faderift | [ CLOSED ] WAR TABLE: INVESTIGATE COMTESSE DE VELONEY

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[ CLOSED ] WAR TABLE: INVESTIGATE COMTESSE DE VELONEY

WHO: Herian, Anders, Issana, Velanna, Pam, Malcolm
WHAT: A series of disappearances in the Orlesian countryside has culminated in the vanishment of some of the Inquisition's own scouts. A team has been sent to investigate the estate of one Comtesse Eléonore Vaillant de Veloney.
WHEN: Over the span of 4 days in the 2nd week of Harvestmere.
WHERE: Estate of Comtesse Eléonore Vaillant de Veloney
NOTES: Trauma, gore, dark themes, homicide, pretentious wine usage, other things not labeled as to avoid spoilers.

Welcome to the Estate

It is a terrible misfortune, all these disappearances- but with a civil war on and all this strange Venatori and Red Templar activity- with the rifts in the countryside? People simply not appearing where they ought is a sad reality. Nothing to be done for it. That such an esteemed noblewoman has found herself unjustly accused simply due to her wealth and prosperity? Cannot stand. Comtesse de Veloney invited the Inquisition herself to investigate her manor and put the matter to rest- they are to be afforded all the cooperation and respect imaginable.

Even the mages. Even the elves.

They are met at the gate by a veritable delegation of footmen led by the Gardener and Tanner to see them inside and out of the stormy, dreary weather. Packs are secreted off to rooms (a lovely set of suites in the east wing if the Steward does say so herself), baths drawn (The Comtesse insists, it's been just dreadful and they've come all this way), and a lavish banquet prepared.

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Despite herself, and despite the serious air that more than like befits all missions, Herian cannot help but smile a little as she enters the library. It sparks a rare moment of fierce nostalgia, as she moves toward the shelves and reaches out to the books, tempted to run her fingers along the spines. They are such a tactile thing; texture of cover and page under fingers, the scent of ink, and weight of them and the sound of paper scraping over paper with the turning of each page. Herian stills just short of touching the volumes, but closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of paper and leather, of dust and wood. It is like being home, in the Spire, for just a brief moment.

Among the shelves and leather bound pages there are volumes aplenty on every possible subject- a collection spanning the Estate's lifetime in Orlais, gifts from suitors, additions as each new member of the family came into their own. Now there is but the Comtesse and her quiet appreciation for what appears to be Chantry literature in the far back corner, near a large window that casts long shadows across the parqueted floor. Backlit like this the Comtesse's expression is difficult to read initially, though her voice is warm when she calls out.

"Ser Amsel. You've an appreciation for books?"

"Comtesse." Herian turns from the books in smooth motion, the upright posture not slackened for a moment despite the reverie. Her tone is steady, rather than startled, and she bows to their host. Despite her natural inclinations, she draws forth a little more of a smile. There is a job to be done, no matter how underhanded it feels to accept hospitality when a person is being investigated.

"I do indeed. I have rarely seen so fine a collection as what you have here—" and then her smile widens very slightly, a moment of apologetic realisation, even if it is barely less understated than the rest of her expressions. It is still more than people at the Inquisition would tend to see. "My sincerest apologies if I have disturbed you in a moment of solitude, Comtesse. That was not my intention."

She hates lying, and talking around the truth is a nobles practice. She hopes her words can be more sincerely felt than they are; doing what is right involves clearing the Comtesse's of any suspicion, and determining what happened to those people, and she will not jeopardise it through naivety.

"Most of it predates me." After a moment she gestures to the chaise next to her in blatant invitation. "But I have made additions throughout my time here. Sometimes I take requests from the House Maids- things they want to learn or stories they wish to read. That is why I've most of Varric Tethras' works in an adjacent shelf to your right."

Should Herian look there are, in fact, the whole of Varric's published works in a neat row, bracketed by other works of fiction. "Leon would say I am indulging them too much but-"

Her voice goes thick, her hand raises to her chest, covering a locket nestled in her decollete. She swallows back anything but fond remembrance, face tipped to the floor for a moment. "But it pleases me to know they are happy here. He would not have minded that. And no, I don't mind the interruption at all. It is too easy for me to lose myself in memories if I am alone- it is why I often have Clara with me. Reminding me of what needs to be done this day rather than the week past."

And surely it would be rude to decline such an invitation. She joins the Comtesse, though she has barely taken her place (still correct posture, still controlled) when she glances across.

