Celene, that would be a bit of news every bit as revelatory as the mercenary in the Lord-General's custody. "I suppose the three of us could take care of that," he said. "When you end up back with Romulus, please do let him know. We only have about another hour until midnight, when the unmasking happens. I'm sure everyone else plans to have their plans in order by then; if we want to do the same, we'd best be on time."

He'd been reliably informed on more than one occasion that Orlesians really had a fondness for the dramatic. Leon couldn't help but feel even they'd be getting their fill of it by the time the night was done.

Zahra nodded her head and suddenly leaned back in a dramatic bow. Pegging on the fact that Leon wouldn’t allow her to fall in an embarrassing heap. As soon as she straightened up in his arms and allowed him to relegate her pace, she glanced to the side of him and offered him a thoughtful smile, “Hopefully after all this is said in done, we can finally eat some of this Orlesian food I’ve been hearing so much about and not
 actually eating.”

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
"We will wait here and keep an eye on the Grand Duke," Marceline explained. After the dancing had wound down and they had all split off to accomplish their respective tasks, Marceline found a spot within eyeshot of Gaspard in order to monitor him. Fortunately, it appeared he had not been notified yet of the attempted framing, as he wore the same sour disposition Cyrus and she had first found him in. It was not any worse, at least. She had picked a location that would give them a good line of sight to the Duke, but also keep them out of his notice, unless he knew to specifically look for them, which, soon enough, he would have more pressing matters to attend to than looking in their general direction.

It did not take long. "Marcy, over there," Michaël said quietly and gestured with his eyes. Following his gaze, Marceline saw who most likely was an attendant of Gaspard's bearing making a beeline toward the Grand Duke with a purpose in his gait and an urgency in his shoulders. "Must have waited until the dancing concluded," Michaël surmised and Marceline agreed. They watched as Gaspard's bodyguard, Henri, let the man pass by without issue, and then as the attendant leaned over to whisper the news into the Duke's ear. Even beneath the mask, Gaspard's outrage was easily noticed. Marceline frowned and quietly sighed, disappointed in the Duke for being so easy to read.

His lack of tact made their part easier though, and she was thankful enough for that. Gaspard ordered something tersely to both the attendant and Henri, before making his way across the ballroom and toward the exit, bodyguard in tow. "Now's our chance," she said, glancing between them.

“Oh yes. Very inconspicuous, the lot of us." Cyrus glanced at Vesryn on his left and Khari on his right, then back at Marceline and MichaĂ«l, sighing slightly. “Let's follow at a distance, perhaps."

Khari shrugged. “I mean, we're okay for now. They foyer's still a public location." Albeit one with many fewer people in it now that the ballroom proper had become more crowded. They stuck to the edges of the room, keeping their pace unhurried so as to avoid looking too obviously like they had somewhere in particular to be. There just wasn't anything unobtrusive about any of them, though, so how well they went beneath notice was debatable at best.

The foyer had significantly fewer occupants; they were able to use the massive lion statues and other architectural flourishes to mask their presences to some degree, though the hope was to go unnoticed more than to be truly hidden. Unfortunately, Gaspard hung a right, which led into one of the guest wings. If they followed him in there, even he was bound to notice—those weren't exactly large hallways.

In the front, Khari paused at the threshold, then grimaced. “That's gonna be a pain to fight in. Narrow and cramped, and nowhere to hide either." To say nothing of the lack of armor and preferred weaponry on all fronts. Still, it was clear enough that they had no choice. She leaned sideways to glance into the hallway one more time, then moved in, apparently expecting that the others would follow.

“I'll... watch the back, then." Cyrus gestured for the others to precede him.

By the time Marceline rounded the corner, Gaspard was already disappearing around the next. At a guess, he was headed for his own room in the Winter Palace, though why there instead of to the scene of the frame-up was unclear. If he'd wanted to see the scene for himself, he should have taken a left from the foyer, but that was clearly not his intent, or at least not yet.

Moving carefully and as quietly as they could manage, they maintained a safe following distance. Or what had seemed like one. Unfortunately, no sooner had they turned the third time than they came face-to-face with Gaspard. He'd drawn a knife from somewhere, the tip of it now resting only a few inches from Khari's nose. She didn't move, though she looked like she was trying to decide if she wanted to chance it.

"So it was you, then. I should have known something was off when the lot of you appeared here. What interest could you possibly have in the governance of this country, save to place your ally on a throne he does not have a right to?" He spoke low, words heavy with disgust. It thickened his accent considerably.

"None, save that our country finally sees a swift end to this war you and the Empress forced upon us," Marceline said, throwing his disgust back into his face. Her lips were turned into a deep frown as she silently cursed themselves for getting caught, though there was not much they could do about it now. "You only weaken yourselves while allowing Corypheus's position to grow stronger. He would see us all dead, and our country in ruins."

"And what is your point?" Gaspard scowled at them, but his hand was steady. "I have nothing to do with that. But you, oh you are willing to frame me for murder just to have your way? I would march against Corypheus just as soon as a lily-hearted boy raised with the silverest of spoons."

Whatever the best response to that might have been, there turned out to be no time for it. A soft whistle reached Marceline's ears; a moment later, Gaspard jerked forward, taking half a step to steady himself. The way he turned slightly made it clear that he'd just been shot, but the arrow seemed to have missed its mark by a few inches: it was embedded in the meat of his deltoid muscle rather than the spinal column at the nape of his neck less than a hand-span away.

The inches made a lot of difference, however. Whatever Marceline or anyone else thought of him, Gaspard was a chevalier, and he dealt with pain like one, sucking in a sharp breath and turning. Apparently he'd decided he was mistaken, or at least that the unseen threat was the one to face first, though he did not put his back to them. Instead, he reached back with his free arm and snapped the arrow off halfway down the shaft, leaving the front part in his body for the moment, then strafed sideways along the wall.

"Merde," he hissed, scanning the hallway for the assassin's likely location. "My cousin is as much a coward as ever. Show yourself, rat!"

"The rat is fleeing, I'm afraid," Vesryn said, taking off down the hall. Apparently he'd caught sight of movement, at least before it took off around a corner and out of sight. The elf looked back briefly as he ran. "Make sure no one else shoots him!"

He shortened his steps into little chops as he reached the corner, drawing a small knife from his bracer and flipping the blade around in his hand. Pulling up at the corner, he hurled it end over end down the hall. Vesryn had never been known to utilize any number of small-weapon attacks like that in any previous engagements, but despite that it seemed the blade flew more or less truly. A thud followed; it sounded more like someone crashing into the wall than losing their feet, like an impact with plaster instead of carpet or stone.

“Not to add to the excitement here, but we have more company." From behind the rest of them, Cyrus drew a knife from each of his boots, taking an ordinary grip on one of them and a reverse on the other. He was still near the corner they'd just turned, and put his back to the wall on their side just in time for a glistening ice dagger to whistle past. “They seem to be Venatori."

“Finally. Something to do." Khari only drew one knife, but apparently the word Venatori was more than enough incentive to send her charging around the corner and towards them. She disappeared from sight, but a few more bits of spellwork collided with the wall immediately after. At least that meant they hadn't collided with her.

Michaël sighed loudly and tossed his head back to Marceline. "Keep the Grand Duke safe, I'll go help her," he stated before rolling his shoulders and taking off after her. He didn't need daggers in order to be dangerous, though he was certainly no Leon. He stutter-stepped to dodge a spell before he too slipped around the corner behind it, adding even more chaos in the hall. She followed him to the corner, and pressed up against the wall beside Cyrus and drew a dagger from one of her sleeves.

Marceline shook her head before glancing back to Gaspard. "I think more people than just the Empress want you dead, your Highness," she stated.

"As always," he replied flatly. He started around the corner, clearly not inclined to wait around for his would-be killers to come to him. He brushed off Marceline's attempt to stop him, and so she was forced to follow instead.

The hallway was more or less chaos. Khari had made it about halfway down, to the main part of the Venatori line, but others had swarmed behind her, some of them engaging Michaël. Several broke off to make a run for Gaspard upon spotting him. He met the first one with his knife, stabbing the woman in the eye before her shortsword could do any more than graze his arm. He swiftly picked it up, throwing the knife into another's chest cavity and shifting the sturdier shortsword to his right hand. He seemed to be having trouble moving his left too much, probably because of the arrow.

Further up, Khari had found herself surrounded. Her knife was already red with Venatori blood, but there were quite a lot of them crowding her into a small space, against the far wall. Baring her teeth, she lunged sideways, her hands closing over what looked like a Towers Age Nevarran urn. When it cracked over the head of the nearest mage, it no longer looked like anything but shards of ceramic and a pathetic bit of dust drifting towards the ground.

The mage reeled, giving Khari enough room to plant her back against the wall and shove him away from her with both legs, dress and all. He slammed against the wall opposite, his head snapping back onto the corner of an elaborate picture frame, and fell to the ground, leaving a red smear behind. She cut down the next with a pivot and a slash, spattering the entire front of her bodice with more red, dull against the garment's forest-green.

Cyrus's first and second knives both found the back of a rogue trying to flank MichaĂ«l. With a heave, he swung the still-alive Venatori around to intercept a hastily-thrown fireball, ducking down behind his living shield and then casting the charred corpse off his blades with a foot. “Fireballs in a hallway." His voice was an irritated mutter, just loud enough for Marceline to catch the gist over the general noise. “Going to kill everyone with aim like that, never mind Gaspard."

Marceline noticed the sluggishness Gaspard moved with his left, and chose to shore up that side of his defense, plastering herself to his weaker side. She needn't wait long before a Venatori attempted to exploit it. She took a step away from his side to intercept, her thin dagger streaking forward to embed in his chest. Instead of that, however, he was quick enough to brush the dagger aside with his shortsword. As planned, however, as she had used the attack as a distraction to draw a second knife from inside her corset, and that one saw no resistance as it punched through his chest. With the threat dealt with, she took a step backward and retook her position on Gaspard's weakened flank.

She glanced up ahead to see Michaël forcibly snatch a Venatori by the throat, and slam him against the nearest wall before delivering a pair of heavy punches to the midsection. He glanced up to see a mage preparing a spell, but managed to drag the one in his hand to the front to take a ice spike to the back, before bodily throwing him down the hall. "I think that works for them too," he answered Cyrus, dodging the next individual.

The tight quarters made things tricky, but it was quite clear that the Venatori were no more accustomed to it than they were, and had indeed likely met a much more powerful resistance than they were expecting. Though a few more wounds went around, it didn't take more than five minutes of pitched battle in the hallway before the assailants were dead and the Inquisition—as well as Gaspard—were still standing.

The Grand Duke sheathed his knife, sliding the whole thing into his belt. Apparently, he was no longer concerned with the prohibition on such things. Maybe that made sense. "The assassin. Where is he?" His tone suggested restraint, but how long it would hold was hard to say. The bodies and blood stains in the hall certainly didn't faze him. No doubt he'd seen much worse before, and likely quite recently.

"She... is right here," Vesryn appeared from around the corner, breathing heavily and carrying with him the smaller form of the bard that had loosed the arrow still remaining in Gaspard's back. He carried her bow in hand, the other carrying the unmoving form of the assassin. "Out cold, but alive for the moment." It appeared as though his knife had found her lower left side on her back, a wound which bled freely now since Vesryn had removed it. She also bled from a head wound, where he had presumably struck her in order to incapacitate her.

Dumping the body at Gaspard's feet, Vesryn took a few seconds to catch his breath, surveying the destruction and violence covering the hallway. "It seems... I missed the dance here."

Gaspard grunted, crouching and patting down the Bard's pockets. "Of course," he muttered. "Aurelie's not stupid enough to let them take their masks with them." Apparently that had been what he was looking for. Clearly deciding it didn't matter, he spared the lot of them a nod, almost but not quite begrudgingly. "I apologize for accusing you," he said. But that was all he said—at least to them—before he turned, making his way back down the hall in the direction he'd come from.

"My cousin is going to pay for this."

Marceline spared one last glance behind them to the corpses of the Venatori still warm on the ground. She sighed and shook her head before she turned toward her husband. "Micky, can you please help Vesryn carry the bard? We should follow the Grand Duke with haste," she explained, before following her own advice.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari almost felt bad for the poor sucker they were escorting back to the ballroom. Sure, she'd killed Philippe or whoever that guy was, but Celene had probably hired her for that, too, so it was easy enough for her to figure that she was likely to get the short end of the stick here. Maybe it shouldn't be—Khari knew assassination wasn't exactly the honorable thing to do. Maybe it was just personal bias that meant she always blamed the employers for it and not the assassins themselves.

They also had a spitting-mad Gaspard in tow, which was bound to make things interesting. Khari wasn't really certain how this was all going to happen, exactly, but she was willing to bet he was going to waste no time accusing Celene of trying to kill him with Venatori, or something else ridiculous. They had the bodies in the hall to prove that the Venatori had been around, but even if Celene was a power-hungry bitch, she really didn't seem like the type to fancy colluding with Corypheus and a nutty Tevinter supremacist cult.

Apparently, thinking about this kind of thing was Khari's life now.

Hopefully the others had their evidence in hand, because there was no way Gaspard was going to wait politely for anyone to make any extra inquiries. She practically had to jog to keep up with him, though the people like Cy and Ves with longer legs were managing a little better. “This oughta be interesting." She aimed the comment at no one in particular, but she did hear Cyrus snicker. At least someone was having fun.

"Hopefully not too interesting," Vesryn said, having finished catching his breath only a few seconds earlier. "I'm not sure how much more interest this palace can take."

The crowd actively got out of Gaspard's way; though she couldn't see the expression on his face, it was probably murderous or somewhere close. He stomped through the foyer, then into the ballroom, where it looked like the dancing had ceased. The Empress was back up on the upper balcony, and the music had faded to something more subdued, but whatever was going on stopped abruptly when Gaspard raised his voice.

"Celene!" He certainly could make his tone booming. Probably a field-command thing. Almost comically-synchronized, a roomful of nobles and guests turned around to face him. Face them.

Celene, for her part, did not react overmuch. "Dear cousin," she intoned, in a sort of half-friendly, half-condescending way that was hard to pin down exactly. "Whatever has you so upset? We should hate for any of our honored guests to—"

"Cut the platitudes, Celene. You hired a Bard to kill me, and you failed." Gaspard pointed back towards where Mick and Ves were transporting said Bard. "That's still a crime under the law, and you've lost your right to call yourself anyone's Empress!"

A murmur of surprise passed through the room, like ripples over a pond. Clearly, either the news or the manner in which it was being delivered was quite surprising to the gathered crowd. It had to be the second—assassinations were pretty normal here, after all.

Rom made a rather quiet approach on Khari's right flank. The attention of the room was pretty firmly situated on Gaspard and Celene, their dispute quite clearly coming to a climax before the eyes of the entirety of Orlais's highest nobility. Rom took in the last arrivals to the scene himself, noting the half of an arrow still lodged in Gaspard's back, and the blood decorating some of the Inquisition's members, Khari included.

"This should be good," he murmured, close enough to her ear for only her to hear, what with the way the room was still murmuring in surprise and confusion. "We got what we need on Celene. Leon handed it off." He took his eyes away from the scene for a moment, inspecting her dress. "They get you anywhere?"

She shook her head, grinning. It was probably weird that she was this glad to have been in a fight just now, but it was about the first time all night she'd felt like a help instead of a hindrance, and the adrenaline was slow to come down. “Nah. It's all Venatori blood." She was curious as to what he'd mentioned, though, and returned her attention to the stand-off between Celene and Gaspard.

"Have we now?" Celene remained nonplussed, her hands delicately folded in front of her, the very picture of demure innocence. It almost suited her, which was uncanny considering all they knew about the kind of person she was. Perhaps she was just that good an actress. "We are quite sorry to hear that someone tried to take your life, Grand Duke, but we are unsure why you believe we were responsible for such a thing."

This close, Khari could see Gaspard's jaw flex as he clenched his teeth. "Don't be coy. The assailant is one of Dame Cygne's Bards. You are the one who insisted that only they be allowed inside the Winter Palace this evening!" At that, a few of the more knowledgeable eyes in the room swung to Aurelie herself, who wore a much more neutral expression than either Gaspard or Celene did, almost disinterested.

"Again, dear Gaspard, if that is so, we are sorry to hear it, but we selected entertainment for this evening to ensure delightful music, not your death." Celene seemed a little less sanguine now, almost as though she were growing irritated at his persistence.

"You—" Gaspard didn't get very far before he was interrupted.

A throat cleared conspicuously from the right side of the ballroom, where the herald who'd announced the guests held a new piece of parchment aloft. "On this day, 23 Wintermarch of the forty-third year of the Dragon Age, Her Majesty Celene Valmont I does promise the sum of five hundred royals to the organization Le Nichoir, and its proprietor, Lady Aurelie Montblanc, for services to take place on 2 Drakonis of the same year. These services are to include musicianship and entertainment for a fĂȘte at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, as well as the elimination of Gaspard de Chalons from contention to the crown of Orlais, by whatever means deemed most expedient and appropriate, to be carried out by the agent Wren."

There was quite a resounding silence after that; the herald folded the document back at its creases and returned it to the waiting hand of a tall nobleman with a fox mask—Julien. He smiled, leaning forward against the balcony rail on his side. "You were saying, Your Majesty?" There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice.

Khari felt her grin spread over her face. Oh, this was good. “Nice." She breathed the word on an exhale, reaching out for Rom's shoulder and squeezing. More jubilant displays of excitement would probably have to wait, so the did her best to contain herself, but if she hopped a little in place, well... no one was looking in this direction anyway.

"Not a bad story, how we got that," Rom said, smiling. "I'll tell you when we're done here."

The Inquisition's condemnation by proxy had an obvious effect on the crowd, too; the muttering increased in volume, and the general tenor of it took on a hostile edge. More than one disdainful look was leveled at the top of the balcony where the Empress stood.

Gaspard, riding the wave of success, took it upon himself to meet eyes with some of the guards. "Arrest her—for attempted murder and conspiring with the Venatori."

"Actually." This time, the voice that stopped proceedings was quite familiar. Estella stepped free of Lucien and Asala. "I contest the last claim. The Venatori serve Corypheus, not the Empress, and one of his agents was discovered among us tonight." She stood calmly, hands clasped in front of her, and tilted her head at Gaspard. "No doubt this agent wished death upon the both of you, as well as upon His Highness Lucien." She gestured behind her, where Rilien appeared, holding Florianne by the arm.

Her hands had been bound behind her back, and she seemed to have taken a few blows, but she was otherwise unharmed. The way she was dressed must have been the style of those harlequins someone had mentioned earlier in the night. Assassins with the House of Repose, or something like that.

Gaspard's mouth fell open. Clearly, he had not been expecting his own sister to be responsible for sending the Venatori to kill him.

Khari was pretty surprised, too. Florianne hadn't seemed any less suspicious than anyone else, but she wouldn't have picked her to actually be a trained assassin like Aurelie, much less one who worked for Corypheus. “Wait... how'd we figure that one out?"

"Offered her bait she couldn't pass up," Rom explained quietly. "Crown Prince and Lady Inquisitor in the same spot, with Rilien and Asala watching over them. Drew her into an attack."

"I suppose that's one way to do it," Ves commented from Khari's other side, keeping his voice low. "Doesn't look like she gave any of them too much trouble."

The Grand Duke now clearly wasn't sure how to feel about things, but he recovered enough to find his voice, at least. "Then arrest them both." He shook his head. "Celene has invalidated her claim to the throne, and in so doing, invalidated her line of succession. There is only one way to answer this." He crossed his arms over his chest, still clearly ignoring his injuries, and leveled a hard stare at a cluster of people in light grey. They were dressed pretty similarly to Philippe, so it must be some kind of official uniform for the Council of Heralds.

They all looked at each other, obviously as surprised by the turn of events as anyone. It was hard to get a read on the crowd overall, though some people were nodding, as if to express agreement with Gaspard's implication. Not too far away, the Costanzas exchanged a more worried glance. After all, if Celene's entire line of succession were invalidated because of what she'd done, then it would return to Judicael I's, and there was no longer anyone in front of Gaspard there.

There was general confusion for a few more moments, and then the grand double doors from the foyer flew open, one of them slamming back against the wall. In strode a very irritated-looking Guillame Drakon, followed somewhat more sedately by Violette, who escorted yet another prisoner in much the same manner as Rilien had kept hold of Florianne.

"Give it a fucking rest, Gaspard, you're just as guilty as them and you damn well know it." The Lord-General was obviously not inclined to mince his words for the sake of politeness. There were even a few scandalized gasps at the crudeness of his language.

Khari snorted, biting down on her knuckle to stifle the cackle that threatened. This had to be that merc Rom's group had captured a couple hours ago. But seriously, if the court found this kind of language offensive, they should hear her talk... ever. It was pretty ridiculous that that bothered them when they could watch a whole drama unfold like this with mere avid interest. Apparently, the Lord-General's brusque mannerisms were more obscene than the fact that no fewer than three of the people closest to the crown had all tried to kill each other for it.

This part, though... this part was gonna be fun. She moved her eyes to Gaspard, waiting to see what he'd do.

He wasn't half as good at keeping a Graceface as Celene had been. Though she wasn't bothering anymore, either. Two guards stood on either side of her, and her hands were in shackles, but she let a satisfied little smile curl her lip, quite able to read the writing on the wall here, no doubt. Maybe it was some consolation that her rival was going to go down with her.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord-General," Gaspard tried, but by this point the crowd was primed for the evidence to be legitimate before it had even been properly presented, and the dissenting murmurs were loud.

Guy rolled his eyes obviously enough that Khari could see it, and gestured Violette forward with one hand. She pulled her prisoner along with her, and the Lord-General glared at him. "Speak."

"Uh—" The man's accent was very Fereldan. He clearly wasn't in great shape; it looked like a lump was forming on his head where he'd been hit, but they were definitely battle-wounds, not the kind you got when someone was deliberately and methodically inflicting pain. "The Grand Duke, Lords. And Ladies. He, uh—hired m'boss's company. We were hiding out in the gardens, supposed to come in on his signal, y'see. Menace the nobles and the Council till they gave him the crown. Maybe cut a few up if anyone got mouthy."

It seemed to be particularly offensive that the men hired for this were Fereldan. Or maybe that they were mercenaries. It was hard to say which, but given the longstanding rivalry between the two countries, the first seemed a bit more likely.

"While we're arresting people," Guy added, meeting the eyes of another cluster of guards. These ones appeared to answer to him directly. "Arrest him, too." They moved to do it, careful not to bother his wounds too much, but he received no more quarter than Celene, Florianne, or the mercenary did.

"Well, now." Julien took over the narrative from there. And that's what it was, quite apparently: a dramatic narrative, planned in pieces, to keep attention and move events along swiftly and efficiently. No doubt Rilien had had some part in constructing it. Maybe some of the others had, too. The best thing about it was that no part of it was false. "As that seems to invalidate Gaspard's line of succession, I do believe we're back at Judicael's again. Where does that put us, o esteemed peers of the Council?" He folded his hands behind him with the air of someone who knew exactly what the answer to his question was.

Still, for whatever reason, the Council conferred on it for several tense minutes, during which everyone else in the hall waited for the verdict. It was almost possible to feel it, the way the sum total of held breaths and bowstring muscles gave the whole thing the feel of standing on eggshells. Or needles. Like one false move would bring the whole thing crashing down.

Khari was certainly feeling it. She knew the answer had to be the obvious one, but these people were really good at dragging it out. She wondered what the holdup was. Surely everyone had the really important bloodlines memorized, right? She couldn't believe they'd need to consult charts or anything.

“Taking their time, aren't they?" Apparently Cyrus thought the same. She rolled her eyes so he could see, causing a wry lift of half his mouth.

"We are dealing with the lines of succession," Marcy noted, tossing them a glance. "I believe the delay can be forgiven, considering."

“Hurry up and wait, so they say,” Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced down at her own dress. There was a section near the leg that was torn. Possibly from whatever had happened before, during the heist.

At last, one of the Heralds stepped away from the cluster of them to address the crowd. "Given the invalidation of both Grand Duchess Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard's lines of succession," he said, demoting Celene at the moment he spoke her title, "the Emperor of Orlais is Lucien Drakon."

The tension snapped, and the room exploded in noise. Lots of clamoring, even some shouting; no few people cheered. Others looked scandalized, or shouted questions at the Council, but there was little chance of any of them being heard over the furor.

“Ha. Yes!" Given all the noise already filling the room, Khari no longer saw any reason to dampen her enthusiasm. “Eat it, you poncy bastards!" She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that this was the right choice, not just for the Inquisition, but for Orlesians. She didn't always think of herself as one of them, but she was, and in this moment, she was pretty damn all right with that.

Rom snorted a laugh next to her, breaking into a full blown grin at her reaction. He didn't offer any taunting words of his own, but he did clap her on the shoulder and squeeze briefly.

Beside them, Mick rolled his eyes at her antics, but regardless smiled and clapped his hands, though for a moment he did lean forward to speak into Marcy's ear. Whatever he said must had been funny, because it caused her to laugh and nod in agreement.

Zahra’s smile couldn’t have been wider, until it broke out into a full grin. Teeth bared. She looked as pleased as the rest of them at the results, clapping Khari's shoulder from behind and rocking back on her heels, pleased as kitten doused in milk.

Across the room, Stel gave Lucien a bit of a nudge, and he made his way carefully nearer to the balcony where Celene had once stood, before pausing en route and seeming to change his mind. Instead, he descended the stairs to the ballroom floor, where the majority of the watchers were gathered. Those on the upper level crowded around the banisters. He raised a hand for quiet, which was nearly immediate. No doubt even those that didn't like the news would want to know what he had to say.

"Before I begin," he said, his tone dry, "I would like to ensure that there are no more doors to be kicked down, hostages to be dragged in, or accusations to be shouted across the room?" In the pause, there was scattered laughter, but no such interruptions were forthcoming. Lucien's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. "Good. Frankly I'm not sure we can handle much more as it is."

His tone sobered to match his expression. "No doubt that was all very fast for you. I know it was for me. I can truthfully say that I did not arrive here tonight planning to leave an Emperor. And I allow for the possibility that, in the course of their trials, either my aunt or my cousins might be found not guilty of the crimes of which they are accused. If such a thing occurs, you have my assurance that I will not contend to keep this title in their places." He paused a moment, pursing his lips. "Nevertheless, it is clear that in the meantime, I will have to assume the mantle in full, because what is upon us now is a disaster in full. Our armies are depleted. Many of our lands lay barren, a result of a war that was by all accounts both short and exceedingly bloody. Our people suffer, and if that were what I had to contend with upon ascension, it would be a tall task."

Folding his hands behind his back, Lucien cast his eyes over the assembled, both in front of and above where he stood. "But that is not the extent of it. An enemy unlike any we have faced before has arrived upon our doorstep. Infiltrated our court, where many of us have doubtlessly believed ourselves safe from unfamiliar dangers." He glanced once at Florianne, but only briefly. "We have been distracted by our own disagreements for too long. One way or another, those have found temporary resolution tonight. I intend to use that time to prepare us to face down Corypheus, who is a danger not just to some of us, but to us all. I hope that as I do so, I can count on your support and your advice, as all new leaders are wise to do." He favored the assembled with a small smile, genuine as ever, then nodded to the guards.

"See to it that they are taken care of, please." As the prisoners were escorted away, Lucien pulled in another breath. "If I may, I think I might call this the most thorough unmasking that has ever occurred at such an event. In that spirit, let us all be known to each other." Reaching up to his own face, he took hold of the edges of his mask in either hand, and lifted it up and away.

The rest of the court followed suit, dropping their arms back to their sides. There was something about it—perhaps just the timing or the events—that made the effect particularly striking. People blinked at each other as though they were looking at their neighbors for the first time, almost, though surely at least some of them were more familiar with each other than that.

Finally, she could get this thing off her face. Khari peeled it away without hesitation, breathing a relieved sigh in the process. Really, if they liked decorating their faces this much, they should just do the logical thing and get tattoos. Wouldn't be so weird to connect them to families, either: that was what at least some Rivaini did, if Rom was anything to go by.

Speaking of... Khari shot him a huge grin. “Pretty sure we just made a whole regime change happen." If anyone had asked her about the things she thought she'd be doing at this point in her life... not even she'd have dared to dream as big as toppling a dynasty. Because that was what they'd done—they'd usurped the Valmonts, and put someone with the name Drakon back on the Orlesian throne. This was the kind of shit people wrote entire history books about.

Obviously, defeating Corypheus would be like that, too, but they hadn't actually done that part yet.

Ves removed his own mask as he walked past them. He looked a bit more tired than she was used to seeing him, but it was understandable given the unusual work they'd been forced into. He offered both of them a smile. "Not bad for a night's work, little bear."

He disappeared into the crowd of nobles, probably off to regroup with Stel. Rom had his arms crossed, free of his mask now and looking over the crowd as if surveying his handiwork. Their handiwork, since tonight had only been possible through contributions that all of them had made, whether it was picking locks, navigating conversation, or smashing vases over Venatori heads. "It was about as painful as I expected," Rom admitted, probably referring to the night as a whole. "But hey, at least we made it worthwhile."

Both Mick and Marcy had removed their masks, and she now leaned back against him, with his arms wound around her. With their faces bare, they both seemed immensely relieved, and for once relaxed. Even Marcy's expression was soft and gentle, apparently reveling in their success with her husband.

