faderift | THE AMBASSADOR'S OFFICE

The work of a diplomat is never complete, but that does not mean that there are not peaks and troughs. This month has been a quiet one, comparatively speaking, and Josephine can only pray that it remains that way. One afternoon she finds she has already written the day's letters, and that she has somehow, expectedly, run out of things to do. The realisation makes her heart tremble and her hands shake; she must not be doing enough, for her to be so on top of her daily workload. Josephine has been in this line of work for long enough to realise that there is always more to be done, more problems to be unearthed and solved with the precise strokes of a quill and the delicate application of political pressure.

The people. She needs to talk to the people.

Skyhold, fortunately, is full of people, from all walks of life. That variety aside, Josephine knows that the best place to start her afternoon is with the nobles, and perhaps with one noble in particular. It's that thought that brings her to Gwen's quarters. Who would have a better knowledge of the people's thoughts than a writer?

Josephine sweeps through the wing, usually reserved for visiting dignitaries, coming to a stop before the door that leads to Lady Vauquelin's quarters. There, she knocks, and waits.

As finely appointed as Skyhold can offer - and the opinion of 'how fine' that is does vary - many of the rooms in this wing are ultimately rather impersonal. Nobles come and go from them, and by design and preference few if any of them leave much of a mark; not so Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, anticipating a long stay whether she liked it or not. She'd not been responsible for the packing of her belongings, confined to her bed at the time by injuries sustained by a rage demon, and in part due to the pricking of guilt at sending her so far alone her father had ensured many of her home comforts came with her (some unlikely ones; a set of figurines she'd liked as a girl which has since been repurposed as a gift to Kieran, the soft plush rabbit she'd carried everywhere until she was old enough to be embarrassed by it and began hiding it in her bed). The result is -

Very Orlesian; an oasis of Halamshiral's High Quarter recreated in the back fucking end of Ferelden, Gwenaëlle's own ornate furniture replacing what had been in the room before...and some of it, upon her consideration, donated to Skyhold as a gesture that had been less generous than it was pragmatic. As optimistically as Emeric had selected her decor, these rooms are smaller than those to which she's accustomed, and she's done her best to make the result a little less...busy. Still, it is distinct; her books line new shelves, there is a plush armchair and low chaise longue by the fire, a table between them, the bed oversized by any estimation but there was nothing to be done about that. A full length mirror beside the broad windows, and who knows who she had to pay to have the thick velvet curtains put up; a portrait of the Comte and late Comtesse hangs above the mantel, at least until she can find something with which to replace it.

When Josephine is announced politely by the elven maid that serves her, the lady herself is ... apparently a late riser, her hair undone and a housecoat over what is probably not the most modest nightgown on the market; she is settled on the chaise with her tea service. Prettily polite for all that, she says, "Your pardon, my lady ambassador," with a gesture that Josephine may take the armchair. "A second cup, Katell."

The room has certainly gone through a transformation since Josephine has seen it last. Her surprise is only brief, but the sheer fact that it exists at all only goes to show she has been away from the inner machinations of the Game for too long - insofar as one can be removed from such things at all.

She takes the proferred armchair as gracefully as she can, crossing her legs at the ankles as is only proper, and then, she she cannot resist an amused remark. "I was going to ask how you were settling in... but I see now that is quite unnecessary."

A small laugh from Gwenaëlle as Katell produces the second cup and withdraws; she glances about, more rueful than anything. "I can take very little credit for this," she admits, setting her own tea down to serve Josephine's herself. (In some things, she is particular; one of those things is 'not constantly having servants or anyone at her elbow constantly', which necessitates a small amount of independence, though no one is going to throw her a parade for being prepared to pour her own tea or wine.)

"My lord wanted to ensure that if I had to be sent, I would be comfortable." Guilt on all this gilt, as it were. "The arrangements were made on my behalf. To be perfectly honest--"

as no one ever really is, but she does come closer than most Orlesian noblewomen of her age and station,

"--I think he might've been a little overzealous."

