faderift | I just wanna show the world what I'm worth [open]

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I just wanna show the world what I'm worth [open]

WHO: Geneviève and you unfortunate peasants
WHAT: an Orlesian comes to town
WHEN: Beginning of Harvestmere through the end of the month
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Info post if you want to establish previous CR or whatever PM, hmu on plurk/discord, whatever I'm easy. Also you can do prose or action spam i'm ok with whatever.

i. arrival

She is not the first Chevalier to arrive in Skyhold. She's not even the only one to arrive this day, accompanied by two others, although they are only providing an escort before they will return to the war. Geneviève tries not to look at her brothers in arms with contempt as they ride over the bridge into Skyhold proper, thinking that they would be going where she would rather. Most of the journey here she had been trying to convince Ser Brice he'd be better suited to the task, as his family had a higher noble standing than hers. Alas the arguments had mostly fallen to laughter, or the occasional admonishment. She is, after all, carrying out a mission of some import. Even if she feels that what she's being tasked with is nothing more than a foolish way to occupy her time and keep her from reopening her wounds in battle.

Dismounting from her horse by the stables she looks around, wrinkling her nose despite herself.

"People have been living here?" Though it is likely in a better state than it was when first found, she comes from a family of artists and architects. Her father has designed and redesigned some of the finest villas in Orlais. That people have been calling this place home for the past year? She can only fathom it because the proof is right before her eyes. "Andraste guide me," she mutters, shaking her head and beginning to relieve Calixte of his burden. The other Chevaliers are quick to leave her side, making instead for the tavern. Let the stablehands tend to their horses. Geneviève alone remains to dress down her horse, she knows his temper best and does not want some fool getting hurt because they weren't mindful of the horse's whims.

She speaks softly to him in Orlesian as she works, assuming no one who speaks the language is setting foot in the dirty stables.

ii. settling in/ Main Hall

Part of the requirements for her to take residence in Skyhold for the time being means seeing, as well as being seen. For most Chevaliers this would mean parading around in full ceremonial plate and looking puffed up and proud of themselves. Geneviève is of course, expected to dress as a lady would when not on the battlefield. She wears a yellow feather brooch to identify herself as a Chevalier, as if her word isn't proof enough, but when she is dressed in customary Orlesian dress (minus the mask) it is sometimes hard to believe she's gone through the same trainings all the great Chevaliers have.

She is attentive in the main hall when it's asked of her by the visiting dignitaries, eager to show that they know a lovely young Chevalier, and sometimes by men she suspect her mother had planted to attempt to draw her attention. More often than not she looks terribly bored with whomever she's speaking with, and would welcome a distraction from someone more interesting.

iii. settling in/ wandering

When not in the main hall, she is exploring, which requires a simpler dress and aside from her bright hair and the feather brooch she still wears, she blends in a little more easily with those around her. The stables to visit her horse is one place she visits most frequently, though she also stops into the tavern.

Often she'll sit in the evenings with a mug of ale, looking like she's trying to decide whether she hates it or not. It's certainly not Orlesian wine, but she'd gotten an odd look from the barkeep when she'd asked if they employed a sommelier, so it is the ale she tries.

iv. healing tents

One thing she couldn't put off, though she would like to, is a visit to the healers. She'd been given papers by the healers in Val Royeaux that had her medical records and what they'd done on her wounds, both magical and surgical. It's still a work in progress, so shortly after she'd settled in to Skyhold, she made her way to the healing tents, parchment in hand.

She approaches the first person she sees, giving them a polite smile.

"Hello, I require the consultation of a healer."

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Unfortunately, perhaps for her, perhaps for him, there's someone in the stables who does speak Orlesian and that's because he's busy taking care of his own Chevalier's giant horse and his own little pony.

"I haven't heard anyone speak Orlesian in a while. You'd think only Fereldans lived in Skyhold." This could go poorly. He's an elf, she's a Chevalier. But he'd see.

Geneviève hadn't even noticed the elf, because really, he's an elf. They're small and squirrely and beneath her notice at least half the time. Whe he speaks she looks a little startled, but not like she's about to strike him for daring to speak to a Chevalier. She's surprised he spoke to her certainly, but hitting people for speaking, well. That's something she finds simply barbaric.

"Many enjoy speaking simply to be heard, perhaps that is why they all speak the common tongue while here," she replies, not looking at the elf but patting Calixte's nose affectionately. She knows there are several Orlesians here, of course. She has a dossier on every noble that might come to her for protection. And a list of who and who not to ignore.