Off to Romulus’s right side, Zahra hefted her mask off and tucked it under her armpit. It seemed as if she already had a destination in mind. Nearly trouncing towards a nearby servant standing off to the side with a tray poised atop his palm. This time, she wouldn’t be interrupted. She didn’t stop to talk to anyone, only swept up her lace and leaned against the wall beside him. Words were exchanged as the platter was lowered and she began plucking small morsels into her mouth, eyeing him whenever he was foolish enough to pull it away thinking she was done.

With a short, shallow bow to the crowd, Lucien placed his hand over his heart. "Please, stay and partake if you still wish to. And take care on your travels home. Each of you will be needed in the days to come." His address concluded, he once more ascended the stairs, leaving events to resume in his wake.

Rom glanced sideways at Khari. "You hungry? I could go for something to eat right about now."

“Starving." She knocked his elbow with hers, letting her mood—tired, but pretty damn fantastic otherwise—manifest itself as playfulness. Close enough, anyway. “Let's go."

Changing the fate of the world had a way of working up an appetite.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth

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#, as written by AugustArria
The night had been very long, and Saraya was more than a little tired of looking at all these false faces.

The masks came off, but somehow most of them didn't seem any more real. They were layered in cosmetics, the men as well as the women in many cases, and the vast majority of them weren't here to truly benefit their country or their people or anything approaching a good motive. Those that had taken sides were either happy to see the others fall or hiding their irritation that their own had collapsed, and those that hadn't were just here looking for a good show. Well, they'd certainly gotten that and more. Orlais would be speaking of this night for many, many years to come. The night the Drakon family regained the throne.

Long may they reign. Vesryn didn't know Lucien like Stel did, but it was the easiest thing to see that he was an excellent person, someone she looked up to in every way. There was simply no way his rule wouldn't be an improvement over paranoid, genocidal Celene, or the warmongering, brutish Gaspard. The night likely hadn't improved the Inquisition's public image, given how the man who invited them here now was called Emperor, but as ever Vesryn didn't particularly care what the majority of people thought.

He pushed through them, with force when he needed to, though he kept it as sparing as he could. The waters didn't part for him as they did for Leon, despite his own impressive size for an elf. Elves were not stepped aside for here, they were the ones who stepped aside. He was resolved not to be bothered by it. If only these people knew that their nation's future had been decided by elves and elf-blooded humans and Tevinter natives and everyone they were resolved to hate.

Finally he made it to Stel, coming to a stop beside her and already feeling a bit of the tension wash away. His right hand found the small of her back. "Shall we go wish the new Emperor of Orlais well?"

She looked up at him, smiling in a way that read as relief and happiness both. "Absolutely. I think I'll even throw my title around a little, and get us closer to the front of the line." That part was clearly in jest, but as it turned out, there was a line. Fortunately, it was one that was moving relatively quickly, perhaps because of the lateness of the hour, or the fact that any of those who'd want to use the opportunity to strategize rather than offer sincere congratulations simply hadn't had long enough to decide how best to do that.

They reached the front of it, and therefore Lucien, about ten minutes later. He smiled warmly at the both of them; Stel dipped into a deliberately-fanciful curtsy. "Your Majesty."

"My Lady Inquisitor." He bowed just as formally, but neither kept the straight faces for long. Stel laughed softly, and willingly stepped into Lucien's arms when he opened them. "Much better," he declared, giving her an affectionate squeeze before he stepped back and offered an arm to Vesryn. No few courtiers stared openly at the exchange, but the scrutiny didn't seem to bother Lucien a whit, and Stel was apparently all right with it as well, in this case. Or at least, she was quite successfully keeping any trace of discomfort from her face and posture.

"My thanks, for everything. I doubt I could have come close to untangling all of this by myself. I and my country owe you all a great debt." Lightheartedness aside, he was obviously quite serious about that.

"Halamshiral feels a little more welcoming already," Vesryn said, stepping back a pace to Stel's side again after clasping arms with the Emperor. Certainly the first time he could say he'd done something like that. "I'm afraid we left a bit of a mess in one of those hallways back there, though. The Venatori apparently thought excessive force was necessary, and we were forced to respond in kind. Some vases and picture frames didn't quite make it through the fight."

"I'll be sure to send them an invoice," Lucien replied dryly, clearly more amused than anything by the news. "In the meantime... farewell, to the both of you. I'm sure I'll be here for the rest of the night and later still, but I understand you have things you need to get back to."

"I'll miss you," Stel told him, a slightly melancholy half-smile confirming her words.

Lucien reached out and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. "I'm a lucky fellow, to have such friends," he replied quietly. "I'll miss you, too, but I look forward to your letters." He let his hand drop, and Stel nodded. There was still a line behind them, after all; they shouldn't linger too long.

As they moved away, Stel's hand found Vesryn's; she pressed her palm to his and laced their fingers instead of letting it rest more formally on his forearm as she had for most of the night. Hers was still a bit cold, no doubt from her recent walk outside.

As they left, it seemed that both Marceline and Michaël had been in line behind them. As they walked past, Michaël shot them a wink before they stepped to meet with Lucien. As expected Marceline dipped into a low curtsy and properly greeted the new Emperor. "I believe congratulations are in order, Your Imperial Majesty," she said with a warm smile.

Meanwhile, Michaël hesitated a moment before bowing himself, though the sly grin he always wore when some teasing was in order never faded. When he rose, he shrugged. "So... Is it Commander Imperial Majesty now, Ser Majesty, or... what? I'm at a loss," he said, chuckling all the while. At least until a gentle nudge from Marceline calmed him down somewhat.

Lucien snorted. "I'm not answering that. If I did, Lady Marceline would feel obligated to call me by whatever I decided all the time, and I'd never forgive either of us for putting me through that." He smiled to soften the sarcasm, but any further reply happened out of earshot as they continued away.

Vesryn made his way towards one of the balconies off to the side of the main ballroom. The crowds weren't as hard to cut through anymore, with the people remaining either clustering up around the food, lining up to see Emperor Lucien, or getting out of the Winter Palace entirely. That, and he wasn't walking alone anymore; the title of Inquisitor carried a lot more weight than his not-so-official title of Inquisition's Champion.

"So, now that the festivities are concluded and our work here is done, I'd hoped I could have you all to myself for a moment." Her hand was still cool to the touch, but it was warming steadily now. "Someplace where we don't have the eyes of the entire Imperial Court on us." The place in question became apparent when he led them out onto a balcony overlooking the palace grounds, and Halamshiral below farther still. It was dark and cool outside, but the moon was out and nearly full, offering more than enough light to illuminate the all the land they could see.

"It's quite greedy and selfish of me to request a second dance, but I do still hear music, and the last one had far too much partner switching for my preferences." A few years ago he might've laughed at himself for saying such a thing, but now it was the only thing that came to mind.

Stel didn't laugh either, but it was apparently a near thing, from the soft huff that escaped her instead. She tilted her head at him, leaning her hip into the balcony's railing, a little smile turning her mouth. She did not, however, let go of his hand. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Did it, now?" With a half-step in towards him, Stel rested her free hand on his shoulder. "I guess that means I can be forgiven for thinking the same thing." Even such a simple agreement was considerably more forward than she usually was, and she obviously knew it, from the hint of sheepishness in her expression, but she also didn't stutter over it or take back the thought. Rather, she tilted her chin up a little to meet his eyes expectantly.

"What do you think? Sounds like a waltz, to me."

A few years ago Vesryn had also forgotten how it felt to be nervous, but only in this way, this best kind of ways, where he felt so much lighter than usual, and he felt the need to carefully examine every move he thought about making, in the hopes of doing whatever would bring him the most happiness. And her. He didn't care in the slightest what anyone in the Winter Palace thought of him, but her thoughts and feelings were of the greatest concern, his desire only to influence them in the most positive way possible, something he felt he was already doing.

"Agreed." He wrapped his arm around her, stepping away from the railing a bit so they would have a little room. The dance itself was slow and not requiring much in the way of thought or focus, but the steps of course were a secondary concern at best. He simply wanted to be close, and to be able to speak freely.

"Were you able to speak to Lucien, before everything that just happened in there?" he asked. "I can't imagine stepping into that position would be easy, no matter how much time he had to prepare."

"I was." Stel's answer was quiet and slow, a sharp contrast to the admittedly-frantic pace of much of the night's events. She pulled in a soft breath, audible given their proximity. "I didn't want to suddenly spring things on him, considering just what it is he's being asked to do. I know a bit about how that feels." She shook her head, enough that some of her hair brushed against his hand, where it rested at her back. "I... don't think he was his own first choice for this, but he was willing." Her exhale was almost a sigh. "I know what that feels like, too."

Somehow it managed to make complete sense and also be entirely baffling to Vesryn. That Lucien Drakon could possibly think someone else was better suited to the job of being Emperor. Perhaps it was for that very reason that he was the right choice. The only choice. The alternatives approached the point of being unthinkable. "Well, perhaps he can just follow your lead on how best to handle having an impossible task set at his feet." He did think that, all things considered, Stel had done a remarkable job from the very beginning at handling the position she was forced into. He hadn't been there at the very beginning, but from the moment he'd met her she was already on the right path. Already approaching every obstacle with the right frame of mind.

"I don't envy him, though. All this politicking is enough to drive an honest man mad. Clearly it drove Gaspard to madness, though I suppose his honesty has been thrown into doubt by now. Just one night of it was enough to give me a headache. Though, that could well have been the masks." He wondered what Saraya's experience with such things had been, if the elves of old had any sort of social gatherings of the kind that she would have attended. If certain unreliable sources were to be believed, she was a general, and there had been a number of similarly placed figures here tonight. He allowed the line of thought to go right up to what kind of dress he thought she might wear, and then he forced it to stop.

As if on cue, he felt her withdraw, leaving him as much privacy with his dancing partner as she was able to. "For what it's worth," he said, "I think we did the right thing here. I think there's a chance history will remember tonight as a bit of a turning point for the Empire of Orlais."

"I think so, too," she said, a smile finding its way back to her face. "I believe in him. In how good he is. And there will be others who are willing to help." A thoughtful expression crossed her face, but if something else had occurred to her, she chose to keep it to herself. "How did that go, with Gaspard? I noticed Khari was wearing quite a bit of blood. No one seemed to be in bad shape, but..." She was the sort of person to be concerned about it anyway, obviously.

Inside, the music changed tempo, swinging into something considerably more energetic, but Stel made no attempt to adjust accordingly. If anything, her steps slowed slightly, perhaps a symptom of fatigue beginning to catch up with her. It had been a long night.

"Oh, he was a handful, as you might expect." If any of them were in foul moods from all of this tonight, it was nothing compared to Gaspard. He was clearly not meant to be an Orlesian, given his temperament, and yet he'd had to put up with their stupid Game his entire life. And tonight was the night it finally beat him. "He brandished a knife at us at first, thinking we were the ones that framed him. Then he got shot, and changed his tune. I took off after the Bard, the one that loosed the arrow, while the rest took on the troupe of Venatori that came from behind."

Honestly, he was a bit sad he'd missed it. A brawl with Venatori was much more his style than the task he'd ended up with. "The Bard was quick, but not so quick with a knife in her side. Still... glad I didn't need to chase her down in a dress." Though the women had managed quite well, corsets and skirts and all. Nothing slowed them down. "She almost slashed me with my own knife, but only tore a little of the sleeve here." He gestured slightly towards his left arm with his head, where the knife had indeed cut thinly across the fabric of his sleeve. "No doubt I have Saraya to thank for the reflex that spared my shoulder. And as I hear it you walked into an ambush of your own." Shame he hadn't been there, either. He would've been very interested to see what exactly it looked like for Stel to fight in that dress.

"Dragging my former employer to the dirt to avoid an arrow is not my proudest moment," she admitted, taking a half step back and plucking at one of the folds of her skirt. As it happened, there was a rather obvious grass stain there, and a bit of the lacework had ripped. "I think I managed to get all the detritus out of my hair, but if you happen to spot any from up there, let me know." She shrugged, then raised the same hand so the mark was visible. "Fortunately, I eventually remembered that I could move around without actually running too much. Got a bit easier after that—I think Florianne must have sent all her Venatori after the rest of you."

She paused, almost as if repeating that statement to herself internally, then set her hand back on his shoulder. "I sometimes forget how strange our lives must sound, to other people. Chasing down assassins in fancy dress clothes tonight, probably out who knows where in the countryside tomorrow, knitting together little holes in the world."

"And just think, when they write tales about all of us, they'll make it even wilder than it was. The night the Lady Inquisitor rescued the future Emperor of Orlais from an army of assassins and their pet dragon..." He actually frowned a bit after that. "Now that I think about it, we're probably lucky that didn't happen." It didn't sound too far off from the things they had a habit of getting up to.

Stel laughed. "Just one dragon? How pedestrian."

It was strange to think that his life of exploring ruins, learning of places and history that so few living beings in Thedas were aware of, could be considered bland by comparison. Dull. "It all doesn't seem real yet, does it? Maybe it never will. I know I still wake up some mornings and wonder how it is I exist at all." He smiled for her, a gleam in his eyes. "How it is I got so lucky."

The song was winding down, as more of the people inside took their leave. Vesryn slowed the sway of their bodies, until the dance came to an end. Freeing his hand from hers, he settled both of his at her sides, keeping them together. "May I ask you for one more favor, Lady Inquisitor?"

The hand he'd released settled on the opposite shoulder from the other; Stel visibly swallowed. She seemed to have an idea of what this favor might be, from the way she slid her arms back to drape loosely around his neck. She tilted her chin up a little; the touch of color to her face probably wasn't just the cold anymore. "Yes," she replied, almost too softly to be heard. "You may."

As it turned out, this was perhaps the one case in which Vesryn was more capable of maintaining his graceface than Stel was. He'd been in these situations quite a few times before, wrapped up in another person, but tonight may as well have been the first time for him again, the way it felt. "I would very much like to kiss you," he admitted, as though indeed it were a simple favor to him. "If that's something you would like as well."

Her face morphed into a momentary grin, of all things. "Well that works out pretty nicely," she replied, shifting her weight onto her toes and rising the few extra inches that granted her. "Since I would very much like to kiss you, too."

And she was as good as her word, leaning slightly into him and closing the remaining distance. As in all matters of this sort, his practice no doubt outstripped hers by far, but she wasn't hesitant about it. It took her a second to get the tilt right, and she gave a soft laugh when her nose brushed his by accident, but it was short-lived, a mistake easily corrected.

Vesryn found it to be a rush unlike any other, an unreal sensation, one that made so many previous pleasures he'd experienced seem entirely hollow by comparison. His eyes closed, he thought only of the feel of her in his hands, bodies pressed together, his lips against hers, the night air cool against their skin. It was enough to completely drive away the headache he'd built over the course of the night.

He knew it would return, probably sooner rather than later, but he refused to think of that now. He refused to let this night end in anything other than what was, in his opinion, perfection.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
It was Lady Marceline's turn to choose the tea for this evening. She had decided on a red tea from her homeland that she had a particular fondness for. It was supposedly healthy for the body, but it was the sweetness that she enjoyed the most. Alongside Estella, they were also joined by Leon, Vesryn, and Cyrus in her office for the evening. She'd not chosen her desk to host them, as it was presently covered in an inordinate amount of letters and papers. Apparently, everyone had an opinion of the Inquisition's involvement with the ascension of Orlais's newest Emperor, and were not afraid to share it with them. Some were positive, some were not, others were decidedly even less so. Still, it was a reaction she expected.

And also one she grew tired of very quickly. She was happy when it was time she was able to leave her desk to host tea with the others, even if it was only a few steps away from her mantelpiece. A tea kettle hung above the fire as they presently waited for the water to come to a boil. On the end tables on either side of the couch she sat on, the tea cups rested, partnered with biscuits, cookies, and even little finger sandwiches. It was a quaint little tea party, but she found herself enjoying the relaxing quiet they brought.

"Thank you all for coming, again," she reiterated, "I am glad not to be reading any more letters, at least for a little while." She tossed a wary glance back to her desk, and the correspondence that waited, before issuing a light chuckle.

“Dear Lady Marceline." Cyrus spoke in an almost whimsical tone, enunciating so as to give himself a rather spot-on upper-class Orlesian accent. “We have heard that the Inquisition was singlehandedly responsible for putting an honest man on our throne. This is a deep affront to our history and culture, and we demand a do-over. Sincerely, His Grace Ser Lord Roderick Ponce von Fontlebottom the younger, duke of some little place out in the sticks, but with vineyards." He sniffed, reaching forward to procure himself a biscuit before leaning back into the armchair he occupied, one leg resting over the opposite knee at the shin.

Estella snorted, clearly trying to contain laughter. "You forgot to include a vaguely-worded threat, Cy," she said. "No proper Ser Lord Duke of some little place out in the sticks would ever forget one of those." She raised an eyebrow, breaking a finger-sandwich in half. "Something like... 'I would be most displeased to hear that this matter had not been resolved within a fortnight.'" Her accent was actually quite good as well, but then that much at least was probably to be expected, with all the time she'd spent in the country.

"No mention of the armies of Venatori and twelve lyrium dragons we all had to fight off during the canarie?" Leon added dryly. "For shame, Ser Lord Roderick. At least give us our due."

"Excellent choice of tea, Lady Marceline," Vesryn added, apparently seeing no need to add on to the efforts of the others, though he appeared thoroughly amused by it all.

"You all laugh," Marceline said, laughing in spite of herself, "But you do not know how eerily similar that sounds." A few of the letters she received were indeed penned from estates in some far flung corner of Orlais, though obviously the names and titles they had created for themselves made it sound far more respectful than they actually were. In fact, one particular estate she could even not find on the map, and Larissa had never heard of it before. She actually held on to that one, and planned to dig into it later, just to sate her curiosity.

She smiled and nodded her appreciation for Vesryn, before she turned back toward the others. "I would be offended, if it were not at least partially true," she said with another laugh. "I shall save the better ones, so that you all may see for yourselves." It was right about then that the tea kettle began to whistle, and she began to attend to it. Using the poker that leaned against the fireplace, she used it to hook the hand of the kettle and fish it from the flames, setting it gently down on a woven coaster on a nearby table. The whistling faded as it cooled, and she sat back down as they waited for it to be handled without risking burns.

"It was a tea I was fond of back home," she revealed to Vesryn. "It is naturally sweet, and does not contain caffeine, so it will not keep you up at night. It is also good for your skin, I hear," she added, rubbing the top of her wrists to convey the point.

“If you save them, we can have a dramatic reading. I've been told I missed my calling in the theater." Cyrus's tone of voice suggested self-effacement more than anything, though the suggestion seemed real enough. “Perhaps searching for the good ones will make getting through the pile of them a little easier."

Apparently deciding the tea was cool enough, he poured a round for everyone, spooning... quite a lot of sugar into his. Apparently naturally sweet was insufficient to his purposes. He did hum approvingly when he took the first sip, however, so perhaps it was well enough.

Estella added honey to hers, as she had the last time, though less than before, in consideration of the blend, perhaps. Leon sniffed slightly at it before adding a dash of milk, but otherwise left it as it had been before.

"Surely some of them are supportive, though?" The lady Inquisitor set her spoon down with a slightly-troubled frown. "I know people who won't play the Game have never been popular in Court, but surely there are some who can see the advantages?"

"Yes, of course. A good number give their support," Marceline answered, taking her tea straight. "Most are sincere, I believe. There are a few that I feel are just attempting to curry favor with us, but that is to be expected. There will always be some who seek out opportunities for their own gain," she stated. It was through their intervention that Lucien now sat on the Orlesian throne, of course there would be a those who would want to get into the installing party's good graces. She had expected no less. However, it was the genuine articles that resonated with her.

She blew the steam from her tea before taking a sip, and decided that she had gotten the steeping time down perfectly this time. Nodding, she continued. "I have also read a few that send their thanks for helping put an end to the civil war," she said, leaning back into the couch. "Many chevaliers will return home to their families now that the throne is no longer contested. Despite the politics, many are grateful to just get their loved ones back safely." She was among them. As a Marshal, her father would still have work to be done before he could return home, but at least she no longer had to worry about him fighting.

Marceline glanced at her desk again, this time without the trepidation. She wondered if a letter from her mother had gotten mixed with the rest of the correspondence, though she would have to find out later. "I trust Lucien will manage to win the court's approval in spite of them. He will play the Game enough to keep them content, but I doubt he will let it affect his politics," she said kindly. "He is an honorable man, and I truly believe he will do what is best for our country."

“Ah, but that's a bit of a changed tune, isn't it?" Cyrus's eyes were keen. Even sitting back with a cup of tea on his knee and a biscuit half-submerged in it, he managed to seem a bit like a housecat: lazy until provoked by something curious or interesting, and then surprisingly quick. “Your entire family were loyalists. Only a fool would believe Lucien was never an option until Halamshiral itself, which means you didn't quite come out of that with what you wanted, did you Lady Marceline?" He kept his tone on the rather light level of the conversation so far, but admittedly the query was rather pointed.

Marceline frowned, but she took the question in stride. She never tried to insert her own political opinions into Inquisition matters. She had always tried to act in the best interests of the Inquisition, in spite of her own beliefs. That being said, she never had reason to express her political ideas to the others, as it never came up in conversation. "We ended the civil war, and we now have the support of the Empire, I daresay I did get what I want Cyrus," she said taking a sip of her tea. "The rest of my family may not be as pleased with the outcome, but they cannot argue with the results."

She did wonder how her father would take it, however. He was a Marshall in Celene's army, and she wondered if he would take her failure as his. She shook her head and leaned back in the couch, casting another glance to Cyrus. "My support of the Empress--former Empress, I suppose I should say say now, was not as strong as it once was. By the time the you all collected me in Val Royeaux for the Inquisition, I barely considered myself a loyalist at all."

"Not that I'm against the outcome we got in the Winter Palace," Vesryn said, setting down his cup for the moment and pulling one leg up to rest across his other knee, "far from it, but the results for Orlais are certainly different than they are from our perspective. If that makes sense." He shrugged, perhaps doubting his ability to put political ideas in the correct terms. He rarely weighed in on these matters, after all.

"I don't doubt much of Orlais didn't want to give so much as a sovereign of support to us. Their war ended, but neither of the sides who fought and died now see their leader on the throne. The man sitting on it now has experience in leading a mercenary company, not an empire, and he has as great a task before him as perhaps any Emperor of Orlais that came before." His eyes wandered over to Estella for a moment before they came back to Marceline.

"I was all for removing Celene from power, but I expect the rest of Orlais can and will argue with the results. I hope it won't leave relations with your family... strained, or anything. Simply for doing your job and acting in the interest of the Inquisition."

"Then again," Leon added, shrugging his large shoulders. "The opposite is true as well. No one sees an enemy they've come to hate sitting there, either. Perhaps that will turn out to be a bigger favor for unification than anything. And reconciliation—even in the more personal cases." It seemed to be meant as a sort of encouragement, though he was hardly the most graceful at giving such things.

Marceline smiled gratefully at both Leon and Vesryn, "Thank you both for your concern. While our politics have... diverged in the recent years, we have not let that come between us yet. I hope that will continue, even now." Of course, quietly losing support for the Empress and actively installing a new Emperor were two completely different things, but her parents had to have seen that Lucien becoming the Emperor was a viable option, and that she had to act in the interests of the Inquisition. At the very least, she expected their conversations on Orlesian politics would become far more lively now.

"I agree with Leon on his other point, however. He remained neutral during the war, and did not actively create enemies," she added. Had Gaspard became the Emperor, or Celene remained, then the allies of the opposite party would have felt that they had lost so to speak, and their enemy now sat on the throne. It would have been difficult then for them to transition into peace. But Lucien's party had remained neutral during the Civil War, and had acted as a buffer of sorts between the factions. While the neutrality may have earned him some opposition regardless, he did not actively make enemies with his actions, so hopefully his transition would prove to be relatively peaceful.

"That being," she sighed, "Lucien has indeed inherited a tumultuous reign, as not only does he have to deal with the fallout of the Civil War, but also the threat that Corypheus poses remains. Fortunately, we are able to assist him with the latter."

Vesryn had no argument on that point, and took a long drink of his tea, licking his lips slightly when he was done. "So," he said, after a few brief moments of silence, "assuming you were able to keep an eye on all us during the dance, Lady Marceline, any thoughts on our form? Any standouts, anyone sorely in need of more practice?" He didn't look to be taking much serious stock in the answer, just curiosity with a hefty dose of amusement.

Marceline chuckled. "Oh, I would not be worried overmuch Ser Vesryn. If you had been atrocious I would have let you know. Gently, of course," she said with a wink and another quiet laugh.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
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O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.
-Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1
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Lady Marceline sat at her desk in deep contemplation. It was perhaps overdue that she had finally made this decision. Maybe it was one she shouldn't have even have given herself in the first place. While Félicité was a fine apprentice and quick learner, the fact remained that her and Pierre were the only children in the Inquisition. She had spoken about it to the young heiress in recent days, and even though she appeared to enjoy the work she did with Marceline, she was still alone in Skyhold. Her and Pierre.

The second matter was the most difficult, and it was about her son. He was much in the same position as Félicité, but though as he was her son, she was too close to actually see it. He was in as much of a dangerous position as she was, if not more by virtue of being the Ambassador's son. Even before Félicité, he had been alone too, save for his family and the friends he'd made. It was only thinking about Félicité's position that it dawned her that Pierre had the same sort of problems. She leaned back in the chair she sat in and crossed her arms, and let her head fall limply against its head rest. Maybe it was her selfishness that kept Pierre around, and her inability to admit a mistake that kept Félicité. It was not an... entirely pleasant thought.

A few more minutes gave her some extra time to consider it, but fortunately not too much. A soft knock at the door heralded the presence of a visitor. After announcing herself, Estella went ahead and opened it on her own, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind her. The Lady Inquisitor's state of dress suggested she'd been hard at work of the more physical kind; her hair was falling loose of its disciplined braid, and she appeared to be wearing a large amount of sandy dirt on one side of her body, a few streaks missing where she'd clearly tried to dust it off and not had much success. She'd never said where she trained or who with, but clearly there was some vigor involved.

Perhaps that was why she elected to stand rather than sit, offering Marceline a small smile. "I got your message," she said, somewhat unnecessarily considering her presence. "Something you need me for, Lady Marceline?"

Marceline considered the question for a moment before she shook her head, "No, not as such. There are just some things on my mind that I wished to talk to you about. You can take a seat if you wish," She answered while she gestured at the number of seats that were in her office, followed by leaning back forward and letting her elbows rest on her desk. She hesitated for a moment, but she hoped it would be considered a deliberate pause instead. She then tilted her head slightly and began. "I have given it some thought, and I believe it is in Félicité's best interest that I relieve her of her duties and allow her to return home," she said, crossing her arms and letting a palm rest outstretched.

"She is... nearing the age where it would best serve her to focus on her education, something I believe the Inquisition does not have the facilities to provide," she continued, leaning back as she spoke. "If she wishes, I believe a reference from the Inquisition will open many doors for her."

Estella demurred on the seat, with a gesture, clearly not wanting to get dirt on the furniture, but when Marceline explained the rest of the situation, she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "Well," she began, almost cautiously from her tone of voice, "as you pointed out when you brought her here, the work she did was for you, rather than the Inquisition. I think therefore, it's probably best for the reference to come from you as well." Her speech was slower than usual, deliberately-chosen, but mild in aspect. "But I don't think that will open any fewer doors, so to speak." She smiled, the expression almost conciliatory.

"Does she intend to apply to the University in Val Royeaux? I have a friend who teaches there. I'd... considered going at one point, myself, but admission's only open to nobility, and, well—you know about the situation with my family." She lifted her shoulders. "I hear it's a wonderful school."

"I believe she is, though she has a few years yet. Still, there is no harm in getting a head start. Maker knows my mother made sure I was prepared before I attempted to enroll," Marceline answered. She felt her body relax now that the topic shifted toward something else for the moment. "It is. I do not know if I told you, but I studied business and politics during my time there. Attempting to follow in my mother's footsteps, I suppose."

Estella huffed softly at that. "Well, considering how good you are at both of those things, I'm sure you succeeded." Her face betrayed a bit of amusement, but the observation seemed to be a genuine one. Then again, they usually were, with her. "How are they doing, your parents? I know your father was injured when you found him on the Exalted Plains. He's recovered well, I hope?" The Lady Inquisitor crossed her arms comfortably over herself, her posture easing a little from its previous residual formality.

"They are fine, thank you for asking," Marceline answered with an appreciative nod of her head. "Mother had always been a strong woman, I doubt that there is much that can lay her low. My father has finally returned home as well, and he has healed well from what mother has told me, though I still worry. He is too stubborn to let anyone know if any aches or pains are still lingering," she said with a shake of her head. They were both strong people, though sometimes that mean stubborn as well, and that of course made her worry about them.

There was another tilt to her head, and nodded to herself, deciding that this was the best time to add the second thing she wanted to say. "Speaking of my family, there was another matter I wished to tell you," she added, though she was unable to keep the displeasure from her face. "While thinking about Félicité's position, it also led me to think about Pierre's," she then leaned forward on her desk, and propped her chin up with her hand. "I had hoped that by keeping him close, that I would be able to spend more time with him... But, I do not know that that has happened," Marceline said with a frown.

