[ OPEN ] Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make me a match

[fleurdesel]

WHO: Adelaide, Suitors, Spectators
WHAT: A series of disastrous encounters
WHEN: Throughout Cloudreach
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: OOC POST.

The last day of Drakonis brings a familial attache to Skyhold. François is a stern, formal, and unyielding man at the beginning of the month- hounding Adelaide to make certain she meets each appointed suitor, one for lunch, one for dinner, chaperoning the meetings in hopes of finding a suitable match for the sole single LeBlanc. It becomes rapidly apparent that despite his best efforts, it is for naught. Adelaide, despite being forced into moderate finery and made to sit and bear the company of these men, is less than amused and determined to at least get some paperwork done between meetings. Or during if the conversation is that dull.

The set up for each, unless the suitor has his own mind about the matter, remains the same. Simple and elegant, a table in the garden that is public enough to not be improper, private enough to not invite undue observation, and comfortable enough to suit their needs. The meals are as fine as François can manage with Skyhold's resources and the coin provided for the meetings, each accompanied by Antivan or Orlesian wine. As the month progresses Adelaide's temper grows short and François' patience goes thin. Deviating from the Dossier is not recommended but- desperate times? Desperate measures.

He starts seeking out the clean and respectable looking, dragging them to the table and plopping them in the chair and instructing them to talk, for the love of the Maker.

Comments

[seesobserves]

Sherlock knows enough about the noble mindset to know that the second son of a merchant doesn't rank high in terms of marital capital — and yet, somehow, his name wound up on a list of potential suitors. This business has 'Mycroft' written all over it.

He consents to only a minimum of fussing from the attache, drawing the line at anything that includes ruffles, and flatly refusing to give up his dark grey coat, no matter how the other man tuts at the scorch marks and nicks that mar the leather.

When presented to Adelaide, he offers no courtly bow, or even a hand to greet her with. He does stand in contemplation of her for a moment, attempting to place her within the context of the Inquisition (his initial reaction to hearing the name 'Adelaide LeBlanc' had been, Who?).

Her disinterest in this whole affair is practically radiating off of her. Thank the Maker for small favors, at least.

"The nobility never cease in attempting to plan marriages," he notes as he sits. "Darkspawn at the gates, and they worry about where they're going to find centerpieces."

That's not a metaphor. He witnessed as much back in Amaranthine.

[fleurdesel]

It's well and good that he doesn't attempt any gesture of greeting, Adelaide would not have seen it as she'd hoped for another half hour to compile her notes on the rifters and their shards before the next suitor. Alas, this is not to be. But at least he seems as done with the ordeal as she long before he sits. François fitters off to find the first course- lunches had courses now, Maker preserve her- and leaves them alone for a moment of mutual exasperation.

"If the Darkspawn were well dressed and politically advantageous guests, they'd be invited as well." She sets down her pen, for the moment. Anyone that can mock this as much as it deserves has earned her attention.

[seesobserves]

That gets a response from him: a twitch of acknowledgment at the corner of his mouth.

Well. No need to endure frivolous small talk. Better get right to it.

"My brother promised 'creative' measures if I didn't write home often enough. Arranging this meeting is his way of checking I'm still alive." And eating, probably, he thinks with a glance at the plate as it's set down before him.

His eyes then shift to look at her notes, picking out names, terms. Rifters. Fade magic. Well, she is a mage.

"Brought your own research. That'll make this run much more smoothly." He reaches into the upper pocket of his coat for a small notebook — something to pass the time with himself. "What say we focus on relevant things while taking advantage of the free wine?"

He punctuates the question with a short, tight smile that fades back almost instantly. Sound good?

[fleurdesel]

"It is endure this for a month or risk finding myself married by letter one morning without any say in the matter." Meddling families, whatever shall they do? Follow along to the letter if not the spirit of the intent. Semantic loopholes are not her favorite trick, but a fine one none the less. "If I am to be here, I might as well be doing something useful."

It seems he has much the same idea. Perhaps what was written of him hadn't been entirely inaccurate.

"Please." Going through one more round of 'this is why I should be your husband and have access to all your family's money even if you're a scary mage' and she might scream. She flicks to a fresh page of notes, a bit of warmth curling in a thin smirk of her own. "You've seen mine. What of your research?"

[seesobserves]

"Concentrator agents." He's already opened the notebook, and the majority of his attention is focused there, yet he's not distracted enough to answer the question. Saying things out loud as he works through them often helps, even if it's to the jar of eyeballs on his workstation. Or Harritt.

The eyeballs are usually more helpful.

"Heatherite all but died out in the Blight; it's almost impossible to get anymore. I've been experimenting with Blood Lotus as an alternative."

[fleurdesel]

"If it is so difficult to find and so useful an herb, perhaps investing in seeds for the garden's nursery might be warranted?" Especially if they might manage to turn a profit with the plant afterward. "In the meantime, how has the Blood Lotus been performing by comparison?"

[seesobserves]

One of his eyebrows ticked upward, then down again — a facial shrug.

"Been experimenting with Antivan methods of extraction. Their version of a Combustion Grenade could hold the key."

That, in particular, is what his notes consist of: the relevant bits of a recipe he dug up in the Inquisition archives.

[fleurdesel]

"I haven't found Antivan Distillation to be quite as efficient- but I am more often working with a different result in mind." Her nails drum on the table for a moment as she flicks back through what she knows might be an appropriate substitute. "Have you attempted Felandaris? It is plentiful in Orlais if somewhat difficult to process initially."

[seesobserves]

And somewhere in the midst of that, it dawned that she was actually trying to assist him. His eyes paused on the page, and a second later, he looked up, regarded his untouched food as though he might consider having some.

"He didn't mention you were an alchemist." Forgoing the food for a moment, he opted for a sip of wine.

[fleurdesel]

"Herbalist. Different results, similar practices and techniques, a great deal of overlap in the fundamentals." She sat back and flicked through another sheaf of notes on herbs- oft ignored as of late but no less vital. "It is not considered a selling point when attempting to marry me off."

[seesobserves]

"Well, no; why would they bother about anything of actual importance?" Tossed off as a matter of course. Nobles.

"He didn't mention you were a surgeon, either. You work with your hands," he went on, his voice taking on the tone of someone mildly impressed. "Most mages wouldn't know how to handle a needle."

[fleurdesel]

"Most mages are not often sent somewhere their skills might be feared. If I am to tend to the injured it would be irresponsible of me to neglect those uncomfortable with magic due to my ignorance in more mundane means of healing." If she was to work, she would work well.

[seesobserves]

"How pragmatic of you."

His voice had gone flat, as if he was stating a simple fact rather than an opinion. For his part, though Sherlock distrusted most individual mages, there was no denying the relative potential in their abilities. Anyone who refused to make use of them in all cases was foolish.