He wants to say that it's certainly why Zapp speaks common so much, but he never knows where new Chevaliers stand on his boss. Some of them think Chevalier Brannigan full of hot air, some of them think him a kindred spirit.

"You'll find a matching opinion from Brannigan. Chevalier Zapp Brannigan. This is his horse." He nods at the giant horse in front of him.

"Ah," the tone in her voice dripping with distain with that syllable alone should tell Kif all he needs to know about Geneviève's opinion on Brannigan. "I had not heard he was here. That should be... interesting." Obviously as they are on opposing sides of this war, the opposing sides don't speak much as to who they're sending to try and enlist the Inquisition's forces on their behalf.

"You are his servant, then?" She actually sounds like she might feel a little pity for Kif, now.

The tone tells him basically everything, but everything is no surprise. Zapp is... All right, maybe most Chevalier aren't fans of Zapp. Kif can't blame them. He's not a fan. He's also not sure if he's a fan of or fine with the trace of pity in her voice, but he shrugs off the doubt mentally a moment later. She's Orlesian. He'll use it, as he's been taught.

"His squire. I'm sure you've heard the grand 'joke' made of him having an elf for a squire? I'm Kif, that elf."

"Oh," she replies, a little surprised. She'd thought that had been a rumor, not fact. She'd never formally met Zapp, but his reputation certainly precedes him, and she didn't think he'd be the type to take an elf on as a squire. Especially considering that elves can't be chevalier. Or maybe they could, but they weren't. Certainly not this one, he looks like a strong breeze would ruin him.

"How... fortunate for you. Chevalier do not often take on squires, that must give you quite the advantage." Somehow.

Fortunate was questionable. At least she sounds as if it's questionable too, though he has no idea what reasons are behind it, whether it's Zapp being Zapp, or Kif being an elf. ...It might be both. It's probably both, he decides.

"It means I have no guilt about speaking with a Chevalier," he replies, feeling just a little smug as he says it. Few Orlesian elves would speak with her. He at least has confidence enough for that, and she's talking with him.

"I'm Kif, Kiflas Croquet." He thinks he can get away with an introduction, as well.

The chevalier in the tavern gets Korrin's attention, and a slight frown as that bright hair brings forth a sense of deja vu. They must have met at some point, though the Valo-Kas company doesn't typically interact with chevaliers (and that's just as well, honestly). Still, there were a lot of assignments in Orlais and likely will be once the chaos dies down.

That staring at the ale gets her lips to twitch, though. "If you really want to find a way to enjoy it, ask for dwarven ale. Compared to that, anything else is heavenly." Not needing that route herself, she beckons for a refill.

Frankly Geneviève wouldn't know one qunari from another. She's met a few from mercenary bands that are occasionally hired for help where chevaliers alone won't suffice, but her opinion of them is always fairly low. Names, faces, they don't make an impression. So even if Korrin vaguely recognizes her, when she speaks it's like it's the first time Geneviève even realized the woman was in the room. Her comment all the same gets a light laugh and draws a small smile from the redheaded chevalier.

"Ah, I have had dwarven ale before, my father often received it as gifts. With that perspective in mind, I will settle for this."

Perhaps she's mistaken, then, given the lack of recognition. Korrin's not sure it would make a difference, anyway. She's had very little to do with chevaliers, then or now. That feather is eyed with some wariness but as long as the woman remains civil, so can she.

"What a backhanded gift. They either must not have liked him very much, or it was a dare. Though that does explain a lot of drinks, especially qunari ones." She won't deny that stuff is strong, strong beyond what a human can normally endure. No one drinks it for the taste, but to show off...or at least make the attempt.

"He deals with dwarves, I believe they thought it an appropriate gift," she replies, a little dismissively. Not so much of the qunari, but of the fact that it might be an offense to her father. It isn't, of that she is certain. Of all of her family, her father is one of the easiest to like.

"I however, did drink it on a dare. Qunari ale I have not yet, though I have heard stories of those who have." Most of the vomiting that happened after.

Korrin smirks a little at the notion of the noble chevalier drinking that stuff on a dare, almost wishing she could have been around for the reaction. "...yeah, that stuff was more or less made with 'the strongest possible drink that probably won't kill you in mind'. It can get even my kind hammered, and most brews do absolutely nothing to us unless we drink a shitload. You want to try it sometime, let me know. Cabot doesn't sell it, but I keep a stash for my own use."