She always felt so busy that she wasn't able to spend the time with Pierre that he deserved. It felt like Larissa spent more time with him than she did. Granted, it was nice to know that he was so close but, that meant little if she wasn't able to spend the time with him. "I have talked to Micky about this as well, and I believe it would be best for him to return home to my parents as well. There is... not much here for him, I'm afraid."

For a moment, Estella thought about that, her lips pursing a little. She looked like she was trying to decide something, from the way her eyes focused just over Marceline's shoulder. But then she nodded once, just a slow dip of her chin, and her gaze moved back to eye contact. "I can't really argue with that," she pointed out. She had, after all, been rather uncomfortable with the presence of children in the Inquisition in general, and stated as much in no uncertain terms before. "Did you need me to arrange an escort for them with Leon, or were you just letting me know?"

"More of the latter, actually, though there was something I wanted to ask you as well," Marceline said. She then began to pick through the letters on her desk looking for one in particular. A recent letter from her mother, from when she had sent correspondence speaking about much of the same things Marceline and Estella were. Eventually, she found it at the bottom of the pile and pulled it to the top. "I plan to accompany them both home, since Félicité is on the way in any case. I intend to stay home for a week or so, to finally spend time with my family without having to worry about this. At least for a little while," she said, gesturing toward the letters and notes on her desk. "Or, well. Attempt to, I suppose," she added, shrugging. Undoubtedly, thoughts of the work she had waiting back for her at Skyhold would pop up every now and then.

However, she wasn't the only one who worked so hard for the Inquisition. "Still, I just wanted to ask and see if you would join us?" she offered, "You work so tirelessly, I just believed it would be nice for you to spend a few days away from it all as well."

Estella blinked, clearly surprised by the offer. She didn't immediately decline though, as the rumors of her work ethic might have implied she would. Her brows knit over her eyes momentarily; she seemed to be thinking of something that troubled her, though she gave no particular indication as to what. "I wouldn't mind taking a few days," she admitted, "as long as I can have a few beforehand to set all my work in order. Would you..." She paused, almost hesitating, then caught up with herself and finished the question. "Would you mind if some of the others came along? I'm not the only one in need of a break, I think."

Marceline nodded in understanding. She was, in all honesty, surprised that Estella did not need bit more enticing to take the time off. She frowned for a moment, worried that maybe she was under a bit too much pressure herself to accept the invitation. Still, she accepted it, and perhaps she could get a better answer during their time off. "We still have some time, there are matters that I must attend to as well," she agreed. She still had a few individuals she needed to see, some correspondence to send, and a letter to send to her parents stating her intentions.

As for the others, she nodded her acceptance. "I agree completely. I intended to speak to them and ask if they would like to join us as well. Micky in particular wanted to see if Khari wished to come. I believe he thinks she deserves some time off for all the effort she puts into her training."

That got a smile out of the Lady Inquisitor. The mere mention of Khari could do that to a lot of people, it seemed. "I don't think she'd quite see it that way, but if more of her training partners are going than staying, I'm sure she could be convinced." There was a brief, pause, then: "Perhaps we should plan to leave a week from today? So everyone can get their business squared away first and such."

"That sounds reasonable. I will send my parents a letter so that they are not caught off guard," Marceline paused for a moment and chuckled. "I am sure Micky will want to pack immediately."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
The ride to the western edge of Lake Celestine was probably about twice as long as the one to Halamshiral—perhaps even more than that, though the average speed of the smaller party was quite a lot more than one where over a dozen people were marching. This one also involved a great deal less fanfare, which was a relief, to be sure.

About five days after they'd set out from Skyhold, they'd hit the boundary of the small town that housed Lady Marceline's estate. Estella had found the trip to be easy travel; the central-southern region of Orlais was flat plain and gentle hills, dotted with large cottages and what seemed to be vacation homes for nobility. They'd been able to see the buildings of the town proper on the horizon for about an hour and a half before they'd arrived. One or double-storied, mostly, with white siding edged in darker wood, suggesting fresh coats of paint. The clay-tiled roofs were gently-sloped, usually in dark red-brown, with small chimneys tucked to one side or another. It was definitely a smaller town, not on the order of a Lydes or an Arlesans, let alone a Val Fermin, but it seemed to trade on that fact to deliver a sense of quiet intimacy.

The homes they passed bespoke a comfortable average wealth; no doubt a town this size could manage it. It wasn't big enough for an Alienage—most settlements this small barely had elves to begin with, as they tended to congregate together in the locations which would accommodate as much. Indeed, the several people passing by on the street seemed to be universally human, a few offering waves to Lady Marceline or Ser MichaĂ«l if they were recognized. The presence of a handful of identifying articles picking the party out as Inquisition didn't seem to pose any of the residents any concern, which was perhaps to be expected.

The streets under Nox's feet were cobblestoned; the horses made a fair amount of noise as they clopped along, but the bustle of activity was just voluminous enough that they weren't uncomfortably loud, blending instead into the quaint music of everyday provincial life. She could smell fresh bread and coffee, the scents no doubt issuing from one of the numerous eateries along the central path. The town square, as it were, was actually circular, paved in the same manner as the roads, with a large fountain set at the center of it, featuring a stylized cluster of three owls, which Estella recognized from Lady Marceline's heraldry. She must have kept it after she married.

In all, it was well-maintained; the air it had was... studied warmth. Picturesque, and a little self-aware in that sort of beauty. Estella wondered for an absurd moment if someone watched all the hedges, lying in wait for one wayward branch to dare ruin the image of tranquil symmetry. No doubt it would be cut at once, and discipline returned in kind. She stifled a snort and decided now was a very good time to venture some sort of conversation, before her thoughts took her even stranger places.

"Does the town have a name?" she asked, aiming the question at the three in the party who might know. "I can't imagine it's just called 'West Bank.'"

Being back in her homeland seemed to have put Lady Marceline in high spirits, and the usual controlled countenance she wore was stripped away and replaced instead by a genuine warmth and fondness. Pride was also present in the way a single corner of her lips fluttered upward, but it was subtle and subdued. She had spent the trip through town with a lingering gaze on the buildings and the gentle rolling hills past them, with a number of larger cottages dotting the landscape beyond. She apparently was so immersed in the vista and the thoughts that it brought that she was momentarily surprised when Estella spoke.

However, it wasn't Marceline that replied. "Coeur-trésor," Pierre answered, tossing a glance at his mother for a moment, before looking back to Estella. "Literally, the heart's treasure," he continued, as Marceline nodded approvingly. "We call it that because we like to think it's a little treasure in the heartland. It's a quiet place, but lovely, as you can see," he finished with a proud smile of his own.

A moment passed before a chuckling broke the silence, from none other than Michaël. "Sounds like someone has been working on their sales pitch. Are you going to try to sell her one of those cottages too?" He said, laughing again, before reaching over his horse and ruffling the young man's hair. Pierre for his part, simply crossed his arms and pouted mockingly. "No, the boy is right. It is a pleasant town, far more scenic than the estate I grew up on in Val Chevin," He added for Estella's benefit.

"Regardless," Marceline finally spoke, "If you do find yourself in desire of a summer cottage, let me know. I am sure we can work out a deal," She said with a humorous smile and a playful wink.

“Smells nice." Khari made the observation while unhooking her mask from the lower half of her face, lifting a hand to her jaw to smooth the slight marks the metal had made on her skin. She dropped her hood, too, exposing her pointed ears with seemingly little concern. “But then I guess sewage isn't really an issue in a place this small. Anyone out here farm, or are you just running a tourist trap?" She grinned, as if to reinforce the light nature of the question. Or maybe she just smiled for the sake of smiling. Khari was more prone to it than most.

"They do," Marceline answered, taking the jest with a smile of her own. "We lease some of the land to the farmers. Mostly grains and orchards--" she paused for a moment to point out a small bakery they passed. The sweet smell of bread and pastries wafted from the shop and lingered as they made their way. "Most of these cafes use local ingredients. That one in particular bakes one of my favorite apple tarts." A want appeared in her eyes for a moment, like she wanted to stop and pick one up that instant, but she apparently decided against it as she tore her attention away from it. No doubt that she would be back later though.

"We, of course, also run our vineyard. Because what is Orlais without its wine?"

Estella had a feeling it was only a matter of time before the wine came up; it was rarer to see Lady Marceline without a glass in-hand than with one, particularly once midday had passed. It might have almost been concerning, but no doubt someone closer to her would have noticed if it were really cause for worry.

Slipping out of the conversation for a moment and allowing it to flow on without her, she dropped Nox back slightly so that she was riding even with Vesryn. He'd been unusually quiet on the trip; it hadn't escaped her that his headache didn't seem to have abated, either. It was part of the reason she'd so readily agreed to go in the first place. She wasn't so naĂŻve as to believe that his problems would be solved by a little fresh air and sunshine, but... surely a bit of a break from constant training couldn't hurt anything.

"Hey," she said softly, leaning back a little so she could sling her far leg over Nox's neck, repositioning herself sideways in her saddle. He was so well-trained that this didn't bother him in the slightest, of course, and he kept on following Khari's roan in front of him. "Copper for your thoughts?"

He smiled back at her, though the expression didn't have its usual enthusiasm. "It's beautiful," he said, apparently choosing to state the obvious. He rode light, and hadn't so much as bothered to bring any of his larger weapons or his shield, or really any of his armor. He hadn't donned it since the day Khari had knocked him unconscious in training. Though he was clearly trying to conceal how he felt, he was no expert at it, and Estella could tell easily enough that the pain was not insignificant, and that it bothered him more often than not. Still, he'd had a few more bright moments since leaving than he had lingering around Skyhold, even if now did not seem to be one of them.

"My apologies for the silence," he said, more for the group at large. "I've just been enjoying the sights here. It's been refreshing to travel without having somewhere to be urgently." His hands momentarily left the reins of his horse, and he flexed and stretched his hands and fingers. "We should have housed the Inquisition here. Probably not as defensible, but much kinder weather, and the proximity to wine... excellent for morale, I'm sure."

Khari snorted. “Not as great for skill. Don't think this would work out so well if we all took the field drunk off our arses." She paused, shooting an obvious glance at Asala. “Unless we wanted to kill them with laughter, I guess."

"Or while naked," Asala added innocently, though it only took a moment to reveal that she was valiantly attempting to fight off a grin. A fight she was very obviously losing.

Soon after, the path they followed led them out of the little town and down along another rustic road. Eventually, the fields on either side of the party slowly morphed from gentle rolling hill to hills striped with rows upon rows of grape vineyards. Every so often they could pick out an individual in the distance still tending to the vines, a few even pausing in their work to gawk at them. Once they realized who they watched however, they soon waved which was soon mirrored by Marceline or either Michaël or Pierre.

A few minutes more, and what had to be Marceline's familial estate appeared in the distance. It had the same design as the cottages that had dotted the landscape on the way into town, only... more. A large gateway led into the estate grounds proper, the lettering above made out of wrought iron spelling out Lecuyer Vineyards. Below the lettering, what had to had been their coat of arms was impressed upon even more black iron. An owl perched atop a shield with a vine of grapes wrapping around the base.

The grounds itself felt rustic in nature, but still managed a regal air. The home itself was large, containing who knew how many rooms. A flight of stairs led onto a porch, a row of white marble columns holding up a balcony above. Vines and ivy clung to the marble and brick, causing the home to feel cozy, in spite of its size. Off to the side, a stable waited, that also led out into a clearing-- where a couple of horses could be seen lazily grazing.

Once they crossed through the gate, they were greeted first by a few stable hands emerging from the stables. "Milord, Milady," the oldest one among them greeted, taking both Marceline's and Michaël's reins in his hands.

"Take care of them, Felix. They've had a long journey," Michaël asked, swinging off of his horse and landing on the ground with a solid thud. He then moved to his wife, and where he aided her off of her horse.

Felix chuckled and nodded, "Aye ser, there won't be a more pampered creature than these horses, on my word." The rest of the stable hands also set about their tasks of gathering the horses of the others. They were not the only ones who had come to greet them however. From atop the stairs that led into the house, an older pair watched. Pierre sent a excited wave their direction, which they of course returned and took as their cue to approach.

The man they recognized as Marceline's father. Now that he was out of his armor and he wasn't covered in blood, Lucas seemed far healthier than he had when they first met him. He still walked with slight limp as he approached, but he appeared to be trying his best to hide it. The woman, on the other hand, they had not met, but stood to reason was Marceline's mother, if nothing more than the similarities between them.

Once upon a time, her dark silver hair appeared to have been the same color as Marceline's, though they had matching blue ocean eyes-- age hadn't yet stolen their spark. A thin smile spread across her lips, which only grew as Pierre approached and wrapped her in a hug. "What did I tell you about growing, hm?" she asked, returning the hug, "Not without my permission." She added with a warm laugh.

Lucas on the other hand received a hug from Marceline instead. "It is good to see you are well father. I hope you have been resting," she asked, pulling back from. He opened his mouth to answer, but had his wife answer for him instead.

"Of course he hasn't. Rest doesn't suit him," she said, coming to stand beside him, answering a hug from Marceline as well. "You should know, you get it from him."

Lucas smiled and shrugged. "She is not wrong, rest doesn't suit me, I'm afraid. Idle hands, and all that," he answered, ruffling Pierre's hair as he spoke.

Marceline then then turned toward the rest of her party, "Let me introduce you all," she said, gesturing toward her parents. "These are my parents. Some of you have already met my father, Lucas, and this is my mother, Gabrielle," she said, both inclining their head as they were introduced.

Estella let a little smile linger on her face, a polite one, and curtsied a bit by way of introduction. "Nice to meet you." It was, after all, her first time becoming acquainted with both of them. "I'm Estella, and these are my friends. Vesryn, Khari, and Asala." She straightened, tilting her head to the side. "You've a lovely home. Thank you so much for allowing us to stay here."

Lady Gabrielle shook her head at that, raising her hand perhaps in an effort to ward off any more compliments or thanks. "No thanks necessary, Marcy insisted that our home is your home for the duration of your stay, and I agreed," she said warmly, before turning to nod in greeting to the others. "Come, surely you are tired from the trip here? We will show you to your rooms."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Stel was right: it was a lovely home. In a lovely place. Here Vesryn could almost forget what was out there in other parts of the world, waiting to do battle with the Inquisition.

But no matter the tranquility he found himself in, the pain would not go away. Sometimes it faded, to the point of simply being uncomfortable, and in those moments he could find an hour or two of sleep. He considered himself lucky to have gotten any the night before. Lady Marceline's family was wonderful, of course, but Vesryn found himself keeping to the edges of conversation, unable to focus on much. His appetite hadn't entirely fled, so he managed to avoid insulting the cooking when they sat down together for an impressive supper. After that it seemed like a blur, a rapid decline until it came time to rest. His head pounded several hours into the night until it finally abated, and he was granted the mercy of sleep.

It didn't last long, though, and he was up and awake earlier than he would've liked the next morning. He dressed himself and crept carefully out of the room and down the hall, not wishing to disturb any of the others by stumbling like a fool. His sight wavered and blurred alarmingly sometimes, but it hadn't done so here. He found his way out onto the balcony, where several wicker chairs with comfortable cushions were situated around small tables and footrests. He sank down into one.

The air was still and cool, the late spring morning not yet tinged with all the heat summer would soon offer. The sun hadn't yet made its way above the horizon, but the day's first light was already reaching the town and the estate. The sky held only a sparse offering of scattered clouds. It was shaping up to be another pleasant day. He glanced through the balcony's railing towards the stables, seeing one of the stablehands already tending to their mounts. As he understood it, they were going to be teaching Asala to ride properly once everyone was up and ready. That was bound to be a difficult task. One no doubt the others were more suited to at present. Vesryn simply hoped he'd remain atop his horse.

It wasn't more than a few minutes afterwards that he heard soft treads passing down the same hallway behind the balcony. They paused, and then the door slid softly forward on its hinges, and Stel stepped out onto the balcony, too, letting it fall closed behind her. She'd obviously just come from a bath, as her hair was still quite damp and yet loose. She glanced a moment at the emerging light in the distance, then sighed quietly and perched herself on the arm of his chair.

"Good morning," she said, taking up one of his hands in one of her own and resting both at her knee. It had clearly been a much more rejuvenating night for her than him—she seemed quite fully awake, lacking any of the minute signs of fatigue he was used to seeing. It clearly wasn't beyond her that his sleep hadn't been so peaceful, however. "Nothing different last night?"

"I managed more sleep here than I did at Skyhold," he said, and it was the truth. Despite how often in his life he slept in the relative silence of the world's remote places, he'd never been bothered by noise, and had experience with that, too. The Alienage was always cramped and rarely quiet, mercenaries were commonly lacking in manners, and though the Dalish he spent time with lived deep in the forests, they too slept in often uncomfortably close quarters. But for once, the noise of the Herald's Rest was enough to bother him, sudden and unexpected sounds like the twang of a terribly out of tune note from the bard's lute, buried in his mind.

He supposed he looked worse for wear at this point. Sleep had never been a difficulty for him, and now that it was he expected it was showing. It occurred to him he might end up looking like Cyrus after some of those strings of nights where he stayed awake for impossibly long hours, doing whatever his mind led him to. A dreadful thought.

"I suppose I'll need to find somewhere else once we get back," he said, tracing his thumb over her hand and letting his head rest softly against her arm. "I've heard the Undercroft is peaceful. Perhaps the Lord Inquisitor will lend me his couch."

Close as they were, it was impossible to miss the soft huff that escaped her, the beginning of a laugh that never quite came to be in full. She was quiet for a moment, but then shifted a bit. Not enough to dislodge him; if anything it made things slightly more comfortable. "Or..." she said softly, drawing out the word with a hint of what was perhaps uncertainty. Tentativeness, at least. "You could sleep with me. Next to me." The second sentence was hastily added to the first, fast enough that she almost tripped over it.

"I just mean, um, there's a whole half of my bed I don't use. And my tower's quiet. And you probably shouldn't be trying to sleep on anyone's couch. Since those aren't really made for sleeping." She ceased talking with a soft click of her teeth—no doubt she'd noticed she was rambling and tried to put a stop to it.

A soft cough followed. "If you want to, that is."

He wouldn't deny the thought had occurred to him. Skyhold's keep in general would be very quiet at night. And while he wasn't sure that proximity to Stel was helping him, it felt that way more often than not. He did so adore her.

"I'd love to," he answered, not raising the volume of his voice any more than he needed to. "We can give it a try. So long as my problem doesn't disturb your rest. You need it as much as I do, with everything you take on." It was tempting to be joking or tease her about her amusing and honestly endearing uncertainty, but he found he didn't have it in him for the topic. Too early in the morning, perhaps.

"Shall we see what the breakfast plan is? I'm famished." An overstatement, but he was hungry, and for Stel's sake he figured he wouldn't linger on the subject of them sleeping together for too long.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," she replied, standing first. She kept hold of his hand, though, equal parts physical support and a more emotional sort of solidarity. "Given the precedent, I'm sure it'll be quite fancy."

It was indeed, but the choice of breakfast dishes all proved to be quite light, considering that there was a decent amount of activity planned for the day, and there were likely many more meals to come. Though he and Stel were among the first to rise, it wasn't long before the morning's light stirred the others, and they dragged themselves downstairs towards the smell of delicious food.

An hour or so later they were dressed for riding, and Vesryn could feel the trouble returning in full force. He believed no one had seen him fumbling with the laces on his boots like a child, but it was hard to be sure. In any case, he was the last one out to the stables, accepting his horse's reins from the stablehand and offering his thanks in return. They looked to have been well cared for, rivaling Skyhold's service no doubt.

Before he could doubt himself overmuch Vesryn slipped his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle, managing to make it seem a lot smoother than he felt. He fell in behind the others. "So, where are we headed?"

"There's a place that I liked to ride not far from here," Marceline said, her palms resting on the polished pommel of her saddle. The horse she sat astride was a black mare, which was hardly surprising, though there was a white stripe down the center of her forehead, mixing in with the black in her mane as well. Marceline's posture was relaxed, her shoulders hunched as she rested on the pommel as she patiently waited for everyone to get ready. Beside her Pierre also rode a horse of his own, though his was a russet stallion. His seemed eager for the exercise, as he pawed at the ground which Pierre tried to comfort by petting his mane.

"It's an old trail at the edge of our vineyard. You can see the lakeside from atop the hills there-- do not worry," she added, turning toward Asala, who had an unsteady grip on her own reins. "They are gentle hills. Almost as gentle as your horse," Marceline said with a comforting smile. Asala seemed to accept that, as she smiled and nodded. The horse that Lady Marceline picked out for her was an older palomino mare, and as gentle as she said it was. No doubt that was why she had chosen that one for her.

That was all Pierre and his horse apparently needed. With the destination set, he finally urged the horse forward. "I know the way. Father and I sometimes like to race that trail," he said.

Marceline chuckled in response, "So did my father and I, when I was younger."

“Probably best to save any racing for when all of us can sit halfway decent at a trot, never mind faster." Khari, who'd volunteered the observation, obviously had no such problem herself, but she was studying Asala's posture with something approaching consternation. “Seriously, Asala, how many times have you ridden now? Because if you sit that stiff all the time I'm surprised you've never cramped."

Letting go of her reins, Khari used her legs to steer her red roan over to Asala's side, tapping her firmly on the back with a gloved palm. “Don't slouch. Roll your shoulders back, and loosen up your hips so you move with her. The more of a burden you are, the less a horse wants to carry you, and it has nothing to do with weight." She crossed her arms over her chest. “No one else here looks like a sack of potatoes in a saddle, do they?" Her words themselves were blunt as ever, and she wasn't making any particular effort to soften her demeanor for Asala or condescend to her, but there was also no harshness in her tone.

There was a visible snap in body language with each instruction Asala was given. The bluntness in Khari's words however did not seem to affect her any, though there was a noticeable pout to her lips, but that may have very well been there regardless of the the words used. "I want to believe I'm better than a sack of potatoes," she muttered through the pout. Marceline smiled and nodded, guiding her own horse toward her.

"Fleur will do most of the work herself, you just need to trust her," Marceline noted.

“Heels down, balls of your feet on the stirrup." Khari actually reached down to reposition Asala's left foot, showing no concern about her balance in her seat in the process. Gripping the Qunari woman's heel, she slid it back out a bit, then angled it the way she wanted. “That'll feel unnatural for a while, but you'll get used to it. Always check: shoulders, back, arse, heels. Then relax and move with her. The more you try to hold on, the more you're likely to fall. Steady grip on the reins, but not too tight. Pretend this is fun." She grinned, straightening her own posture and clicking her tongue.

Still with her arms free, Khari moved her horse into a trot, circling around to Asala's other side by way of demonstration, holding them out to her sides like a gliding bird or something similar. “Not your arms that keep you on, ever. And it's not even really your legs, either. It's your feet and your rear."

Asala snickered. "Maybe when I am sure that I will not fall off, I won't have to pretend," she said. She listened to Khari's advice, and though she was still stiff in her body language, she did manage to urge the horse forward slowly. She also held the reins awkwardly, but she did have a steady grip like she was told. Perhaps after getting accustomed to it, she'd relax a little. But as it were with Asala, it appeared to take her a while to get comfortable with anything. Still, they managed to get her moving, which was a step in the right direction.

"We are all here for you, so no need to worry," Marceline added, taking up a perch not too far from her, most likely in order to keep an eye on her.

Their pace was a slow one, to be sure, comfortable and easy. As promised, they were soon greeted with a rather sweeping vista, cresting a hill just high enough to spot the glasslike sheet of sunlit water that must have been Lake Celestine. It was quite a ways in the distance, still, but not hard to see. On the other side, orderly columns of seasoned wood bearing the growth of spring ran back towards the manor home in disciplined corridors of pale green. The sun was far enough overhead that the lazy rose-gold light of morning had faded, leaving everything perhaps as crisp and clear in view as it would ever get. It smelled like mulch, thick and musky, dulled by the sharp plant-flavor of juvenile grapevines. Earthy.

“So this is where you grew up, huh?" Khari directed the words at Marceline, arching both brows slightly. “Somehow, it's not that surprising."

"Is it not?" Marceline asked, appearing somewhat surprised herself by the admission. She then chuckled it off with good humor and nodded, "Thank you. I ran these rows with bare feet countless times in my youth," she said, gesturing toward the growing grapevines off to their side, "Even sneaked a few grapes along the way," she added with feigned mischievousness. "They also made for a good hiding spot when the vines were full as well. My parents had to track me down on a few occasions in order to start my lessons." She paused for a moment, her eyes drifting back to Pierre who had assumed the lead spot. "Pierre used to do the same for Micky and I as well," she added with a slight melancholy to her tone.

Eventually, she turned back to Khari and nodded. "If you cannot tell," she said, her smile returning in full force, "I am far more partial to this view," she continued, gesturing toward the lake, "Than of the glitz and gilt of a place like Halamshiral. Between us, I found it far too gaudy."

"Considering that about half of it was plated in gold, I'm not sure who wouldn't," Stel agreed easily, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "It's a bit... I don't know. Almost lonely out here though, isn't it? I suppose I only say that because I grew up in a very big city, crammed in with a bunch of other people." She smiled ruefully. "Not exactly used to this much space." A breeze drifted in, warm enough to be comfortable, dimming the heavier smells with an infusion of fresh air from over the lake.

Lady Marceline thought about it for a moment and agreed. "Perhaps. I have never felt lonely here. I always have had my family, and Coeur-trésor is lively, if a bit quaint in comparison to some of the cities," she said with a smile. "But no, it is not like a big city. I spent the time I attended college in Val Royeaux living in our estate there, and I will give you that the pace is indeed much quicker there than here. But..." she said, wistfully, turning her eyes back toward the rows of young vines to be. "I have never been able to relax like when I'm home. I forget how much I miss it until I come back," she admitted with cheerful huff.

"Must be nice," Vesryn commented from near the rear of the group, "having a place so removed from everything, somewhere you can return when you need a retreat from it all." He was focusing on the conversation as best he could, that and Asala's riding. Khari was perfectly capable of teaching her basics, and he was having a bit of trouble finding a way into the conversation, but thinking and watching and not letting his focus remain in his head was at least somewhat helpful.

"I imagine for most of us Skyhold has become that place, to a certain extent. There's always a lot going on of course, but up there in the mountains it can feel pretty far removed from the world we're saving." Peaceful places were a bit harder to find, with how large the Inquisition had grown, but it wasn't impossible. More often than not, it felt like home for him. Far more than Denerim ever did.

"I can see that," Marceline nodded in agreement, though she still tossed a glance toward her home. "Still, this will always be home for me. Hopefully one that I can retire to one day," she added with a doubtful smile. "At the very least, I do not plan on filing paperwork while I am here. I was beginning to believe that I very well may have had ink for blood."

Asala chuckled at that. The light talk around her must have had a relaxing effect for her, because she no longer appeared as tense as when she began, and actually rode with her arms no longer awkwardly propped up. Afterward, she to nodded in agreement. "Ash-Rethsaam has much of the same feel, to be honest. To Skyhold, I mean," she added. "So far removed from everything and everyone, but everybody in it working toward a singular goal. Ensuring that our home remains strong... In both of our cases, I suppose," she said thoughtfully.

Lady Marceline nodded in quiet approval, "Agreed."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
Marceline found herself once again sat in front of a fireplace, watching the lively flames dance to and fro. It was not like the one she had in Skyhold, this one much wider, and far more ornate. It was a choice she had to make, to lose herself in the swooping inlaid silver filigree that beveled the darkened oak or the flames themselves. Above the mantle rested a large portrait of her family, though from a time when she was much younger. Back when both her father and mother still had color to their silvered hair, and she was a much younger and more naive woman. She glanced up at the picture, and tried to remember how old she was when they had it painted. She had to have been in her teens, she thought, her youthful face and bright blue eyes standing out to her. She wondered how tired she looked now...

She shook her head and leaned back in the sofa and sighed aloud. This was to be the last night she'd spend at home for a time, and the work that waited for her back in Skyhold lingered threateningly on the horizon. There'd be less peace there, and certainly none like she experienced at home. Of course, Skyhold was peaceful, in a sense. A castle built atop a mountain and away from the cities of both Ferelden and Orlais would be peaceful. Still, it was not the environment that placed the pressure on her, but what it stood for. They had done much since the creation of the Inquisition, and undoubtedly there was much still left to do.

The Inquisition was in the minds of many, especially her own. Marceline closed her eyes in an attempt to find a measure of rest behind her eyelids, but she found none, only more thoughts.

At length, the door into the room opened behind her, then closed again, followed by a quiet, contemplative hum. It wasn't until they'd taken a few more steps inside that the entrant recognized that they weren't alone, however. "Oh, Lady Marceline. I'm sorry; I thought this room was empty. If you're resting, I can certainly go somewhere else." The Inquisitor was dressed down, wearing a loose white shirt and faded grey breeches with what seemed to be a patch on the knee. Her hair was unbound, falling in vaguely-disorganized waves down her back, a few flyaways suggesting she'd recently roused herself from bed. Her hand was wrapped around a ceramic mug, one of the plain ones the servants used. Steam wafted from the top of it; the scent of bergamot and honey made it obvious that it contained tea.

Tilting her head to the side, Estella swept her eyes first over Marceline's face, then took in the rest of her appearance with a sort of keenness that managed to remain far from sharp. "Unless... you might like some company?"

Marceline cracked open an eyelid and chuckled. She gestured toward a nearby seat with a waft of her hand, "Be my guest, if you wish. I am simply savoring the last few moments I may spend at home for a while," she added. There was an unconscious waver to her light smile that she felt, but could do nothing to stop.

