faderift | she planned ahead for a year, he said let's play it by ear

( GENTLY BACKDATED to shortly after cosima contacted her. )

For all Gwenaëlle's not terribly subtle dubiousness of rifters in general and being pestered by one in particular - Cosima's efforts to engage politely and thoughtfully does bear some fruit, or at least it does result in the young lady herself making herself known in the library in due course. She's hard to miss for all that she's a small thing, finely dressed in dark hues and her very accurate depiction on her pamphlets making her promptly recognisable.

Which is for the best, because she doesn't really know who on earth it is she's meeting and when she sits down it's with some exasperation on that count. Why did she agree to this.

( GENTLY BACKDATED prior to shardbearer plot. )

It isn't that she doesn't expect Lexa, per se.

She is still, as she'd said to Bellamy when the subject first arose, quite interested in learning more about the Avvar; it isn't really something that her friendship with Asher had touched on (a tangle to be unraveled another day, or maybe never), and though she's recently spent time at his hold, it hadn't felt like an appropriate moment to start pumping relative strangers for information about their lives and ways. Opportunistic in a way that -

Well, maybe she is, but she hadn't wanted to be, right then.

So. It had been an impetus to make it known that she would quite like to speak with the Avvar woman, Lexa, if she would be - willing, and there's been so much else to think on that she'd done so and then thought no more of it, and the long and the short of it is that when Lexa does arrive, Guenievre visibly hesitates before,

"Oh, let her in, maybe she'll have an opinion,"

prompts her to show Lexa properly into Gwenaëlle's room.

The reason for her hesitation is probably obvious immediately; Gwenaëlle scrutinizing a full-length and fully nude portrait of herself in front of her fireplace, the soft robe she's typically not out of until a bit later in the afternoon only loosely belted around the not-oil version of her body, one small fist pressed to her mouth as she contemplates her own back view.

In Orlais, there has been much to do.

Probably that has something to do with why Benevenuta has not been about to sweep purposefully through the library for some time; she comes in not like a breeze or something light, like a controlled hurricane, her traveling coat flaring behind her in place of her curls with her hair tightly braided into the soft brown coronet she wears to keep it out of trouble on the road. The small, pretty spaniel that sometimes drifts about between the stacks - well trained, well behaved, prone to watching the staircases and lowering her curious head sadly at the various comings and goings - rushes her feet and those of the mabari at her heels, and -

Benevenuta softens, and for all that she has a sharp little face, fox-featured, it seems far more natural than the chilly distraction that has wrapped about her like a cloak for weeks now.

"Hello, my darling," she murmurs, Nevarra in every word, "my little love, are you missing us very terribly? I neglect you, it's awful - perhaps I will bring you this time, they will adore you in Orlais, pretty thing--"

It's the movement of the dog that first brings Pamelia from the depths of her sleep, tucked into a stuffed chair, limbs folded underneath and around her - the tinny clip of nails on stone, and then the breathing of a heavier dog, and then...

Nevarran. High Nevarran, as her mother would call it, and her chest twists at the memory. Yet Pamelia's curiosity gets the best of her; she tilts her head and then her whole self from the stacks into the hall proper, near the curve of the stairwell. She'd fallen asleep near a table still covered with her drawings and tree-like notations on reagents; without intending, she manages to knock half the stack of papers onto the floor.

Thus, she only gets the barest of glances at the woman before the noise has her starting, immediately kneeling down to gather up the mess. Her own hair is in a haphazard twist that's come half down since she began nodding off, and there's a quill amongst the riotous curls.

She glances up just in time to make unexpected eye contact, immediately inclining her head out of respect but keeping her mouth firmly shut. It would be just her luck to annoy someone in power here before she even managed to learn names.

It's only later - Yngvi on his way, now, and Emeric Vauquelin's liquor-soaked rage a fading memory - that specific consequences to this series of actions begin to occur to Gwenaëlle, for as anxious as she'd been almost immediately at the amorphous 'trouble' she might as a result of all this be in. A few ideas she dismisses out of hand, but there is one not-unlikely inconvenience that can probably account for the fact that when she reaches Josephine's office she is slightly out of breath, clutching the skirts of her gown off the stone floors with one hand -

Gwenaëlle composes herself. He couldn't have done anything yet. And probably Yngvi won't arrive for a few days. It isn't urgent.

