[ closed ] go ahead and cry little girl, nobody does it like you do

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, Lex Luthor, Alistair, Bellamy Blake, Thranduil, Herian Amsel.
WHAT: Comte Vauquelin has information and records for the Inquisition. A small group including his daughter go to collect it. Everything is fine.
WHEN: End of Kingsway.
WHERE: Orlais, the Vauquelin estate.
NOTES: Violence, character death, assholes.

Comments

ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ.

[elegiaque]

As much as certain individuals (...Gwenaëlle) might have preferred to travel by carriage, Orlais is a dangerous place at present and the roads leading into the densely forested countryside where the Vauquelins reside (occasionally, when Halamshiral is doing Emeric's head in or Gwenaëlle can't be trusted to have a civil conversation with her peers) are unlikely to be an exception to that rule, or 'somewhere that a carriage can swiftly maneuver if need be'. Riding, then, and camping rather carefully, and it is so stupid, she thinks, that some ancient Tevinter monster is trying to end the world and she has to worry about being caught in the crossfire of her own countrymen.

She shares her tent with Guenievre. The rest of you can fend for yourselves.

[dashing]

Councillor Amsel is not a terribly chatty person, perhaps to the preference of almost anyone in the party. She keeps her opinions close to her, will defend them if need be, but does not scatter them as if they were conetti; they are not nearly so bright and joyous, for that.

She carries a staff at her back, a sword and the hilt of a spirit blade at her side, and almost never starts a conversation that is not practical or warning in nature. It is not so much that she is unfriendly as that she is here to protect, here for a reason. And, actually, she is a little unfriendly. A rifter who claims to know what is best for elves, an unknown Templar and a Grey Warden are all amongst her excellent reasons for being less than delighted, and the other members of the party do little to appease her. That it is an Orlesian noble she likes best (or has spoken to the most) prior to this trip does not, perhaps, bode so very well.

Setting up camp has her breathing life into the fire with a touch of her magic, an orange glow starting in the heart of the wood pile that blooms upwards and tangled about the sticks like curls of orange ribbon, or perhaps she's setting up camp. Perhaps you have the misfortune to be her tent buddy. Perhaps she's handing over a rabbit on a stick - for dinner, skinned and cooked, fear not.

On the road she rides on a palomino stallion that was once the property of a chevalier in all places save where the ground is too treacherous, when she chooses instead to walk - or if a member of the party strains themselves and lacks a horse, in which case she offers them her own.

Or wildcard me, bruh.

[byblow]

"You know," Alistair says at one point, walking alongside her horse, "it's not very sporting of you, is it? Carrying a sword. Mages can rain fire on their enemies or turn them into ice or--anything, but you still want to put me out of a job."

[dashing]

"When mages are not cut down with their magic blocked and mana drained, I will feel better assured that I have no need of a sword to protect others and myself."

The Spire is well engraved upon her; the sight of children cut down, unable to defend themselves. "In equal turn, I do not think magic need always be the first resort. You are certainly in no danger of my overwhelming desire to become a Warden."

Though, she does give him a second look. The one Sabine has taken a shine to; the one deserving of more than one warning.

for guen.

[rowancrowned]

She knows he has the information she requested of him. She has likely already guessed the truth of what happened, but he bears the specific details, in all their wretched truth. Not telling her won’t return her daughters, but drawing this out any further will bring only more pain. Or so he supposes.

His horse drifts to the back of the line on the second day, a few steps behind the next-to-last person, just enough space for privacy, and waits for Guenievre to drift back as well.

[elegiaque]

The glance that Guenievre exchanges with Gwenaëlle is hard to read, but the latter has no word of complaint when she slows, letting the others ride ahead of her and listing back until she draws abreast with Thranduil.

"You know how they died."

--there's no beating around the bush. If he had nothing to tell, she thinks, he would do it differently.

[rowancrowned]

"Yes." No reason to drag it out. "Magalie was trapped in their lodgings when the fires reached their block. Alix was slain by a chevalier as she tried to reach him." He delivers the report cleanly, respectful enough to look her in the eye as he delivers the news, reins clasped loosely in his hands.

"I could not find the identity of the chevalier." One of a hundred in the city, and possibly dead after Gaspard took Halamshiral. It would be a pitiful offer, laying the name and offering his sword to right that wrong, but- he cannot.