Mostly it's used for really bad days, or to give to people who haven't tried it before so she can watch their amusing reaction.

She lets out a small laugh, nodding her head.

"Merci, I shall keep that in mind, though I doubt I will feel bold enough to try it any time soon. I am Geneviève, au fait.

"And you've found one." He looks at the woman who has come in and stands, straightening his robes as he does so. "What is it you'd like to consult on?"

That's far more formal of a phrasing than he's used to, which means... he's not sure yet. But she's well-dressed, to start, with an Orlesian accent, and this might wind up interesting.

The look on Geneviève's face when Anders identifies himself as a healer says much. She'd assumed he was just some dirty attendant, at best. The slight grimace on her face smooths out a moment later, and she holds up the parchment roll she's carrying with her.

"I am a Chevalier. I was recently injured in battle, my wounds attended by healers in Val Royeaux. These are notes about my progress, and what has yet to be mended."

Anders rolls his eyes at her grimace. Yes, his robes are a little wrinkled - he's been leaning against the table oddly as he works - but he's a healer and has returned to keeping himself meticulously clean. Just because he sounds Fereldan doesn't mean she needs to be making faces. He's distinctly not Fereldan. Then again, Chevalier. They probably take classes on how to make faces at people.

"Right." He takes the roll and unwraps it, reading carefully. "I take it you agree with them on the priorities? That this is the best path to take when it comes to your care?" It reads like it is. Anders simply wants a grasp of how opinionated a patient she's going to be.

Whether she doesn't notice him roll his eyes or decides it's beneath her to acknowledge it is a mystery, as her face is now a passive mask. At his questions she pauses for a moment, her mask breaking as she furrows her brow slightly.

"They treated me like I am more fragile than I am. I was wounded on the battlefield, not in a salon. If you have a more aggressive treatment I would welcome it. I do not enjoy being sidelined." Even if she'll have to remain at Skyhold, now on official business, she'd rather be of use, even if it's to the Inquisition and not to her country. Her injuries, as they stand, are chiefly her right shoulder and the left side of her abdomen, both had been run through. She still has some microtearing and weakness in the muscles, but the worst of the injures have been knitted back together.

He rolls the parchment back up and nods. No one likes being treated like they're fragile, but there's no telling until he gets a sense of the wound himself if they're being earnest or simply overly worried.

"All right. Climb on the table and let me get a sense of the wounds for myself so I can tell you if they've called it correctly or they're wrong. Let me say also that I understand the lack of desire to be sidelined, but sometimes it's called for." Being clear is important. Especially with the nobility.

She choose not to interact with most in the tavern, sometimes even coming in just to observe the people without actually drinking anything. But if she kept doing that she was sure the owners would be angry with her, so she had a mug of ale in hand, but it was barely touched. Occasionally, when someone was interesting enough, she would approach, and so she did. She took a sit next to Geneviève, with a polite smile and takes a quick glance over her. She was different.

"Not the same as wine, now is it?" Her accent would appear familiar to the Chevalier, but it wasn't exactly Orlesian. But she was sympathetic, being someone that only ever drank high class wine herself, and rarely touched hard liquor. "You could ask to have it with lemonade, it makes the taste bearable."

The woman's accent wasn't quite Orlesian, but it was close enough that Geneviève could simply assume that she'd either been in Ferelden too long, or was from a part of Orlais that she hadn't been to.

"This is clearly Ferelden, it both smells and tastes of wet dog," she replied with a smile, despite the despair accompanied with the less-than-satisfactory alcohol. "With all the Orlesians about I am stunned they do not have a selection of wine at-hand."

"Wet dog is right," she let out a soft chuckle. "I'll be sure to share with you if I come along any good wine," but the smile faltered for a moment. How can she expect them to have high quality wine? People here were poor. It always confused her how the rich could be so disconnected, but it was usually not their fault, being raised in such a way that made them think the world was easy. But she knew better than to voice her thoughts.

"Why are so many Orlesians here, if you don't mind me asking?" Her tone was still light, but there was obvious interest.

"Andraste bless you," Geneviève says with a smile, taking a sip from her cup and immediately regretting it. She doesn't entirely miss the look on the other woman's face, but doesn't make much note of it, too focused on rolling her tongue against the roof of her mouth in an attempt to get the aftertaste to subside.

The question does get a curious tilt of her head, and Geneviève looks a little more carefully at the woman seated next to her.

"Vous êtes Orlesian, êtes-vous pas? I would think you'd know."

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I just wanna show the world what I'm worth [open]

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