faderifting: (Default)
Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] faderift2017-11-19 11:21 pm

A SEA OF DEATH

WHO: Anyone/Everyone
WHAT: A trip to sunny Nevarra
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: Nevarra City
NOTES: Undead cw. OOC post. We highly encourage using the OOC post for plotting and especially for coordinating strategy among characters participating in Part III.



Following the successful defense of Perendale, the Nevarran crown has extended an invitation to the Inquisition to send representatives to Nevarra City to enjoy its hospitality and gratitude. Most signs point toward an uneventful, perhaps even pleasant, stay, one that could foster a closer relationship between the Inquisition and the Northeast's premier military power. Other signs, however, point toward trouble. The Inquisition has previously addressed early Venatori attempts to influence the king, but reports from agents embedded in Nevarra City indicate that these attempts have resumed. While no immediate danger is expected, everyone will be advised to be on their guard during the visit and keep an eye out for potential enemy activity.

I. TRAVEL & TAVERN

The swiftest route to Nevarra City is to first travel by sea to Cumberland, an uneventful voyage followed by half a day to rest and eat before heading up the Imperial Highway toward the capital. It isn't a large group, consisting only of staff from Kirkwall's outpost who volunteered or were ordered to make the journey, so once on land they're able to move swiftly with horses and carts and spend only one night sleeping aside the road in tents. If there are bandits along the highway, the sight of a uniformed, armed, and relatively organized force on the horizon makes them disappear long before they're reached, and the Inquisition is troubled by nothing but bad weather along the way. The paved highway makes for quick travel despite the rain, except for those who are tasked with detouring off the main road to collect a new party of rifters.

Still, the Inquisition reaches the Nevarra City well after nightfall on the second day, with no time to explore before heading straight to the tavern and inn where they'll be residing during the visit. The Crooked Bone is a large establishment near the center of the city and built for crowds, though it is clearly unprepared for quite this large a number of overnight guests, and the staff may be heard debating the wisdom of taking such a contract, having to cancel and refuse other guests to fit the whole Inquisition contingent, but apparently making a pretty penny and earning favor with some unnamed royal courtier in exchange. Even though the Inquisition has been granted exclusive use of the inn for its stay, it fills up the available rooms without anyone, no matter how high-ranking, permitted a room of their own.

But it isn't an altogether uncomfortable arrangement, and definitely preferable to sleeping in tents. There's hot food downstairs at nearly any hour, not to mention ale and wine, served at long tables in a large room with space at the center for dancing—when there's music, which there won't be now unless someone among the Inquisition wishes to provide it—and a cheery sort of atmosphere lingers despite the decor, which tends toward dark wood and skeleton motifs. It's warmed by the proliferation of lanterns of all shapes and sizes, and the fire burning merrily in every grate, which combined with the full house lends the place a surprisingly cozy feel. Plus, the Inquisition's takeover of the inn means it can maintain its own security and thus genuinely relax indoors, something that won't be so true upon venturing out into the city.

II. NEVARRA CITY

Nevarra's capital city sits on the banks of the Minanter, where the river winds down through the hills that mark the border between Nevarra and its rival Orlais. The city is tucked into a high valley, surrounded by sharp cliffs and studded with rocky spires. The few tributaries of the Minanter that once flowed through have been rerouted into a central channel that tumbles down a fake falls into a large reflecting pool in the city's main park, feeding a fountain in the shape of a trio of water-spewing dragons. The City is renowned for its art and culture, grand buildings and meticulously manicured landscaping, unusually clean cobbled streets and soaring halls carved with intricate adornment. Though no longer as large or as busy as Cumberland, it is a wealthy city, and the immaculately dressed majority will not hesitate to stare at the Inquisition interlopers in their midst. They are frank about their curiosity and also about their suspicions: Nevarra has no love for Orlais, and the Inquisition has far more close ties to the southern Empire than anyone here is comfortable with.

Originally a Tevinter stronghold, the oldest parts of the city are distinctly Imperial in style, all polished, seamless black marble, like the columns that line the boulevard leading from the heart of the city up to the Castrum Draconis, where King Markus holds court. The way to the royal fortress is lined with statues, the finest examples of the hundreds of figures that exist throughout the city, likenesses of every hero and dragon-slayer, kings and generals. At this time of year, each noble family honors its famous ancestors with processions, marching through the city to drape their family's statues in the house colors.

These parades take many forms, from the loud and gaudy to the solemn and torchlit, attended by thousands or just a handful. The richest houses hire troupes of actors to man the streets beside the statues of their predecessors, costumed and acting out the most famous triumphs of their subject's life. This year, as the king's health declines, the competing efforts of the Pentaghasts and Van Markhams and their respective supporters take on a new urgency. Every theater in Nevarra has been emptied and some further afield too, to fill the long, black marble boulevard before the castle with players staging elaborate recreations of dragon hunts and historic battles. Accusations of sabotage, petty turf wars, or players making impromptu cameos in their rivals' shows raise tempers ever higher and the unlucky or unwary may be caught in the midst of a street brawl as tensions threaten to spill over.

