[ 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

[dashing]

Herian's expression is not so stern and fixed as it might normally be, though that hardly means she is overtly expressive. There is less schooled neutrality in her, for the moment, and that might be enough to show the faintest trace of understanding, or amusement.

"As you say. Some would have it that nobles have a fine eye for taking beauty and giving it permanence." A hair comb, some trinket, whatever it might be could be a longer lasting token than the humble flowers themselves, even if they were kept and dried and stored with one's most precious things. "I hope Lord Luthor lives up to expectation."

There are other matters to address.

"Word has come from the Inquisition, as well." If you wish to hear it goes unsaid.

[elegiaque]

Somehow relevant word, Gwenaëlle supposes, though it doesn't immediately occur to her what that might be. As far as it goes with what she - and the others - were sent here to attend to, this journey has been a success. Possibly even more of one than it might otherwise have been; Emeric will not hold back anything now, not from her, not like this. If he was going to play this any other way -

Well, he won't. She knows.

"Some place you could be more useful, Knight Enchanter?" --which she might take for assent and a prompt, if she likes. Probably a preferable conversation for Herian than Lord Luthor and whatever expectations Gwenaëlle is harboring, there.

[dashing]

"I cannot imagine you have need of more strangers clustering about you in so private a time as this." Not unkindly said. It is intended, at least, with some gentleness to it, blunt as the truth might be. "There is to be a party sent to being engaging with the Clan," somehow, even in all her even tones and politeness, she makes Clan sound like a foul, offensive thing, "that attacked our party. I asked to be present for this diplomatic foray."

So calm and so even, and yet there is subtle anger stitched into each syllable. Almost invisible and inaudible, perhaps, but though her control is great it is not absolute. "The Inquisition wishes to determine what will make the Clan cease their attacks."

It did not mean they had no care for justice, but it made Herian's shoulders rigid with anger. Diplomacy was honourable, the sparing of lives wherever possible was honourable, and in this she had to curtail her own desire to cut them to ribbons to try and stand by honour, to make sure there was justice and not vengeance, and she hates it. Such is the reason for codes and for honour; for the times when our own judgment cannot be trusted fully.

[elegiaque]

Honour, generally speaking, is an interesting concept. Lots of concepts that Gwenaëlle doesn't apply to her own life interest her - but, in this moment and in this context, she has no time for it. No care for the ways in which her judgment might be unkind or unfair; she doesn't question the sudden flare of rage, or if there might not be a better answer -

"Killing them all will put a stop to it," she says, flatly. Justice isn't real but vengeance feels right, feels like something more achievable. And letting the people responsible for this do anything but die cannot be other than a wrong that surely, surely can be fixed. So many things she can do nothing about, but why this, too? Why should this not be something she can burn down, the way she wants to so much else?

It is a conscious effort not to crush Herian's flowers in her small fist.

[dashing]

"It would," she agrees, very calmly. It cools her temper a little, to be faced with such a blunt statement. It was easier to be calm in the face of something than to be calm simply because it was right, at times. "But so too would it see children slaughtered. It would render the Clan martyrs that might spark others to raise arms and lash out all the more violently. I will not slaughter them nor provoke attack, nor give them any reason where they might claim a right of vengeance."

Herian speaks very softly, calmly for one whose personal feelings towards the Dalish involve them banished and far from her sight.

"We cannot give them that."

[elegiaque]

That all sounds very - reasonable. And true, and relevant, and - well, they wouldn't have to slaughter the children, obviously, that's unnecessary, they're young, they probably haven't even had their faces ruined yet, surely proper Orlesian families could be found for them so they could be raised with a bit of fucking civility. Which does not solve the problem of igniting unrest in other Dalish clans, but you know what, she doesn't care:

"Oh, well, in that case. I suppose a stern talking to will simply have to do."

--heavy with irony.

[dashing]

"No." Herian shakes her head. "'Twould never suffice. I fear, though—"

A pause, and she frowns. There are words that she might offer, and yet she is uncertain. "When I was seven my father took me to a Dalish clan in the hopes that they might take me in, sooner than see me taken by the Circle, as his sisters had been. They were so galled by the presumption of a flat-ear and his shem'len whelp that they cut his ears from his head, and—"

The hesitation is only brief, might pass for a pause between words, "hung them about my neck, before they cut his throat."

Her gaze remains steady, though there is a brief waver at the corner of her mouth before she smooths it away. "No act carried out by any hand will satisfy your grief, nor your rage. Doubtless this will mean little—"

She hates hesitating and faltering, and frowns. "Your mother has the strength of the Inquisition looking for justice in the wake of her murder. That will not give her back to you, nor ease your hurts, but such is more than many lost have had."