Everything is fine, and she's very calm.

This is all fine.

It takes her a moment to unclench her fingers from her skirts before she opens the door and it occurs to her, belatedly, that she'd taken such care to do so that she forgot to, for instance, knock or announce herself.

"--my lady ambassador, may I steal your attention? For a little. It's a small thing."

Fortunately, Josephine is still in her office on this occasion - these letters won't write themselves, however much she is beginning to wish they could - when Gwenaëlle bursts into the room in a relative state of disarray. Josephine doesn't let much surprise show on her face but it is there, in the almost imperceptible lift of her eyebrows. "Lady Vauquelin," she starts, laying her quill across her parchment and giving Gwenaëlle the courtesy of her full attention, "I do believe I have the time. Is something wrong?"

"Beg your pardon," Benevenuta says, politely, straightening from where she'd ducked down to reacquaint herself with Husband - who whines, immediately, pressing her head into her mistress's ankle - to take in the burst of chaos she seems to have caused. "I don't believe we've met yet...?"

But 'probable mage doing research in the library' is immediately relevant to her interests, and she only needs to give herself a little push to slide smoothly into familiar grooves. Time passes - not enough - but it gets easier, carefully undoing the brittle way she'd withdrawn.

That isn't her. Isn't how she operates, and she isn't useful like that.

No; much moreso when she smiles, head tilted, coming down to help Pamelia gather her papers.

"No."

The answer is automatic; she reconsiders it, smoothing her skirts fastidiously as she comes properly into the room - takes a seat opposite Josephine's desk without waiting to be invited to, lips pursed.

(The problem is how often she catches herself only afterwards, and what she can often get away with as the charming eccentricity of a pretty girl in Orlais is less likely to play well in Skyhold, where people play games with other people's lives that actually matter. At least, in Skyhold, if they're less likely to be charmed they're also less likely to have someone killed for minor failures in etiquette.)

"Well, probably not," she amends, "or, well, maybe, but not in a way that will actually - I don't know if you've been listening to the crystals."

"Ah," is what Pamelia manages at first; she hadn't expected the woman to come down to her level, and she's suddenly struck with the scent of rose water, light and soft.

She's aware of her own heavy woolen robes, meant more for the impending winter than for any sort of fashion, even amongst mages. Aware of how she likely smells mostly of upturned earth and dried white baneberries, and how the hem of said robes are stained with said earth. There's ink on the tips of her thumb and index finger on the right, and on the whole she feels a bit young and a lot frazzled, but perhaps she should actually say something now.

Yes.

"I've only just arrived." Her accent is Rivaini, through and through, though it carries with it the rougher connotation of one educated a little later in life than childhood. "Pamelia Islain. I didn't mean to..."

In Benevenuta's hands are notes on poisons best diluted in water. "Disturb." Her eyes are large, and dark, as she looks back up from the papers to the woman holding them.

Oftentimes, Benevenuta is taken for a younger woman than she truly is - an impression she does little to counter and plays into more often than not - but probably not now, with the slight tilt of her head and the quirked edge of her smile, the decisive steadiness of her in contrast to what actual fluttering youth looks like when it's been taken off-guard. Everything about her seems somehow both perfectly natural (as if she simply is the way that she is, like the wind shifted and there she was, fully formed) and entirely deliberate (even her traveling clothes are painstakingly embroidered, well-made and tailored to her specification, not a hair out of place or a moment of wasted expression) - and immovably patient.

"You don't," she assures her, her gaze dropping momentarily to the paper in her hands when inadvertently prompted and interest sharpening when she looks back up. "Lady Benevenuta Thevenet, of the Inquisition's Mage Council. Allow me to welcome you."

At this point, it's not really optional, but she is very sweet about it.