Estella returned it like it hadn't faltered, sinking into an armchair and bracing her cup against the arm, shifting her fingers so that they were wrapped lightly around the simple curve of the handle. Her eyes moved momentarily to the fire, but they did not linger there long, instead finding the drawn curtains and running the length of the patterned purple suede. She gave the rich ornamental rug a bit of consideration before passing the low coffee table and fixing her eyes on the portrait.

A slight grimace crossed her face. "That looks like sitting for it was a pain," she said gesturing towards it with her chin and then shaking her head slightly. Settling herself more comfortably into the chair, she pulled her bare feet up underneath her and took a careful sip of her tea. "Very lovely, though. I suppose everyone tells you you take after Lady Gabrielle?"

"They do," Marceline answered in confirmation. "Even more so when I was younger," she added, gesturing toward the painting. "I was her little assistant then, which amounted to me carrying things for her and stamping the odd letter here and there," she laughed lightly at the memory. She perhaps thought she was more important than she truly was in the running of things back then. Always business-like in her demeanor as she went about her "duties", though she always had time to throw a smile her father's direction.

She readjusted herself in the sofa and continued to stare into the painting. "Believe it or not, I believe I inherited more of my father's reserved nature. Mother can be... quite difficult to dissuade when she desires something and has a tendency to go after it pretty fiercely," she said, with a laugh. She remembered the ruckus her mother used to raise in an attempt to gain the favorable deal when trading their goods. She doubted much had changed in recent years, she could imagine the fuss that she had to go through in order to get their wines served at the Winter Palace.

Not long after, her smile finally broke away into a frown. "I..." she hesitated for a moment, then shook her head and continued, "I worry for Pierre. I fear his upbringing was not as stable as mine and now," she said, leaning her head back to rest of the sofa, her eyes staring upward toward the white plastered ceiling. "I feel like I am just leaving him here. I..." She said, tilting her head so that she now looked at Estella.

"I worry," she admitted.

Estella pursed her lips, thinking that over and staring into her teacup as though it held some sort of answer. "Well, I don't think there's any need to worry about what kind of person Pierre's turning out to be," she said delicately, tracing her fingertip along the rim of the cup. "From what I've seen, he has a strong character, and he's almost an adult now." She took another swallow, exhaling heavily through her nose as she did.

"It's natural to worry about him, I'm sure, but... he'll be away from the fighting now, and safe. And I think you can trust him to be responsible." There she smiled a little, a subtle expression she might not have been aware of. "For what it's worth... I'd say his upbringing was quite stable. He has two parents who love him, and each other, and who have the means to live comfortably. That's... that's about as stable as it gets in the ways that really matter."

"Thank you," Marceline replied with genuine appreciation. Still, the words didn't help much and the frown returned. "But I just feel like I haven't been there enough for him, and here I am again, leaving him behind. I feel guilty for it. I wish I could take back with us, but it is as you said. He is safer here, and there is nothing in Skyhold for him either," she frowned, and shook her head. "No, I suppose that is not right. I do not want to take him back with us," she added.

"I wish I could stay here with him, and Micky, and my parents," she admitted with a subtle hang to her head. She loathed to return to Skyhold without the rest of her family. She chuckled again, though she failed to put any emotion into this one. "Truly? I find myself wishing that I did not have to go back. I feel guilty admitting it, but it's the truth," she rolled her head toward the nearby window and into the darkness past it. She could imagine what it looked like beneath the sun's light, grapevines stretching as far as the eye could see, with the rooftops of quaint homes dotting the vista. "It is peaceful here, but there? The Inquisition still has its share of fights to fight."

Estella curled her toes against the armchair, moving her cup to her knee, and pursed her lips. It took her a minute to respond, perhaps because she didn't know exactly how she should. "You don't," she said at last. "You don't have to stay here, if you don't want to." Her brows arched slightly; she met Marceline's eyes with her own. "You've helped the Inquisition for far longer than anyone expected it would last. Far longer than any agreement with Justinia could reasonably obligate you." She took a deep breath, but her expression didn't waver.

"You aren't a prisoner, Lady Marceline, and if you would rather be here than there, no one will stop you. You deserve to live the life that will make you happy, and the Inquisition isn't the kind of organization that will demand more of its people than they are willing to give. I won't let it be." Estella shifted her eyes to the side at last, settling them back on the fire. As though she had a sense of the gravity of what she'd just said, she added the rest in an even softer voice. "What you've done wouldn't be less because you needed to stop doing it."

"And how would I explain that to Pierre?" she replied. She then sighed and shook her head, feeling even more guilty that when she first began. "I apologize, I did not mean to make it sound as if I feel trapped or that I am unhappy with what we do," she added. If she truly feel like giving up her position, she doubted that either Estella or Leon would put up much resistance toward the idea. That was the type of people they were, and that was the type of organization Estella would want. "I understand what we do is important, and I also understand the danger Corypheus poses."

She was quiet for a moment after that, as she thought about it. "I cannot quit now," she said quietly. "We have come too far for me to quit now," she frowned, but nodded resolutely. Then she sneaked a smile and shook her head again. "I even doubt that Pierre would allow me to quit. Even if you were to leave me tomorrow, I would undoubtedly be along shortly because he would have talked me into it," she frowned, "I am afraid he has too much of his grandmother in him, when he has his mind set."

She fell quiet again, though this was a thoughtful silence she slipped into. It still felt too soon, too early. There were still some things she wished to say to her parents, and to Pierre. She frowned, and then turned toward Estella, her features more in line with her usual nature. "If I may make a request, however? I would like... More time. With my family. If you would allow it, could Micky and I have one more week?"

Estella was clearly surprised; her eyes rounded considerably and she blinked several times in succession. "Wh—of course you can. You don't need to ask me for something like that. Take another week. Take a month if you want to. We'll make sure the work doesn't fall too far behind in the meantime." She offered a smile, lifting the cup to her mouth one last time and finishing off the contents. Her exhale became a soft sigh, and she stood slowly.

"I suppose I should be getting back to bed." With her free hand, she pushed several tendrils of hair over her shoulder, clearly fighting to suppress a yawn. "You might consider doing the same, you know. A vacation shouldn't be all about your family. Be sure to take some time for yourself as well, okay? 'That's my only condition,' or however I'm supposed to abuse my authority in this situation." The smile grew momentarily, then faded.

"Ah yes milady Inquisitor, at your word," Marceline answered, mustering as much pomp and circumstance as she could from her sofa. She inclined her head enough for it to be considered a bow, and when she rose, a smile waited on her face. "Jests aside, I will. Micky and I will be along shortly but... I need this," she offered with a nod of her head.

"Estella? Before you go?" Marceline said, "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Marceline."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

0.00 INK

#, as written by The Valkyrie
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There, in the heart of them, sang a Lady radiant
And clad in armor of bright steel.
She paused her song to look upon Shartan,
And said to him: "All souls who take up the sword
Against Tevinter are welcome here.
Rest, and tell us of your battles."
-Canticle of Shartan 9:23
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The Riptide was smooth under her feet as it glided into the harbor. Estella stood at the very prow of the boat, watching the familiar line of docks get closer. The boom-chain across the slave statues hadn't been used in a very long time, but it wasn't necessary to create a very real sense of foreboding. A lot about Kirkwall could do that—perhaps, in time, when things were more peaceful and there were resources for such projects, Sophia might have them removed. But even the darkness of the city's visible history couldn't stop the flutter of anticipation in the Lady Inquisitor's belly.

Kirkwall. The place her life had changed forever.

Maybe that was a little bit dramatic, but that didn't stop it from being true. She'd come here half-dead, lost and alone. Certain that there was nothing for her in the world any longer, and that even if there had been anything, she wouldn't have deserved it. Because of what she'd done. Who she was. But somehow... the people she'd met here had given her a place to belong, people to belong with. The best parts of life, held out freely for her at every juncture, in patient hands that were willing to wait for her to decide it was okay for her to accept them. They'd made something out of her. Out of... not out of nothing, though she'd have thought so once. But out of someone broken. The city of chains had set her free.

Someone called out behind her, no doubt giving some signal to help guide the boat into port. Estella turned away from the docks in front of her, knowing that her old barracks were a mere stone's throw away, if she made the right turns. The temptation to visit there first was overwhelming, but she knew she couldn't do that. Instead, she headed starboard as the ship drifted into place, stopped by its anchor in the water, and the crew lowered the gangplank to the dock.

Rather than any large, official-looking greeting party assembled on the dock, the group from the Inquisition was met by a pair of Kirkwall city guards a comfortable distance on either side of a beardless dwarf. He was a familiar sight to Estella, a little less stocky than some of his kind, with golden blonde hair swept back from his face and kept in a short ponytail. He was dressed in his usual style, a longcoat with rolled up sleeves, and a shirt opened up halfway down his hairy chest. As ever, his uniquely advanced crossbow was slung across his back, his most precious possession.

"Stardust," he greeted amicably. "You're looking well. I figured all that saving the world would've chewed you up, but here you are, still in one piece. It's good to see you." He turned his attention to the others of the shore party as they made their way off the boat. "Varric Tethras, at your service. Queenie sent me to walk you up to Hightown. You're a little early; we might even beat her back to the Keep."

"Varric!" Estella smiled brightly. She'd not have guessed that he'd be leading the welcoming party, so to speak, but neither was she all that surprised. He always seemed to have a ear against every door, so to speak, and if anyone knew what was going on in Kirkwall better than he did these days, she'd be surprised. "It's good to see you, too. We got a nice wind on the sea, I suppose."

She paused long enough for the others to descend. "I'm sure the introductions will repeat like they always do, but this is Khari, Leon, SĂ©verine, and Lady Marceline. I'll save the titles for when they're really necessary." They certainly weren't right now—though she had no doubt they'd soon be in much more official company. If they were being taken straight to Hightown, it seemed there was little time to waste. "Lead on."

"Right this way," he said with a slight flourish of his hand. "I hope you all like stairs." The guards assigned to him kept at a reasonable distance to allow the visitors to walk alongside Varric if they wanted.

The city had changed in a number of subtle ways since Estella had last been there. The streets were cleaner in both the figurative and literal senses, though it could just be that any suspicious figures had enough sense to get out of sight when an Inquisition party and city guards came up the street. There was no hiding, however, that the bustle and activity in the city was higher now than it ever had been a few years ago, in the aftermath of all the chaos the rift between mage and templar caused. It seemed in the quiet afforded by peace Kirkwall became what it was meant to be again. A port city with connections to Orlais, Ferelden, and the other Marcher states, a hub of trade.

Varric hadn't been kidding about the stairs, though of course Estella had no need of the warning. Kirkwall was a very vertical city, and still unable to escape the correlation between altitude and prosperity. That said, there was noticeable improvement to Lowtown as well once they entered it properly, and no few passerby greeted Varric as he led them onwards.

"I'll give anyone who wants one a full tour once Queenie's done with you, but for now..." He paused at a crossroads, at the base of a much more impressive set of stairs leading steeply upwards towards the pale stone walls surrounding Hightown. "This here's the top of Lowtown. Foundry district to the west, Alienage to the east, docks to the south the way we came, and markets everywhere you look. If you'll look behind you," he waited for anyone who chose to do so, "you'll see my pride and joy. Temporary hideout of Wardens and Viscountesses alike."

There was a touch of melancholy to go along with the pride of his last words there, for reasons Estella did not need to guess at. Behind them was Varric's beloved watering hole, The Hanged Man. It seemed it too had seen some renovations, though it remained to be seen if the quality of the drinks had improved at all.

"You'll have to stop by for a game of Wicked Grace before you leave. Can't say I've had much of a challenge since you left, Stardust."

Estella's smile grew; she almost laughed. "Can't say I really have either, Varric. You might have to take it easy on me; I haven't needed a good graceface in a while."

He grinned at her, and gestured for them to follow again. "Alright, up we go."

Lady Marceline took the stairs easily, gliding upwardly behind the dwarf. "If you do not mind me asking, Ser Varric," she began, taking in the view as she spoke. "But if the Viscountess is not currently at the Keep, then where might she be?" She asked. "I understand she is a rather active leader," Marceline added. She appeared to ask out of personal curiosity than any official sense, and waited for the answer with a raised brow.

Varric laughed a bit awkwardly. "None of this ser business is necessary, first off." He didn't seem offended by it at all, however. "No matter what titles Queenie wants to give me, I'm no noble. Not here, anyway. As for her whereabouts, she took her shiny new citizen-army out beyond the walls for some training exercises. Getting the commoners and nobility to run some drills side by side. We should catch them on their way back in."

Khari had mostly been listing slightly off to the side, untroubled by the number of stairs and using the opportunity to take in a place she'd never been before. At the mention of a citizen army and drills, however, her attention returned predictably enough to the group and the conversation. She clearly hadn't been tuning it out entirely. “A militia? Last I heard, Kirkwall had a city guard and some famous mercs, discounting the criminal guilds. Starting up an army's a pretty bold move for a midsized Marcher city." From her tone, it was clearly boldness she personally appreciated.

Varric took a brief moment to make another appraisal of Khari, deciding something. "I'd say Qunari armies and mage-templar wars have convinced this city it could use something a little more formidable, Red. For defensive purposes only, of course. I hear that was something Queenie repeatedly had to convince some representatives from Ostwick of." That was unsurprising. The Free Marcher states all dutifully watched one another, wary of any move that could be seen as a power grab. The building of an army was certainly something that would cause some alarm.

"With any luck the city will never need the army, and we'll get along fine with our mercs and guards. For now it's a nice team building exercise. Even got a few elves in the infantry. Her Excellence turns away no volunteers, but that's no surprise. She's spent more time in Lowtown than the rest of the nobility combined."

Next to Estella, Leon reached up to scratch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't showing it, but the stairs might have been wearing on him a little more than the others. Understandable, considering how recently he'd been on the cusp of death—Estells understood that the sword he'd been stabbed with had only barely missed his heart. "Defensive or not, I would be unsurprised if this proved to be the beginning of a trend in standing armies for the Free Marches," he remarked thoughtfully. "And that will get just about everyone's attention."

It would certainly get Tevinter's, Estella thought. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing by any means, and no doubt Sophia had weighed all the factors very carefully. The possible implications spun out in her thoughts, but she put them aside for now. They were here to help with a more immediate problem, it seemed like, and though she'd never not be concerned with her friends and this place that had done so much for her, there was a time for everything.

"And how have you been yourself, Varric? The Hanged Man's looking... nicer."

"Not too much, I hope," he answered with a laugh. "We've still got to fit in with the rest of Lowtown. But it's been good, these last few years. Turns out there's time for productivity when there's less excitement. Aside from running The Hanged Man, Queenie's named me one of her advisors. She can't escape the Keep as much as she used to, so she makes use of me to keep her up to date on what Lowtown needs. It's been a good deal." The two of them went back a number of years. When Estella had first arrived in Kirkwall Sophia had actually been living in The Hanged Man.

"And of course there's been more time to write. Got a few things with my editor I think you might be interested in. I'll make sure Skyhold gets copies." It seemed they were finally reaching the top of the stairs. SĂ©verine gave Leon a subtly concerned look, but made no mention of it, instead turning her eyes on the Hightown market.

It was more colorful than before, with many stalls that would not have been out of place in Val Royeaux for their lavishness. Of course, Kirkwall received traders from all over Thedas, and nearly everything from jewelry to exotic northern fruits could be found in Hightown. They hadn't come to shop, however, and Varric led them up the last few smaller flights of stairs, onto the most impressive streets the city had to offer.

Before them was the intentionally intimidating approach to the Viscountess's Keep, a wide, stone-paved road flanked by rows of white pillars and covered walkways on other side, leading up to yet more wide steps that would take them into the keep itself, the towers of which soared into the air. To their right was Hightown's main street, lined with rows of trees casting merciful shade to protect citizens from the harsh summer sun. Beyond would be the chantry building, fully reconstructed after its destruction at the outbreak of the mage-templar war, though Sophia had elected a more modest design for the city's place of worship.

Far to their left they could see the city gates, which were just now opening. The city guards stepped aside for a column of riders fully armored in shining steel, their horses similarly geared. The riders came in at a trot, carrying lances with tips pointing straight up to the clouds. They had a definite aura about them, perhaps not the same deadly confidence a fully trained group of chevaliers carried, but all the same a certain pride that conveyed that they were formidable.

At their head was the Viscountess, armored head to toe and unmistakable atop a white destrier. An attendant immediately approached to receive her lance and helm, but her hand-and-a-half sword remained sheathed across her back. Spotting the party Varric had retrieved, she dismounted and handed off her reins, approaching them on foot. Her golden hair was bound up in several braids around her head to restrain it underneath the helmet, and a gleam of sweat could be seen drying across her brow. She pulled off her gloves and tucked them underneath her belt as she came before them.

"Looks like I made it back just in time," she said, smiling at them all. "Thank you for escorting them, Varric."

"It was my pleasure." Varric bowed perhaps more deeply than was necessary before he turned to Estella. "I leave you in most capable hands. See you around, Stardust." He grinned, and took his leave.

"It's good to see you again, Estella, Lady Marceline. SĂ©verine." She nodded in greeting to the templar captain, who saluted and bowed her head in return. "Ser Leonhardt." Sophia had met most of them briefly when she visited Skyhold, but it would seem she hadn't met the last member of their group yet, judging by how her smile grew slightly. "And you must be Khari. I don't believe we've met, but I've heard many good things about you from the Lady Inquisitor." She offered her hand for Khari to shake.

Khari grinned, accepting the handshake with no reservations whatsoever. “Stel would say good things about a bereskarn. It's nice to meet you, Lady Sophia." She blinked. “Unless I can drop the 'Lady' part, in which case it's great." She seemed pretty confident that Sophia wouldn't mind. Probably because that's how Estella always referred to her.

"Of course," she conceded, turning to see the ranks of Kirkwall's infantry passing through the gate behind the last of the mounted troops. Whoever had outfitted them had done excellent work. They didn't appear as any cobbled-together militia, with each soldier only wearing what he or she could scrounge up before being sent off to battle. The majority of their protection came from mail, with some added plate guarding the most vulnerable areas, and hardened leather covering the rest. Those armed with crossbows went without the plate, but all troops were equipped with sturdy steel helmets.

It didn't match the impressive plate the members of the city guard wore, but then, there were much fewer of them. They walked in alongside the infantry, though as the last ranks filed in and the gates were closed behind them all were allowed to disperse. It would seem their weapons and armor were their own to take back to their homes. Obviously pleased, Sophia gestured for the others to follow her. "Come, we should get inside, have something to drink. There's much to discuss, and not all of it pleasant."

As they made their way towards the Keep a rider made his way alongside them. He was plainly one of the nobles, sitting with an ease in the saddle that implied years of experience. He was also extremely handsome, with shoulder-length waves of thick brown hair, and the way he carried himself said that he both knew it, and enjoyed it. Not unlike Ves, in that respect. He smiled down at Sophia. "I think that went very well, Excellency. Perhaps we could discuss it tonight, over dinner?"

"Perhaps. If other matters do not keep me." She glanced at the Inquisition party walking beside her. "Everyone, this is Lord William Alston, Baron of Rose Hall." Indeed, the flower had been emblazoned on the face of the shield across his back.

"And Captain of the Queen's Companions," he added, his smile morphing to a grin.

"An unofficial name, at least for the moment." Sophia made the correction with some irritation. It wasn't hard to tell that this William had been using it for some time, and also ignoring her reservations about it.

"You're with the Inquisition," he pointed out, noting the crests a few of them wore. His eyes then went to Sophia. "I wasn't aware we were receiving them."

"They'll be staying a short time," Sophia assured him. "Lady Inquisitor Estella is a personal friend of mine, and of Kirkwall's. She needs no one's permission to return here."

"Lady Inquisitor," William repeated, as though he'd only just now seen Estella walking with them. He dismounted, the group coming to a temporary halt as he bowed. "Forgive my rudeness, I did not recognize you. It's an honor."

Estella would hardly have expected anyone to recognize her on sight. It wasn't as though she presented herself in such a way as to make her position obvious. Distracted by the mention of 'Queen's Companions,' she almost took too long to catch up with the rest of the conversation, but her reply was timely enough. "No need to apologize, milord," she replied easily, "and certainly no need to be so formal. As Sophia mentioned, I'm a friend, and we're here mostly because of that." She liked to think she was getting a little better at dealing with this sort of response, though—the first few times had felt a lot more awkward than this one did.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. "Ah, wonderful." He looked back to Sophia. "Allow me to get out of your way, then."

"We'll speak later," she promised. "But you've done well. The cavalry are looking very promising."

He bowed his thanks, before turning to smoothly step up into the saddle again, and turn his horse around, rejoining some of the others of his group. Mercifully no one else approached or stopped Sophia on their way in, and it wasn't long before they were in the cooler shade of the Keep's interior.

Unlike the rest of the city, the Keep looked more or less the same as it had before, with no great change in the decor from the way Sophia's father had left it. Long rugs of crimson trimmed in gold covered pathways of dark stone. The entryway had always had a cold feel to it, but it was difficult to avoid with how high the ceiling was, how massive the pillars were. There was a new falcon statue against one of the walls, in the direction of the guard quarters.

Sophia led them towards her office rather than the throne room, taking them left and up a short flight of stairs. On the balcony her seneschal, Bran, awaited her, though he merely nodded in greeting upon seeing she was accompanied by several guests. He opened one of the doors and let them in.

She kept her workplace tidy and well organized. Ample space greeted them as they first entered, room to meet with guests such as themselves, while a smaller table with two chairs around was tucked into the near right corner for speaking with just one visitor more personally. The floor was covered by a large square rug, deep burgundy in color, probably Antivan. One of the walls was lined with bookshelves, each one filled to the brim with tomes that looked to be either historical or informational in nature. On the opposite wall was a prominently displayed painting, the style of it immediately familiar to Estella. The woman portrayed could only be Sophia's mother, judging by the likeness.

"I'm afraid water's all I have on hand at the moment," Sophia said, pointing to a pitcher and cups on one of the corner tables. "I'd have prepared a better greeting for you, but I didn't want to make a show of your arrival. This matter with the red lyrium is somewhat sensitive, and if word spread about why you were coming we might lose an opportunity." She unbuckled her sword sheath, propping it against her desk before she took a seat in the chair behind. "Ash can explain the situation more fully, he should be along shortly."

It did not take him long to arrive either. His footsteps were heard before he was, and after a muffled exchange with Bran behind the door, he allowed him in. Ashton strode into the office with his bow unstrung and hanging from his quiver, which also hung from two fingers over his shoulder. He did not arrive alone either, a stalwart looking Mabari hound padding gently at his side. He looked better than Estella had last seen him. A faint smile even managed to linger in the corner of his lips. His hair was a mess, undoubtedly the helmet that he carried under his other arm was to blame, and his plate still bore evidence of activity, with a fine layer of dust on the shoulders, and sand on his boots.

He inclined his head toward their visitors, the faint smile growing stronger with their sight. "Stel," he greeted first, before turning toward the rest of them, "Uh, Inquisition." The Mabari fixed her gaze on Estella as well, before she loped up to her and stared up expectantly, panting softly and wagging what little of a tail she had. Ashton chuckled as he made his way toward an empty chair and dumped his gear into it. "Think Snuffy wants some love, Stel," he laughed, pouring himself a glass of water.

And Estella was happy to give it, kneeling down to put herself on a level with the hound and reaching over to scrub her hands over Snuffy's neck and back, pausing to scratch at a particularly favorite spot over one of her hips. "And how are you, Serah Princess von Snufflynose?" she asked, voice pitched higher than usual.

Snuffy loved it. Her spine straightened and her eyes closed as she gave into the scratching. It caused Ash to grin from the sight of it. "Didn't miss much, did I?" he asked, before taking a drink.

"Not yet," Estella replied, giving Snuffy and her many unnecessary titles one last pat before she stood again. "We were hoping you could give us the rundown on the situation, actually." She offered a half-formed smile. "It's good to see you, but seems best to save the catching up for after the rest of this."

"Alas, duty calls. As always," he said with a mock bow, before taking one last drink. He then made his way over to Sophia's desk, and chose an unoccupied corner to take a seat. "You already know we've run into some issues involving red lyrium," he said, pausing for a second to reflect. "Well, recent issues, I should say," he amended with a shake of his head. Undoubtedly he was referring back to Meredith and her red lyrium induced madness those few years back. He shrugged and continued.

"Well, the gist is we believe that red lyrium is being smuggled into the city," he laid out flat for them. He let that sink in for a moment, before he continued and explained further. "Thanks to Varric and his many, many, eyes and ears in the city, we were able to track down and apprehend a Red-- alive, believe it or not," he sighed deeply at that and shook his head again, "It... was not easy, though I bet you already knew that," he added with a half smile.

Snuffy had drifted away from Estella by now, and took up a seat on the other side of Ashton. He let his hand dangle loosely so that it rested on top of her head, where he absently scratched as he spoke. "She was part of a crew that was trying to bring the red lyrium into the city," he glanced at Sophia before returning back to the Inquisition. "We believe that her people haven't noticed her capture yet, so our thoughts were that if we were able to get her to cooperate... Well, it would make our job rooting out the rest of the smuggling operations a hell of a lot easier."

He leaned back after than, using a hand to prop himself against Sophia's desk. "My bet is on bad stuff going down in Darktown--well, worse then usual," he added with a shrug. "We just don't know where to aim without any useful information yet." He scratched at the shadow that was starting to grow in on his chin. At least it appeared he was shaving regularly again. "We're kind of pressed for time too, with the Red that we have," he added with a raise of his brow.

"Turn the Red Templar against her side before she dies, then?" SĂ©verine stood with arms crossed, taking in the situation. "Well, she's already a traitor, perhaps she'll be one twice over."

"It may be that this is new ground for all of us," Sophia pointed out. "But I trust you all to handle this with care, and act decisively to do what is best for Kirkwall. I'd go with you, but sadly I can't be spending my time rooting out evil in Darktown anymore. Still, I do the best I can from here, and that means sending you." She pushed back to her feet. "If you need any rest, feel free to take a moment here in the Keep. When you're ready, Ash will take you to the Gallows to meet with the prisoner. Cullen will be waiting for you there."

"We won't fail, Excellency," SĂ©verine promised, pressing a gauntlet to her heart.

Estella nodded. It wouldn't be an easy task, from the sounds of it, but... they could do this. "Leave it to us, Sophia."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

0.00 INK

#, as written by Talisman
It wasn't long after that Ashton had guided the Inquisition back down the numerous stairs from the keep and to the dock that faced the Gallows. After a short talk with the ferrymaster, they were all presently waiting patiently on the barge that would take them across the water to the Gallows. Ashton glanced upward at the towers that waited for the across the water and shook his head. They always looked so ominous as he approached them, though fortunately he had gotten used to them by now, on account of him basically working there. Still, he couldn't help but wonder about the thoughts crossing the minds of the others. Stel would have been used to it as well, he supposed, but the others...

"Heh, I'm sorry for the oppressive vibe the Gallows give. I should probably talk to Sophia about painting it a more cheerful color, or maybe changing the name," he chuckled. As he spoke, Snuffy had ventured away from his side and currently stood at the bow of the barge, watching their course resolutely and dutifully. "Though at this point, I think it might be too ingrained with the rest of the city. And besides, who wants to risk breaking the law and ending up getting sent to a place called the Gallows?" He added with a waggle of brows.

Lady Marceline glanced between him and the place in question before acquiescing with a nod of her head. "It is certainly a... deterrent," she agreed.

"It's no prettier on the inside, either," SĂ©verine commented, though the look she gave one of the towers was somewhat strange. Not fondness, but... respect, perhaps. As a former Kirkwall templar, she too had spent a great deal of time on the island fortress. "No sense hiding what it is, though. A prison and a dungeon, and a formidable one at that. Some of the slave imagery could use an overhaul, no doubt, but the fortress itself will always be strong, and I have a feeling the name will stay stuck, too."

Some of the slave imagery she mentioned went along with Meredith. The red lyrium idol piece she'd worked into her sword was powerful enough to animate the slave statues meant to intimidate all who passed through, and their subsequent destruction meant that their metal could be melted down and put to use elsewhere.

A group of templars awaited their arrival on the docks, their leader wearing a pelt of dark fur of some kind across his shoulders, hands resting on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. Cullen Rutherford was lucky to be as well liked as he was in the city. A more hated Knight-Commander would have been kicked out by the nobility already, but even though Cullen had supported Meredith until her madness became apparent, he then did what he could to bring her down, and restore the city afterwards, a fact not lost on its people.

SĂ©verine was the first off the barge when it came in reach of the dock. Cullen offered her a smile, which she returned in full along with a salute. "Knight-Commander," she greeted. "We're here to help."

"Welcome home, Knight-Captain," he swept his eyes over the others as they disembarked. "And thank you for coming on short notice, Inquisition. High Seeker Leonhardt," his gaze settled on the tall Ander, "SĂ©verine's written about your efforts. I'm glad the Inquisition has you at its head. I believe there are some matters we should discuss, once this business is dealt with."

The Inquisition's own commander inclined his head, a mild smile on his face. "Knight-Commander. I look forward to it." He touched a hand to his chest just briefly, but did not divert the topic from the matters at hand.