The situation in the court itself is no less fraught, though the simmering anxiety is more successfully kept behind closed doors. The King is old, and that he is failing is no longer a secret. His mind has not gone, but his strength has, and he is only capable of brief spates of sharp attention before the effort exhausts his resources and he begins to drift or doze. He is constantly attended by a rotating trio of Mortalitasi, his most trusted companions. He holds court for roughly an hour a day, perhaps two if he is feeling especially hale, and courtiers are in constant competition to be among the few blessed with the king's personal attention. All other business is handled by a handful of advisors, most of long standing. While the Inquisition's representatives are welcomed, and official gratitude expressed for the assistance at Perendale, they may find the reception rather cool overall. The nobility is particularly wary, of Orlesian influence, foreign or Chantry factions meddling in the succession, of the potential threat to Nevarra if the sleeping dragon of the Imperium is poked too hard. It will take careful and strategic mingling indeed to begin to truly win anyone here over.

III. THE NECROPOLIS

Toward the end of the Inquisition's stay, a rare invitation will be extended to its members: an opportunity to tour the Grand Necropolis outside of Nevarra City, proffered out of awareness that its customs are seen as barbaric to outsiders and in hopes that a better understanding of Nevarra's customs will facilitate a better working relationship. The Inquisition will not require any particular person to attend the tour. It is a delicate subject, and one that may rightly make many people squeamish or afraid. But it would be rude not to send representatives, so those who are willing and curious enough to agree will be sent to meet Tivadar Nancollas, one of the Mortalitasi, at the entrance.

Within the walls, the Necropolis is nearly large enough to be a city of its own, were any of its population alive. It is divided into a warren of countless crypts, wound through with passageways. Those maintained by Nevarra's ancient families are enormous and ornate, paths as wide as real streets leading through a maze of oversized statuary and gilded rooms fit for living nobility. Others are smaller and simpler. Some belong to families that have since died out entirely and have fallen into disrepair, though the Mortalitasi see still to the remains within. There are vast public crypts as well, where the inexpertly mummified bodies of Nevarra's poor and nameless are housed en masse if delivered to the Necropolis from outlying communities. The one constant is the smell: the pervasive spicy-sweet aroma of the incense burned in censers throughout the Necropolis, heavy enough to cling to clothes and hair for hours afterwards, and give headaches to those unused to the scent.

As the group passes each crypt, Tivadar names its owner and perhaps some of the better-known figures residing within. The Pentaghast crypt is particularly enormous, and he guides the group inside, past the crowd of still and staring dead, for a brief glimpse at King Caspar still and silent on his throne, crown atop the wispy remains of his hair, finery conspicuously new yet crafted in the style of ages past, the blade of the sword laid across his lap still razor-sharp.

In contrast to the enraged corpses that may have climbed out of bogs or emerged from caves to attack Inquisition agents in their past travels, these possessed corpses are remarkably sedate. They do move: they may blink or turn their heads to watch someone pass, eyes (or eye sockets, depending on the age and wealth of the deceased) glowing with the presence of something otherworldly. But they seem content with watching, until—

(There's always an until.)

—deep in center of the Necropolis, where some of the oldest crypts are falling into ruin and even the Mortalitasi's careful work can't keep all the skin on the corpses' bones, Tivadar disappears—magic, perhaps, or a trick door, or some combination of the two—and the sealed door to a nearby crypt creaks open.

The corpses that lurch out of it are not sedate. They're rabid and grasping, red-eyed, and ready to claw and bite and pursue the Inquisition through the Necropolis' streets. These first enraged mummies count among the poor and poorly kept—they're numerous, but unarmed, brittle. As they push the Inquisition back through the streets, however, their presence seems to awaken the mummies that had previously sat or stood calmly elsewhere. Some of them retreat deeper into their crypts as if frightened. Others do not retreat, but join the swarm in attack. And the further the fighting progresses toward the doors, with the red-eyed corpses stirring each crypt they pass too close to to action, the better preserved and better armed the dead become, until they are wielding swords with names and clad in the dragon-scale armor of the royal houses themselves.
universal_charm: (Default)

[personal profile] universal_charm 2017-12-01 05:03 am (UTC)(link)

"They can't know if they are or not, if no one is able to complain," Kirk reasoned out, but Anders was right. Just because it weirded him out, didn't mean that he should completely dismiss it or look down his nose at it. He just wasn't sure he could say it was a good thing or a bad thing without understanding if what was inside the bodies, or the bodies themselves, were suffering.