The woman's eyes are very blue, Pamelia realizes, and something in Pamelia's chest makes a frightened, abortive movement. She feels trapped, not caged as she does around Templars and unfamiliar, laughing men, backed into a corner and ready to lash out, all teeth and claws - but pinned, like a moth on glass.

She doesn't want to seem enthralled, or frightened. To that effect, she struggles to keep her shoulders down and back, her hands level. Her eyes go to the floor as she bobs in her kneel, inclining her head once more. Yet she suspects the Lady Thevenet can see right through to the core of her, all because she couldn't keep her eyes up and off the damned paper.

"M'Lady." Something should follow that, shouldn't it? Something that makes Pamelia sound less like a possible fool. "Thank you."

Well, that probably wasn't it. "I'm from the Circle in Dairsmuid. I...was not there when it was Annulled, nor later when the Inquisition sent a group to rescue survivors. I made my way to Halamshiral instead."

With the remark about the crystals, things start to fall into place, but only just. She does her best to keep up-to-date with the conversations but sometimes, busy as she is, she can only skim some days.

Her brow creases slightly as she tries to remember. "I do believe I recall something about a dwarf... and a burglary?" She finds herself wishing she had paid more attention now, so she wouldn't feel so caught unaware.

"I was only now there," Benevenuta says, reflectively. "But for happenstance, we might have met in Orlais. Will you return at all, with the Inquisition?"

She intends to, herself; this is a flying visit back to Skyhold, one she doesn't intend to be sufficiently long enough to justify changing out of her practical traveling attire for any purpose other than sleep. Work has been a gift of the Maker in a trying time, when there is too much to be done to make much space for one woman's grief at an inevitability. She keeps herself too occupied to retreat back into that quiet dark where she'd buried her head in Dorian's shoulder and allowed herself the weakness that had made her monstrous to some by its absence -

And every day it gets a little bit less tempting, but there is only one way to stay ahead, and that's to keep running.

"I've heard a little on the Annulment. May I ask how you avoided it? I understand if you prefer not to..." A small gesture. "I catch you quite unprepared."

"My father might threaten to pull his support from the Inquisition if the Boneflayers continue to represent it," she says, and - all in one very quick breath, sitting forward, hands clasped. "And I only want you to know that if he does, you shouldn't pay any mind or - do anything hasty, Yngvi is on his way, I think, and there's no reason he shouldn't be allowed here."

Gwenaëlle makes herself sit back. In a slightly more modulated tone, she says, "He'll only be blustering. He won't mean it."

"I suspect I will." There's uncertainty, as Pamelia hasn't quite figured out just what she's doing, or how best to be useful. It's apparent, she knows, but that's what she gets for joining a populist movement without any real ins. "I haven't quite determined where I'm best put to use, here." In Halamshiral she mixed potions and poisons alike; here they seem to have an abundance of those who can do both, and with greater proficiency than Pamelia can.

"It's fine." To be unprepared. She usually feels unprepared, these days. It's a fair question and the more chances Pamelia has to answer it honestly, the better. "I had been sent to gather rare herbs near the border, several day's ride away. When I returned...I did not know where to look for survivors. I only knew that everyone who had been in the tower was dead."

Papers in hand, she makes her way to her feet and shuffles her notes until she has a free hand to offer Benevenuta.

"There is a use for every tool," Benevenuta says, rising smoothly with her hand in Pamelia's; there's a warmth to the way that she says it, an earnestness that softens what could otherwise be a rather harsh sentiment when applied to. People.

(It is. The softness, though; that's true, too.)

"And a great many for mages who have not merely survived. As, I think, we might all say of ourselves, now that we are here; we have not only survived. The difference between life and death is sometimes so small as that..." A tilt of her head, and the quality of her smile is a wry and small thing, something coiled and coiling - surviving was easier for some than others. For her, than others. She knows. What they do with that matters, too. "What do we do, then? I would like to say 'what we must', but I see it is easy for some not to."

She presses Pamelia's arm lightly with her hand before she lets go, summoning Husband back to her heels with a click of her tongue, setting the papers down on the desk.

"To have come here to act is a valuable thing. A little thing, yes; but we need a lot of little things to do anything at all."