"If you'll follow me," Cullen said, leading them off the docks and into the Gallows proper. There was a certain emptiness to it now, like the fortress was half dead already and gasping for air. There were likely a lot of factors contributing to that. The Circle tower had been unoccupied for years, any tomes or artifacts of value in its halls long since cleared out. Neither Cullen's templars nor the city guard had any use for it, so it simply sat in silence. The Gallows themselves were not as filled with prisoners as they had been in the years of Meredith's rule, or Marlowe Dumar's before her. Crime had been driven down, and though it could never be eliminated altogether, it had been a long time since a group like the Coterie had held any real power in Kirkwall.

The Knight-Commander took them into the dungeons, the prison cells, which were housed in the largest tower rather than beneath the earth, and operated by a constant shift from the guard, while the others were stationed in the Viscountess's Keep. Ashton had walked their halls a number of times, and not always as a guard. Cullen didn't take them up to the general holding cells, but rather to those in the base of the tower, the darkest cells with the smallest flames to provide light. Isolation cells, for the especially troublesome prisoners. It went without saying that a red templar would qualify as such.

Cullen stopped outside of the cell in question, which was guarded by a pair of city guards, and turned to face the others. "We haven't been able to get so much as a name. She won't speak to any templars, and so far the city guard haven't fared much better. It might be best if you wait here with me, SĂ©verine."

She couldn't help but show some disappointment, but nodded her acceptance. "As you say, Knight-Commander."

"Any questions before you begin? She can't hear us out here."

Leon hummed, a low rumble of sound, then crossed his arms. "What have you tried so far?" he asked. "And how have her conditions been, in general? It would help to know where we're starting." He sounded like someone who'd conducted more than his fair share of interrogations. Probably had, being a Seeker and all.

"The Gallows are not kind," Cullen admitted immediately. "Normally smuggling wouldn't put a prisoner on this level, but we can't put her in more open cells. The red lyrium, it... well, I'm sure you've already experienced the effects of exposure to it. We can't subject the other prisoners to that, so we were forced to put her here." He obviously wasn't fond of the result, but it was clear that there was nothing to be done about it.

"We haven't tried any physical means of interrogation," he continued. "Not that she hasn't suffered anyway. She grows sicker by the day without red lyrium. Rarely keeps any food down. At this rate, it seems she'll be dead within the week. This has made getting information from her problematic. Likely she doesn't see the point in doing much of anything."

"Grim," SĂ©verine remarked. "It sounds like a rough hand isn't what's needed here, if she would be welcoming of death."

"Then maybe we try a gentle one," Leon concluded, turning his eyes for a moment to Stel. Admittedly, she was a natural choice for such an approach—she didn't have the intimidating appearance most of the others shared.

She noticed, brows knitting, but then nodded slowly. "I'll help however everyone thinks is best, but this is Kirkwall. It's up to Ash how we go in, I think."

"You guys are the experts on all this red business. Our usual tactics haven't worked, so I'll follow your lead on this," Ashton stated. It wasn't like they were interrogating an undisciplined bandit who'd sell out his mates for a slice of bread, after. The templar was trained and drilled, and chances were wouldn't spill anything unless she thought it was her idea. She wasn't their usual customer, that much was certain. Even Cullen's templars couldn't get anything out of her--the Inquisition was their best bet.

Ashton leaned forward a bit, casting his gaze downward to the faithful hound that had been listening intently to their exchange. "Think you can stand guard out here and keep these two in line for me?" he asked, tossing a wink in his guards' direction. Snuffy accepted the order easily, though the lingering gaze that she'd given him told him that she wasn't entirely excited about it. He smiled as he watched her take up a watchful position in front one of the guards.

"Welp, shall we?" He asked the others, gesturing toward the door leading into the cell.Well

"Good luck," Cullen said, and the guards opened the door.

A single little torch burned on the wall left of the door, but it didn't even cast enough light to illuminate the corners of the room. The back right corner was quite obviously where their prisoner kept herself, judging by the fact that she herself was something of a light source. The woman sat against a wall curled into a round shape, stripped of her armor, wearing only the shirt and pants that had been underneath the disguise they'd caught her in.

As Ashton had heard it, her red lyrium corruption wasn't all that bad yet, but it was still difficult to look at, especially when the person bearing it was no longer threatening. The most notable bits of red lyrium were the ones that had begun to grow from the left side of her face, along her jawline and up her cheek, ending somewhere near the temple and eating away at the hairline there. Her hair was inky black, almost invisible in the darkness, thick and long, going down to the middle of her back.

Her color was terribly pale, and her skin seemed... thin, almost deathly so, though perhaps it was simply an illusion cast by the fact that many of the veins running down her arm were quite clearly visible, pulsating with a low red light in a way that was clearing causing her almost constant pain. She scratched at her side near the ribs with her hand, both arms crossed around her and tucking her knees into her chest. She looked young, no more than mid twenties. She'd lost a remarkable amount of weight since they'd captured her. Her body was consuming itself, it seemed, in the absence of any red lyrium.

She shook, either from cold chills or pain, but probably not fear. Her eyes shot up to the guests in her cell as soon as they entered. One iris was a hazel green color, while the one closer to the lyrium was turning scarlet. Her cracked and dry lips remained sealed as the door was shut behind Ashton. It wasn't long before they could feel the red lyrium emanate from her in waves. Unpleasant, to say the least.

“Shit." That was Khari, muttering the word under her breath in a tone caught somewhere between pity and revulsion. Not loud enough to make it much past Ashton, though, and she clearly didn't intend to do much of the talking herself, planting her back against the near wall and crossing her arms loosely over herself.

Stel didn't react too much, either to the captive's appearance or the sick feeling of red lyrium in the room. Her face was that deliberately-neutral one she wore for card games at the Hanged Man, the one she'd learned from Rilien, who almost always had it on. She pulled in a long, slow breath through her nose, then carefully moved to the same corner of the cell as the red templar, her motions smooth, deliberate, and careful. She stopped about three feet from the prisoner, then lowered herself until she was sitting, crossing her legs beneath her and resting her hands on her knees.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly.

"You're the Inquisitor," she said, her voice incredibly quiet, only able to be heard due to the heavy silence in the cell, only interrupting by the sounds of their breathing, shifting of their gear, and the low burn of the little torch on the wall. "I... I saw you, at Therinfal. We were to capture you, k-kill the others. It—" She turned her head into her shoulder and coughed violently. A wet sound, and when she turned back her lips were stained red. She wiped at them ineffectually.

"No one should know my name."

Stel brought her hands together in her lap, keeping her eyes on where they folded together for a moment before lifting them instead to the prisoner's eyes. "You don't have to tell me if you really think so," she said, tipping her head a bit to the side. "But I'd like to know. And I'd like you to call me Estella. Seems to me the problem started because we forgot to think of each other as people with names and lives and things to live for." She didn't put any finer a point on it than that, though, leaving the statement to sit in the still air between them.

"I have none of those things." Her hand reached up to tug away strands of hair that the red lyrium on the side of her head was encroaching on. "Just this song, now." A hint of a melancholy smile appeared. Her teeth were yellowed and decaying as badly as the rest of her. "It was sweet, once. Now it's like dagger tips running along the inside of my skull. I wish the daggers would just cut deeper, and be done with it."

Her eyes wandered to the others in the room, and she took in a long, shaky breath. "You can call me Em."

"Em," Stel repeated, nodding slightly. She shifted slightly where she sat, the only indication she'd given that the red lyrium was uncomfortable to be around. "The Guard-Captain said you were captured on the docks here in the city. Can you tell me what you were doing there?"

That was something that hadn't yet become clear, even after Varric's people had identified her as a Red. She'd been going somewhere, and clearly with purpose, but she didn't have any lyrium on her person, so she clearly wasn't transporting it herself.

She thought for a minute, then apparently deemed it okay to respond. "Leaving." She swallowed, the action clearly causing her some pain. "The others said I'd stayed too long, moved too much, taken too much. I had to go, or... this would happen. Guess it was too late." She smiled again, her eyes falling to her knees. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead, though she still appeared to be shaking from the cold.

"It's how the operation works. Never the same people for too long. Except for me. The weak link." Her eyes went to Ashton. "There's a red storm building beneath your feet. Meredith's vengeance. You might think it's your city. But you'll think differently when the Red Templars wash over it."

Ashton frowned and leaned heavily against the back wall. He felt tired just hearing the words slide out of her mouth. Same old song he thought to himself. He wondered if they would ever be free of Meredith's influence. Or if Kirkwall would ever not be in danger from within. He sighed and shrugged, the usual mirth in his character replaced by the veteran stoicism he'd earned through out the years.

"I doubt it," he answered flatly. It didn't matter if the city was finally at peace, or if the flames of battle were consuming it, Kirkwall would always be his city, his home. It always had been, no matter what she faced, or what she will face. If the red was expecting him to answer with anything more, then she'd be sorely disappointed. He didn't have a whole lot to say to threats, and he trusted Estella to be able to extract the information they needed.

Estella expelled a breath through her nose. It was slightly uneven, something he might not have noticed but for the utter quiet that pervaded otherwise. "Is that... something you want, Em? For this to go through, for the Red Templars to take Kirkwall?"

"I can't remember wanting anything other than the red for..." She let out a breath, her eyes listing sideways for a moment before she righted them again. "I don't know how long its been. I should be like the others by now. Pillars sprouting from my back, not these little pebbles." She then succumbed to another bout of racking coughs, the shaking growing so violent that she tipped over onto her side, cheek pressed into the wet, dirty floor beneath them. Splotches of blood further dampened it.

"I can't—" It was all she could manage for the moment, as tears streamed from her eyes, her limbs tense and locked like a drawn back arm of a catapult.

Stel hissed, a sympathetic sound, and lifted herself to her knees, shuffling over towards Em and carefully laying a hand on one of her shoulders, deliberately avoiding any actual red lyrium crystals, no doubt. Her brows knit and her eyes closed, a line appearing in the skin just above her nose as she focused on... something. Whatever she was doing didn't have any visible effect, not even the soft blue light Nos's healing magic had once caused.

A few moments later, the coughing stopped, as did the shaking. Em moved her face from the small pool of blood that had formed there, slowly and steadily rising back to her seated position, obviously confused. She blinked several times, the look in her eyes more clear now than it had been before. More focused. "The song... it hasn't been this quiet since..."

She didn't need to finish the sentence, and instead looked at Stel's hand. "What did you do to me?"

A thin smile preceded the answer. "What I could. Just a little bit of magic is all." She retracted her hand, settling back on her legs and resting the palms of her hands on her thighs. "Is there anything you can tell us about what's coming? The storm?"

She seemed almost to answer, but then hesitated, confused. Debating internally, or perhaps questioning if her current line of thought was correct, or if all the previous ones for years were correct instead. In the end, her decision seemed clear, but still conflicted. "It's brewing below the surface. In Darktown. Places the Coterie once owned, sitting abandoned. Now red. I followed orders, went where I was directed on the docks, received a box, delivered it to Darktown. They prepare it, make it small, and hand it off to others."

An idea struck her, one that required her to take in a breath before she could say it. "We could do it tonight, if the spot hasn't changed. Go there, kill the one that arrives in my place, wait for the shipment. Let me take the box, and follow me. I'll take you to the red hole, get you inside. You kill them all, destroy their operation." She swallowed, a tremor running through her that was obviously nervousness more than chill or pain. "I have a condition, though."

"What's the condition?" Stel looked like she had an idea, and from the grim expression she wore, she didn't much seem to like it, but whatever the hypothesis was, she did not make it aloud.

"You have to kill me," she said, sounding very certain of it. "If not you, someone. After it's over. There's too much red in that place, I—I may even try to kill you. And I'm dead already. The templars would kill me for betraying them. The red templars will kill me for helping you. And the red itself is killing me, with either its presence or its absence." She almost reached to grab Stel, but stopped halfway, withdrawing the red lyrium encrusted hand when she realized the danger. "Make an end of it, and make it quick."

Pressing her lips together, Stel nodded slightly. It seemed likely that this was exactly what she'd guessed. "I... understand," she said quietly. "And I'll do what you ask myself, if you help us as you've promised."

Ashton pushed himself off of the wall at that, though he still kept his arms crossed. He wasn't exactly ecstatic about the idea of trusting a red, but with nothing else to go on, it was a chance that he believed they needed to take. It was unlikely they'd find another red templar that'd be willing to help them, even harder than trying to capture another alive. He left his frown visible to everyone in the cell, but nodded. "It's an opportunity," he admitted, "One we probably won't find again."

He turned toward Leon and spoke, "I'll let Sophia know and gather a few of my finest. Stel?" He added, flicking his attention in her direction. A small smile formed in the corner of his mouth. "Bet some of the Lions would want to be there too," he said.

"I don't doubt it," she said, a faint smile appearing over her face for just a moment before it dropped, and she stood. "I'll collect whoever's available, and then we'll come back for you, Em. Shouldn't be too long." She glanced between the others for a moment, then nodded. "We all need to be at the docks by nightfall."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Kurokiku
Khari was pretty sure Sev was right about Sophia's feelings on the matter. Not that she really had to deal with it; the others were doing most of the breaking of bad news. The elf stood off to one side of the Viscountess's office, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed over her middle. Even for a spacious study, it was pretty full of people, most of them bristling with weapons: their little adventure party, minus the Lions and Ashton's people, but along with Marcy, the Knight-Commander, and of course Sophia herself.

They'd just gotten to the part about the hideout in Darktown and their discovery there. It probably sucked to learn that an entire cell of reds had been using your city to move their shitty lyrium around for long enough to be that established, with their own supply lines and regular deliveries. She didn't know the whole story about what had happened here with Meredith and all that, but there was no way red lyrium wasn't a sore subject around here.

To her credit, Sophia seemed to be taking the news evenly, evaluating it with a level head. It was probably one of the worst things she could wake up to in the morning. Unlike the day before, she looked the part of the noblewoman rather than the warrior. Free Marcher style wasn't nearly as extravagant as Orlesian, but it was still remarkable that anyone could look so put together after what was undoubtedly a nerve wracking night of waiting, and an early morning filled with bad news.

"And there were uncorrupted templars among them?" she asked.

Sev nodded. "Yes, Excellency. A few that showed no signs of change from the red lyrium, assuming they'd taken any at all." She hesitated then, looking to Cullen. "I'm worried they may have infiltrated your ranks. Outside of the Inquisition, this is the other seat of templar power in the south. They must hope to topple it."

"I trust most of my templars," Cullen responded. "But certainly not all. Corruption won't be allowed to spread in the ranks. I'll make sure of it."

"Your injury," Sophia said, pointing out the slash Stel had taken to the neck. "This was the red templar captive's work? Did you learn anything from her, apart from the operation she was a part of?"

Estella nodded, probably to both things. "She said the leader of the Red Templars was someone named Hawke." Her fingers moved almost automatically to the wound, which was already scabbing over thanks to the potion, though it would probably leave some form of scar. "SĂ©verine seemed to know who he was?" Her eyes moved to the Knight-Captain as she said that.

Cullen reacted to the name as well, though it was Sev who answered. "He was a Knight-Captain here in Kirkwall, before I left. Around my age. An intense sort, certainly none too happy, but..." She looked to Cullen for an explanation. "What happened to him?"

"Carver Hawke left the Order almost a year ago. He was... troubled, I think, before he left. Something to do with Elias Pike's return to Kirkwall. He harbored a particular hatred for that mage. I know many of us did, but for him it was personal."

"His sister," Sev said. "Bethany, I think it was. A twin sister. She was a mage in the tower. I remember him saying it was why he became a templar. She died in the chaos after the Chantry explosion."

"And Carver blamed Pike for it," Sophia concluded. "I saw justice done to him as best I could myself. Was he not satisfied with that?"

"I'm not sure," Cullen said. "He visited the Gallows often while Pike was awaiting his fate there. I've no idea what they spoke about, but Hawke became increasingly distant. It was perhaps a week or two after Pike's death that he left the city."

Khari felt her lips pull into a frown at that. “Pike was a pretty unstable piece of shit." And that was putting it mildly. “I can't see him convincing anyone of anything, especially not someone who hated his guts. Unless he was trying to convince him that he needed to go to crazy extremes to stop even crazier mages. Dunno anyone who could make a better case for that than him."

Sophia nodded her agreement. "Regardless of how it happened, at least our enemy has a face and a name now," she said. "This isn't something we can fight with subtlety anymore, I don't think. The lyrium you found, it was destroyed?"

"As best we could," Sev said. "It's a dangerous process that can potentially affect a templar doing it, so only those we trust should be allowed anywhere near it." Cullen nodded in approval of that. "You might also speak with Varric, see if any of his contacts could provide an alternate method."

"Good idea. Either way, there will be more found that needs disposing of." She made sure to catch her guard captain's eyes next. "Ash, we have work to do. The smuggling needs to stop, first of all. Heavy patrols of the docks will make things difficult for them, and I'd rather scare them off than try to catch them and risk letting more lyrium slip into Darktown." She expelled a breath, obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation.

"And I think it's time we started kicking some doors down. Work with Varric, get whatever information you can on other possible red lyrium sites. When we have leads I want to hit them hard and fast. I think the guard and the Lions together should be up for the task. Agreed?"

"Agreed. I'll get with my Lieutenants and Sergeants and we'll draw up a few action plans for you to review," he said. It appeared that he already had a few ideas stirring around in his head. In fact, Sophia's admissions seemed to invigorate the man, and he seemed eager to get to work. "That being said, we will definitely ramp up patrols in the docks. I had already intended to have Sammy and his unit put some eyes in the shadows, but I'll also get Vesper to get some muscle there as well. Hard and fast," he agreed with a confident smile.

"Any suggestions from the Inquisition?" he asked, turning his eyes toward them.

"Don't touch the lyrium directly, and be extremely careful when you handle it. Including what's on their bodies. It nearly killed one of ours, even in liquid form." Leon said as much with a shrug. "Also, any time you know you're facing reds, bring three men for every one you're expecting, and then more on top of that for the ones you aren't."

"Whatever they're planning, they won't find Kirkwall an easy target," Sophia promised. "We're far more capable of defending ourselves than we ever have been in the past." A thought seemed to occur to her, and she stood. "I refuse to let this dominate my entire day, as well. There's something I'd like you to see, Inquisition." Her eyes found Khari. "From what I've heard, I think you'll like it."

"Perhaps Leon and I could speak to you alone, Knight-Commander?" Sev asked, glancing at Leon before her eyes returned to Cullen. "There are some templar matters to discuss, among other things." Cullen nodded.

They split up from there, with Sophia leading them out of her office and out of her keep, while Leon, Sev, and Cullen remained behind to discuss their templar matters, and Ash set to work on his duties as guard captain. Sophia took Khari, Stel, and Marcy down the steps and away from the keep, along one of Hightown's narrower streets. "I've heard you're aiming to become a chevalier," she said to Khari. "Not the easiest field to break into. How's your progress been?"

Khari hummed. “I mean, still kinda waiting for an opportunity to actually break the, uh, ceiling, if you know what I mean, but... the training's going really well, I think." She offered Sophia a grin. “I'm not sure if it was Stel or Lucien that told you that, but either way, I'm pretty damn flattered."

"Maybe they both did," she said, returning the smile. "You have a way of making impressions on people. We have no chevaliers here, but between you and me, I am rather proud of what we've created. I think it's brought the entire city closer together. Through here." She led them to a wide gate flanked by city guards, who pushed them open for their Viscountess with a salute.

It was a training facility, quite simply, with a wide open courtyard of soft dirt, rectangular in shape and extending far ahead of them. The training grounds were exposed to the sky, with pillars and awnings surrounding it and providing shaded areas, a number of doors leading to armories, storage spaces, and the like. Stables were found off to their right, certainly not the only ones in Hightown. These were likely horses belonging either to the nobility, or to Sophia herself. They looked to be war horses all, strong and swift and fierce.

There was a melee ring in one of the far corners of the grounds, but the most obvious draw was the long wooden fence running along the length. A horse was thundering down its length away from them, an armored rider bearing down on a shield and weight-armed dummy with a lowered lance. With a crack the lance connected, punching the shield away and sending the weighted bag swinging around, but the rider was well beyond it by the time it would've struck his head. A few other nobles looked on, some tending to their horses while they waited for a turn, either against the dummy or against each other.

"Always a safe bet to find him here," Sophia remarked. The rider wheeled about and removed his helmet, revealing himself to be the same one that had ridden up to them the day before, William Alston. He trotted his horse back over to them, laying the lance across his lap. By the sheen of sweat on his brow, he'd been at it for a while already.

"Good morning Your Excellence, Inquisition. Come to see the Companions in action?"

"I thought they might be interested in seeing one of Kirkwall's undertakings, yes." She turned to Khari. "I also thought Khari might be interested in joining you for some practice. Have you worked with a lance much?"

Khari's eyes lit up; she'd shifted up onto the front of her feet before she'd actually thought about it, as if to better observe the goings-on. At the offer, she glanced quickly between William and Sophia, confirming that what she'd just heard had actually been said. If possible, her smile stretched wider. “I prefer swords, but Mick makes me practice everything. Ser MichaĂ«l, I mean." She gestured vaguely in Marcy's direction, half-forgetting and half-not-really-being-concerned that not everyone would know who he was. “Skyhold doesn't have an actual jousting setup, though; can I really use it?"

She tried to brook her obvious enthusiasm, but she wasn't successful.

"Absolutely," Sophia assured her. She paused for a moment, and then explained further. "Truth be told, I'm hoping word about this can reach the Alienage. I won't force anyone, but I want them to know the rest of this city is open to them. Not everyone can do what an Irregular of the Inquisition can, but if they hear an elf was able to take her turn at the joust in Hightown, I think it can only do good things."

"Some of the others took some convincing," William admitted from atop his horse, "but personally, I get tired of riding against the same people day in, day out. Some fresh meat is always welcome." He grinned. "If you're interested in a few tilts after getting warmed up."

Khari certainly didn't mind being the first. It was pretty much what she'd dedicated her life to being, and any step forward was one worth taking. She nodded, a little more seriously this time. “Give me a few minutes to loosen myself up and some equipment to ride with, and I'll take you up on that."

She found that all of it was readily provided, including the heavy lance and shield, though she left those on the ground while she mounted, making sure the saddle was on right and the horse beneath her was responsive. It was a blood bay color, with a broad stripe on its nose concealed beneath practice barding. Confirming that everything was where it was meant to be, she fitted the helmet down over her head, her vision narrowing to several vertical slits in the visor. Her breaths echoed in the space between her face and the cool steel.

“Hey Stel, can you hand me my lance and shield?"

"Do I get to be the squire, then?" Stel's reply was clearly intended for humor, and she obligingly handed up the shield first, waiting for Khari to get it set in the position she wanted before lifting the lance as well. It was wooden all the way down, without the metal tip used in less friendly circumstances, but it was still about ten feet long and somewhat unwieldy, painted in red and gold stripes. Stel foisted it up with both hands, holding it mostly level so Khari could tuck it against herself. "Good luck out there. Show them what you're made of, okay?" She flashed a smile and stepped back.

“Gritty sand and backtalk, and they're all gonna know it. I promise to be a better target than a quintain, at least." Khari figured her chances at actually winning a match were pretty low, but she might be able to break a lance or two on him if she tried hard enough. Shifting her grip just under the vamplate protecting her hand, she lodged the lance into a better couched position, steering the horse around with her legs to line herself up with the her side of the lists. There she stopped him, checking everything to make sure it was in order, then moved her eyes to the spectators.

“Someone want to call the rounds? I'm ready whenever Will is."

The young baron lifted his lance at the other end. "Morgan! Get off your ass and get the flag, will you?" A man who appeared to be the youngest of the Companions that were present almost jumped out of his bench upon being addressed, and rushed to grab a short crimson flag decorated with the white falcon symbol of Sophia's house. He rushed out to the center of the track, pausing to look both ways at the riders, checking to see they were both prepared.

Will pushed his visor down into place, his horse stamping about in anticipation. The flag was lifted, and he charged.

Khari wasn't quite as quick to react, but half a second later, she was charging too. The three-beat rhythm of the horse's canter smoothed out into the four-beat of a full gallop. Khari leveled her lance and pulled in a breath. It didn't take more than five seconds for contact. She knew on the half-stride in that she'd placed her lance slightly too high, and instead of splintering, it skidded off the side of Will's shield with an uncomfortable screech. She felt a heavy impact in her arm at the same time, and twisted slightly on instinct. A crack sounded, but not the shattering of a full break.

Then they rushed past one another, and Khari started pulling the horse up underneath her, her breath leaving her in a slightly-shaky rush. There was something exhilarating about that. About everything going into what was basically just a single moment. Wheeling herself around, she stood in her stirrups to readjust her seat.

Will's lance had broken, a split down the middle rendering it unusable, but it was a near thing, not a resounding loss on her part. That wasn't bad; she knew she could do better. Khari rolled her shoulders in the armor, grinning despite herself.

“Let's do that again."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Estella couldn't quite keep the smile off her face, watching Khari insist on multiple tilts, visibly improving with each one. Sophia, Marceline, and herself had moved into the shade, and were now seated well out of the way of any potential flying splinters or things of that nature. Honestly, it felt nice to be off her feet—she hadn't been able to sleep much after last night, and a lingering feeling of discomfort, guilt, and residual disgust sat heavily in the pit of her stomach. It was something she knew she'd need to spend some time with later, but she didn't think she was ready for that right now. And Khari, as she so often did, was proving to be a magnificent distraction.

There were others to choose from, though, and as the riders reset after the last round, Estella glanced at Sophia beside her. "I noticed Baron Alston seems quite convinced that the proper name for his group is the Queen's Companions," she observed, moving a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "What's going on there?"

"A rather tiresome battle of semantics," she answered, crossing her legs and pulling her long braid over her shoulder. She folded her hands in her lap. "It's probably my own fault for encouraging them in other areas. There's a faction of the nobility that believes we should do away with the titles of Viscount and Viscountess. They want to declare me Queen of Kirkwall and the surrounding territories, for all the Free Marches and the rest of the world to hear. I doubt Orlais or Nevarra or Ferelden care much what my people call me, but the other Marcher states certainly would."

The next tilt proved inconclusive, both riders finding the other's shield as they passed, and afterwards William brought his horse around to Khari's end, instructing two of his fellows to take their turn next. He pulled up beside her, removing his helm and starting to offer some critique.

"This business with the citizen army has them on edge as it is. I'm not against the principle of independence and self-sufficiency for Kirkwall, but I won't have it harm relations with our neighbors. Starkhaven in particular offered valuable aid after the mage-templar battle, and I haven't forgotten it."

"Mhm, I can see where such a declaration would sit uneasily with the rest of the Free Marches in addition to the army. The other city-states may see such an act a threat to their independence, and fear that you may attempt to encroach upon it as a result," Marceline agreed simply.

"I'm maybe having a little trouble seeing the importance," Estella admitted freely. "You already do exactly the kinds of things a Queen would do in the first place, now that the Templars are in no danger of ruling Kirkwall from the Gallows. The standing army could be an issue, but I can't see any reason to care what your people call you if nothing actually changes." Then again, there didn't seem to be much point in anyone insisting on 'Queen,' either, unless... "Is it a sticking point for the nobles here because Viscount and Viscountess are holdovers from when Kirkwall was an Orlesian colony? I guess I could understand wanting to shed the implication."

"That is the usual argument for the change," Sophia said, nodding. She paused as two riders charged each other, one of them soundly outdoing the other with a solid hit against the other's miss, leaving the recipient of the hit leaned back heavily in the saddle, though they managed to remain in the seat. "I no longer need to grapple with and appease factions like templars and Qunari as my father tried to do. Cullen is thankfully willing consider all my advice on how the templars should function in Kirkwall, and the noble council's only true power would be choosing a new ruler if I were to die or be unable to lead. Any other power they have was granted by me, so in all but name, I am a monarch."

She exhaled a rather annoyed breath, something else occurring to her. "It is also a hereditary position. The council does love to remind me of that, and how I have no heir as of yet." That was a complex situation that Estella was fairly familiar with just by virtue of knowing and being good friends with the two people most involved.

"But this Queen business is probably locked in its course," she said. "The reliance on the templars was the first thing to be targeted, but our connections to Orlesian and even Tevinter occupiers in our history came soon after. I have engineers devising a way to bring down those slave statues without destroying any of the city, or the chains guarding the docks, but it's a long ways out. We have no navy as of yet, so those chains are the best defense we have against attack from the sea." They certainly were formidable, and could stop any ship larger than a rowboat from slipping through.

"I'll just have to keep convincing the other Marcher states that I have no expansionist plans towards them, even after I have an army and they call me Queen."

"That much, I can relate to," Estella replied wryly. "As our efforts to convince... everywhere else in the world that we don't intend to use our army for nefarious purposes are definitely still ongoing." Part of her wondered if they'd ever be able to do that, or if the political climate of Thedas just couldn't handle another independent power. The Wardens had collapsed rather dramatically, the Chantry was trying to build itself back up out of shambles since the Conclave. Perhaps there was a lesson in there, about trying to stably hold power without a border to go along with it. She hoped not—the Inquisition had to do better than the Chantry or the Wardens in this respect right now. They couldn't afford not to.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, smiling slightly as she jumped her thoughts to a slightly different track. "If it's any consolation, at least your nobles seem to like you. Lucien's in a bit of a bind with his. The solution's probably the same, though: time enough to convince the people you need to convince that you mean what you say."

