faderift | [ OPEN ] We shift and turn and swear and yearn

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[ OPEN ] We shift and turn and swear and yearn

WHO: Adelaide & you
WHAT: Catch All for the month
WHEN: June/Justinian
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Wine, swearing, PUPPIES, allusions to demonic violence. Prose or Brackets are fine, roll with what you like most. If you want a specific prompt hit me up on plurk @ here!

[ Courtyard -> Stables ]

When her sister wrote 'their arrival is imminent' Adelaide had not quite considered how imminent Juliette meant. Perhaps she might have been better prepared for signing off with the courier when they herd the rather rambunctious litter of several month old mabari pups to one of the few empty stalls in the barn. Playful things that they are- Dennet is a horse master not a hound master and it will be some time before the appropriate point of authority finds their way down to check on the five puppies ready for imprinting or...whatever it is these dogs do- but they will need minding until they are handed off and as she'd had the fortune to sign for them- Adelaide finds herself sitting in the barn, trying to keep the dogs from gnawing on one another, on her, or on anything valuable. Moments like this are a thorough reminder as to why she is a cat person.

[ Library ]

She can be found, as ever, at her table tucked into one of the unoccupied nooks of the library- a cold cup of tea at her elbow, a sheaf of notes she writes and reorganizes- a quill on occasion hovering over a sheet of blank paper and mimicking her notes stroke for stroke so she might produce them in duplicate. So long as she remembers exactly how she's laid out the paper, it works well enough. For questions, comments, concerns, condemnations or complications that have arisen during research she has made herself thoroughly available.

[ Return of the Attache ]

"No." That is all she has to say. No. She won't bother to stop or listen, she won't bother to mind him in the slightest- that same family attache doggedly tails Adelaide about the hold, hovering just behind with a leatherbound sheaf of papers in his hand while he awaits for some sign that she'll take them or at least listen. He spends the bulk of his time holding the odd extra book or pen or, in a singularly distressing moment, a pad of gauze against a seeping wound as she mends a patient in the healing tents. He's a step down from a personal valet- he is not meant to be dealing with literal bloody commoners and yet- this is his life. Someone please help him convince Adelaide to at least take the papers and look at them.

AFTER JUSTINIAN 19th

[ Stairs ]

After the final ritual is all said, done, and finished Adelaide finds she has a wealth of extra time due to no longer needing to spend several hours picking apart what went wrong with the last and what could go wrong with the next- and at least a few hours extra that she'd otherwise spend training with Martel in the evenings due to the incontinence that is her leg. Magic, even hers, can only do so much and the nasty break in that last fight leaves her less walking with the calm poise she's known for and more hobbling from place to place, staff less an afterthought and more a requirement for keeping her weight off her leg. At the moment she's glowering at the stones underfoot as she takes one slow, shuffling step up the stairs at a time. Her research is in the library- and eventually she would make her way there. Just- give her some time.

[ Healing Tents ]

Here, at least, there are fewer stairs. Adelaide splits her time between minding patients and beginning new notations on old research she'd set aside- tending to those she could while moving as little as possible for the first few days. Her humor is...subdued, somewhat, but that is easily explained by the weight of her work of the past months finally catching up now that she is forced to spend less time on her feet. Now and then she might be caught dozing, chin tipped to her chest, fingers still holding the page of her book in place.

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The growing bundles of energy and fur are certain to attract attention from plenty of people and certainly many animals. Like other dogs, for instance. Milday is no mabari, could never hope to become so meaty and broad, no, to be fair, as intelligent or deathly loyal. But she is a dog, and there are puppies, and she is going to investigate the shit out of that.

Oh, and also Adelaide, because Milday loves people she isn't ordered to attack, but there is an apricot colored fuzz cautiously approaching, giving each pup a sniff, and when one yips and takes a stance to play, so does she, her whole body becoming a silly energetic noodle of joy.

Malcolm shakes his head when he, eventually, enters the barn, but doesn't stop the play from happening. "She must have smelled them in the air," he says, apologetically. Then he glances between Adelaide and the clearly mabari pups, then back to her, eyebrows raised, bemused, amused. "I'm sorry, did you suddenly just turn a little bit more Fereldan?"