This is simply how things are in Thedas. All tangled and layered and no way to easily parse things and make them right. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

[nonsibi]

Bellamy is a good travel companion, which means that he makes the fires and cuts the firewood and hauls it around and tries to do the hunting, which is the part he isn't incredibly good at, but he holds his own. His tent is well-worn and his armor is patchy and equally well-worn; his horse is even-tempered, a hearty mountain horse that answers to Hector.

Not that Bellamy advertises the fact that he's named his horse, because he's a serious Templar. But he has named the horse, and he treats the horse well, because it's an investment, because he takes care of his stuff, and also just because he likes the horse. The horse likes him back. Sometimes Hector bites his hair. It seems like a game.

He'll speak to anyone that speaks to him. Sometimes he starts conversations. It's not like he's bad company or doesn't know how to be around people. Reserved by experience, not necessarily by nature.

And he's good at fending for himself, thanks, and fending for others without seeming too invasive. Good at camping, helping where he's needed, keeps watch, all those little things that make it somehow useful to keep around a Templar used to watching out for threats and stuff. On the road, he keeps an equally wary eye on the countryside. As much as he's heard bad about Orlais, at least the country seems all right. Full of dangers and war-torn and stuff. But where isn't these days.

[elegiaque]

Where, indeed. Gwenaëlle had had no desire to trade the relative and probably illusory safety of Skyhold for the uncertain dangers of Orlesian roads - even ones leading to her home - but it's true that Emeric finds nothing so difficult as telling his only acknowledged child 'no' and that she had promised Guenievre she would see her home, soon, and that this is the simplest method of doing so. It all makes perfect, unavoidable sense that she should be here.

She dislikes it immensely.

In the evening, at the camp fire, she sits down beside Bellamy, pulling her shawl tight around her shoulders, and announces as much: "I do not care for camping at all." In other shocking news that will come as a great surprise to him, trees have leaves, dirt gets on stuff, and Alistair isn't the King of Ferelden.

This whole trip is -

- well, it isn't entirely a waste of time. Alexander will meet her father, and then no Merciers can disapprove if he doesn't. But everything is dirty and it rained yesterday and she isn't used to spending quite so long in her saddle and Thranduil keeps talking to her mother and Herian has a face that hasn't been pleased by anything since probably the beginning of time and she isn't sure if Alistair has stopped throwing things at her because they're on the road or if he's just waiting until she's really not expecting it and she doesn't care if Bellamy thinks she's pretty or charming so he is the perfect person to complain to.

ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋ.

[elegiaque]

In large part, the trip is largely uneventful.

Or: in large part, the trip begins uneventfully.

It does not end that way. The last stretch of road will wind several more hours before clearing the woods to where earlier generations of Vauquelin nobles had, in fact, cleared the woods for the rolling estate that Gwenaëlle will one day inherit; she is sleepy and irritable and in some small way looking forward to seeing it again. Guenievre will stay there, that's the deal, she'll pick one of the other maids to bring back with her, and her mother will stay, and -

an arrow thuds into the tree behind her and changes everything. The only experience Gwenaëlle has of the Dalish are the unusually socially-conscious ones that run tame about Skyhold picking flowers and fucking, and - these, outnumbering them by a few (by a few more, if one discounts Gwenaëlle and Guenievre as entirely useless in a fight), are not that. Archers, rogues, and leading them a mage -

In the stories there would be some sort of banter. Threats. Someone (Alistair or Lex) would say something they think is clever in response and someone else (Bellamy or Herian) would be ostentatiously unamused.

Fire explodes from the mage's staff.

[dashing]

No.

The thud of an arrow and the sight that greets her when she snaps to look towards there attackers makes a tension roll up her back and across her shoulders. Dalish. Always, unavoidably the Dalish, and she has reached for her spirit blade with no hesitation, the blade of light called into life with strange shimmer that cuts through the air. She wields her staff in her left hand and the blade in her right; there is a snap of energy as the blade deflects an arrow shot to strike her, and Herian moves towards the Dalish. Intercept, keep the party safe. These were things she could do.

gloms on to your attack

[nonsibi]

Working with strange mages isn't Bellamy's style. He sticks to his own. But he doesn't have a choice here; there's him, there's others, the big elf and the Warden behind them somewhere, Gwen's probably useless scholar, her maid, Gwen--and in a crisis, Bellamy goes for what is familiar. It's reflexive, force of habit, putting his conviction in his ability to fight with greater effectiveness alongside a mage. Plenty of experience there.