For a moment it looks as though Josephine is trying to decide whether to agree or disagree. She settles for a light laugh of perfectly feigned politeness. "I'm sure the Comte's heart is in the right place." Once Gwenaëlle has poured her tea, Josephine draws her cup closer to herself although she does not take a sip yet.

"In any case, I am glad that your accommodations are to your liking. And what of your writing? How has your work been coming along?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

Gwenaëlle doesn't do Josephine the discourtesy of pretending poorly to smile along with that thought, because - she can't do her the courtesy of doing it well. This sort of sip-tea-and-play-nicely interaction is not natural to her and it shows in the slight restlessness that sets in as she doesn't seem to know exactly what to do in the face of Josephine's more skilled approach, the way that moment hangs slightly too long in the air before her lip quirks and she takes just enough mercy not to say what she thinks, which is they are to my lord's liking, just like the rest of this fucking farce in which I had no say.

Lady Montilyet would probably handle that with graceful aplomb, too. The thought only makes her sort of tired. It was easier to be bad at this in Orlais, where she could always retreat into something that looked aloof instead of just frustrated, when she could find ways of finagling herself out of situations to which she is not suited and deploy her own weaknesses as weapons -

but she is suited to none of these situations, and weaponising her own discomfort is not going to serve them, either.

"My work continues," she says, with a shrug, sipping her tea. "It certainly keeps me occupied." And for all that she does have strong feelings on it, and its purpose, and what it might mean - that she has something to do here besides stare at these walls and go slowly mad is not unimportant.

"Merely occupied?" Josephine asks, voice laced with a trace of scepticism. "Given the last issue of your publication, I would even say that you enjoy it. Ah," she continues and now she does pick up the cup, drawing it up towards her face and determining it still too hot for her liking, she settles it down again, "I suppose it is no different from the way I view my own work. I enjoy my position here, as much as one can, given the circumstances, and yet... I must admit I sometimes wish it weren't so necessary."

Edited 2016-06-29 03:32 (UTC)

It takes her a few moments to organise her thoughts - how to say what she wishes to say, if it's wise to do so. Finally, her thumb tracing the rim of her cup as she considers it, and very frankly -

"I took no pleasure in writing those things. I have a great many reservations about the strangers that came through the rifts. I have no particular affection for them and less trust. But," and by her tone it is a rather significant 'but', following that very straightforward statement - she can write the words, she can't pretend in private that she enjoyed the work that went into them, "Sister Leliana made a very good point that the rifters cannot be seen as a threat, and it is much too late for them not to be seen at all. The Inquisition cannot be seen to be harboring threats when it is the only organisation doing a damned thing about...about all of this. This work - your work. It is more important than my misgivings."

An elegant shrug.

"So I hope she is right, and I am wrong."

Because having published that, Gwenaëlle doesn't get to wash her hands of it and say on your own heads be it; if she's right and Leliana's wrong, she'll feel the sting of the consequences as well.

"But it is a favour done. I look forward to speaking my own voice, as I started it."

Edited 2016-06-29 03:42 (UTC)

"A favour Sister Leliana greatly appreciates, I am sure," Josephine replies, finally taking a sip of her tea. "As do I. I do understand your misgivings, and Maker knows I've harboured enough of my own." She settled the cup of tea back on its saucer with a tiny clink.

"People will always be wary of what they do not know, and this matter of people from other worlds crossing into ours through disruptions in the Fade...I will be frank. It is stranger than most. My own experiences with the rifters suggest they are simply making the best they can of a unfortunate situation, and we must remember that for however foreign they might seem to us, this world is wholly foreign to them."

She pauses for a moment, looking thoughtfully into her teacup before returning her attention to Gwenaëlle. "What would you say, if you could truly have your opinion be known?"

More foreign to some than others, she thinks; the bizarre references some of them make, that man on the crystals shrieking about judicial practise, Thranduil's absurd height and noble airs. Gwenaëlle shrugs, again, resting her elbow against the one arm of the chaise she's settled on, warming her hands around her cup.