Adelaide minds the poodle warily for a moment- hunting dogs imported from the Anderfels, or so she'd heard- but this particular one seems less interested in trouble and hunting and far more in play. For all due seriousness to drop the instant one puppy takes the typical 'yes play race now' posture and return it in kind?

It twists a faint laugh out of her, even as she sits, trapped by a dozing mabari in her lap. "I am minding them until Dennet can find someone better qualified to match them."

Which should have happened an hour ago, but. "They are from my sister's Kennel. A sign of goodwill and support from her family to the Inquisition."

"I think the sight of some mabari around here will certainly lift some spirits. And dampen others." He doesn't call his dog off, watching her dance around while one of the fuzzy meatballs circles her with little yips and play lunges. It'll be good for her to play with someone other than Jayne, honestly, and good for the pups too.

And good for him for using up some of her energy and distracting her for a time in a way that isn't just work. So he leans against one of the walls to relax. "He might have to pull double-duty as kennelmaster at this rate even though his specialty is the horses. Not spooking any of the steeds, are they?" Malcolm peers along the stables, though he doesn't see his horse's head poking out.

"I would hope it does more of the former than the latter." Even an Orlesian like herself can find something commendable in these furred, frisky things. They are in their own way darling; were she one to care for dogs? She might care for these. Might. As it is she remains content to tease them with a length of knotted rope or a scratch behidn the ears.

"The horses were curious at first- but they've become accustomed to the sound and smell. I do not think they've caused much upset save for the barn cats, who have vacated the building entirely."

"The barn cats will get over it. Plenty of mice elsewhere to pounce on, I'm sure." Milady flops dramatically on the ground and wriggles around, nipping at the vicious puppy attacks. Malcolm huffs a laugh. "And now I'm sure I'll have to wash some horse excrement out of her fur. Are they fit for bonding yet or still too young for it?"

"We put down fresh hay for the puppies- she ought to be fine." Key word being ought, truly. "They should be ready to imprint within the week, honestly, if they are not already prepared to do so. The paperwork was vague."

"Oh, but dogs, they will find a way. Like young children. If it's dirty, they will roll around in it." But plucking hay out is a much better way to spend time than a thorough washing. "They can be finicky, so I hear. I can't blame them, bonding to someone for life. You can't force that sort of thing. I'm sure people will be lining up out the doorway trying to see if one of them will bond."

"The Commander intends to sort through who has most need of them, I think. Try to ration out the litters to where they will do the most good and see who from each pool is chosen." Which is the most practical way of handling things, truly.

"The Commander has a solid head on his shoulders for that sort of planning. The Fereldan in me is a touch jealous, I'll admit, but unless I want another mess to keep myself occupied with, I think Milady will just have to do."

At the sound of her name, the poodle perks up, giving her wretched mabari foe time to pounce. He chuckles at the inadvertent distraction. "Now if you Orlesians had tameable lions on the battlefield, that would make an interesting tale, but you'll have to settle for our dogs."

"I am surprised no one has attempted to create such a thing." Tameable lions- perish the thought. The dogs seem troublesome enough, she cannot imagine how difficult it would be to train and breed large cats.

Breeding the small ones are difficult enough.

"She is a lovely hound, your Lady." A delightful color, a stern pose, in good health as far as Adelaide might tell.

"Someone might have and got mauled for their troubles." He can assume. He's never even seen a live lion before and sometimes isn't sure that they even still exist in Thedas. Surely they must, somewhere?

He smiles gently at the praise of his hound, turning the tables and bowling her attacker over to snuffle at its belly. "She was a gift from a mentor of mine. He bred a litter and allowed me one to raise up and train. And here I thought the horse was difficult enough." A shake of his head. "Faithful companion in the field, but every soldier needs some downtime."

"They are originally from the ANders, are they not? Sight hounds." A relatively recent acquisition by the Orlesian hunting nobility-something they've tried to breed smaller and smarter.

She has seen some that managed the smaller- but not quite so much the smarter.

"Hunting dogs, not nearly so fierce as the Anders themselves. Until given reason. She is playful as anything now, but when she is on a mission, she is my trusted partner."

Which might be hard to picture when her tail is running so fast, and she bounds around Adelaide to entice a chase.

