Bellamy wears his mask uneasily, pushes it askew more often than not to scratch at his hairline or his cheek, rub at his nose with a faint scowl. The mask is a simple design, without embellishments, but he still doesn't like it.

He is, admittedly, more comfortable among the servants than he is the Orlesian nobility, which is why he has opted to find his food down here instead of among the glittering finery found elsewhere at Halamshiral. His eagerness to extract himself from the press of people isn't really an eagerness to get back to the work of patrolling, though of course he prefers duty to idleness, if only because duty gives him something useful to do. If given the choice, he would like to go home, back to camp at Skyhold instead of the camp outside Halamshiral--but duty has put him here, with a bundle of bread and cheese to take with him outside.

One of the maids has attached herself to him, and hangs off his arm as he ducks around the dice game. Either Bellamy doesn't have the heart or the room to detatch her; either way he's putting up with her presence for now. There's a door in sight, but before he can get to it, a giddy servant boy snatches his mask off his face and presses a glittery one into his hand instead. Dark blue, feathered, bejeweled, absolutely not his style.

"Hey--" Short, sharp, Bellamy shrugs off the girl at last and tries to pursue the thief. The boy wriggles past a kissing couple and disappears from sight, leaving Bellamy holding the fancier mask, which is probably stolen. Amid the pressing crowd in the narrow hallway, Bellamy takes the time to frown down at the offending object.

Great.

The gardens need patrolling. This is far more Bellamy's scene, even if patrol carries with it an extra obligation at Halamshiral. The more conversations that are overheard, the greater chances the Inquisition has at learning some extra tidbit of information. Eavesdropping is lazy spying, but if it gets results, who cares.

Bellamy mostly walks his beat around the perimeter of the gardens, obviously foreign in both dress and carriage. His mask is in his hand, in favor of the cool night air, a refreshing change from the raucous activity inside the palace. Occasionally he frowns down at the mask, personally offended by its presence--incongruously fancy in contrast with his simple armor and clothing. Way too many feathers.

Occasionally, too, he stops to scan the gardens, surreptitiously listening in on quiet murmured conversations as he does his best to imitate the topiary stood around him.