"Nothing," she says, and it doesn't take long in her company to see that she's not a good enough liar for that not to be the truth. "What I'm interested in talking about is the Inquisition, and my understanding is that most have not joined it, and those that have--"

A small gesture of her fingers (delicate, bare of rings), "Well, now they are the Inquisition. I hope that my opinion of this organisation is already quite clear."

She does tend to speak her mind.

Perhaps Gwenaëlle's lack of pretence would affront a more delicate noblewoman, but Josephine takes no such offence. She is, after all, from Antiva. She relaxes ever-so-slightly, lips tilting into an amused smile as she takes a sip of her tea. "We are nothing more and nothing less than the people who pledge their support to our cause, it is true."

Another sip of tea. "Nonetheless, your opinion has been noted. If I may ask, has the Inquisition lived up to your expectations?" It would be interesting to know whether Lady Vaquelin's had formed prior or after her arrival at Skyhold.

"I had none," she says, shifting her robe slightly to display the scarring that rises out of the neckline of her nightgown. (Only slightly; it is a rather diaphanous item of clothing and Josephine didn't come here to be scandalized by Orlesian breasts.) "The work of a rage demon, you know. And with this..."

She flexes her fingers, studying the anchor-shard embedded in her hand for a long moment. There is a reason she has ceased to wear rings.

"I won't pretend to you that it was my desire to come to Skyhold, it'd be insultingly easy to disprove. To be perfectly honest, I'd barely thought of the Inquisition before I was sent here. Between Halamshiral and the rest of the civil war." Halamshiral, in particular, though she doesn't dwell on it in front of Josephine. Or anyone. That loss is not something she's prepared to admit even to herself, even as the wound bleeds. "What I've seen, though."

A small laugh; quiet, wry. "It's rather in my best interests you all save the world. Besides this," a careless gesture of the shard, "I do live in it. Maybe when all this is over and we're long dead, someone will tell a more flattering version, that I knew that before I came here, that I meant to do this work from the beginning instead of just having been mad with idleness and the wish to contribute something useful to something so valuable."

If they don't, though -

It isn't a terrible story as it is. A girl's eyes opened by the sight of the world.

Edited 2016-06-29 13:14 (UTC)

While Gwenaëlle's answer is, perhaps, not quite what Josephine had been expecting, it is hardly surprising. It is only natural to be more focused on conflict closer to one's home, no matter what might be happening in the rest of the world. Oh, there are exceptions to the rule but if everyone were a hero, perhaps Thedas woud not need saving. The thought makes her smile once more; it is a tighter, more private expression, one that is directed more towards the depths of Jospehine's teacup than at Gwenaëlle herself.

"Should there be anyone left to tell the tale of the Inquisition once we're all long gone... well. I would consider that a success," Josephine quips with all the brevity she can muster, as though hoping the lightness of her tone will disguise the anxiety that's been gnawing at her all too often of late. She punctuates her remark with a laugh, fixing Gwenaëlle with her smile once more.

"But enough about such matters," Josephine continues with a small wave of her hand. "I find my curioisity on the matter quite well-sated for now. You have my thanks."

When the platter of sandwiches arrives on her desk when her back is turned for but a moment, Josephine knows to expect a guest. The gesture is also enough for her to predict who said guest will be: Leliana. No-one quite knows Josephine's preferences quite as much as the Inquisition's spymaster. The question then becomes not so much 'who' but what.

In any case, Josephine doubts she will have to wait too long to find out.

War Table Mission: Deliver Sandwiches.
Secrets: send agents to ensure sandwiches arrive, when no one expects them.

Leliana walks from the War Room, inexplicably, and without knocking.

"Is this a bad time?" Look at those convenient sandwiches.

Josephine is indeed looking at the sandwiches when Leliana enters the room. Although the other woman does not announce her presence, there is little doubt in Josephine's mind to who it might be. She finds herself unable to resist a jest. Without looking up, she answers, "Would you leave if I said yes?"