He has nothing against the Dalish personally. The force of his blind anger has always been aimed elsewhere, to threats more present. But this is a very present threat, to his people (which is Gwen, one of the spare few he cares about), so he's got his sword in hand and his shield up as Herian deflects the next arrow aimed at her.

The Dalish mage is readying some attack in response. Bellamy spots it, the clear telegraphing of movement, the pull at the Fade at the edge of his consciousness, something he has learned very well to feel--like someone grabbing on his eyelid and tugging, and he pulls up to mute that spell before it can take proper shape, neuters the mage's magic neatly without interrupting Herian. And without saying anything to her, so, sorry.

The archers are readying another volley anyways, so she'll have plenty to distract her.

for alistair

[rowancrowned]

Near a week spent in close, close companionship with the warden has at least solidified Thranduil’s opinion of him into something that can be explained in a few words: somehow tainted, otherwise enjoyable to be around. The caveat of ‘for a Man’ is stamped on that in big, red letters, but when is it not?

He won’t remember what they were talked about later, once he struggles to recall the memories in the estate. It was a fun conversation, Thranduil will recall, his lips curled in a smile, but then the arrow, and he cannot imagine his horse is well trained for war. Herian is somewhere in front of them, and the ladies two, but he and Alistair are the only two out of the group with big, physical swords. They haven't fought together, which hinders them, but Alistair knows this world better, so it is to him Thranduil looks in those precious split seconds--

The mage is leading. She needs to fall first, and she is an elf, he cannot kinslay.

"Orders?" He asks, because every moment is precious, but a moment of thought here might save them all.

I'm sorry I'm here

[byblow]

"What?" Alistair says.

So there goes that moment.

But after that moment passes he does look at Thranduil—a quick sideways glance and obvious click of understanding effort his attention returns to the mage. Orders. Right. It isn't Thranduil's fault; Thranduil doesn't really know him.

Anyway: "Try to keep count of the archers," he says. The mage is the bigger and louder threat, but from what Alistair knows of the Dalish—it wasn't their mages they sent to Denerim. Herian is making her attempt at placating them. Alistair likes the Dalish as a people well enough to keep his hand off the hilt of his sword, for that long. Only his shield (small but serviceable thank you) to fend off potential arrows where he's risked sticking his head out from around his chosen tree. "We can swing around behind him." The mage. "They'll be able to hold him, if they can't stop him. The boy's a Templar. You can tell because he doesn't smi—"

No banter allowed. He's cut off by an arrow embedding in the upper edge of his shield.

for lex, parallel to herian and bellamy.

[elegiaque]

What Lex does with his knife registers dimly and distantly; something that Gwenaëlle will not fail to appreciate, but later, later when the immediacy of all this is a bit less. When she remembers in other than the bright flashes of horrific oversaturation, when she notices that her hands are covered in blood, when she's caught her breath and used it to wail.

Right now, what penetrates through the blank haze of fury and failure is what Bellamy shouts across to him - spurs her to movement, but not helpfully. Her fingers clutch Guenievre, Guenievre whose eyes stare unseeing up at her, the wreckage of her throat having not allowed her either the dignity or small kindness of last words -

"No," she says, more clearly than she thought it would come out, but. She's only a small thing, kept delicate; prising her away wouldn't present a challenge to someone who doesn't wield a hammer.

[goodforsaken]

Lex reflects somewhere distantly that this is probably one of those times other people feel sorry; he understands, in the abstract, how much this must hurt (in the abstract, which doesn't say how many different ways there are to experience what Gwen is now, and Lex was too young when his mother died to remember), but in the bloodless pragmatism of his mind it probably hurts less than getting sliced in half with swords.

So - he might have spared Bellamy a nod back, presumably, what with their momentary common goal and all - he doesn't say, I'm sorry, he says, "We can't stay here," and he's only going to haul her as much as he has to, but. However much it takes.

ᴇsᴛᴀᴛᴇ.

