[OPEN] "At last, the Light shall shine..."

[lifeofendurance]

WHO: Aleron Darton and OPEN
WHAT: Catchall post for March
WHEN: Present time: March/Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold: library, tavern, Camp Shady, out and about
NOTES: If prompts provided don't work for you, we can whip up something that does.

[Aleron's a man of routine and constancy, even when his life is on the brink of being turned upside down. Every morning and evening he's in the chapel attending to daily devotions. Each afternoon, he saddles his horse and rides over the Warden camp to spend time with Bethany. A familiar face in the area now if ever there were one. In the evening, he brings a book and sometimes some correspondence to read at Herald's Rest while slowly drinking one, and only one, ale or glass of wine.

Except there's something of a hiccup or two causing a logjam to his daily schedule. Instead of disposing of his letters from his family... he's reading them. And responding to them, even! Which means even more of his time is spent in the Library attending to his correspondence. This leads to less time spent in pleasure reading or in matters of research. If this is not strange enough, his e'er unflappable expression gives way to sighs, rubbing his eyes, and leaning back in his chair to issue some silent plea to the Maker.

Afternoons are no longer spent in the training yard either. Rather, he seems quite intent on seeking out friends to make inquiries with them about wedding attendance. Which perhaps explains the flurry of mail coupled with extreme exasperation. What does it even matter if the groom's clothes are green or blue anyway? And that long-suffering sigh? Probably tied to the man having just ordered a second drink for the third night in a row at the tavern.]

Comments

[lifeofendurance]

Bribe the Viscount? Why would he require a bribe?

[Whose head does he need to hit?]

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Well darling, I don't know if I told you this ...

[And here her smile is mischievous, because he knows very well who she is, where she came from.]

But you are marrying into a rather infamous Kirkwall clan. The sentence 'Hawke in Kirkwall' probably has poor Bran tearing out his rather lovely red hair.

[Her expression became more serious.]

For all the good my sister did ... well. She is still the one who let Anders live. I am uncertain of my welcome home.

[lifeofendurance]

Nonsense. You will be my wife and you will be with me.

[Has Bethany ever truly seen Aleron with his heckles up? Because she's getting a fair hint of it now.

And for the first time ever in his life, he leverages his family.]

Because if you are prevented, Viscount Bran will find himself no longer receiving his shipments of the rose-scented milk soaps from Endridge.

[Look, he recognizes the name. Ravonild has absolutely no head for running the estate and since her husband died, Aleron's been in close contact with the steward keeping tabs on the business particulars of the family's holdings. Behind her back. But details.]

[sunshinethroughgrey]

[Her entire expression softened at that, and she had to admit that her future husband? With his hackles up? Was very ... attractive.

Of course, that last bit just made her blink, then laugh.]

You're joking! [A moment.] Wait, you're not joking? He really gets rose-scented milk soaps?

[lifeofendurance]

[This is Aleron. Does he ever joke? Well, does it ever joke and it actually comes off well and humorous? Not really.]

I'm quite serious. There is a limited supply of the luxury soaps that the estate can produce in a year and the buyers are kept informed of the current supply available.

[There we have it. The man was always meant for estate management and never for something akin to a soldier's life.]

Most of our sales are to select noble buyers and certain wealthy merchants in Antiva. Demand is high and they always command a premium price. [A small shrug.] The income keeps Ravonild in her ridiculous supply of dresses, though I doubt she realizes it.

[sunshinethroughgrey]

[He doesn't usually ... but Bethany supposes there is a first time for everything.

Except not now, because this really is about rose-scented milk soaps. She blinks at him for a moment, because it is a marvel he can remember All That from those few letters he gets from his sister's stewards.

After a moment, one corner of her mouth lifted, then the other, and she let out a laugh.]

Imagine! The fate of the world rests on fine smelling soaps. This sounds like something Varric would write.