But as soon as the response leaves her lips she lays down her quill and turns her head to smile at Leliana: an implicit invitation to stay.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Don't judge the sandwiches, Josie. They are all Antiva inspired, for the sake of mild emotional bribery. It's not their fault they are flaw free and delicious.

Leliana, despite the jest, actually considers the question. "No." A jest of her own, mind - she would, unless the reason for her intrusion involved assassins and attempts made on Josie's life.

"Can't I simply want to visit one of my oldest friends?"

"You can," Josephine answers with a tilt of the head, now regarding the sandwiches again. "You must know that you are always welcome. Which does make one wonder why you have come bearing gifts. Not that I am complaining, mind you, but..."

She trails off, looking at Leliana once more now, the smile gone and replace with a look of intense scrutiny. "You have something to tell me."

She laughs, at that. More than the quiet breaths of amusement that she usually offers, in recent days. It is not near so relaxed or so free as she has been in years past, but it is a little less constricted. Leliana shrugs, then, palms upwards in the universal symbol of who, me?, which is less than convincing. She does not really intend it to be persuasive.

"Would I be so heavy handed in acquiring your attention?"

Josephine does not waste a breath before answering in the affirmative. "Yes, which exactly why I'm asking."

She leans over desk in a conspiratorial manner, hands folded over the top of each other."So what is it? Do you come bearing gossip as well as sandwiches or is your information of a more personal nature?"

More than once she has considered how to deliver this news, and she still isn't entirely settled on it. Leliana allows her mouth to quirk is an amused kind of smile, though whether it is mirthful or her own dangerous brand of sarcasm and something else is not entirely transparent.

"Oh, well. Morrigan and I are involved." Light, edging on flippancy, in part to gauge Josephine's reaction, to see if it is taken as the joke that it is offered as, or if she will dissect it. Josephine, of anyone, is more likely to be charitable, a bar by which to judge all others.

Whatever news Josephine was expecting, she wasn't sure it was that, and to say that she is astonished would be an understatement. Nonetheless, her surprise hardly registers on her face beyond the slight lift of her brow. "Involved? Involved how, precisely? I know that you were once acquainted during the Blight but I wasn't aware of any further association between the two of you. Has she been helping you sneaking sandwiches from the kitchens?"

Josephine knows, at her heart, what Leliana is referring to, but she still she needs time to process it, so teasing will have to do for now.

Edited 2016-06-24 11:41 (UTC)

"Of course. Shapeshifting is critical to culinary espionage."

What else would I mean, her tone seems to suggest, though she leans back in the chair as she claims it, one leg crossed over the other, and raises an eyebrow in turn.

After a quiet meoment, "Should I anticipate a lecture?"

"Only if it is what you came here for, if these sandwiches are indeed an invitation for beratement." She sighs, settling back into her chair. The issue, as she she sees it, is twofold: is Leliana asking for her opinion as her role of the Ambassador of the Inquisition, or as Josephine Montilyet, her old friend?

"In truth, I have no desire to meddle in your personal affairs than you do to interfere with mine." She looks at Leliana pointedly, then, hoping that the other woman will ascertain the true meaning of her words. Josephine may be charming, but she is not naive. She knows Leliana has always been oddly protective of her.

"If you are happy with her, then what can I say, truly? I trust you know what you're doing, and you must know I'm here for you if you need me."

She means what she says she truly does, but it's still such a surprise that she cannot help but also ask, "Who else knows?"

They both know that there are people out there who would glance askance at a relationship between the Left Hand of the Divine and an apostate, no matter how tolerated by the nobility she may be.

Josie, please. Leliana doesn't meddle - she simply stages concerned inventions in the best interests of those dear to her heart. That is nothing to be apologetic for, surely? Holding out her hands so they are palm up and open, Leliana quirks her brow in a silent me? sort of gesture.

She would never meddle, let's never speak of this terrible accusation again.