"You don't mind a little bit of dog in your life," he teases. "Come now, who can say no to faces like that and truly mean it?"

"It must be a remarkable partnership." Not at all similar to that which she has with Compassion but- seeing such a thing in anyone, even a Seeker? Settles her somewhat. Besides. The capacity to care for a furred living thing makes most seem marginally less dangerous and likely to murder mages.

Whether or not that is so remained to be seen.

"This is a familial obligation." As close to the posh, orlesian snoot most expect of her- even as she reaches to ruffle Milady's fur. "Nothing more."

Milady's attention immediately is focused on the person petting her, and her whole body wiggles with excitement. Though she carefully steps over the sleepy pup in Adelaide's lap, step up she does to slobber a few kisses on her face. Her tail is a force of nature unto itself.

The show startles a more honest laugh out of the Seeker, but enough, he supposes, is enough, and he gives a short, sharp whistle that fills the stable. The poodle stops immediately, body rigid, looking to him--as well as every other dog whether they be at play or even twitching an ear and cracking an eye open at him in the midst of sleep. When he makes an equally short gesture, she steps off of Adelaide and trots to Malcolm's side. The pup who had been so engaged in her play follows suit, curious, somewhat of a mimic. The little one doesn't sit at his feet as she does, instead sniffing around, and Malcolm is content to let it while he scritches Milady's head.

Her face turns from stern attention to a happy, panting doggy grin at the attention.

"To think that your family even bothers to breed any war hounds at all! It must weigh terribly on your sensibilities."

"Oh, terribly friendly aren't-" Yes, yes she is friendly- Adelaide is not all that accustomed to being licked and no matter how well trained or well fed- dog breath is dog breath. Adelaide sputters and leans away, almost tipping over in her effort to escape. Malcolm saves her with that sharp whistle and Adelaide spends a moment or two staring, aghast, at Milady.

Someone truly isn't a dog person.

"Ah. Is that...normal?" The licking. The- being right in one's face? She shakes her head to clear the shock, summoning a small palmfull of water to dampen a kerchief and wipe her face clean. Remarkably well trained, is Milady, but...a dog is a dog. "My sister married a Fereldan Lord- it is his family's legacy as much as perfectionism is the LeBlanc Legacy. She threw herself into improving the kennels and breeding as much as possible."

"Very normal. Incredibly normal. I'm surprised the pups haven't bowled you over in order to slobber all over you." His laugh is short enough to not be mean-spirited, but rest assured, he's definitely laughing. Malcolm slides down to one knee, still scratching and ruffling Milady, who after a moment gives a few wet kisses to his cheek. And he'll even offer a hand to the curious mabari. "She does love people so."

Apparently. And apparently, Adelaide has never been around dogs enough to know what behaviour is truly strange or what is normal. "The sacrifices one must make for family."

"They are too short to do so." Licking of hands- that much she can stand more or less- watching Malcolm dip down to encourage that makes her snort a soft laugh. "I cannot even fault you for being Fereldan, can I?"

He's a marcher sort from what she understands. Then again they are just a step above Fereldans, truly. "She seems terribly sweet."

"My dear Lady LeBlanc, whatever sort of terrible rumour is going around that I'm not Fereldan?" He considers it for a moment, then continues: "Je pourrais comprendre si certaines personnes pensent que je suis de Orlais. But I haven't the accent enough for that to seem terribly plausible." Many years stationed in Orlais has taught him a lot.

"I had thought you were a Marcher." But then the dog makes slightly more sense, and spending time enough in Orlais to learn the language- and speak it beautifully compared to the others like him of the same- forgives the sin. "I apologize. You simply seemed a bit clean for a muddy dog lord."

"You do seem to be a fair bit friendly for a snooty secretive player of the Game," he returns in kind, reaching over to rub a silly puppy's belly when it flops over for rubs. "I suppose I could find something to say of the lawless vagabonds that are Marchers, but some places aren't so terrible, at least according to my sister."

"I've a sister married and raising a family in Starkhaven-" Which counts for little, she has a sister in every country save Tevinter and Orlais where her brother lives instead "-and know a little from what she writes. It seems an...interesting place to live."

With interesting people.

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[ OPEN ] We shift and turn and swear and yearn

brb puppies

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