"Why did I come down here again?" he asked, half to himself and half to Anders.

tar_minyatur: (far seeing)

[personal profile] tar_minyatur 2017-12-01 05:07 am (UTC)(link)
"Do you need a hand getting up the stairs?" He offers low enough to keep it private, before raising his voice again with a laugh.

"Drinking contests do tend to be rather spontaneous, I've found. But you've quite redeemed yourself on this occasion, I think!"
circleprodigy: (pensive)

[personal profile] circleprodigy 2017-12-01 05:29 am (UTC)(link)
"It must have been a weighty decision, one not chosen lightly if it cannot be revoked. I don't know that I would have dared as you did." So many names and terms; Inessa prides herself on her memory, but even she doesn't find it easy to keep up. But it's all interesting, and Elros doesn't seem to offer it with the condescending attitude that she fears from other elves. Even the Dalish can be like that, and the Arda elves...well, she suspects it's even more true in their case.

Her eyebrows raise a little, finding some alarm in what's said. "How are they not well, or is that too personal a question to ask? Is it something I will have to take into account when meeting them?" It's not usually in her to pry, but he brought it up, and she would rather know what to expect, if he's in a sharing mood.

She pauses, thoughtful. It's difficult to sum up life in the Circle without a lot of context, but she can try. "I have told you of the difficult lives in the alienage, the isolation and deprivation. Imagine going from that to a place where you had regular meals, warm clothes, an education. Many others cannot say the same and I am well aware, but for myself, I thrived in the Circle. Had they not fallen, I would have attained the rank of Enchanter by now. Sometimes I think about what might have been...but I also would not have been free to travel the world as I have with the Wardens. Nor would I have my mabari companion. There are trade-offs to both paths.

Within the Circles, there were different fraternities. Loyalists advocated loyalty and obedience to the Chantry. Libertarians were those who wanted to break free from the Chantry. Isolationists were a small group that advocated withdrawing to remote territories in order to avoid conflicts with the general populace. Lucrosians prioritized the accumulation of wealth, with the gaining of political influence a close second. Aequitarians advocated temperance, preferring to focus on a code of ethics. I had not been a formal member since I lacked sufficient rank, but I had Aequitarian leanings. I still do."
circleprodigy: (more arm-crossing)

[personal profile] circleprodigy 2017-12-01 05:30 am (UTC)(link)
"Ah, but we do." Inessa gestures to Garahel, who's at the moment is being a big muscular wall against the press of the crowd, but looks over at mention of 'mabari'. "Garahel can make an attempt, but if it turns uglier, I don't want to put him in the line of fire. Unless you mean to draw attention from a distance?"
faithlikeaseed: (blind - chatter)

[personal profile] faithlikeaseed 2017-12-01 05:30 am (UTC)(link)
And a dweeb attracts a dweeb, however far from home.

Myr catches on the unfamiliar word, lifting his head and turning his face toward Klaus in evident curiosity. "You're a rifter, then?" ...That's right, hadn't he heard this fellow's voice over the crystals at one point? "And what's a Totentanz?"
tar_minyatur: (tar minyatur)

[personal profile] tar_minyatur 2017-12-01 06:21 am (UTC)(link)
"Elrond says the same." Elros shrugs wryly.

"But I'm not one for the twilight, for looking back. I've always wanted the next great adventure, and what is greater than being able to escape the world entire and go beyond? I've never feared death - but death as the Eldar know it is to sleep in the Halls until you are healed enough to return to life. Not me! I don't want to be trapped in amber. I want to live, and when death comes for me, I want to go out and see what's on the other side."

He frowns, but it is thoughtful, not discouraging. "It's hard to explain, but you'd know what I meant if you met them and took time to get to know them. They're both masters at pretending to be fine, so most never notice. But... Maglor, especially... the idiot is damn close to Fading, I'm pretty sure. If you look at him in sunlight, I suspect he'd look just a little insubstantial around the edges. But it's in the eyes, for both of them. They're not terribly sane, any more. But still... the main driving factor for their madness is not here. And Fingon is here - he's good for Maedhros. Hopefully, it will be enough."

He nods, following along with her description.

"What were the Chantry?"
hallabackdir: (Pensive)

I. Tavern - OTA

[personal profile] hallabackdir 2017-12-01 06:22 am (UTC)(link)
It appeared that the darker, lonelier corners of the tavern had been spoken for, much to Haldir’s disappointment. But, he found a table that seemed quiet and sat. Ideally, he would have just snuck in under his cloak, none the wiser. But, he’d given it to Lady Galadriel after her injury, and had refused to take it back.

He was more than a little uncomfortable in this setting, but the alternative was wandering around the packed city, which happened to be another setting that made him even more uncomfortable. So, here he was, inside the tavern.

A woman approached him, asked him what he’d like to eat, and set down a flagon of ale. He ordered the second option she gave, and hoped for the best. The new concept of eating out of necessity took some getting used to. He drank the flagon while waiting on the food. It was some sort of goopy meat and vegetables inside a thick pie crust. He ate a few bites, and drank a little more.