[elegiaque]

ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ;

The first person seen when they arrive, besides guardsmen, is a tall, gaunt man dressed severely who Gwenaëlle greets by surname in a dull murmur of Guilfoyle, who is shadowed by house staff that come forward not entirely unready for the wounded, the body. Orlais is a hard place to be, currently. One doesn't need to expect to prepare. He seems to be the one coordinating everything, though the Comte Vauquelin is not long behind him -

"You did this," Gwenaëlle says without inflection, holds her father's gaze, watches him falter. She doesn't linger.

ᴄᴏᴍᴛᴇ ;

For those who'd like to speak with Emeric Vauquelin - his daughter apparently not being among their number - he can be found drinking in his study, his library or by speaking with Guilfoyle (an ever present and mildly alarming stone-faced shadow of the household) to more politely request an audience rather than rolling up unannounced. The death of Guenievre Baudin appears to have hit him hard, though there are subtle cues in both the behaviour of the servants and how competently he navigates being drunk so early in the day that his moods and ways are always a bit like this.

ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏᴅᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ;

No tents or servants' quarters here; though some of the rooms appear to have been aired and tidied in haste, as if perhaps they weren't planning on accommodating everyone in the party so generously before Gwenaëlle arrived like a little stormcloud and Emeric thought better of giving her an excuse to shout at him, all those who've made the journey are provided with more than comfortable guest quarters in the same wing, bell-pulls near each bed to summon servants prepared to cater to most, if not all, needs that might arise.

ᴄʜᴏᴏsᴇ ᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴇ ;

Explore the estate? Explore the wine cellar? Go and look at the portraits of previous Comtes and Comtesses? (The present Comte and his wife are never pictured together; their portraits hang separately at opposite ends of the gallery. Yes, that bad.)

chooses my own damn adventure

[dashing]

It is early in the day for most nobles to be up and walking the grounds. Mist still lingers on the grounds, rolling over grass that is heavy with dew. The gardens are beautiful, as the gardens of noble houses tend to be; avenues of trees, a hedge mage that thick with roses, enough flower beds to make one used to the dwindling attempts of alienage families to encourage something to grow seem all the more grim. The grass is soft instead of dry or coarse or prickly, and the Lady Vauquelin stands near a fountain that seems impossibly grand.

And none of the splendour and colours surrounding her matter, because her mother is dead. That Herian can grasp very well. When her own father had been cut down before her, she had not spoken for weeks entire. Even with that loss she knows not whether it would be better to leave her in peace or offer her company, because she cannot remember that either gave her any solace. It is duty that draws her forward, though, footsteps light but audibly on the immaculate seeming white gravel that leads to the fountain and branches off to make different paths winding about the estate.

She stops a respectful distance away, pauses before speaking. "Lady Vauquelin, I beg forgiveness for interrupting your solitude."

[elegiaque]

By another measure, the hour is late; the Lady Vauquelin has not yet been to her bed, still wearing the deep chocolate-toned gown that was more flattering, probably, when its skirts were a bit less rumpled, less damp in the hem. The polite word for what Gwenaëlle usually is might be something along the lines of 'vibrant', and she is never, ever difficult to read -

So perhaps it's just that there's nothing there to see when she turns, expressionless. Numb, as the cold feeling of Guenievre's absence settles around her; a thousand things competing too strongly to be borne or processed and thus all set aside, emptied out of her for now, replaced by sleeplessness and the insufficient comforts that are the only ones she ever learned. Her hands pressed together not to reach for anyone else's; the way she swayed a little where she stood until Herian's voice shifted her.

"Is that what I should forgive."

Gwenaëlle wants to go back to Skyhold, where - this isn't. Gwenaëlle doesn't want to go back to Skyhold, where there will be questions.

chooses another adventure; for lex.

[elegiaque]

The wine is a disgusting extravagance.

Gwenaëlle knows where to find it - the shape of the bottle, the way it's marked - because she'll probably remember til her dying day just how angry she'd been when she'd seen how much was paid for the stupid thing. Her father, cavalier, we are scarcely going to the poor house for it, and how frustrating it had been, what a stupid waste, one more irresponsible thing. It isn't as if she doesn't have luxuries of her own, or even that she doesn't prefer to drink a better class of wine, but the price of it had been obscene even for something that had only been decanted in ten bottles or whatever it was her father had justified his expense with -

She uses it to knock briskly on the frame of the door she has already opened, announcing herself rather than requesting entry, the flowers that Herian had given her dangling from the fingers of her other hand.