Oh, Gwenaëlle. Josephine's gaze softens slightly, her lips settling into what she hopes to be a reassuring smile. "The Inquisition is to be a refuge for all who require it," she starts, before looking over the woman once more, taking in her posture, her fluster. "In any case, your family's money is not the only reason your presence here is appreciated." Perhaps if the worst case scenario were to be realised, Gwenaëlle would find herself in more modest accommodations, but as that is unlikely to settle the woman any, Josephine allows it to remain unsaid.

"I do thank you for your warning, however. With the notice you have given me, I will be able to ensure that your worries...should not come to pass."

Cosima smiles - small, brief - with pleasure that Gwenaëlle deigned to actually show up. She knows that she has very little to offer, in her current situation, and has been trying to avoid actively pestering anyone, much less the nobility. That said... she likes to know things, and the pamphlets are very well-written.

(And, perhaps a little vainly, Cosima is glad that it's been a good week, health-wise. She may be slightly pale, but Gwen is distractingly pretty in person, and looking like death warmed over might have made her more self-conscious.)

The smile doesn't linger, though, given Gwen's attitude. Instead, she says, frankly, "Lady Vauquelin." She either asked or got lucky pronouncing it like French. "Thank you for talking with me. I know it was presumptuous to just write you the way I did, but I really did find your pamphlets helpful."

Lexa has also taken her time responding to the invitation. Entertaining the curious scrutiny of some Orlesian noble does not sound like a fun or worthwhile way to spend her time. But eventually curiosity wins out, and not only because she's discovered the Lady Gwenaëlle is the woman she saw with Clarke in the baths that day.

(Not a day she likes to dwell on. She's almost certain that no one but Clarke would have noticed her reaction at all, in the split-second between recognition and resuming her usual stony mask, let alone been able to read it for the flare of surprise and envy and hurt [stupid, unwarranted hurt] it was. But still.)

She's curious what this lady wants, curious to learn more of the people she'll be encountering on the trip to the Inquisition camp at Halamshiral she's already decided to make. Curious to see whether she is good enough for Clarke.

When she'd wondered that she hadn't meant physically. And yet that is the question that gets immediately, surprisingly answered as she is ushered into the lady's room and confronted with the lady herself and her even-less-dressed avatar. The Avvar are far from prudish, but Lexa's not immune to sudden and unexpected and unfairly attractive asses. She comes close enough to blushing that she wishes for her war paint, just in case. But it doesn't quite go that far, thank the gods, and she swallows her initial surprise and lifts a brow in cool question.

"Am I interrupting?"

"Survivors always do what they must to continue surviving, or they are not survivors any longer." Pamelia fights the desire to smooth her hair, retuck it, something, and instead presses her palms against the skirt of her robe. Maintains eye contact, even though she wants to hide behind her papers, hyperaware of her own roughness and flaws in the presence of someone who appears to have few to none.

Yet the Lady touched her arm, a gentle show of camaraderie.

"Some are allowed to forget what that means, by design or circumstance. I don't assume myself to be one of that few and I don't know I would know what to do with such...settled complacency." Yet she finds herself here, uncertain how to move forward. In the Circle she was told, usually. While she doesn't miss it, per se, there's something to be said for knowing exactly where one stands amongst others.

She thinks of what it means, to be a tool, and whether or not she has always put herself to the best use. "I wish to learn. There are more teachers here than I would have imagined, but I also wish to be...effective. Not just a student."

"It's occasionally necessary to be the student first," Benevenuta observes, her lopsided smile rueful; she likes it no more, herself, has never set herself a task she didn't expect to be equal to in time. (In her mind, there are no such tasks - if she sets herself to it, it will be done. It might take longer, if she must learn, but it will be done. The world has yet to strongly correct her.)

Still; there's approval in the way that warmth lingers as the smile fades. Pamelia could have said a lot of things - could have, for instance, dismissed what was in essence an unasked for and possibly condescendingly unnecessary pep talk - but few of those things, probably, would have cemented her as swiftly in Benevenuta's mind as someone to keep an eye and perhaps a hand on. The uncertainty is there, yes; not only that, though, and she likes the hint of another, sturdier shape that can be found in those words.