Her hands return to her lap, folded, and Leliana is silent for a few moments in response to all Josie has said. Does she know what she's doing? Part of her genuinely wonders.

"I have only told yourself and Zevran, though he does not know that anything has happened. Only that I was..." Her nose wrinkles, distasteful, "Mired."

Feelings, the most terrible of things to be mired in. Terrible. "Alistair jokes about it." And now, there is a sly smile. "He will be horrified."

Josephine cannot completely disguise the relief that settles through her shoulders when Leliana tells her that only one other person knows. "Mired," she echoes, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. "And what exactly is it that has appened between the two of you?"

She leans forward, over her desk and plucks one of the sandwiches between her fingers. "I need details."

"Mired, yes." It is very difficult to adapt from the consideration that desire was dangerous - Leliana had become the Left Hand, after all, after meeting Dorothea when she was struggling to retrieve papers Marjolaine had stolen during a seduction. Love was an ideal, and not one Leliana had been party to since Marjolaine. Lust and desire could not be indulged when they bought such risks. And now...?

Josephine Montilyet. The Lady Ambassador is rewarded with the sharp upward tick of an eyebrow, Leliana's head tilting just slightly to the side. "That information is highly classified," comes the dry reply.

"Hm," Josephine hums unhappily as she settles back into her chair. "You do know the more you withhold, the more people will desire to fill in the details." By 'people' she mostly means herself, and she only refrains from threatening to gossip about such details due to Leliana's position in the Inquisition. This is not the time to be destabilising their cause.

Finally, she takes a bite of her sandwich.

She decides to throw Josie a bone. Leaning forward, conspiratorial in a way that better suited them when they were younger and more carefree and inciting chaos in Val Royeaux,

"A desk may have been involved."

Far more innocently than she is letting it sound, it is worth adding, but Leliana smiles enigmatically when she plucks a sandwich of her own from the plate.

It is good to see Leliana joking like this, and even though Josephine knows that so much has changed, it still reminds herself of happier times. So she shallows her mouthful, and likewise leans towards Leliana. Dropping her head as though about to confess a secret, she whispers, "Oh, only a desk?"

She laughs as she straightens up, a smile curving on her face as she adds, "My, how proper we've grown in our old age."

"Only a desk, and only talking. I'm ashamed of myself."

Leliana tears the edge off the sandwich, and keeps tearing pieces off it in a slow, spiralling pattern, in a solid ribbon of bread. A habit of years ago, one rarely seen any more. "I feel ridiculous even talking about it."

He's been stirring the same cup of tea for several moments before he realizes that someone's come in. Anders jerks upright, nearly knocking his cat off his lap and murmuring hasty apologizes to her as he gets up to look at who has just come in. It takes a moment for recognition to settle in; he'd gotten altogether too used to another mind keeping track of the people around him.

"Ambassador. I... Did you... Tea?"

Josephine pauses for a moment as though attempting to determine whether it be more polite to accept or refuse. In the end, she allows a soft smile to form on her face as she makes her way into the tent proper, seating herself on a conveniently located nearby crate. "Please. If it's not too much trouble."

She wants to treat this matter as delicately as she can, and for all that she and her fellow advisors have discussed the fate of this man among themselves, she has never had the chance to really talk to him, form her own measure of him as a person.

This seems as good a time as any.

"It's not." He's not quite functioning completely just yet, but he can make tea. Anders gets up and refills the kettle from a pitcher before touching its side and heating the water with fire. The leaves get added before he gives her a small shrug. "There's no shortcut for steeping, but it'll be ready shortly here."

Then he pauses as the question of why she's here finally reaches his mind.

"Are you here for something? I should have asked that first but my thoughts aren't altogether in order, I'm sorry." If she's ill he should probably get another healer; he doesn't have the focus today to be of much use.

Smoothing some dust from her skirts, Josephine tilts her head in response to Anders's question. "In a manner of speaking. Mostly, I wanted to see how you were faring, given... everything's that's happened."