That brought a small smile to her face, though it was a touch melancholy. They hadn't seen each other in quite a long time now, both held by their respective duties, and while Estella knew they wrote often to one another, it wasn't at all the same as being able to see someone you cared deeply about every day. Or even once in a while. "He's not very Orlesian in the ways they're used to in their rulers, is he?" She reached up to brush hair from her face and behind her ear. "I don't think I properly thanked you or the Inquisition for that. For your role at Halamshiral. Though I'm not actually sure what the extent of that role was. The stories I've heard conflict wildly, and Lucien has a way of understating things, specifically with regards to himself."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he politely asked the throne to surrender to him first," Ashton answered. It seemed he and Snuffy had finally returned from their duties. He was still armed, and still bore the full guard captain regalia, though now both Ash and Snuffy were without their kaddis, and he carried a folder beneath his arm. He paused for a second to think about it and shook his head with nostalgia in his eyes. "Damn, I miss that," Ash added, and genuinely too. Snuffy stared at him for a moment before she decided to make for the shade without him, but it wasn't long before he followed behind.

He held up the folder in his hands and shook it a bit before shaking it a bit, "Some rough plans to start with, we'll polish them as we get more information. I also had a nice talk with Varric, and he'll have his people keep their ears to the ground. He'll let us know as soon as he hears something," he explained to Sophia before tucking the folder back beneath his arm. "How is Lucien doing by the way? I wish I could visit more," he said, a mild pout forming at his lips.

Estella supposed she had seen him most recently, but six months was hardly more up-to-date than anyone would be who wrote him regularly. But there was information that letters along could not convey. "He's keeping well," she said with a slight nod. "Busier than I can possibly imagine, of course, but... he's in good health, and mostly good spirits, I think." She looked down at the hands folded in her lap for a moment, then up at Sophia. "It doesn't take any particularly-brilliant skills at observing to know you're never far from his mind, though."

She didn't exactly know what words to give the expression he'd worn, when he'd said of Sophia that she was very far away. Melancholy was accurate, but not quite enough, somehow. Just like Sophia, though, he continued to dedicate himself to his work even with that weight always close at hand. It was a remarkable kind of strength they shared. No doubt one most people lacked.

"As for Halamshiral, well... we helped." She wouldn't deny that much. "It seemed like there was a new assassination plot around every corner, and each one with a different target, Lucien included. Thankfully, none of them got too far."

"It sounds like absolute madness," Sophia said, shaking her head slightly. "And I've lived through a nightmarish party or two." She looked out to the practice field again, where Khari was preparing to take another turn. "All of your Irregulars attended, didn't they? I'm having trouble imagining Khari blending in well."

"She broke someone's nose," Estella replied, half-smiling. In retrospect, the incident was an amusing anecdote. Perhaps Khari would come to see it that way one day, too, even if it did distress her in the aftermath for legitimate reasons. "Looked lovely in her dress, though. I can confirm."

Sophia laughed softly at that, wearing the brightest smile they'd seen of her for this visit. "Somehow I don't have trouble believing that," she said. "Either part." From the sounds of it she didn't seem overly condemning of the nose breaking. Possibly assuming there was an understandable reason behind it, given the way her friends spoke of her. And it wasn't as though it had negatively affected the result of the night in the end.

"Well I'm glad you were there to help him, everyone who was involved. I wish I could have been, too." The melancholy, the subdued longing, returned very quickly, for reasons that were quite clear. Though Lucien had lived through many great events, large and small, that defined his life and the person he was, becoming Emperor of Orlais was no doubt among the most important of them. And her duty to her city and her people had kept her from being there to see.

"He's already been making some changes," she said, possibly trying to avoid shifting conversation in the direction her previous words would lead to. "He's working on appointing a true advisory circle. I suppose it's scandalous among the Orlesians for their ruler to act like they might not know everything under the sun. He has a far greater task than I did when I stepped into my role here, so I'm sure he could use all the help he can get. I don't envy him."

They both had power to change things for the better, and appreciated the chance to use it, but Estella knew them both well enough to know they saw their reigns as duty and not at all privilege. She'd seen first hand how long it had taken Sophia to accept that she deserved the chance to serve her people, her home, as their Viscountess. And soon their Queen, unless SĂ©verine's offer was one she was willing to take up.

"Have you thought at all about the after, Estella?" she asked. "When things have calmed down? I imagine it's difficult to think about. It was for me."

"It is," she agreed quietly, pursing her lips. "So much is uncertain that I can't even clearly see the trajectory to the end of it, sometimes. I know what we have to do, but I don't yet know exactly how, and I suppose that makes it hard to predict anything. And uncomfortable to try." She found that any such thoughts abruptly led her down one of two paths, neither of them particularly useful: the ideal end to it all, where everything was halcyon and wonderful, however unlikely that might be. And on the other hand, one of the thousand ways it could all go wrong. The afters she wouldn't be alive to see. Or worse, the afters where she would see, and miss someone important. Someones, sometimes.

She shook her head, clasping her fingers together and watching another pair of jousters tilt at each other. They scored a mutual hit, one breaking his lance on the other, but then falling sideways from the saddle, forced off by the placement of the opponent's thrust. It might be that breaking the lance over Corypheus would send the Inquisition tumbling, too—their balance was already so precarious.

"I think for people in our positions, in these situations, it's probably better not to." She spoke as though she had a fair amount of experience trying. "However you think it will turn out, something will change. Not necessarily for the worse, though. Especially if you do what you can to help, every single day." She looked to Estella, reaching slightly to place a hand on her forearm. "So don't try to take on too many days at once. You've made it this far. I know you can make it the rest of the way."

It was shortly after that William and Khari approached them, on foot this time, having removed the training gear required for the jousting. The baron waited to make sure he was welcome to speak, bowing slightly.

Sophia pulled her hand back into her lap, smiling down at them. "How did she fare?"

"She's got talent," he answered confidently. "Still pretty sloppy on her technique, but... no worse than you were the first few weeks, Excellency."

"Is that so?" Sophia lifted an eyebrow, but certainly didn't seem offended. "Maybe we can ride against each other next time you visit, Khari." She glanced down at her dress. "I'm afraid I'm not dressed for it at the moment."

Khari seemed pleased by the suggestion, a warm gleam in her eyes that suggested she was genuinely enjoying herself. “I'll hold you to that, Sophia. I'd never pass up a chance to add 'unhorsing a Viscountess' to my accomplishments. Or Queen, or whatever you are by then." She waved a hand, the title clearly entirely unimportant from her point of view.

"Bold words," Sophia answered, obviously enjoying herself as well. "I'd better keep practicing."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Talisman
The city was abuzz with excitement, perhaps moreso than any other tourney that Marceline could remember had. Of course, this was also the first time in recent memory that the reigning Emperor was actually a chevalier himself. That, along with Orlais finally being at peace with itself had a noticeable effect on the proceedings. Even Michaël had a hop in his step, though his excitement came from more than one source. She leaned into him as they walked the white cobbled streets of the city. They, being them and the rest of the Inquisition, had arrived in Val Royeaux recently. The Inquisition obviously had garnered an invitation from the Emperor-- though the plans that they had in mind overstepped simple invitations.

The thought must have made its way onto her face, because Michaël noticed and placed a sturdy hand in the small of her back. It will be fine, the smile on his lips told her, and she was inclined to believe him. There was a lot that could go wrong, but he had faith, and she had faith in him. She returned his smile and wordlessly accepted that everything would turn out for the better. If not soon, then later. Change always took time, after all.

The tourney's events were planned to be held at a variety of locations across the city, but the main locus of activity was to be the proving grounds, an arena located deep within Val Royeaux. As she understood it, most of the area surrounding the arena was cleared to allow for the contestants to set up their tents and to provide safe storage.

Perhaps understandably, Khari was having some difficulty containing her enthusiasm. She drank in the sights like they were water, eyes unable to remain on any one thing for too long. Even the parts of Val Royeaux that were not directly involved with anything to do with the Tourney were decorated for it, bright banners and streamers advertising anything and everything that could possibly be related to the event or the influx of visitors it welcomed.

As they drew near the arena itself, her focus narrowed quite obviously to the array of canvas tents, many of them brightly-colored or striped according to the owner's lineage or allegiance. Even the well-armed Inquisition blended here, among the knights and their auxiliaries. Horses were stabled at one end of the large field about the arena, necessary as they were for the jousting portion of the Tourney.

The advance group the Inquisition had sent ahead had already prepared what would be their tent, though it lacked the obvious russet and gold, since the point was that no one was meant to identify a competitor with their organization. They'd have to see to their disguises before entering it; before they did, though, more private lodging had been arranged at the palace itself. Still, Khari had wanted the lay of the land before anything, and she studied it now with eagerness tempered by what was clearly only fully hitting her now: the sheer scale of it all.

“Somehow, this is a lot more people than I was expecting."

"Almost overwhelming, isn't it?" Leon settled a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed, probably in a way that was meant to reassure her. "It won't matter when you're in the ring, though. Then they'll all just be noise."

He let his hand drop away and addressed the group at large. "Why don't we go assume our disguises and get set up? Meet back here in an hour?" Naturally, a few of them had additional formalities to see to, Marceline among them, that would require the extra time. But it would be equally important that their competitor be allowed time to acclimate to her new surroundings before the contests began in earnest tomorrow.

Since Marceline and Michaël were sponsors of their particular contestant, they could forgo donning disguises. Instead, their time was spent handling more official business, registering and securing official lodgings. Fortunately for them, they had all of their documents and paperwork in order, and the process was relatively painless-- minus the fact that some of the papers were suspect. Eventually all the papers were signed and they were free to leave the palace and return to their tent at the proving ground.

An hour after they'd parted, the group rejoined at the same spot, this time able to head with confidence towards the tent set up for them. The custom of mask-wearing, and the tendency for masks to be so characteristic, worked in their favor, since for the humans among them at least going unrecognized was just a matter of wearing different ones than they otherwise would have. As part of Khari's false paperwork and history, Marceline had tied her to a loose edge of MichÀel's family tree, distant cousins with the surname Gérin. Given their obscurity, it wasn't at all difficult to conjure the necessary papers for a hitherto-unknown Katriane Gérin.

The Academie credentials were harder, but as long as no one looked too closely, they'd hold. They only needed to serve for the length of the Tourney, in any case. The family's masks traditionally resembled wolves, and the slate grey and gold of their colors wasn't too difficult to replicate, either, so the disguises carried the themes appropriately.

Khari herself would have to remain helmed at all times, given the vallaslin and her ears both. The t-shaped opening in her helmet allowed her to speak mostly clearly, at least. The rest of her armor was plain, taken from Inquisition stock since at least a few of the people in attendance here knew her trademark appearance quite well. The cloak must have been from elsewhere—green and gold, and made well enough to belong to wealthier nobility than she was really meant to portray.

“Okay, so. We're here. That's our tent. This is really happening." She paused. “This is really happening, right? Because it feels kind of like I'm dreaming, I've gotta say."

"Somehow I imagine Romulus looks a little more dashing in your dreams." The comment came from Vesryn, walking at the side of the group. He had the luxury of going without anything concealing his face, though he'd still altered his appearance. His normally loose hair was bound up behind him and actually braided to his head on the sides. It had a dramatic effect on his recognizability, not to mention the drab mercenary's gear he wore. It seemed unlikely anyone would pick him out as the self-proclaimed champion of the Inquisition.

"Go easy on the names," the Inquisitor advised, from Khari's side. If he had any reaction to Vesryn's jab, it was concealed by his mask, along with the rest of his face. Unlike Vesryn, Romulus was very recognizable, with facial markings of his own, and an image that had been replicated across most of Thedas by now. His role in the competition would be done in a full face mask and helmet, and his gear had been altered to also assume the mercenary look, with particular care being given to conceal his marked hand.

"I think everyone looks wonderful, for what it's worth." Their smallest elven ally behind them, Brand, looked like he was just happy to be along, but his skills with information and crowded places were bound to be valuable. He was practically invisible without any disguise at all. "A perfect... dignified shabbiness. A scrappy underdog."

"Well, this scrappy underdog thinks we should probably have this talk in our tent," Estella put in, smiling slightly underneath the half-face mask she wore. Simpler than Khari's, as she too was meant to be a mercenary here, and no Argent Lion at that. Like Romulus, she wore a heavy leather glove over her marked hand, hers without fingers.

Leon lifted the flap first, stepping inside the generically-appointed canvas shelter. "There are basic wards against sound escaping and such," he warned, "but any more than that and people might have thought we had a bit too much to hide, so do still be careful with what you say. A good eavesdropper would be able to find a way around them." He glanced once at Brand as he said it, then shrugged.

"But since this is probably the last time we'll all be in one place for a while, I think we should nail down the details of this plan. The first event on your docket is the joust, and the day after is the team round. Then you'll have a day to recover before the melee. It's a long time to maintain a cover in a situation like this, so we'll all need to stay alert and careful."

"You need not worry on our end, Michaël and I will divert any questions regarding you away," Marceline answered. She could spin a tale well enough to satisfy anyone's curiousity without delving into too many details. If not, well, then she would just have to avoid some of the more inquisitive types.

Michaël chuckled, undoubtedly already imagining her talking at length about nothing in particular. "Do not let it take up all of your focus though," he added, "I'd hate for you to catch something in the jaw because you were to busy worrying if someone saw your ears," he said with a grin.

Khari nodded as much as the helm would allow. “It's not really that part I'm worried about." She didn't elaborate though, instead walking the length of the tent once, eyes cast down at her boots. “There's still some things to decide, aren't there? I know we brought my horse down from Skyhold, but there's supposed to be someone around when I'm actually jousting, right? To help with the lances and stuff?" She pursed her lips. “And what do we know about the team round scenario? Anything? Who are the people to watch for, anyway? People set books and odds for this stuff, don't they?"

It was quite a lot of questions at once. Leon took it upon himself to tackle them.

"Such an arrangement is normal in the joust, yes. If you don't mind, I'd... like to handle that myself." His voice sounded just a bit thicker than usual, but it was subtle. He didn't elaborate on it.

Whatever caused it, Khari picked up on it, her pacing coming to a hard halt. She swallowed audibly, nodding in several quick, shallow motions.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want anybody else." The moment stretched for a heartbeat too long, until she forced herself to start moving again and the atmosphere settled.

The other items in the list were somewhat easier to tick off. "The team scenario won't be known in any detail until you're thrown into it. But I double-checked, and your team does have the right number of people. I should point out that magic is not expressly forbidden, though it tends to be frowned upon, and anything trademark or particularly unique should be avoided for the obvious reasons. You've also been appointed a healer for the duration, to ensure that magic worked upon you in that capacity doesn't give you an unfair advantage. But you should... take care not to injure yourself if possible."

There were a lot of reasons for that, obviously, but unfortunately the integrity of the disguise was one of them.

"As to favorites... only one of them is familiar to you—and not in a good way, unfortunately."

Khari clearly struggled for a moment to think of a chevalier she both knew and didn't like. The answer hit her like a wall; behind the helm, her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You're fucking kidding me. Him? Really? All the chevaliers in Orlais, and it really has to be Blancheflor?"

Vesryn laughed, obviously not as bothered as Khari was. "Maybe stick to the weapons when you're beating him. He's most likely to recognize you if you punch him, right?"

“Actually it was a headbutt." Khari paused, assessed the statement, and then sighed.

“But point taken."

A in no way contained grin plastered Michaël's face. "I'd say it gives you an edge, you've already drawn first blood," he noted with an accompanying chuckle.

"Welp, shall we get to some last minute prep?" He asked, cracking his knuckles.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
Truthfully, it hadn't taken Lucien all that long to recognize what was going on here.

The Inquisition had accepted his invitation to attend the Grand Tourney, something he'd known at once would appeal most of all to the fire-haired elf in their midst. He hadn't quite counted on the fact that it already appealed so much that she'd made plans to enter. Long before he'd sent them the letter, most likely.

That she was never among the crowds at any of the events she'd have enjoyed was suspicious, but it was possible—however unlikely—that she'd simply not come at all. His suspicion was all but confirmed when a mysterious distant relative of MichĂ€el's had entered the tournament, a woman of strikingly-small dimensions but no lack of ferocity. Seeing her fight in the melee had removed any lingering traces of doubt from his mind. He'd fought beside her. She'd saved his life.

No one forgot what that looked like.

Impartial as he ought to have been, then, he'd found his fingers tightening on the armrests of his seat every time she looked to be in danger, teeth clenching as she twisted out of the way of a blow, a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized partway through that she'd started to favor her left leg, just a little.

He could admit if only to himself that his heart was in his throat during her fight with Ser Blancheflor. That young man had everything Khari hadn't: a family with a history of distinguished service, a natural knack for the arts and the build to facilitate that knack, not to mention access to the finest instructors at the finest military academy in Thedas.

For all that, she beat him.

The moment of relief was short-lived, his muscles relaxing for not more than a second before her helm was torn away, her secret exposed without doubt or preamble to all those looking on. For moments, there was only stunned silence, the spectators processing the incongruity of what they were seeing: a face lined with charcoal ink, the patterns spiky, almost like the delicate skeleton of a bird. Ears with points sharp and long enough to rise prominently amidst the loose red curls that had escaped her plait.

An elf.

An elf had fooled them all.

As if on cue, the murmurs and outrage began, the members of the crowd most affronted making themselves known at loud volume. Already, the nobility closest to Lucien's own place were looking to him, clearly expecting him to do something. But for the moment, he remained silent.

He wanted to see what she would do, with all that poisonous scrutiny turned upon her.

It wasn't clear that she knew what to do, exactly. For a while, she seemed preoccupied just getting her bearings. Then she almost looked concerned that Ser Blancheflor was going to try attacking her again in spite of his obvious disqualification. He did not, though he didn't leave the ring, either. Then she looked at the officials, and then glanced up towards Lucien's box, where her friends were as well.

A sidelong glimpse next to him revealed Michaël and Lady Marceline looking not at all surprised in the least. Marceline watched with piqued interest through pursed lips, while Michaël leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and a slight smirk upon his lips. He stole a glance toward Lucien for a moment before returning his gaze back to Khari. If anything, the man looked proud. Unsurprising, considering his obvious role in the situation.

By this point, the discontent in the crowd had swelled; no small number of slurs were hurled amongst the generalized shouting, and the oddly-impassive expression on Khari's face morphed into an unsurprised frown. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to where her sword lay in the dirt and picked it up, scooping Blancheflor's one-hander up as well. That, she extended towards him, hilt-first.

It took several long, drawn-out seconds for the gesture to earn a response, but it did: the young chevalier reached for the blade and accepted it back, sliding it home into its sheath with a decisive click. With a subtle shake of his head, he finally left the ring.

Unfortunately, not everyone was going to take this unexpected turn of events quite so well on the chin.

"Arrest her." The order, clear enough to cut through the rest of the noise, issued from one of the officiants. "She has entered without sanction and dishonored the crown."

Lucien thought that was rather something that he ought to be deciding, but there was no mistaking the illegality part. Several of the chevaliers remaining ringside moved forward to do just that. Pursing his lips, he was clearing his throat to stop them when Khari herself reacted.

“Dishonor?" She sounded oddly incredulous. Taking a step back, she pointed her blade at the approaching knights. “You can call me whatever the hell you want. Shit, you can even arrest me. I came here prepared for that. But don't you dare—" she spat the word—“say I've dishonored anything. I fought by every single one of your rules, gave everything I had to every single match I had, and I won your melee. Fair and square." She tilted her chin up defiantly, still holding her adversaries at bay with the edge of her sword.

“If you think I've dishonored you, then you damn well better say it like you mean it. And you better be willing to fight me for it the way chevaliers are supposed to." She waved the blade to gesture at the crowd, then stabbed it hard into the sand. Her lips pulled back in a snarl.

“If any damn one of you has anything to say about my honor, you can say it to my face, and then you can say it to my sword! What's it gonna be?"

The smile crept onto Lucien's face almost without him noticing. But it was there, he realized, laughing under his breath when the crowd erupted again. He had to note, however, that the men moving to restrain her had stopped. She'd hit the right nerve, and he wasn't quite sure she knew it. Now that honor had been staked so explicitly in the matter, the rules changed.

And he knew just what he was going to do about it.

Lucien stood, pulling in a deep breath and shouting to be heard over the tumult. "Enough!"

He was almost accustomed to the immediacy with which he was obeyed.

Letting his eyes fall squarely on Khari, he spoke to her in lieu of the rest. "You claim your honor is untainted. But your actions have flown in the face of the rules of the Grand Tourney. You fabricated an identity to enter, competed under false pretenses, and now claim victory. The honor you impugn is mine, and I accept your challenge."

The quiet that settled then was charged with tension. Shock, probably, from a good number of those present. Khari felt it, too, if the way she gaped at him was any indication, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe what was in front of her eyes. “You—I—but you're the—you're the Emperor! I can't fight you! ...Can I?" The tone of her voice oscillated wildly between disbelief, horror, and something like anticipation, there at the end.

Lucien fought the urge to laugh. It would hardly fit the gravitas of the moment, and there was a certain weight to it. She'd made a bold move in doing this. But unless it was handled very carefully, she might not have a chance to make another like it. It was true that he could declare her absolved right here and now, but what he could not do was guarantee her safety after that, or that her claim to the win here would be taken at all seriously by anyone.

And little as they'd been able to speak, Lucien still understood that legitimacy was what she wanted most of all.

So he schooled his features, letting himself look down at her in the way he'd been taught an Emperor should. "You no longer have a choice," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "As the challenged, the right to choose the terms is mine. We fight with swords, to first blood. Take one hour to rest and be healed, and wear no armor when you return."


Lucien spent his own hour in consultation with a few people he thought might be able to help with the situation, explaining his plan first to his father and Violette. If the situation got out of hand, their own authority and the respect they had would be instrumental in making it go the way he intended it to. He could only hope that Khari herself would be cooperative, but it was going to be interesting without being able to say much to her at all.

Precisely fifty-five minutes later, he'd divested himself of all the cumbersome marks of status, including the plainer circlet he wore in advance of his official crowning, and stood in the dirt of the ring, Everburn held loosely in one hand.

Khari was on time for the appointed hour as well, the platemail gone. It left her even more strikingly small, particularly compared to someone like Lucien. The sword she carried seemed to be enchanted as well, the blade tinged an eerie green. It looked to be a little lighter than his own, but only a little: it was shorter, but shaped a bit more stoutly.

She came to a stop a polite eight feet or so from where he stood, licking her lips in a way that seemed nervous. The curiosity was clear from this close, a sure sign that she didn't really understand what he was up to. Unsurprisingly, she was willing enough to fight anyway.

Glancing only once at the crowd, she bowed to him at the waist. “Death before dishonor."

She meant that—he had no doubt. Lucien returned the bow. "Death before dishonor," he echoed, pitching the ritual words a little more warmly. He set his stance, anchoring his feet to the ground in long-familiar motions, and leveled Everburn outwards. She liked playing the aggressor, and that was entirely fine by him.

In that, she didn't disappoint. Whatever reservations she might have had about this duel did not slow her motions, and she covered the ground between them swiftly, bringing her sword around in a heavy horizontal stroke. She swung like she meant to kill him with it—halfway wasn't even on the table.

Exactly how he wanted. Though she was quick, experience had long since taught Lucien where to place his sword to deflect an all-out strike like that, and Everburn was in the path of her sword in plenty of time, parrying with a deft hit to the middle of it. He took a swipe at her in retaliation while she recovered, a little more defensive in his own tactics. He wanted to get a sense of her before he committed to any sort of strategy, and just watching her fight others was nowhere near the same as fighting her himself.

Khari reacted quickly, bending to the side so that the strike met air instead of flesh, jumping back and resetting herself only a moment before she launched forward again. In a few ways, her techniques were textbook, ripped from the same pages he'd studied at the Academie. But for the most part, they were much less conventional, no doubt blending elements from each of those who'd taught her something over the foundational realities of her build and her personal strengths.

It was certainly a unique combination. Little time passed before Lucien was thoroughly enjoying himself, working to anticipate her actions and guide his own accordingly. She was much stronger than she looked, with an impressive quickness and an utterly astounding tenacity—part of him wondered if she even felt things like fatigue or what had to have been lingering pains from her earlier fights, healing or no. She didn't hold back, and that was good—what he needed to do here was make it abundantly clear to everyone watching just how good she was. For that, he was going to need everything she had.

Slowly, Lucien asserted control over the flow of the match, adjusting his guard to bait her into attacking from one angle rather than another, letting his slower, steadier footwork guide their trajectory over the field with concessions both forced and volunteered. She was good—far better than anyone he'd sparred in a while. But she was also coming off a week of near-constant physical exertion, and young, and still developing into the warrior she would become. His reflexes were no longer quite so sharp as hers, but they didn't need to be. He could check his blows, exert as little effort as possible, defend rather than attack—all of which he did, slowly increasing the pressure on her with more ripostes and retaliations.

He pushed, trying to get as much out of her as she was still able to give.

At first, she responded in exactly the ways he expected: as his defense made increasing demands of her, she poured ever more effort into her attacks, each hitting harder and faster than the one that came before. She kept herself light on her feet, springy and pliable, lacking armor to weigh her down in the slightest.

But gradually, it seemed, she caught on, frustration beginning to seep into the edges of her form. She let her sword scrape a second too long against Everburn, left herself a little too open going in for a low slash. When he didn't take full advantage of the lapse, her next hit was a lunge that brought her in close.

“You gonna fight me or not, Lucien?" She had the sense to growl it at him instead of shouting it, but the point was clear enough.

"Trust me," he replied, low and urgent. He fully intended to fight her—but not until the point had been made. Not until everyone in the crowd could see what he did not doubt.

He brought his sword around to force her back, then went on the attack for the first time since the match had begun, sweeping low for her legs.

Khari scowled, but she hardly had time to complain when he attacked, skittering backwards with a quick series of steps, then throwing herself back into it, their blades clanging heavily once, twice, thrice before she disengaged and went high instead, aiming for his chest.

She nearly caught him off-guard; Lucien's block was hastier that time, and his face broke into a temporary smile. That—that was it. That was exactly what she needed to do. Abandoning the slow build, he retaliated in kind, aiming an aggressive overhead swing for her shoulder.

Khari ducked and rolled, the blade catching on the neckline of her tunic and just barely missing her skin. If anything, it goaded her, and the moment she was back on her feet, she was swinging again, focus sharp and conversation entirely abandoned.

The clash grew more pitched after that; Lucien stopped checking his blows and providing openings because she genuinely pushed him to it. He could tell she was tiring, but to her credit she wasn't showing it much. His rear foot slid back in the dirt after a particularly hard parry, one that forced him to grit his teeth or risk biting his tongue. Only the advantage of sheer physical strength hauled her off him before she could swing again and hit this time.

When the second attempt came in anyway, Lucien saw his opportunity. He blocked, taking a hard step forward and circling his arm. Everburn's guard caught the blade of her sword at just the wrong angle, and the strength in Lucien's arms tore the weapon free from her grip. Angling it upwards, he pressed the blade lightly into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, drawing a thin trickle of blood from her skin. It hissed where it touched the blade, but did not burn her flesh.

Lucien exhaled a haggard breath, drawing in another deep one immediately after, his lungs working like a bellows. Despite the chill in the air, his hair was sticking to the back of his neck, dampened by sweat. With a slight smile just obvious enough for Khari to detect, he pulled the sword away.

"I'm satisfied." He said it loud enough to be heard by the onlookers as well. "You fought with the honor you claimed. Anyone who wishes to deny that may deny mine as well."

That was the thing about duels: if both combatants acquitted themselves well, they could both leave with honor intact, no matter who won and who lost.

Considering that to challenge her victory here was now to challenge him as well, he was hardly surprised that no one took him up on it.

"The assessors will tabulate the scores as normal," he continued. "But the record will change: the competitor who won the melee is Kharisanna Istimaethoriel." He reached over to grip her shoulder and give it a brief squeeze, speaking much more softly.

"And history shall not forget it."

Khari's eyes welled; she swallowed thickly and met his own. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled to speak. She'd taken a half-step forward before she stopped herself, probably remembering that hugging him all of a sudden would look quite strange.

She found her voice, at least, speaking in a choked whisper. “Thank you. Thank you, Lucien."

"I didn't do anything worth mentioning," he replied. "That was entirely you."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras

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#, as written by The Valkyrie
It had been quite a while since either of the Inquisitors had to sit in judgement of anybody.

To Estella, it only seemed fair that the first chair on the dais had moved to the side enough that a second could fit up there as well. She and Romulus had embraced the fact that this was a job both of them had to do, and they were now both in a place where they could cooperate on these kinds of things without worrying about what would happen if they disagreed. No doubt there would be times when they did, but she was confident that it would be the productive kind that led both of them to stretch for better solutions, instead of the kind that could grind proceedings to a standstill.

She gave him a smile where he sat on her right, then turned her attention back down to where the door leading to the dungeon was creaking open. The person they were meant to judge today was Lady Poulin, of Sahrnia. They'd worked out the jurisdictional issues already; unsurprisingly, Lucien was fine allowing them to decide her punishment. While she was an Orlesian noble who had committed crimes against Orlesian citizens, her transgressions first and foremost involved the Red Templars. An Inquisition matter if ever there was one.