"Don't discount the value of what you do when you learn, either. All eyes are on us in Skyhold, you know. This is what mages look like to the world, right now, when all is in uproar." The small way she leans in invites confidence; she smiles, again, tilting her head. "I, for one, take some pride in what they will see."

Most of the time.

The Council occasionally does her fucking head in -

but, while they might not all agree on what 'the best thing for mages' is going to be, at least she respects that that's what they all want.

"I only don't want there to be any inconvenience for Yngvi or the other Boneflayers," Gwenaëlle says, flattening her hands carefully in her lap - making herself stop fidgeting, making herself ignore the dull green glint that sometimes she finds she's almost used to, now.

(An unsettling realisation - all the things a person can grow accustomed to. She wonders if it was like that for her mother, sometimes, if Annegret just got used to a body that she couldn't rely on; this is different, she thinks, except, if she dies, then was it?)

"If he kicks up a fuss, that's all it will be. That's only what I wanted to make sure you knew."

Emeric will do a lot of things in a hot temper, but at his worst and at her least charitable to him, she knows full well that none of them will ever be 'anything he well knows might hurt her'. Especially in this, especially when ultimately she is the only reason for the continued Vauquelin contributions, beyond her upkeep -

"Wait, what?"

--is a slightly delayed reaction to it apparently not having occurred to her at any point that her presence might be in some way appreciated. The bewildered nose-wrinkle is sort of sweet, in a way.

It may be rueful but in that smile Pamelia feels a spark of something - comradery, perhaps, colored by her interest in this woman and all she represents, bolstered by her approval. She knows it is necessary to learn, perhaps to continue learning throughout one's life, yet her hands and mind itch to be more active than passive in that learning.

Thus, the notes that are on the table, where one of Pamelia's hands lingers to keep herself from fidgeting.

"I will strive to remember that." She smiles yet there's still a bit of shyness there, the way she ducks her head in slight. At home she was a fixture, but still an outsider; at Dairsmuid, even more of an outsider still. Here, with the Inquisition, that will not do. That all eyes are on the mages, that she finds herself as one of the many setting an example for all of Thedas, would be frightening if she allowed it to be.

Being frightened to the point of timidity is not an option.

With that in mind she pulls her head back up. "If I may ask, my Lady: what would you suggest I turn my attentions to? There are so many options, I fear....I don't quite know where to begin."

For a moment the poses almost match; the painted version of Gwenaëlle glances back over her shoulder at the artist, and the physical one half-turns as well, having apparently decided to brazen this out as if nothing that's happening right now is at all out of the usual.

"Not really," she sighs. "I've had this thing sitting here for weeks, I've been trying to decide if I should have it finished or not. Well; I suppose it was finished," and the artist paid handsomely for his work, "but it was painted before I had any of these scars," one hand smoothing down her torso, around her hip, following the line of a slash that's not impossible to catch the shadow of through her robe.

The scarring is extensive. It would be more accurate. Maybe it wouldn't be as nice a picture, though.

She wrinkles her nose, turning properly, a little laugh in her voice - "I don't even know what I'm going to do with it either way, now. You must be the Thane. Is that the title I use? In conversation?"

"Cosima," she guesses, by way of greeting - she does manage to pull together something that looks a bit more receptive than the heavy way she'd dropped into her seat as if in anticipation of lessons she isn't interested in, so there's that. (And she's a bit prettier when she's a bit less sullen, so there's that, as well.)

Not butchering her name is another tick in the 'pro' column.

"I'm happy to discuss my work," which might be a slight exaggeration, but - maybe not that much, really. She is passionate about what she does, for all that she sort of sidled into it out of slight despair for what on earth to do with herself. "I hadn't really intended it for a Skyhold audience, but I suppose it might be useful."

To foreigners. Really, really foreigners.

she planned ahead for a year, he said let's play it by ear

cosima ; i thought i saw the devil this morning

lexa ; you're a doll you are flawless

pamelia ; grace is just weakness or so i've been told

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josephine ; pink toes pressed against the carpet show your face and finish what you started

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