"You staff are all literate?" The note of surprise is undeniable, sincere for all that she might have added it otherwise. "Impressive indeed, Comtesse. From my understanding there are many who believe those in their employ had better spend their time scrubbing floors than with indulgences like books." Herian could read only by virtue of going to the Circle - it was a rare trait in her family, and rare throughout the alienage. Time was not dedicated to half-breeds. Her mother's bare grasp of it was enough only for her to read the familiar notes of her father, familiar and limited to particular topics. She is not sure her mother would have the confidence to venture into other books.

Grief, at least, she can understand. "I am sure your staff are very grateful for your generosity, and the pleasures afforded them. That you treat them so well is an honour to the Comte, as well as yourself. His name would be so well revered amongst them as your own."

She might not immediately warm to humans, and she might have her suspicions when Orlesians are nobles, but she is not without sympathy. "Memories can be fickle things. Comfort and pain entwined together, and sometimes inextricably. You have my sincerest condolences."

"Of course. It isn't done back home but- he promised me a better life for our family. I see those that keep us and depend upon us for their livelihood as a part of our family." Hence the practices she's instated and kept to. The girls keep her home beautiful, she keeps them fed and educated. She provides for them as best she is able. Close the shadows are not so stark and the softness of her eyes more apparent, the slim lines of her wrists, the delicacy of her neck where her hair is pinned in place. "It is kind of you to say. Most here were not around when we lost him- but I try to impress upon them his values."

Hard work. Loyalty. Determination. Pride in what they do and where they live. For the most part she thinks, perhaps, they have managed to hold these things close. Eléonore certainly thinks she has managed to make it plain that these things are vital for living in the Estate.

It's a soft thing, the way her hand alights upon Herian's, but it is there. A dainty thing, almost coy, the brushing of their fingertips. "Please."

Her eyes turn to her, dark and almost liquid in the afternoon's light, voice low, lilting. "Call me Eléonore."

Her gaze flits down to the fingers that have sought contact with her own, lingering the barest moment before flickering back to their host. There were any number of reasons and ways to politely withdraw, establish a line gently and respectfully. The course she should take is plainly mapped before her, so clearly as the Imperial Highway cutting stark paths across grass plains. And instead of looking to them, she is caught on slim wrists and gentle words.

"Eléonore," she echoes, mouth flickering into more of a smile. "Herian, then."

A give rarely bestowed; Knight Enchanter, Ser, Councillor. Those were hard won, had been fought for and she would not dismiss them. Pride was another of her guilts, even if she tried to better temper it. She tempered many elements of herself, and she felt a little weary of it, when pieces of her had been literally carved away. A moment of indulgence was not so terrible, nor harmful.

"My grandmother was a servant to one of the noble Houses of Starkhaven. It is— a comfort, to know that not all face such adversity as she." At least in this she can unravel if she will jerk away sooner or later, if there are lessons to be learned about maintaining rigidity more strictly even when you can feel parts of yourself splintering.

"Herian." The Comtesse murmurs gently, lips carefully shaping her name. Tasting it like wine, lingering over the lilt of consonant and syllable like something rich and buttery from her very kitchens. That coy brush of fingers settles into a lingering contact. Something simple. Something sly. The alignment of her hand adjacent to Herian's, the pale skin of their pinkies just barely touching. Nevermid their stations, nevermind their origins. Something so simple and chaste as this-

It does no harm.

She doesn't move away at the mention of Herian's heritage- if anything her eyes become sad. Knowing. Empathetic to her grandmother's plight.

"I had a cousin, in Tevinter. Her family was doing poorly and she had to sell herself into slavery to repay a debt of her fathers. I didn't see her for years and when I did-" She shakes her head, momentarily overcome. "I treat my staff well because I would not see any treated as she lived. We have an obligation to be noble if we are noble. How many Orlesians seem to not see that is startling."

More and more surprises. It is so easy to listen to things that feel like a soothing poultice on a burn, after so many days and months now in the company of people who were dangerous and reckless with the safety of others even more than with their own. The smile turns a little sad, but only a little, because— something in this is warming, as well. A relief, in a way, to hear her own thoughts echoed from someone so completely unfamiliar.

"I fear that nobility of class and nobility of character do not often entwine. I have known those who are deemed unworthy by history and tradition act with more honour than can I put to words, and those of highborn status reveal themselves too cruel and cowardly to do their station justice."

And yet, she pulls her gaze back, shifting her hand just enough that her fingers rest over Eléonore's as she looks at her. "Such patterns stretch beyond Orlais. The guilt of it should not be laid on your countrymen alone - mayhaps they will learn from your example, and come do to better than their neighbours, in time." She is not sure if that sounded so reassuring as she intended it too, and her smile brightens briefly with apology. "Forgive me, I fear that was clumsily worded."

