faderift | open; Dry your smoke-stung eyes

It's a thief's instincts that have her eyes darting about quickly; potential entrances and exits, anywhere she could hide if someone came back. Araceli was a damned good thief, those sort of instincts stick. Smoothing the fabric again, she lets out a little sigh of relief.

"As good as it was to be by the sea? I am glad to be away from there. For the moment," she admits since arriving with a group or Rivaini mages tends to stir up plenty of new gossip. "Ah, I have something for you. After we spoke in Val Royeaux? But it comes with instructions. Are you listening very, very carefully Pel Ashara?"

Why yes she sounds very serious even if she has one of her most charming smiles on her face right now.

It's her favorite color. It's a privilege to work with, let alone potentially wear. And she could make herself something little, something nice, like a neck handkerchief, and make salable goods from the rest. Is it wrong that she is greedy for that neck handkerchief?

But there's this smile on Araceli's face. That probably means a great deal more greed than Pel is prepared for.

"Yes...?"

"So." Araceli moves towards Pel's bed uninvited, which is a little rude of her but she wants to set the fabric down since her arm is getting tired from carrying it here when she had to walk the bloody long way with it because one does not parkour with fabric, she's not some sort of heathen. Despite whatever the popular opinion on rifters might be today. She sets them both down, straightens an imaginary crease, then turns around again.

It's all very dramatic, very fittingly Castilean.

"You are to make something. Something beautiful. Something wonderful. Something splendid." That really goes without saying because the fabric is wonderful, the quality can be seen without even having to touch it but she gestures for Pel to do just that. "But you are to make it for yourself. And then I will put on my gown. And you will put on this fabulous gown in this wonderful colour that will make your hair glow and turn you into the envy of everyone and we will go somewhere together."

Pel stares at the fabric now, looking a bit somber. A crease appears between her brows. She swallows.

"And what do you think is going to happen, if we do that?" That suddenly Pel will be allowed to shop and have a good day like anyone else? Or that people will be able to see a classy-looking and educated elf spending time with a glamorous human?

"Do you know where I spend nearly every single night when I'm in Skyhold?" Araceli asks lightly. "I go to the Herald's Rest. I drink. I talk. I laugh. I am generous enough to pay for a round or two more than I need to. I play dice and cards with the scouts, the soldiers, anyone that doesn't mind. I talk to the people there. Scouts talk because that's what they do, but soldiers are even bigger gossips than that again, since no one has ever trained them in how to guard their tongues. Even a city or a household guard knows better than a soldier."

She's going somewhere with this, but it's been a little while since their lessons owing to their respective schedules, and this is part of the trick to it. "You learn the right whisper the right way when people have been unspeakably rude, and suddenly? Well, someone panics that they have upset you when you take your business elsewhere, when you say how dreadful the service was. Things like that. And if the Inquisition allowed near all of us to attend the soiree at Skyhold? Well we are walking into the lion's den now. These things matter. And it is easier to play your part knowing that no matter what everyone in the room might wish to say of you, say that 'oh, that baseborn girl, that little slattern, the upjumped whore's daughter, lock up anything fine before the pirate's girl claps her eyes on it' that they will still know you are the most beautiful thing in the room. You cannot buy that sort of confidence Pel."

Pel looks thoughtful, but not enlightened. She touches the fabric at long last, wistful but not yet possessive. There's a pause as she considers what she is about to say.

"This isn't a problem you have, Araceli," she says gently. "When you dress up, nobody would know you're not an Antivan princess. The problem isn't talk and gossip. If the Inquisition hosts another event, it will be larger than the soirée because we have gained support. Elves may not be permitted to attend at all except as servers. If they do, they run the risk of making the Inquisition look weak and poor. And even if you covered my ears and put a mask on me, people would know that I am an elf. I am of no use at those events. Some Fereldan or another may listen to me, but not take me seriously. Orlesians are a lost cause entirely."

She looks at Araceli now, blue eyes calm. This isn't a fit. This is an explanation of the realities.

"The Inquisition has been unusually tolerant of elves. But it can't afford to ignore reality yet. Even Empress Celene lost support when she was seen as being too soft on the elves, and the Inquisition has a great deal less support than she does. I understand what you're trying to do, and I'm grateful, but I can't accept a fortune's worth of fabric just so that I can play pretend in a pretty gown."

"I am a bard, or I will be one in truth when Sister Nightingale believes I am. There will be many people in every room who know me for what I am when I walk into a room, just the same as they know me for what I am when I walk into a room where I shouldn't be at home." This is the problem when only three people know the whole truth of Araceli's life in Castileos (well, that and Martel, if he doesn't know that there's something else about her beyond what he knows then she will be severely disappointed.) There have been plentiful occassions of being painfully aware of the scrutiny. Of every eye on her. How she holds a glass. How she sits in a chair. How she speaks, if she knows the dessert fork from the salad fork, if she can hold polite dinner conversation, or if she's every single thing they've ever thought about a common girl with a pirate for a father, and a whore for a mother, who in turn had a pirate for a mother and an unknown father, and a teacher for a mother and an artist for a father.

Not that she's about to tell Pel that. It isn't about trust. It's about ease of movement. About finding the places where she can operate comfortably. The fewer people that know, the better, the fewer people that know the exact extent of her knowledge and skills, well that's all to her benefit when she can surprise them.

Leliana too had stood and cautioned both Araceli and Beleth about the perceptions people would have of them, and some of what she said to Beleth might apply but that was for Beleth, said only in front of Araceli because she was there, and she won't repeat it. It was for Beleth, no one else, not even the spirit of it, even if it might help.

"Sometimes a gesture is just a gesture, you do so many things for so many other people, but never for yourself. I run here, there, everywhere when I'm not studying." Her time in the tavern? That's work. A chunk of her time on the walls or the rooftops or the battlements? She has people she's teaching slowly but surely. "Do something nice for yourself Pel. Even if you just want to sit somewhere in Skyhold in a pretty dress with a book, it's a pretty dress that you've made. Rivain was...honestly, most of Rivain was terrible. I saw it, I thought of you. Please. Keep it."

There's a long pause. Now, Pel is genuinely moved. Araceli got it for her because it made her think of her, not to serve a greater purpose, and that's kinder than almost any gift she's ever had. Her fingers curl now over the fabric, possessive, before releasing as she reaches to pull Araceli into a hug.

"I will make a gown. I will wear it with you to Val Royeaux. We will sit outside their posh, stupid shops, we will sip fancy wine even if I can't tell the difference, and we will smile and laugh at every stupid shemlen noble who looks down on us. That will be enough reason for me."

Pel is...well, Araceli would never say prickly of any friend, but perhaps not one of the easiest to read out of the friends she does have. And Araceli, tactile though she is, does take care not to overstep but she is glad of the embrace, to get to lean against someone for a moment. (She did not lie about Dairsmuid, and it was so nice just to think of a friend, to smile after days without sleeping.)

"I can't tell the difference between wines," Araceli admits. Partially. She can't tell the difference between wines in Thedas, not yet, there will come a time when she'll have to so she isn't lying, not precisely. "Rum and brandy? I can tell you everything about them, but I can only pick wine that doesn't overpower my dinner. And I will show you just how easy it is to empty their purses - I am sure that donations from Orlais will be welcomed, split equally between both elven liasons."

open; Dry your smoke-stung eyes

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