Oh. Him. He suddenly wishes he was working a bit better. Anders pulls out one of the extra mugs for her tea before glancing back at Josephine.

"I'm still trying to figure out the answer to that question. I'm not possessed, which is good. I'm not beaten to a bloody pulp, that's just a lot of the people I care about, which I'm not really counting as good." At least he can attempt jokes. And he can pour tea into a cup, that gets counted as good.

"Sugar? We're short on cream at the moment. And a little short on focus. I'm sorry." He's trying. There's just suddenly so much to fill his mind when Justice isn't constantly talking.

At first, Maxwell hadn't been entirely sure what had possessed him to accept the report position for the Lady Ambassador - sure there was some vague hope of putting his name and standing to good use for once, of being able to make a difference in a more direct way... But to throw himself right back into fray when he'd so decidedly cut himself out....

He was sure he was mad for the first few days.

After that he was generally too busy to dwell on it for long.

He strode into Josephine's office with a few scrolls of parchment tucked under his arm, another open in front of him.

"I have this week's order list from the kitchens, and I had Lord Rainer put in the open room by the courtyard. I know it's not as big as he'd really like, but it does overlook the training ring and I--" He glanced up as he took a breath, and paused. His eyes moved over her face for a moment, and then softened, a smile touching his mouth. "...And I haven't even said good morning yet, I apologize. How are you today, Lady Montilyet?"

While Josephine might not know Maxwell Trevean personally, she knews him by reputation. In any case, she would use all the assistance she could get, and it was encouraging to see Trevean take to his duties so diligently. She waved a hand as he finished talking, as though to indicate he had caused no offence.

"An apology is quite unnecessary, but I am doing quite well, thank you." She did her best to ensure where ensuing smile reached her eyes. "And yourself?"

"Well... so far." He smile tilted bemusedly to one side. "Ask me again later."

Stepping closer, he began to pull the scrolls out from under his arm.

"Would you like to go over these now?"

Josephine sets down her quill on the pile of letters she is working and sets it aside so that Maxwell may make use of the table space. "I have the time now."

He set down the open parchment he'd been looking at, thanking her with a small bob of his head before he began to shuffle through the others.

"This--" He double-checked and then held it out, "is from the kitchens. The Inquisition is growing by the day, and so too do their needs. Plus some of our guests have... requests."

He shot her a wry, side-long look.

Some of them were quite special, indeed.

Edited 2016-06-29 22:34 (UTC)

Henry has come for both personal reasons and to help out around the Hold the best he can. It's not quite what he wanted, but, it's better than going stir crazy as best a mage can. He knocks on the door with a gentle knock before peeking in.

The question given to him makes him assume it's all right to enter. He steps in, holding a tray of tea things often went better with tea, right? Because...he did have a request. "Sorry to come in like this I just- well..." he first apologizes as he approaches and just...sets the tray down (Away from whatever important paper work there would be). "My name's Henry Swan...Iiiii'm with the mages?" if one could even properly be apart of a group that was more broken and divided than the templars.

"I actually came to do you a favour."

Josephine's gaze drops to the tray even as she waves a hand to suggest Henry take a seat. In her experience, those who came with gifts were usually not the ones offering favours, but she decides to hear him out for now. Apparently taking his words at face value, she answers, "What sort of favour, precisely?"

It's a good thing Henry is not like those other people. Not wanting things from others but wanting to help. But, he does take a seat when he's welcomed to. Still, she seems to be open to listening to him so he won't hold anything back. Unsure if she would know of them he just decides to explain, "Well, my family, they're the Swans. Their nobles in the Free Marches who deal in trade. I thought, maybe, maybe my family could help the Inquisition?"

Edited 2016-06-29 00:28 (UTC)

Josephine has heard of the Swans, but knows less about them than she would like, and she's not afraid to admit it. "I'm certain that any trade they can offer us would be of use. What are you suggesting?"

THE AMBASSADOR'S OFFICE

For Gwen

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For Leliana

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Healing Tents

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you saw nothing

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hope this is cool

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