Fair as her skin is- Eléonore's blush is something easily seen. Either from modesty or the continued brush of Herian's fingers one cannot tell, but it brings a warmth and almost girlish youth to her smile, a brightness to her laugh. "No, no. It was worded precisely as it was meant. There is nothing graceless in such pure sentiment. Deception is...articulate. Eloquent. Wielded like a veil before our eyes and worn like the masks Orlesians so adore."

Here in her Estate she is spared such a tradition. But should she entertain, should she engage beyond the grounds of her home? She must comply. It is stifling. Her thumb brushes feather light against Herian's skin, Eléonore glancing at her through her darkened lashes.

"You wield your words like a blade. With the grace and certainty of what a Chevalier ought to be- and none of the quibbling. None of their pride."

"Pride... would that I had none at all. 'Tis a dangerous thing, Eléonore, to find oneself too mired in, and yet without it I fear that some would not uphold honour at all. Pride forces us to do better, even if for our vanity. In excess, though, I fear it loses any element that might have seen it redeemed." Pensive, that, looking Eléonore for a brief moment before returning her gaze to her; the flush of her skin, that freedom in the smile. It was a pleasing thing, to look on such wonders in a person and be aware that you had at least a small part in it. Whimsical yes, and perhaps another example of her pride failing her. "But I thank you. So much that I desire or— strive for relies upon me upholding what it is a knight should be."

It is not a thing generally looked kindly upon, she knows, when so many have been wounded in the name or under the pretence of both duty and honour. Her gaze drops for a few moments, pensive, as she draws her hand away only to brush her hair back behind her ear. A familiar habit, a rare thing that gives her a moment to think before speaking further, and it is only as her hand touches the still tender flesh that she falters. The shell of her ear has been carved, whittled, the uppermost part sliced away diagonally, the lower sliced from lobe and around in a sweeping angle. It does not quite meet the other cut, but the intention of it might be plain enough. Her hand drops back alongside Eléonore's, almost but not quite touching - a break in the spell, or the risk of it.

"Deception can take many shapes. Some of the masks are quite impressive," she adds, a little quiet, not quite so playful in her dryness as she might have been able a moment before.

Herian has the whole of Eléonore's attention, so much so that she's leaning forward slightly into her space. Entranced, perhaps, would be the proper word. Be it the voice or the sentiment, the lilt of her tone or the whole of her being that seems to light up when she speaks of honor. Of knighthood. Something dear to her, something she seems to breathe.

Something the Comtesse finds herself drawn to in a real way.

Such a small thing, the carving of Herian's ear. Such a terribly small and viscerally horrible thing- the sound it twists out of Eléonore is nothing short of wounded on her behalf. While Herian might have pulled away, she leans forward to close the distance. Doesn't think anything of it, doesn't question the instinct. Simply brushes her lips against the tender edge, murmuring against the altered shell. Why break the spell when you can fall further into it?

"I sense no deception in you. Care, yes but-" She pulls back, one hand lifting to touch Herian's cheek so lightly, so gently. As though trying to coax a feral cat into purring. "No deception. Ask honestly, and I will answer in the same. You have my word, Herian."

Strange how some things can be entirely unexpected, without being a surprise. The light contact of lips and the heat of breath over the sensitive skin makes goosebumps prickle over her neck; looking at Eléonore might have been an inevitability even without the hand at her cheek. Even with Eléonore drawn back, that fleeting moment of dangerous proximity seems to hang in the air between them.

Herian might not be one to flush easily, but she is very aware that pupils are blown and her chest rises just a little more heavily, and she lets her gaze drag up from Eléonore's lips just a fraction too slowly. Worst of all, she let it happen deliberately, rather than making herself act more the controlled knight.

"And so too from me. Honesty, upon my honour." This would probably be the opportune moment to ruin the moment and ask about the rumours, and she does briefly consider it before deciding that, perhaps, that was a question better reserved for later. Political questions, theoretical questions, all the things in the world that might help them and might disrupt this rare, powerful indulgence. "What place in this grand estate brings you the most joy and comfort?"

There is a moment when she lists forward- pulled by some innate gravity held only by Herian. A moment where temptation and gentle (if there is such a thing) desire is naked in the Comtesse's eyes before her hand slips free, fingertips drawing along the line of Herian's jaw to rest against her shoulder. A point of contact. Deepening the spell that perhaps dooms them both in this moment. Honesty sworn and honestly kept-

It could end poorly. Eléonore waits with bated breath, eyes dipping to Herian's lips as though what she might speak next could be knives or a psalm.

The balance of this fragile, fraught moment hangs between them- and she speaks.

She asks.