"I am going to drink this," she says. "And ideally not put any of it back, but I am very small, and it probably isn't wise to do it by myself, and also I have something I want to ask you, which is professional, sort of, so--"

He won't be unkind, she thinks, but from Lex she will not get that careful, brittle-glass handling that is scraping every nerve she has raw. He might just drink this wine with her and say if he can or can't do as she asks and not be gentle with her.

[goodforsaken]

Lex wouldn't know what to do with that feeling if it possessed him demon-style, besides probably start looking for a very sheer cliff, so--no. His face goes a little funny when he opens the door, though, because, as she will see, when he gestures her in, he's already drinking. It's not a wine that could send anybody to the poor house, but as finances go, well. Someone else's might be at least dented.

"I can't claim much dominion in the way of size," he deadpans, "but probably enough to qualify as drinking in company."

He would probably at least pretend (or maybe not) to adhere to propriety in the sense that they could sit a respectable courting distance from one another on what is available, like, let's say a divan and loveseat, but if they were doing that, she certainly would not be here in the middle of the night bearing wine. So he sits down himself, pats the spot next to him.

The difference between he and other people with like, souls, or better functioning empathy, is that while struggling to know what to say in the face of such loss is hardly uncommon, Lex doesn't struggle, he just skips that part. Thus: "What's your professional something?"

Maybe they can have a wine exchange while they do this. Because that is a terrific idea.

for alistair; prior to herian + lex threads.

[elegiaque]

The atmosphere in the estate is - tense. Guenievre's death is not discussed by the household, not beyond Gwenaëlle's first, sharp words to her father; Guilfoyle has accommodated without the housekeeper for these past weeks, and can doubtless continue to do so. Arrangements will be made. A replacement will be found, and can be done quietly and discreetly and without paining those who mourn - but the mourning itself is not acknowledged, not in so many words. Accommodated and politely ignored.

Gwenaëlle tries occupying herself, first. The papers that Emeric has supplied should be gone through before they're passed onto - Josephine, probably. She understands what she's looking at enough to know if this has all been a wasted enterprise - ignores the furious part of herself that wants it to be, something she can scream about without anyone looking askance - and it is busy-work for mind and hands, clean and quiet.

No blood.

She's read the same paragraph seven times.

[byblow]

When he first sees her, she's probably only read that paragraph five or six times, but he's eating. It isn't a sign of disrespect. Or it isn't meant as one. Warden means endless bone-deep hunger, and it takes more than inadvertently flattening a rifter and witnessing the deaths of a Dalish hunting party and an acquaintance's—friend's—handmaiden to make that go away. So he's eating. But he's eating in a removed and rote way, hardly tasting it, when he passes an open door and sees Gwen's back.

He should leave her alone. He isn't known for tact. He's aware.

But she'd said Mama.

He passes the door, then, without saying anything, but only long enough to finish the bread in his hands and brush his fingers clean on the thighs of his trousers. Then he goes back to stand in the doorway, shoulder to frame in a way that's for once more tired and unplanned than deliberately careless and improper.

"Can I come in?"

Look at him, asking and everything.

adventure!! for gwen

[rowancrowned]

The things Thranduil will refuse to acknowledge happened is fairly short: namely, what the hell was wrong with his face when whatever happened happened. It’s gone now, and he sits in the bed like it’s a throne, back against the headboard, pillow between his back and the wood and a few blankets spread out over his knees. His hands rest in his lap; he turns from looking at the widow to her when she comes in.

He had rang for her days ago; maybe hadn’t expected Gwenaëlle to come at once, but this is—

No one will tell him what happened, and he’s worried, despite himself, despite his still not wholly healed state. Thranduil doesn’t bother to stop the relief that shows when he sees her, leaning forward as though it might draw her closer to his sickbed.

“Gwenaëlle. It is good to see you.”

He means it.

[elegiaque]

She looks less convinced, and her reluctance is written in every line of her; nothing kept her, it seems, but her own will. There's no injury evident, but all the same she's not much of a sight for sore eyes - pale and drawn, red eyed and unhappy. She'd considered not coming at all, but that, she thinks, would solve nothing.

This will also solve nothing.

"My lord says we can borrow a carriage when we leave if you can't ride," she says, eventually, instead of answering directly what she doesn't really know what to do with. The door falls shut behind her and she lets it, though the sharpness makes her flinch.