Lady Marceline as per usual stood at her post off to the side of the main dias, clipboard in hand. She watched the doors leading into the main chamber expectantly, and it wasn't long until those expectations were met. The doors parted and Inquisition soldiers escorted Lady Poulin toward the Inquisitors. Once she reached the edge of the dias, Lady Marceline began reading the charges.

"Lady Alban Poulin," she said, tilting her head in the woman's direction, "Accused of aiding, abetting, and collaborating with Red Templar forces in Emprise du Lion," she glanced at the Inquisitors before returning to her clipboard. "She accepted coin from the Red Templars in exchange for overseeing the town Sahrnia, and the people thereof whom were enslaved and forced to work in the nearby Quarry growing red lyrium." Lady Marceline looked up from the clipboard and glanced back at the Inquisitors.

"It should be noted too, that she procured supplies to ensure that she kept what remained of the town alive and fed." A subtle, noncommittal shrug followed. Perhaps she did not believe the gesture was altogether entirely altruistic.

Lady Poulin looked more tired than she had at Sahrnia. No doubt the last week or so had worn rather heavily on her. Estella wondered if she found it at all a relief, to have it done and her deeds exposed. She couldn't imagine that carrying the burden around had been at all easy. Surely even the most hardnosed pragmatist or or hard-hearted noble would feel some measure of guilt at her actions, even if she believed she'd had no choice. Some decisions were just like that.

"Is there anything you would say in your own defense, Lady Poulin?"

"Nothing you have not heard already, Inquisitors. My choice was to help the Red Templars, or die. I chose to live, and do what I could to keep the others in my town alive, including those prisoners that were abducted and brought there to work."

"Did you ever try to make contact with anyone?" Romulus asked. "The Red Templars operated out of Sahrnia and Suledin Fortress in secret for a very long time. We were only able to find them by tracking their army back there from Kirkwall."

"That was part of the choice, I suppose. One I had to make many times." It was easy to see that the shackles on her weighed more heavily than they had on some of their previous prisoners. No doubt a woman of her status was highly unused to them. "If the Red Templars had detected resistance, they likely would have killed me, and Maker knows how many others."

Estella recognized that the choice had been fraught. Faced with a foe she could not possibly defeat, Lady Poulin had yielded rather than died. But it still wasn't clear that the outcome had been any better for anyone but herself. Those who had been forced to work at the mines would likely never recover from the damage: red lyrium bore the Taint, after all; if they weren't ghouls already, they were well on the way, and only more pain stood between them and their eventual deaths. No few of them doubtless would have preferred a swifter version of the same fate, rather than suffering.

But at the same time... sometimes living was the only form of resistance left to a person. It was hard to know how to weigh all of it, as always seemed to happen when Estella sat this chair.

"Do you regret it?" she asked at last, genuinely interested in the answer. "Is there anything you'd do differently, faced with the choice again?"

"I do not," she answered, with some degree of certainty. "Perhaps it was a mistake to accept their terms to begin with. We can never know. I did what I thought was best at each stage. If that condemns me, then so be it."

Romulus didn't seem particularly pleased with the answer, but he was well past his days of attempting to order people to death for crimes that did not warrant it. "There needs to be some punishment for this. Work, maybe? She could wait out a setence in a cell, but it seems like a waste."

Estella pursed her lips. "I think the most important thing is doing what can be done for Sahrnia and the people left there. With the quarry unusable for the foreseeable future, most anyone left won't be able to make a living." The elimination of the town's key economic asset would desolate it eventually, more or less destroying everything left. "I think whatever else we do, we should be seizing the assets she received from the Red Templars and paying reparations to the village with it. Maybe rebuilding?"

She was less sure about the punitive angle, but something ought to be done on that front as well. So many lives had been lost, and even if Lady Poulin's share of the blame for that was small, it was not nothing.

Romulus didn't seem to have thought of that. Perhaps he'd thought the town lost beyond repair. "Do we have anyone that can lead a rebuilding?" It wasn't the Inquisition's normal work, it was true. Most of the places they moved into were already built. They had more experts in taking and occupying towns than they did in repairing and restoring them.

"If I may," Poulin offered softly, "I know the town and its people. I would be willing to oversee reconstruction on the Inquisition's behalf. With the funds given to me belonging to the Inquisition now, of course." It went without saying that she would be closely supervised by the garrison they left behind in Suledin Fortress.

Estella figured that was about the right way to do things. After a moment of quiet confirmation with Romulus, she nodded slightly. "Very well. You'll oversee and participate in the reconstruction of Sahrnia, using the Red Templar funds. If the cost runs over, though, the responsibility of financing it will be yours." As far as penalties went, it was a light one, but the important part was that it fit the crime, and she thought it did.

The penalty announced, Lady Poulin was escorted away. No doubt Leon would have her on the first caravan back to Emprise du Lion, which was probably for the best. With their only official work for the day done, Estella descended the dais. She had a visit she really needed to make, and Lia was probably already waiting outside to meet her.

Spring precluded the need for a cloak today, so it was a simple matter to meet her friend just outside the keep and make the short trek to the infirmary. Hissrad had been providing her with daily updates, but it seemed that Cor was finally well enough to receive visitors, so the both of them were intent on stopping in.

No sooner had Estella stepped inside, holding the door for Lia, than her eyes were seeking Asala. The qunari woman seemed to be in the process of bundling herbs or something similar, so hopefully she wouldn't mind the interruption. "Asala? We've come to see Cor. That's okay now, right?"

Asala turned to greet them with a warm smile and incline of her head. It gave the both of them a good sight at her now asymmetrical horns, though apparently she had been trying to file down the rough edges on the broken one. It looked... Better, at least. "He is. One moment please, and I will join you. It is nearly time for me to check on him anyway," she said, tying a length of twine around the bundle of herbs and placing them with others of its kind. Preportioned bundles apparently. With her current task done she gestured toward them to follow and led them through the infirmary and to a door, which she opened to allow them to enter first.

Cor was awake, clearly, sitting up with his back against the headboard. His arms and chest would have been bare, except for the fact that everything from his waist to his neck was swathed in a thick layer of white bandages, including his shoulders and upper arms. It was hard to tell how bad the damage was underneath them, but he wasn't holding himself with particular discomfort, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He'd been reading, it seemed, though upon their entrance, he glanced up, giving his visitors a lopsided grin. "Well, look who it is. Day one of visitation and the big names are already checking on me." With one hand, he pulled some errant strands of hair out of his face, raking them back against his crown. "Lady Inquisitor. Scout-Captain." His tone was utterly flippant—they'd all known each other much too long to use those things seriously.

Estella was relieved to see him in good spirits, but she could tell the time since his injury hadn't been as easy as he was making it seem. His face looked more gaunt than usual, the hollows of his cheeks too prominent and all the angles sharpened too finely. There were shadows around his eyes, too, but at least he was the furthest thing from listless. "Bit of a big name yourself," she observed, returning the smile with a smaller one. "Your people are asking after you. I'm sure you'll have more visitors than you know what to do with eventually."

He sobered a little at that, shaking his head slightly. "I'm flattered, but I have to admit this is a little embarrassing. Bad enough for you two to see me looking like this. Not exactly the picture of inspiring leadership at the moment, am I?" He shifted a little, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed with what seemed to be relative ease and moving to sit at the end with a wink for Asala. "Anytime you want to poke me, doc. I can take it."

"I promise I will be gentle," Asala answered with a kindly smile. She took a seat bedside and began to inspect the bandages wrapping around most of his frame, most likely judging if they needed changing yet or not.

Lia pulled a chair around to the end of his bed and sat down in it, propping one foot on the edge of the seat and the other up on the end railing of Cor's bed. "You're not serious, right? About being inspiring?" She shook her head, a little disbelieving. "You're the guy who threw himself on a bomb to save everyone else and somehow lived through it. The fact that you're even breathing still is inspirational." She spared a glance for Asala. "Thanks for that, by the way."

Asala brushed her off with a wave of her hand, "No thanks necessary." After her inspection of his bandages, she rose from his bedside and made her way toward a nearby counter, where she proceeded to place a pair of scissors and bandages ontop a tray and returned with it to his side. She set it onto the nightstand beside them, and took the scissors first, intending to cut off the old bandages and replace them with the new ones. Estella had seen her work enough to know the process by now.

"How are you feeling?" she asked as she worked. "Any sharp pains? Unexplained soreness?"

"Erm." Cor's face scrunched; he shot a look at Lia, then Estella in turn. "Actually, would you two mind, uh..." He motioned one index finger in a circle, probably because Asala was cutting away his bandages. He didn't explain, but the discomfort on his face meant that she wasn't going to ask. She'd never known him to be particularly modest, but then after injuries like that... Estella's scars were comparatively minor and she still didn't like the idea of anyone seeing them.

So she turned around without protest. When Cor spoke next, it was with a bit of relief in his tone. "This is going to sound weird, but I feel great. Like I could get up and run all the way to Val Royeaux. It's... kind of disturbing, honestly. I should be in a lot more pain than this, right?"

There was a quiet thoughtfulness from Asala after that. Estella could just imagine her pursed lips. "Some pain would be expected, or even slight discomfort. An excess of energy would not be however," she stated. She was quiet again as she thought about it more, and then continued. "It should be noted that we were not able to extract all of the lyrium from your body. In fact, most still remains from the blast you suffered. We could not take it out without risking you bleeding even more, though your tissue has managed to heal and scar around it." She was quiet for another moment.

"It is something that I had planned on watching carefully," she noted gently.

There was a moment of silence, but when Cor spoke again, he didn't sound particularly alarmed. "Huh. Can't say I figured I'd ever end up a lyrium pincushion, but I guess that's just how life goes around here." There was a rustling, probably of his bandages; it sounded like a shrug. "At least I'm not dead."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Cyrus Avenarius Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by AugustArria
Rom had to remind himself that he wasn't here to torture anyone.

He was here as the Lord Inquisitor, and the Lord Inquisitor wasn't allowed to torture anyone. Even high-ranking Venatori that wanted them all dead. They did things differently than their enemies. They tried to be better.

It didn't change the fact that Amalia, Cyrus, Lia, and Rilien had brought back a woman in chains, and deposited her in a dark room of the Skyhold dungeons, and that Rom among other people would be going in to speak with her. She had much to answer for, including an attempted assassination on Cyrus back when she'd been an infiltrator in their ranks. But right now she needed to give them information about her master and the Venatori, information that could give the Inquisition the confrontation they sought. A chance to destroy their enemies before any more harm could be done.

He found Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia outside the dungeons, speaking amonst themselves. He imagined this was a big moment for them. Perhaps too big for any of them to risk setting foot in the room with Leta. Rom gave them a respectful nod as he made his way down the stairs to the dungeons. They followed him inside soon after.

The others awaited him at the bottom, in the entryway of the dungeons. Leon was present, looking better and stronger by the day. With him were Lady Marceline, and Cyrus, who knew their prisoner the best. Between them, they'd have to find a way to get Leta to divulge something valuable. And trustworthy enough to act upon.

"What's her mindset?" Rom asked, directing the question to Cyrus. "Anything we can take advantage of?"

Cyrus offered a half-smile, the expression almost slightly pained. He'd been looking especially happy since the return of his magic, but that was gone now, masked by the dark circles under his eyes and the uncomfortable way he held his shoulders. “She hates me." He shrugged, clearly trying to downplay the fact that this did not sit especially well with him. “And I don't mean she considers me a rival or wants to punch me in the face. I mean she went out of her way to kill me in a manner that could have jeopardized her mission—just about the most painful way she could think of, I might add. When it didn't work, she at least had the consolation of knowing I didn't have my magic anymore. And now she knows even that didn't stick. There's probably an advantage in how angry that makes her, but... I don't know. I'm not sure it would be a good idea for me to be in there. Not unless nothing else works." Reminding her of just how much she wanted to resist them, after all, was not likely the best way to secure her cooperation.

“More generally... it's hard to say. I knew her so long ago. We were both different people then. I wouldn't be surprised if she was devoted to Marcus. There weren't a lot of chances for someone like her, and he gave her one. Might be tough to drive a wedge in there, but powerful if you can."

"All right." He wondered what form that devotion would take, if indeed her loyalty to Marcus could be described that way. Not likely earned from love, he thought. He turned and stepped to the side, allowing Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia into the circle. "And what about Marcus? Do you think he would even take her back under his wing, after we've captured her?" The last Venatori they'd captured had led them into a difficult trap to escape from, after all. As it turned out, he'd been disposed of to begin with, and he didn't even know it. Somehow Rom was willing to guess this situation was different. Leta had fought at Marcus's side that day, after all. Not a small honor.

Amalia contemplated that for a while, arms crossed. "Maybe," she said at last, sounding dissatisfied with her own answer. "Marcus is cold enough to discard that which is no longer useful to him. But his personality is also... obsessive. He tends to sink much of his effort into relatively few things. Training an apprentice to this degree would have had to be one of those things. Relinquishing her is not a sacrifice he would make easily. But also not one I think he'd be unwilling to make if he felt he had to." Her brows knit. "You might get somewhere, if you remind her of that. She strikes me as someone who has her own aims, ultimately. Devoted or not, there is a breaking point somewhere. A place where her own ambitions could unmoor her from his."

Rom nodded, considering that. Leta's aims were undoubtedly not going to be the Inquisition's aims, but if they were separate from Marcus's, they could potentially pull them apart that way. He looked to Marceline next. "If it comes to it, how much would we be willing to offer her? We can't let her go, obviously, but there must still be some flexibility in her fate here."

Lady Marceline thought for a moment, her arms crossed and her chin resting on the ball of her first. When she spoke, her hand moved away from her face, "We can take execution and hard labor off of the table, but like you said, her freedom is out of the question," she agreed, though even she didn't seem convinced the effect these would have on her. "Moving on, we could also offer her better living conditions than a dank prison," she continued to offer, though like the others, this one still didn't seem to convince her.

Rom doubted it would enough to sway her much, but it was something. Leta had to be thinking, too. She would know that if she didn't cooperate at all, she'd be spending a very long time rotting in a cell. Perhaps she was willing to face that. There was only one way to find out.

"Let's see what she has to say, then. Maybe just Leon, Marceline, and myself to start." Others could always enter if they needed a change of pace.

Leta was considerably smaller than some of the other people who'd sat in that chair, but perhaps no less proud. The last few days imprisoned hadn't worn on her in any way she was allowing herself to show. Though her hair was unwashed, she'd pinned it up meticulously, and the dirt on her robes was minimal. A healing abrasion remained on her cheek where Amalia had planted her in the dirt, as the story went, but it didn't look to be bothering her. She sat with straight-backed posture, wary dark eyes tracking them as they entered. Her face gave away little by way of clues to her thoughts—it remained hard and impassive even as they took up their places in front of her.

Leon spoke first, adopting what Rom now recognized easily as his preferred opening tack in interrogations: courtesy. "I understand you're a captain within the Venatori. Captain Leta, I am Commander Albrecht, and this is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, and Lady Marceline Benoüt, though I suspect you knew all of that already." Leon pulled out one of the chairs across the table from where Leta was chained and sat in it, bracing his forearms on the edge of the wood. "We've no intention of insulting your intelligence. You already know what we will—and won't—do to get the information we need. And you have a better sense than we do how far you're willing to go to keep your silence. This doesn't have to be any more antagonistic than it already has been."

From the way Leta's eyes came to rest on him, she was listening, but the silence after Leon spoke stretched much too long for the exchange to remain polite. Her face remained stony. She flicked her eyes to Lady Marceline next, as though anticipating the next words to come from her.

Unwilling to disappoint, she spoke. "We are willing to offer you a number of concessions for your aid," she began. She stood still and calm by Leon's side, her arms still crossed and her face impassive. It appeared that she was going to continue with his polite method. "We will help you, but only if you help us," she stated.

"Concessions?" Leta's lip curled, but she smoothed her expression back out quickly. "And what would those be?"

"We will take hard labor rebuilding what this war has destroyed off of the table, for one," she started, putting a subtle emphasis on 'destroyed.' "We will also ensure that you remain more comfortable than the cold hard stones of our dungeons would offer. Depending on what you tell us, we may even be able to work out something more." she added. The girl wasn't foolish however, and she had to have known that the Inquisition would not simply offer her freedom back to her.

The chains dangling from the cuffs on Leta's wrists clinked as she raised her hand, just enough to run the pad of her thumb over her lower lip. "Or... I could endure your dungeons for the mere weeks it will take this castle to be overrun by my master, and taste freedom once more without having given you a damn thing." Her tone was a mockery of the civility both Marceline and Leon had used, light with false humor.

Leon's brows furrowed, though probably not because she was mocking them. "Your master," he repeated flatly. "Marcus. Not Corypheus." If that was true, it had to mean that Marcus was alarmingly close to his goal of overthrowing the darkspawn Magister—but then again, they had no particular reason to believe what Leta said.

"Very good, Commander. You might almost be as clever as you are large." Leta inclined her head, still entirely unperturbed.

"Weeks, is it?" Leta's choice of words seemed specific and certain enough to have meaning for Rom. Quite possibly a slip. "So something big is happening, and soon. Has to be somewhere you'd be able to return to with your escort in time, to report back to Marcus whatever you went into the Deep Roads for." Some of the others knew more about Marcus's specific aims than he did, but Rom didn't really need to for this.

"We'd know if you were preparing for something big in Ferelden. Our scouts caught you and your band moving through the woods, they wouldn't miss something bigger than that. Every Marcher city state is on full alert since your red lyrium-addled friends attacked Kirkwall. That leaves Orlais." Unfortunately, Orlais was a very big place, but there were still ways to narrow it down. "We have too many eyes and too many friends in the cities. Would have to be somewhere remote..."

He leaned his weight back against the wall near the door and crossed his arms. "Am I on the right track here?"

"Oh, getting very warm, yes." It might have been confidence that kept Leta looking so untroubled, even though it was hard to imagine that she'd meant to give them all that information with what little she'd actually said. "A remote Orlesian somewhere. Really, you don't need anything from me, with all that." Irony laced the words; she sat back and let her hands fall into her lap with a jangling of metal.

Her eyes shifted to the wall behind them, narrowing slightly. "Just a little while longer, and everything will be as it should."

Leon ignored her for the moment, or at least pretended to, clearing his throat slightly and glancing between Rom and Lady Marceline. "Not any remote somewhere, I should think. History is telling: Marcus has spent years traversing elven ruins, something we now know was part of his plan to usurp Corypheus. It stands to reason that since his spell was still incomplete last we saw his notes, he'd have continued interest in such sites. Not too many with enough history this far south, I think."

For the first time, Leta showed a hint of frustration, glaring hard at the wall and sucking her teeth. It took only a moment more for her to speak unprompted. "You want a location? Fine. It's no great secret. But unless you wish to flounder in the dark through every ruin between here and the Tirashan... I want an actual room. With a window. You can bar it if it suits you, but I hardly have the resources to survive this godsforsaken mountain anyway."

Marceline nodded in agreement. "That can be arranged," she said glancing at Leon. "We will see to it that it is comfortable as well," She spoke with an even tone, unperturbed by Leta's previous goading.

"Provided what you tell us is true, of course."

"The Arbor Wilds." Leta parted with the words in a way that conveyed a little more reluctance than her umbrage suggested moments ago. Clearly the effort to contain her emotions was beginning to wear. "And may the crows there feast on you all."

"We'll make sure your room has a nice view of the main gate," Rom promised her. "Wouldn't want you to miss our return." Their scouts would have to confirm that the Venatori were indeed there before any reward would be given to Leta, but he was confident she was telling the truth. What wasn't included was exactly what Marcus and perhaps Corypheus were after there, and where exactly in the Arbor Wilds they could be found. It was a large place, as far as Rom knew.

Thankfully, they had some experts on these things that could be consulted. And they had an army that had been itching to take the fight to the Venatori for a long, long time.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht

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#, as written by Talisman
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"World-making Glory," I cried out in sorrow,
"How shall your children apology make?
We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling,
Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks.
Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness.
What has been forgotten has not yet been lost.”
-Canticle of Andraste 1:13
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It'd been a few months after their resounding defeat of Corypheus, Skyhold had entered the crisp, chilly autumn months of the Frostbacks. With their main goal accomplished, some of the Inquisition's forces had began filter out, to return to their previous duties, or attempt to find new ones. Zahra had set off to sea once more, and had taken their healer with them. Lady Marceline had to admit, without the Captain the Inquisition felt a lot smaller as a whole. She hadn't been the only one either. The majority of the mage forces had departed, including their Captain, Aurora, and her second, Sparrow. Few had remained with the Inquisition.

However, that did not mean their jobs were done. Not yet. The Inquisition still had all of its advisors, for now, and both Inquisitors. Lady Marceline had convened a meeting with them, along with a few others including Astraia, who'd been promoted to the Inquisition's lead medical officer after the departure of Asala. They had met in the war room, which, Marceline felt misnamed as of late, with no real war going on.

Even the table in the middle of the floor was rendered relatively bare. It still held a map, yes, but all the tokens, mission reports, and all other materials had been wiped off and put away, leaving only the most recent correspondence as the centerpiece. A letter from their very own Divine Galatea herself. It was... one of the reasons why the session was decided to be held.

Lady Marceline didn't decide to wait too long after the last person arrived to begin. "We have received a request, of sorts, by the Divine."

"She wishes to convene a meeting consisting of delegates from the Inquisition, Orlais, and... Ferelden in order to discuss outstanding issues and to discuss the Inquisition moving forward," she stated. Their relationship with Orlais was more positive than negative, having a personal friend on the throne tended to help with that, though there of course were others in the country that still did not like the Inquisition. Ferelden... less so. Not only did they not have many allies in the kingdom, but technically, Skyhold was inside their borders.

“The Fereldan delegation will be headed by Arl Teagan, the King's uncle." Rilien's voice was toneless as always, though it was possible there was the slightest hint of something in it. A hint that this wasn't excellent news for them. “The Arl of Redcliffe in particular. I do not think I have to specify that our previous activities there have made him less than supportive of our endeavors in general. Ferelden is expected to demand the Inquisition's full and immediate disbandment."

"Orlais is less likely to push for anything like that," Leon added, "but even the Emperor will have to be careful in this setting. We're on Fereldan land, and so the amount of say he really has is minimal. While I'm certain the Arl will take him seriously, he'll want to be careful not to look like he's encroaching on Fereldan sovereignty. The war for independence isn't fifty years gone yet; some of the people who fought it still live." Marceline knew well that the Emperor's own father had stood across battlefields from King Maric, too—that kind of history was not easily left behind. Relations had been cordial recently, but cordial and warm were not the same thing, and it remained to be seen if Lucien would be able to do anything about that.

"Disbandment, though? Really?" Estella looked vaguely perturbed. "That's pushing their authority a bit far, I think. I wouldn't want an army at my border, necessarily, but it's not as though they urgently need Skyhold back—it was lost to history when we found it. A ruin."

Leon expelled a heavy breath. "Unfortunately we've legally never been any more than squatters here. We've little recourse if they insist except to try and convince them of our worth. And our lack of threat. They'll see how well we get on with Orlais and wonder if we aren't just an arm of the Empire."

"So what's the plan?" Romulus looked somewhat uncomfortable, standing almost tensely holding one arm at the wrist in front of him. He still hadn't grown relaxed at these sorts of meetings, though he was significantly better off than when he was first named Lord Inquisitor. It seemed to be something more putting him on edge today. "We're not disbanding, right? Corypheus hasn't been gone more than a few months. We can't lower our guard yet, but... if we have to change, how much are we willing to?"

"It will be difficult for them to force our outright disbandment. The Inquisition stretches further than Ferelden alone and there are many more opinions to consider than just theirs," Marceline stated. In truth, she the decision laid more on the Inquisitors' shoulders than their advisors, but she was careful not to lay that all at his feet at the moment. "However, Leon is correct. If they insist that we concede Skyhold, I fear we do not have much in the way of options," she said with a frown, and then a acknowledging tip of her head. "That being said, the Inquisition is more than just one castle, and will still survive so long as you two are still at its head," she said, pointing toward Estella and Romulus. "We will just have to adapt."

"Yes, but to what?" Estella pursed her lips. "We're not the arm of any country, we're not the Chantry, nor the Wardens... and considering how that went, I doubt anyone's feeling too excited about the idea of an independent organization with its own power. Its own army. Maybe we should hear them out before we decide anything important. If it's all just posturing then we don't have to do any more than the minimum. But maybe someone with a bigger view of Thedas than we have has some kind of idea of where we'd best fit in it."

The point came from a place of humility, but no longer the same debilitating lack of self-esteem as before. It was worth acknowledging that neither she nor Romulus had been raised and trained to lead anything with a global reach. Of course some of the finer points of it would be outside their grasps. She seemed to think it was worth seeing more of the lay of things before deciding, at least.

She might have said more, but a soft cracking sound issued into the war room, followed by her sharp gasp. She closed her right hand over into a fist, face contorted into a grimace. "Sorry, it's—I think it's getting worse." She glanced towards Romulus, as if to ask if he shared the thought.

He nodded, looking none too happy about it. "I've had the same. Started noticing it a few weeks ago, thought it would pass but... it seems to be just getting worse." It was easy to see now that he was holding his marked hand at the wrist likely for that very reason. Romulus had the tolerance for pain necessary to hide such things, so it was possibly even worse than he was letting on.

“And there is no obvious cause?" Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves. “They have given no signs of slowing?" It was at best incredibly inconvenient timing, with the two people who might have known the most about the marks no longer present, nor their once-full contingent of healers to manage the symptoms. The worst might well be much worse.

Estella shook her head, shaking out her hand and loosening the fist to let it fall back to her side. "The worst is intermittent, but it... aches. Almost all the time now." She exhaled, reaching across her body to rub her palm with her other hand. "They got kind of like this, sometimes, but usually Cy would—" She cut herself off, clearing her throat. It was sometimes easy to forget that the experts the Inquisition was missing were her family members; she did a good job of maintaining her professionalism, at least in front of Marceline.

"Anyway, I don't really know what's been going on. Astraia's been helping with them, but—I don't know, do you have any thoughts?" She looked back at the young elf in question, clearly inviting her to share any insights she might have with the group at large.

"Um." Astraia seemed surprised to be addressed, though the fact that Estella had done so must've diminished that somewhat. "I'm no expert in any of this, but from what I've studied of the marks, I don't know that this is going to get better, or go away. Before they almost seemed like wounds that wouldn't heal, but now it's like they're opening up." She glanced nervously between the two Inquisitors. "I don't know what to do about it, though. I don't know what kind of magic would be safe to try using on them, what would even have a chance of fixing them."

She shrugged, somewhat poor posture making her look even smaller than she was. "I don't know. Harellan might know, he knows so much old magic, and he..." She gestured halfway up to her face, clear of the vallaslin that had originally adorned it when the Inquisition first met her. "He might know what to do."

“The eluvian has been reconfigured." Rilien broke the silence that followed. No doubt this was new information to some of those present, but definitely not all of them. “This lends credence to the theory that one or both of them departed through it. Unfortunately it also means that there is no good way to track them. I have deployed agents to all of the other known eluvian locations, and there is nothing to be found there, either." He paused; Marceline swore she could see a muscle in his jaw jump. No doubt even his limited emotional repertoire was strained with the news that his protegĂ©e was in this much danger, and the people who might be able to do something about it had vanished.

“I will keep looking."

That did not sound good, but Marceline knew even less of the marks. "Unfortunate," Marceline said with a taut frown, "That he decided to take his leave so soon then." She shook her head and her eyes fell back to the Divine's letter. It was just another thing to worry about in the coming days, but the marks was not something that it sounded like they were equipped to deal with now, as much she wished it was. "Astraia, you'll keep looking into this?" She asked, "And I assume you'll help," she added with a glance toward Rilien. It wasn't really a question she needed an answer to.

"The rest of us will prepare for the meeting."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel Character Portrait: Non-Player Characters

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#, as written by Yonbibuns
Politics had never been Zahra's forte, and she hadn't particularly gotten better over the years—not even having spent so much time in its midst's, not so long ago when she served the Inquisition. It made her head swim and her skin itch. She felt bad for anyone who had to be subjected to it all the time. Namely: Rom, Khari and Stel. Neither of them seemed to like it but it was a part of the job description. An unfortunate one, though with the support system they'd acquired over the years, it never looked like they struggled to maintain their foothold.

She was proud to call them friends. Though in times like these, she wasn't sure how to make herself useful. Beyond trying to make this thing go as smoothly as possible, which never seemed to happen... all she could do was make it known that she was there, if she was needed. Glancing around the room at the others, it was clear that the negotiations weren't going as well as they hoped they would. Tension hung like a heavy blanket over their hearts. Lips tugged into firm lines. She could feel it. She'd heard how things had been going. It was the waiting that made her squirm. Always had. Sitting in one place, not knowing what was going on was torturous.

She'd perched herself on the corner of a nearby desk. Parchments and books pushed off to the side a little to allow her enough room. Her left leg was crossed over her knee, and her elbow was propped over it, chin resting into an upturned palm. She stared at the opposing wall and narrowed her eyes. Her thoughts whirred with the most recent information—though she couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. The eluvian. The dead Qunari. Cy... she hated mysteries. There was a pit in her stomach. A curious emptiness. Whatever this was, it was important.