And the tension eases in Eléonore's shoulders, her smile broadens. "The center of the hege maze has a fountain- something Leon had styled after one in my home. There are benches there- the roses bloom, the air is cool. At night I oftentimes walk the maze- the paths are well known to me- and I sit there. Admiring the merging of Orelsian gardening and Tevinter sculpture. Home from before, when home was good- and the home I have made for myself here. It is...terribly sentimental. But on restless nights when I feel alone? That is where I spend them."

Temptation is a dangerous creature, and especially for mages, she had been taught. Desire demons haunting sleep, emotions ever in need of checking. Herian is wonderful at control of what reaches past the surface. It is what boils under her skin that is more risky, and all she can feel now is the thrum of her pulse and the awareness of how easily she might end this distance between them. Instead, almost idly, her hand raises just enough that the back of her hand can trail lightly along the arm that holds a contact point with Herian. Casual and light in a way that Herian is never casual and light any more.

"I've not yet ventured to the hedge maze. I am not sure my knightly pride could withstand the indignity of being trapped by shrubs, no matter how extensive." A rare moment of easier wit and humour, smile a little brighter to echo the Comtesse's own. "Perhaps I will hazard my dignity for the sake of the fountain, regardless."

She wishes sometimes that she had things to remember her homes by, Starkhaven and the White Spire, both. They had been so essential to the sculpting of her, and yet she carried barely a thing of either that were not written on her skin. Most things, though, had come from other matters; they were not either home that marked her, but darker memories that circled them.

Small, subtle touches that are, on their own, perfectly innocent. That have no true sordid intent and yet-

And yet. The Comtesse's eyes flick from Herian's face to her lips, delving lower to her throat, the rather appealing line of her cleavage before flicking back up. Dark and warm and faintly mischievous. When her hand slips free of Herian's shoulder it is almost accidental, just as casual and light- the brushing of her fingers along the lace that adorned Herian's chest. The barest tracing of that curve, an almost coquettish swipe of her thumb where her breast peaks that'd be far more believable were it not for her rapt attention of whatever reaction this so small gesture provokes.

Just the one glancing touch, enough to tantalize. To tease. Then her hand slips back down to rest on top of Herian's on the chaise as though they hadn't had this rather sultry interlude in their conversation. "It is a remarkable fountain- and I do wonder..."

Perhaps the moment isn't over. Perhaps it is brash, the reaching once again to brush raven dark hair from the pale column of Herian's neck, tucking it over her shoulder. "What you would look like in the moonlight, surrounded by my garden."

She is betrayed by the motion of her throat as she swallows. Contact is rare outside violence, touches such as these even moreso. Even as she holds the Comtesse's gaze steadily Herian is certain her eyes betray her wanting - how easy to hold that hand close, to invite more--

"I imagine my complexion would be cast paler still," she replies, smile elusive despite the amused tone. "And I might look bemused as to how I arrived thence."

Even in this moment - this weakness, which is what she knows it to be - duty pulls on her as the moons draw the tide. Perhaps it is appropriate that temptation draws her one direction and duty calls her in another. Even when she falters, the long walk must continue, whether steps are light and easy or heavy and dragging painfully.

For all that she does not want to, that she imagines it will disrupt this moment, honour and duty are not compliant to her wants or whims or hurts. "Eléonore-- what do you know of our missing people?"

Edited 2016-10-17 02:51 (UTC)

"With my arm at your waist and hand in your hair." The temptation to lean in and brush her lips against fair skin- it is night overwhelming. She lists forward again, drawn to Herian as a flower to the sun, basking in her company, her compassion, her beauty. Tempted in so many ways and without as much reason to hold fast against it-

And then the question.

Eléonore stills for a moment, eyes flicking up to Herian's from where they'd been on her lips. "I know Loupe mentioned seeing seven wearing the symbol of the Inquisition at the edge of the estate some time hence. I know they did not approach for shelter from the storm that came that night. I know they were, as I was told, at the border of my property and the Adjacent Baron's- one who has had more than a few Northern Visitors that might, perhaps, be of Tevinter, at roughly the same time."

That certainly evoked images, sparked thoughts of sensation; of fingers pulling in her hair and the warmth of a mouth at her neck in contrast with the autumn cool, and the softness of smooth skin underher fingertips.

Years of loss and wandering and war, months of her enemies practically upon her and forced as allies, of bodies and abominations and Dalish and torture. If isolation, because that is what honour and duty demand, in some sense.

Herian looks to Eléonore with regret for asking the question and the knowledge that she might never have granted herself peace. "I am sorry to ask such a thing of you," she starts, and is uncertain how to proceed. Duty and honour are words she speaks so oft that she can barely comprehend that they are words still.

Rather than speak further, she catches her fingers beneath Eléonore's, lightly taking her hand so that the Comtesse (host, suspect) might draw it away easily should she wish. And if she does not, if she allows Herian the presumption, Herian holds it higher and holds Eléonore's gaze as she presses a slow kiss to the inside of her wrist.

"Thank you for you answer."

Edited 2016-10-17 03:54 (UTC)

"You ask for the truth and I swore to answer honestly." She smiles softly, sadly, breath caught in her throat for so chaste and thoroughly unchaste a gesture in response. Her eyes alight on that point of contact, her pulse thrumming under Herian's fingertips.

As calm as she seems, her heart races.

"I know why you are here, what you are seeking. And I am sorry I cannot tell you more than what I know for certain, I truly am. Losing people- it is difficult. Even if they are but comrades in arms." Her fingers turn slightly, curling against what of Herian's cheek and jaw she can reach. there could be more, perhaps.

It might not be wise but- there could be more.

She finds herself wanting. "I hope you find what you are looking for."

"And I you." A grand lady in a fine estate and only servants for company, ones that ahe seems to treasure but... always there exists separation, she suspects. Their dependence on one another prohibits some things, perhaps in Eléonore's eyes as well, power not to be abused. It is a fine thought, at least.

"None should suffer the pains of isolation." From neighbours that cast judgement or through loss of one dear to their heart or loneliness that settles when you are far from home. "I would wish better for you."

She is not being rational; a suspect, a noble, a Tevinter, all fine reasons that would make Herian harsh most times. And now? She feels a need for warmth in the midst of a storm, and she tilts her cheek and jaw more into Eléonore's hand.

There are lines that must not be crossed. Of duty. Of propriety. Too often they are ignored in the Imperium but here? In this estate, in this household- they might do well. They must be upheld even if it leaves Eléonore alone in this fine manor, bed empty and cold night after night. To even dally is improper due to the nature of The Grand Game.

There are too few she might trust.

Why she places such things in the hands of a stranger, she cannot hope to know. But her thumb slides in a smooth arc across Herian's cheek as she leans closer, shifting until they are all but leaning against one another. "It is an old ache. A familiar one. After awhile...you might forget. Until the wind blows and there is a chill that causes it to settle in again."

Cold seemed a curse, some days. Some were resilient, by rights a child of Starkhaven should be. Wet and cold, mud and mould that poisoned the lungs, the staples of life at home. The alienage brought the chill and damp into your very bones, and from there it might harden to ice, or turn you to rot. No, Herian did not relish the cold; maybe that was why fire and lightning had always danced over her skin more easily.

It makes this foolish collection of moments all the more welcome. Perhaps that it hardly seems real plays into it, as well. Perhaps she can pretend she will unearth some secret.

"Have you found any remedies for these old aches?" The question is a genuine one, as she welcomes the contact, almost leans closer. "They've always seemed to me like to strike at our most vulnerable moments, and relentlessly, at that."

"The best cure I've found in this old house?" This old, opulent- but admittedly drafty on occasion house? Easy to lean. Easy to let her crimson lips drag along cheek and jaw until she's speaking not into Herian's ear, but the velvet soft skin underneath. Thin and fair, pulsing with the fluttering of her heartbeat.

Like ivory silk.

Eléonore's fingers slip around to rest lightly, delicately, in the small of Herian's back as she speaks, every word a caress of lips against such sot, sweet smelling skin. "A long soak in a not bath."

And oh, can she not see it? The steam rising from the copper tub- lean limbs glistening with fragrant oil just under the surface.

Her eyes widen a moment, just briefly, as the Comtesse speaks kisses against her skin. Aye, it is easy to lean, and she suspects it would be far too easy to relax and collapse into this, leaving soft flesh exposed to teeth and blades. Her hand closest to Eléonore trails up her arm, until Herian's fingers light curl around the back of her neck, a loose hold to encourage rather than keep the caresses close.

"That sounds a promising solution," she replies, just half a moment too slow for her to be entirely focused.

Probably she has wandered too much off course again. "A fine enough means to wash troubles away, for a while."

[ CLOSED ] WAR TABLE: INVESTIGATE COMTESSE DE VELONEY

comtesse in the library

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CW: she touch the titty

We're bad people

Terrible

The worst also do you need to CW for lusty thoughts

maybe, possibly, probably

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CW: She touch the titty AGAIN

are we just going to settle on a vaguely low key nsfw

yes, yes we are

laughs for ten years (and hover for translation)

as;ldkfjlaksjdf

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