The room itself looked like an office, decorated with chairs, books and the large desk. Large enough to accommodate them all, though it still seemed to feel stuffy. Rilien seemed quiet as ever, possibly plucking up the likeliest scenario in that nogging of his. He'd always reminded her a little of Cyrus. Quick as a crow, with eyes just as sharp. Brand was at his elbow, looking a little grimmer than usual. Marcy and Khari were not far away. While she'd missed them sorely and had been happy to see them, now wasn't the time for reunions.

Rilien's eyes had remained fixed on the door for most of the time they'd been here. Ostensibly, there was a break in the negotiations, but from the hushed tones in which he'd spoken with the Emperor just a few minutes earlier, things were a tad more complicated than that alone.

Khari was a little less quiet, sprawled in a chair with her legs propped up on what was almost certainly an antique coffee table. She looked a little sour; no doubt she'd have preferred to go through the mirror with the others, but it had been important to keep people behind in case of any further developments here. She was the keeper of some little bit of green crystal—apparently it allowed for conversation over long distances. Some sort of magic. Stel had the other, but thus far the connection remained unused.

She sighed deeply for the third time in as many minutes, only to be cut off by a soft knock on the door. Khari straightened in her chair, shooting Rilien a glance.

He, of course, betrayed nothing of any feelings he might have about all this. “Enter."

The door opened to admit a guardsman of stout stature; he glanced once at the assembled and addressed himself to the Tranquil. "Bit of a row going on outside, serah. One of your lot insisting on seeing you. There was a fight with a servant, you see, and—"

Rilien was moving before the man had a chance to finish, gesturing for the rest to follow him. Lady Marceline would surely be able to handle anything that came up while they dealt with whatever this was. A chance to do something, at the very least.

The guard hustled to catch up with the elf's pace, pointing out the exit they wanted. Khari jogged slightly in their wake, lips curled in a way that suggested she was looking forward to whatever this was about to be. Perhaps the word fight had provoked it.

Their exit put them out in a small courtyard, where another guard, this one in much fancier armor, scowled at two elves. The woman was vaguely recognizable to Zahra—one of those faces you see and don't quite register, but nonetheless feel an indistinct familiarity with later on. From the russet-red and brown she was wearing, she was the Inquisition member. The other one—the man—wore the colors of the Winter Palace staff: blue and gold.

No sooner had the group made their entrance than the guard turned his attention to them. "Inquisition? This servant claims your soldier attacked him."

"Bloody hell—I just asked him what he was taking from our supplies. He fell down on his own damn time."

"Slow down, please." Brand's eyes narrowed, moving rapidly for a moment, darting here and there. Taking in details of the scene they'd stumbled on perhaps. He had a quick mind, Zahra knew, quicker than his tongue even, though he seemed to know when to hold that, too. He looked to the servant. "You first. What's your name, what were you doing, and what happened to you?"

The man looked a bit surprised to be addressed by another elf instead of one of the humans now on the scene, but he cleared his throat, tugging self-consciously on his tunic sleeves. "I'm Orrin. I was moving the barrels of the supply wagon like the manifest said, when this woman comes out of nowhere and gets up on my face. Says I'm stealing Inquisition property and tries to take it off me." His mouth dropped into a frown, as though he were affronted by the very notion. Zahra had seen enough of servants to know that some of them took a great deal of pride in and responsibility for their work.

Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves, addressing the Inquisition soldier. “And you?"

"Ilya, serah. I dunno the first thing about any shipping manifests, but I doubt any of them call for stashing these things in random storage rooms. Looked bloody suspicious to me, but then he got all defensive about it not being my business. Seemed like my business what some Orlesian was doing with anything off the Inquisition carts."

The barrel at issue still sat between them, more properly an earthenware vessel, sealed at the top with cork and wax. Rope had been tied around the middle to make it easier to lift; it almost looked too heavy for the likes of Orrin to be lifting.

Zahra idly scratched at her jawline as she inspected the earthenware vase settled between the two in question—didn't look like anything out of the ordinary, though she wasn't exactly sure what the Inquisition had brought here, either. She squinted her eyes at Orrin and took a step to his side, rounding until she stood in front of the vase. She'd never been a very good judge of character, if the people she usually dealt with were anything to go by... but the lad had an honest look about him. Shoulders squared off. Offended.

Of course, it could've been a ploy. Or maybe, he'd been doing something he wasn't even aware of. Orders were orders, and servants were meant to follow them without question. Maybe Ilya's gut-feeling to check out what was being moved hadn't been completey unfounded. "We best take a look at the manifest then." She arched a thick eyebrow at them and turned her attention back to the vase, digging her fingers under the lip of wax until she could properly wiggle the cork off.

The smell greeted her first, assailing her nostrils. Pungent. She wrinkled her nose, and felt her eyes starting to water. Unexpectedly strong. Zahra slid the cork over a few inches so that she could see what was inside. No doubt everyone else could smell whatever it was by this point, too. She glanced up at Ril, still keeping hold of the cork so that it covered half of the opening. "Powder? I don’t know."

Maybe he'd have a better idea.

Rilien stepped forward, showing no sign of being bothered by the odor. It was mostly strong charcoal, and maybe a few notes of rotten eggs. Sharp, though. He ran two fingers along the inside lip of the vessel, smearing the dark grey substance over his fingertips with his thumb when he drew them out again. A tiny line appeared between his brow, and he gripped the vessel by the neck, tilting it sideways so a small amount of the powder spilled out into the grass.

“Move the pot away." He pointed at a spot a considerable distance from them, and Khari obliged, helping Zahra lift the clay vessel well clear of the area. Rilien motioned for everyone else to back away from the area, though the guard and both elves angled themselves to see what he was doing anyway. Withdrawing one of the knives from their sheaths at his waist, Rilien took a piece of flint from... somewhere else and struck the two against one another, throwing several sparks down onto the powder and taking a step back.

The result was instantaneous. Bright fire, in a plume about half a foot high, flashed, eating through the powder on the ground and leaving a heavy scorch mark in the grass. “This is gaatlok. Qunari explosives."

There was a brief moment of surprise at the flash of light caused by the explosive powder, but when it passed, Brand was the first to notice that the servant elf, Orrin, was no longer with them. "Hey, wait!" He took off at a run after him before the elf could slip out of sight entirely. Brand was short and not especially athletic, though, making his chances of catching the suspect middling at best.

While the explosion hadn’t been expected, it was Brand’s exclamation that forced Zahra into motion before she even had a chance to question what was happening. That wee bastard was running away. So much for an honest face. She huffed a breath and pumped her legs harder, breaking into a sprint, curls flying. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She passed Brand and felt herself gaining on the elf.

The distance shortened between them until she could reach out a hand and try to grab onto the back of his shirt. Close. So close. Her fingers clawed at the air, and then she felt her foot drop. Momentary panic filled her. Then, confusion. She’d been so focused on his retreating back and the zigzagging of ridiculous courtyard statues and shrubs, that she hadn’t noticed that the path she was running down dropped into a rectangular pool. A fountain. With lily-pads, flowers.

He’d obviously known it was there, because he was in the process of jumping while she staggered and fell. Her hand dropped lower, and she tried to grab at his wrist instead. Her fingers didn’t close around him at all, though she felt something entirely different in her hand. Felt something rip, rather than heard it. The water splashed around her as she lost her momentum and sailed clear out of the pond, catching herself on a nearby pillar.

She spotted Orrin disappearing through a door. Fuck. She huffed and leaned bodily into the pillar, trying to catch her breath. Trying to find him in a place like this would be a pain. She scrunched her eyebrows together, and turned over the thing crumpled in her hand. A piece of paper. Torn in half. Pushing herself away from the pillar, she began her trek back to the others. Her mouth twisted into a small smile, half embarrassed. Her sopping boots squished as she walked. “Couldn’t catch him either,” she breathed out through her nose, and lifted the piece of paper, flapping it in the air, “looks like one half of the manifest.”

Rilien, as unruffled as ever, took it from her and smoothed it out with his hands, eyes scanning quickly down the list she'd retrieved. “It would appear that at least six barrels of this type came in with the Inquisition's supplies." He paused a moment, letting that sink in, then immediately turned to Brand. “Get as many agents together as you can. Search for these barrels. Remain beneath notice."

Shifting his attention to Khari, he continued. “Contact Estella. If the Qunari have access to eluvians, there could be more of these anywhere. We need to know where, before they are used." When she'd nodded and turned away, Rilien's attention landed last of all on Zahra. “We need to find Orrin."

Qunari explosives, eluvian mirrors, and one dead Qunari. How many people were involved? How had the vases even been smuggled into the Inquisition's supplies? The implications made her head spin. But they didn't have time to speculate, not if whatever plan had already been set into motion.

Zahra nodded and inclined her head towards the small pond she'd been unfortunate enough to step in. "He went this way."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by Kurokiku
When Khari had heard that someone in the Inquisition got in a fight with someone else, she'd been pretty excited. It was the promise of something to do, outside of sitting around and waiting for the field team to come back with Cy's sorry ass in tow. Unfortunately, it hadn't quite panned out like she wanted. Sure, exploding powder sneaked in by Qunari spies was plenty interesting, but she was still just about as useless as a fireplace in midsummer. All this creeping around trying to find the spy before someone else found out there was a spy was definitely more of the kind of thing Ril and Brandywine did than her.

So here she was again, feet kicked up on some of Lucien's furniture, basically waiting for marching orders or something to swing a sword at, which at the moment amounted to fiddling with Stel's fancy Tevinter crystal and trying not to fidget too much.

When the crystal flashed and warmed in her hand, she nearly fell out of her chair. Shit—how did this work again? Right.

Clearing her throat, she tapped it twice with her index finger, grinning almost despite herself when her friend's face resolved on the screen. “I hope this is good news, because we don't have any for you yet."

Stel looked rather grim in the crystal, dirt smudged across part of her face and her mouth pulled down into not-quite-a-scowl, though she made an effort to return Khari's smile. "The opposite, I'm afraid." She shook her head. "There are more Qunari here, and more barrels of that gaatlok. We just fought some of them, but the leader left the way we'd come. The eluvians here... Khari, we need to warn everyone. I think they were planning to get most of the centers of government in Thedas, nevermind us."

She paused, as though about to say more, but her face contorted, pain scrawled across her features for a moment before she suppressed it. "Also the Anchors are still getting worse. It's... a lot. Nothing new from you?"

Well, damn. That really was the opposite of good news. Khari swallowed, something in her guts going tight and uncomfortable, more for the part about the Anchors than anything. Threats to the world were sort of their business. Something that was hurting Rom and Stel this much, this close—that was rarer and honestly a lot scarier.

“Not yet. Ril, Zee, and Brandywine are still looking for that Orrin guy. Me and Marcy are basically just sitting on our hands. We're pretty sure we found all the barrels, though. There were six of 'em, all set around the palace. Some of them even had blast charges already set. Getting those disabled was a pain in the ass, but Widget's here, so we managed okay." Grimacing, she squinted at the crystal, as if that would make Stel's image any clearer.

“Anything else we can do to help you? You said the leader came back the way you went in, right? Should we be expecting a drop-in?"

Stel shook her head. "I don't think so. There was another mirror back that way—a locked one. If we plan to stop this at the source, we need the password to it. Something that spy probably has, if you can find him. We'll take care of getting warnings to the people on the other side of these mirrors in the meantime, but the faster you can get us the password, the better. The Anchors are... not stable. We think if we can get through that mirror, we can solve both problems at once."

Fuck, Khari wished she were with them. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to plaster that feeling all over her face. It wasn't the fact that they were probably going to end up charging into some huge group of Qunari by themselves, either—though that did sound pretty great. Less great was the fact that her best friend and the person she loved were suffering that much and she was sitting here completely useless to do anything about it, or even just be there for them.

Khari forced her jaw to relax so she could talk. “They're looking as fast as they can, Stel. Once they find him, I'll beat the password out of him myself if I have to." She knew that wasn't exactly the kind of thing Stel would be happy to hear, but Khari needed to say it. Needed to resolve it. Because damn if the thing that killed them was her hesitation to inflict a little well-deserved pain.

She licked her lips, voice dropping so that it was quiet, probably not quite quiet enough that Marcy couldn't hear, but as close to private as she was gonna get in here. “Rom's, uh—he's okay? For now?"

Stel's expression softened; she smiled a little and gave a small nod. "He's no worse off than me. And as you can see, I'm still okay. We've got to get going now, but I'll keep you updated if anything changes. Promise."

The door swung open rather abruptly. It struck the opposing wall and nearly bounced back into Zahra’s rouge-splotched face. She caught it with the flat of her boot and made a noise in the back of her throat. Her thick eyebrows were drawn together and her mouth was twisted into a scowl. Seemed as if her boots were dry at least. Whatever good spirit she’d been in hours before had all been smothered away. She didn’t seem to notice Khari talking to Stel at all, as she stomped into the middle of the room and tossed her hands into the air, gesturing in angry swipes.

“Those sonnuva
 mongrel fuckers, the lot of ‘em!” she took a seething breath through her teeth and shook her head, curls swinging, “they found the bloody whelp before us, and they refuse to let us speak to him. None of our fucking business, they said.” She finally managed to calm herself down, letting out a heavier breath. She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her gaze to the ground, seeming to look somewhat apologetic. “Sorry. Ril’s trying to see what he can do, but right now, they’re not letting us get close to him.”

Oh hell no. “Not while our friends' lives depend on it, they aren't." Khari stood, pocketing the crystal and curling her hands into fists. Only a few of those calming breaths Leon had been trying to get her to use kept a lid on her temper, and she swung around to face Marcy.

“This is kinda your cue, right? Because I'll punch an Arl in the face if I have to, and I don't think we want that."

"I do believe that would cause... somewhat of a stir and officially, I cannot condone it," she said with a tight frown. In spite of the dry attempt at humor, she still looked serious, and even a little bit frustrated with the situation. It took only a moment for Marcy to push herself off of the desk she was sitting on and flatten out the wrinkles in her dress before making her way toward the door. "Not our business?" she repeated Zee's words with a glance at the woman. "We'll see about that," she added evenly, though a furrow was beginning to form in her brow.

The scene Zee led them to was hardly the brawl it probably would have been if less-cool heads had prevailed, but tension was obvious in the air nonetheless. Rilien's status was apparently enough to warrant the Arl's presence, and combined with five of his closest guard friends, he looked like nothing so much as the forbidding iron gate in a stone wall of resistance.

Rilien, of course, was as unfazed by this as he was by everything else, maintaining a polite but not excessively deferential distance from where Teagan and his men stood, no doubt blocking direct access to wherever they were holding Orrin. "As the elf was found in my guest quarters, I am sure the Inquisition will recognize my right to question him first. I should like to know what, if any, sensitive information he might have uncovered in the course of his unpermitted entry. Surely whatever you have to ask him can wait, can it not?" The suspicious tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't entirely sure that was true, and wanted to know what made their need to speak with the servant so great.

"I am afraid it cannot, at least, not for long," Marcy stated apologetically as she pulled up to the scene at hand. She stopped to stand beside Rilien, an arm crossed over her chest, resting the other which currently cupped her chin. She held the gaze with the Arl for a time, looking like she was thinking about something, and then glanced toward Rilien for an affirmation. "I believe we may already know the answer to the question you wish to ask him my lord," she said, turning her attention back onto the Arl.

She seemed to have steeled herself, like she decided on something internally. "We have already discovered that the rogue you have in your custody has smuggled in several barrels of Qunari explosive into the palace under the guise of our supplies. There is a chance that he was scouting for opportune locations to place more, to cause the most amount of damage as possible."

Even Khari could see the risk of Marcy being so forward with the information, but undoubtedly it would come to light sooner of later. Someone just doesn't sweep barrels of gaatlok under the rug and pretend like it didn't happen. Marcy must have figured it would have been better to hear it from their mouths rather than from someone unaffiliated with them. "We also have reason to suspect that the attack isn't solely localized here, but other places of import as well. I believe there are more pressing questions that need to be asked than what he was doing in your quarters my lord."

"If that is what he was doing, then my questions are all the more pressing," Teagan countered, managing to look and sound both alarmed and irritated at the same time. "And if these explosives truly came in with your supplies, you can grasp I hope why I do not trust much to your competence."

Khari crossed her arms, mostly so she could occupy her hands squeezing her biceps instead of something more productive but less nice. Brand was having difficulty holding still, but doing so on the edges of the group rather than in the thick of it. Rilien, on the other hand, just spoke as placidly as ever. “Your objections are noted, my lord. However, this spy claims to be Orlesian—a member of the Emperor's household. You can no doubt see why his remaining in your custody would be irregular at best."

"Not as irregular as remanding him to you."

"This affects more than Ferelden alone my lord, and the Inquisition already has proven experience in dealing with threats to Thedas as a whole," Marcy continued. She paused for a moment, letting her head subtly tilt toward one side. "I fear that this may be more of an Inquisition issue at the moment than a Ferelden one, unless you wish to take responsibility for your nation for something that could have been prevented," she asked with a single arched brow. The implication in Marcy's words were clear. Let us take the blame if something were to go wrong instead of Ferelden.

"I do not doubt you have your own questions, and you will have a chance you get your answers. All that we ask is that you allow us to get ours first," she continued, but softer this time.

"My agents will remain in the room." It was the Arl's turn to cross his arms. "If you ask a single question that they interpret as probing after information about Ferelden, you will be ushered out immediately." Scowling openly, he gestured to the men behind him, who parted to allow access to the door.

"Fix your mess, Inquisition. If you can."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Romulus Character Portrait: Estella Avenarius Character Portrait: Marceline Benoit Character Portrait: Zahra Tavish Character Portrait: Vesryn Cormyth Character Portrait: Leonhardt Albrecht Character Portrait: Asala Kaaras Character Portrait: Kharisanna Istimaethoriel

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#, as written by AugustArria
Rom could still feel the mark burning in his palm.

It was a phantom pain now, seared into his mind from the sustained and excruciating agony he'd dealt with up until it had been removed. Every time he looked down he was surprised to see it gone, to see his hand the way it had looked before he'd given himself away at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The way his hand had looked when he was a slave, a spy and a killer, nothing special about him at all. He was different now, he knew, but still he couldn't help but feel diminished. The thing that he had used to forge his own place in the world, and then to save it, was gone.

Estella had to be feeling something similar, but he knew she had other things on her mind. Much more personal thoughts. To find her uncle and her brother, only to lose them to an eluvian and parts unknown, sealing the path behind them so she could not follow... he couldn't imagine what that was like. Vesryn seemed confident they could track them down, but Rom knew by now he was good at projecting that even when he didn't feel it. Harellan, Cyrus, and Astraia would be nearly impossible to find if they wanted to stay hidden. The Inquisition's foremost experts on magic were gone, and with that magic they could cover their tracks.

Of course, it remained to be seen if the Inquisition as a whole would remain, and no doubt everything that had happened here would influence that. Two things had become clear to Rom: first, that there was still a need for an organization able to do what no single nation could alone, after what Harellan informed them of. Second, that they were not so impregnable as they'd seemed before, and that some restructuring was perhaps necessary.

It was late by the time they arrived back at the Winter Palace, and Rom was weary, but he led the way in silence beside Estella as they headed back towards the meeting chamber, where they were no doubt awaited.

They were interrupted one hallways short of their goal by a familiar voice. “Thank the fucking Maker." It wasn't too many people who'd say something like that, especially not, perhaps, with a tone of such genuine, profound relief. “You're alive."

Khari approached at a jog that looked more like a poorly-contained sprint, slowing only a little before she collided with Rom, strong arms banding around his back. “Lucien and Sophia are keeping everyone distracted by talking about very official business that doesn't actually matter, but Teagan's getting cranky. Crankier." The update was perfunctory; Khari pulled back and held him at arms' length for a moment, brows knit.

“You guys don't look too great. What happened out there?"

"We took care of the Qunari plot, and a lot of Qunari along with it. At the end of it we found Harellan and Cyrus." He glanced sideways at Estella, He wasn't sure how she'd want it described, but somehow he imagined she wouldn't mind him taking over the duties of explaining for a moment. "Harellan's not quite who we thought he was. He has Cyrus under his control from when he drank from the Well of Sorrows, and he has... some pretty destructive plans. But they were able to remove our marks." He'd taken hold of Khari's hands, but now he turned up his left one, to show her the unbroken skin there, no sign of the unearthly green light remaining.

"Astraia went with them," Vesryn added. "They disappeared into an eluvian, sealing it behind them. Hard to say where they are now."

“Huh." Khari blew out a long breath, also glancing towards Estella, then briefly over the rest of them. “I... have questions. But this probably isn't the right time or place, so." Her thumb brushed over his unmarked palm. “Meeting first. Then rest, I think. We'll take care of everything else after that." She grimaced and turned to look over her shoulder, in the direction they'd been going before she'd stopped them. “You want the full honor guard cause we're badasses, or to slip in all discreet-like? Cause if it's the second one, me, Ves, and Asala should probably stay here while you three head in." Himself, Estella, and Leon, no doubt.

Estella just looked tired at this point, fatigue clear in the bruised-looking skin beneath her eyes. It was carried in her body language more than anything, though, and that she masked, forcing her spine straight and her shoulders back. "We've just prevented the destruction of every government seat in Thedas. Even if some of the agents responsible were spies in our ranks, we're no more culpable than anyone else. And we fixed it. They can live with it if we don't downplay that and go in with bowed heads." The set of her jaw was a stubborn one; she tilted her chin up a little as if in preparation to stare down the world leaders who'd sit so far above them inside.

"We're not theirs to chastise. If the Arl can't handle that, he'll need to learn."

Khari's eyes lit up, a fierce grin splitting her face. “Fuck yes. Honor guard it is. Help me out here, Ves?" Khari straightened, too, relinquishing Rom's hands to pat down a few of her wilder curls and adjust her cloak. The green one with elaborate gold stitching, he noticed. Checking that all her gear was in the right place, she turned on her heel to stand in front of them. But the doors at the end of the next hall were double, so she needed an extra pair of hands for the right effect.

"All set?" Vesryn checked behind at the rest of the group. When no one made any claims otherwise, he and Khari pushed open the doors in unison, letting Rom and Estella lead the Inquisition party in.

And that they did. Estella timed her pace to Rom's, so they were moving almost in lockstep. When they reached the table at which Rilien and Lady Marceline were sitting, she did not immediately take a seat. "I think everyone will be relieved to know that the Qunari situation is resolved," she said, voice firm enough to make it clear that she was not shrinking away from the words. Not much harder, though—Estella didn't have that in her personality. "In total, we stopped nine instances of the plan called 'Dragon's Breath,' and the Qunari officers responsible are dead. Our information indicates, however, that this was meant only to be the first strike in a more protracted offensive, which will likely now become a full-scale war."

She expelled a breath through her nose, leaning forward slightly to rest her hands on the tabletop in front of them. "Their method of travel through the fadelike realm known as the Crossroads has been rescinded, however, and so if they wish to bring a fight to your doorsteps, they will have to do so the long, difficult way."

The Emperor leaned forward a little in his seat, clasping his hands together beneath his chin. "Quite the accomplishment for... what has it been? Eight hours? I fear we've little to show for our time, by comparison." It wasn't hard to detect the rebuke in that, which was certainly not directed at the Inquisition.

Arl Teagan made a discontented noise, but it was clear enough even to Rom that he had to be very careful about what he said here. Their success at stopping such a large-scale problem before it really became a problem was nothing to scoff at, especially with the limited resources they'd had to do it. No doubt it looked even more impressive to people who didn't know about the helping hand they'd had on the other side of the mirrors.

"No one denies their effectiveness." The Arl sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. His eyes narrowed down at them—his displeasure was obvious enough, but there was also something approaching respect there. "In fact, it is the thing about them that might be most problematic. Lest we forget, however, the instance of this Qunari plan that almost happened here came so close to success because of a spy in the Inquisition itself. If nothing else, your organization has outgrown its ability to self-monitor, and I understand this is not the first time a dangerous agent has been found within your ranks, either."

Normally Rom would be inclined to let everyone else do the talking. Most people were better at it than him, after all. A few years ago he'd have spoken to this group with his head bowed, hands clasped somewhere, speaking softly and clearly. The practice he'd had came on a throne, which he did not have now. The Emperor, Empress, Banns and Arls, Orlesian nobles, even Chryseis herself all sat above him, looking down as if in judgement. His heart was pounding rather rapidly, but he still managed to lift his chin, cast his eyes up to theirs, and speak clearly. He wasn't about to let Estella do this alone.

"I think a few things have been proven, my lord. The first being that the Inquisition is still a necessity for Thedas, an organization equipped to handle threats beyond any of the assembled nations. But you also speak the truth; our size has become a weakness that can be used against us, and worse, against all of you." He paused to take a breath, finding he was short of it. Some combination of his weariness and the stress of the situation, perhaps. "But there has to be a compromise we can find. I would suggest first that our regular standing army may no longer be necessary. Our soldiers are volunteers, and all left lives behind to join our cause. Many will be able to return to those lives now that the lands they came from have been made safe of the threat of Corypheus."

"I think that is a sensible place to begin," Empress Sophia said, turning to look across the room at Arl Teagan. "Would you be willing to accept the Inquisition's continued existence if its army were to return to their homes?"

In fairness to him, he considered it at some length, mouth pursed. Perhaps the sour expression was just the one he wore by default. "It's a start, but not quite enough. The Crown's most pressing issue is not even so much their size as their location. They sit on an..." He paused; it was clear he was very measured with his next words. "Important border. And on the Fereldan side of it, no less. Considering the well-known fact that their diplomatic ties to Orlais are stronger, I'm sure you can see why this is a problem even if they have only information-gathering capacities remaining."

It was a more difficult conundrum. Skyhold had been the Inquisition's home for years, and they'd only been able to use it because no one else was. The landscape was not exactly replete with abandoned fortresses, and no doubt even if it were, any that they could choose would encroach on someone's territory.

"We would be willing to move," Estella said carefully. "But there is presently nowhere we could move to."

At that point, the Emperor cleared his throat; the attention of those present swung immediately to him. "Actually, that may not be entirely true." He paused a moment, considering them with a warmth that could not be mistaken for judgement, even if he did tower perhaps the most of everyone in the room. "If you were to move well within the borders of Orlais, with a few provinces between your base of operations and Ferelden, I take it the Bannorn would be satisfied?" This was directed at Arl Teagan.

The Fereldan man nodded, suspicion warring with genuine curiosity in his expression.

"In that case... you may have Lydes. I think the castle would be well suited to your purposes, and the lands around it enough to sustain you. I might be biased, but I daresay it yields quite nicely with sufficient management."

"Truly?" Estella looked a bit dumbstruck, as did a few of the others in attendance. It wasn't every day a monarch offered someone his personal property, after all. "But—aren't you...?"

Lucien huffed softly. "If you were Orlesian, what you have done would be rewarded in much the same manner. Land and holdings for heroism. We've operated on the system for ages; I see no reason not to employ it here."

"With respect, Your Radiance, such arrangements usually leave the recipient bound to the throne from which the land was issued. While the offer is both generous and appreciated, part of our strength is that we are not currently so beholden." Leon kept both his face and tone neutral, but the point was obviously important.

And obviously expected, if the way the Emperor nodded was any indication. "That is quite so. And were I a monarch granting land to his vassals, it would be a problem. But as a rather ordinary man giving a gift to some friends of mine, the same rules do not apply. There will need to be treaties, of course, but we can construct those in due time. I invite our Fereldan counterparts to take part in the process, that they might bear no fear of Orlais securing more of your loyalty than we ought."

That seemed to put some ease back in the Arl's shoulders—they'd been growing increasingly tense as the conversation continued. But clearly Lucien had fended off his biggest concern with the last concession, and he nodded, looking almost surprised to find himself doing it. "That seems to be... quite the equitable solution, if the Inquisition desires to take it." His attention reverted to Rom and Estella, as if to ask the obvious question.

In every aspect it had to be a more favorable deal than the one they currently had. Skyhold was remotely positioned, and expensive to keep supplied. Lydes would be much better positioned for trade, and they would have far more resources of their own to make them not so dependent on deals such as the one they'd established with Arlesans for food. Not to mention they'd have significantly fewer mouths to feed and pockets to fill.

And the weather would be nicer.

Still... it was hard to give up Skyhold. The place that had nurtured them back to health after the crushing defeat at Haven. The place where Rom had freed himself, fallen in love, and beaten a self-proclaimed god. His little corner of that castle had become a precious space, one where he had watched himself steadily improve as a person. He had to remind himself that his progress, his success, was not tied to that place, and it would not revert or vanish if he were to give it up. Likely no one would claim Skyhold except for the snow when they were gone, but the snow had taken care of it long before they'd arrived.

Ghosts and spirits would always whisper there, of the things they'd done, the battles they'd won, and the joy they'd found.

Estella had already voiced her opinion even before the answer was provided, but he wasn't about to declare it alone. "I'm ready to move on if you are," he said quietly.

It took her only a moment more to nod firmly, then shift her eyes to the assembled. "We accept," she said, fingers curling into the wood at the edge of the table as if to steady herself. "And... thank you." She looked particularly at the Orlesian Emperor and Empress when she said it, before bowing her head. The closest to graciousness that fatigue would allow, no doubt.

"Then it will be done," Lucien replied. "The details in due time. For now, I think we might adjourn. It has been a long and trying day."

Rom couldn't argue with that. Bowing to the lords and ladies present here, he took his leave, the Inquisition party behind him. When they were clear of the prying eyes, he partly sagged into Khari, knowing his weight would be welcome there. "They have beds for us here, right? I think I need a few days of sleep after this."

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