After a few more flagons and half a pie, Haldir felt that he didn’t much mind the tavern now. The din of the small space faded slightly, and then lapped at his ears like waves. He felt warm finally, and his fingers tingled as he hummed to himself.
exequy: (55)

[personal profile] exequy 2017-12-01 06:24 am (UTC)(link)
[ Both of those things are probably, almost definitely, true. Kostos glares at her anyway. He glares for several seconds, in fact, while his brain sludges through and discards three ineffectual arguments and a blurry fantasy of reaching out and smacking the bottom of her mug so the liquor pours down her face. ]

It wasn’t yours, [ he settles on, and if he’s only half-coherent, that’s frequently his average when sober, too. ] It’s ours. All of ours. The next time you decide to have a temper tantrum, maybe you should—

[ He has no idea what she should do. He pulls his ale closer to his chest but doesn’t drink it. ]

—you shouldn’t.
misdirection_hex: (concentrating)

[personal profile] misdirection_hex 2017-12-01 06:58 am (UTC)(link)
The problem with entropy mages isn't so much that there's no need for more than one in a fight--it's just that even here, even in the biggest and grandest necropolis in the world, death is not so quickly-renewed a fuel as to negate the need for competition. It may be precisely the opposite of a finite resource, as far from it as anything can get until someone invents a healing aura that runs on taxes, but every corpse Inessa consumes is one fewer shielding Vandelin.

But self-preservation has never been Van's strong suit in any sense. He grins bright and wicked at his cousin's approval, and watches Inessa's meteor have precisely the desired effect and then some. The victory is short-lived, but just for a few moments, there are fireworks.

His own primal skill leaves something to be desired here, even after months of fighting at Travis' side and watching his every move, but when the stunned and swaying corpses are still covered in burning oil, it doesn't take a great deal of power or finesse to keep blasting them apart with fireballs. It's the only fire spell he knows, too, but there's no need to fix that if it ain't broken.

The ground still smolders with flaming grease, blocking their way when it should be clear. Vandelin aims his staff as if to part the slick on the floor, freezing it over instead with icy wind that takes the flames along with it. Better to slip and fall on ice than boiling oil, and better still not to slip at all. "Come on!"
Edited 2017-12-01 07:59 (UTC)
laurenande: (pic#10101569)

[personal profile] laurenande 2017-12-01 07:17 am (UTC)(link)
"I do not know; none have ever worn that ring but I, and the others have changed between precious few hands. If my will has settled into it, it will tolerate no taint, but it is not the unclean who concern me now," Galadriel explained as she began removing what remained of her dress. The bandages around her midsection are soaked through in places, despite their changing and how the Elessar had restored her. She will not scar, not as long as that brooch remains with her, but it is no wonder where her body's strength has gone.

"I am uncertain if reclaiming it will be simple, even if they are fools." She unwinds the dressing around her waist and the remains of her injury gape across her back and side. The terror had cut deep furrows into her flesh--now they are shallow as a scrape, but still they are raw and the worst of them, below her ribs, still weep as she moves. She spares him the difficulty of them and presses the old bandages to her side with a grimace as she presents her back to him.

"We cannot use their power as freely as they can and Nenya is not a tool, it is a forge. If one of their mages finds it, it may consume them, or they will use it to do great harm before they know what they hold."

She could not abide Nenya becoming common knowledge, being linked to a disaster, being feared and--worse still--hidden away in some vault. It was not theirs to defend, not theirs to use, it was hers--her own, a treasure most precious. She draws a tight breath and tries to calm her panic and anger.

"It will be found," she agrees, ultimately, and stares down at the Elessar on the bed beside her, still pinned to her gown and glittering up at her.
doneisdone: (scipio)

[personal profile] doneisdone 2017-12-01 07:31 am (UTC)(link)
She rolls her eyes and tries not to smile. "If you do I'll put you out of your misery," Teren muses, "...and mine too, for that matter." If Alistair turns Orlesian, all the gods are dead and the void has come to claim all things good.
doneisdone: (confused)

[personal profile] doneisdone 2017-12-01 07:40 am (UTC)(link)
Following Galatea with her eyes as the girl stands, Teren remains as she is, still and calculating. "Whatever for," she asks, a false pleasantness coating her suspicion.
doneisdone: (scipio)

[personal profile] doneisdone 2017-12-01 07:47 am (UTC)(link)
"One would hope," Teren snorts, but Orlais is persistent. If greater Nevarra ever learned a lesson from past experience, no one shows it." Another stoke of the fire, this one a bit more violent. But as quickly as Teren's temper flared, if that is what just happened, it calms again.
"I've long been tired of their games," she mutters, "why else would I be in the middle of the woods with this lot of feckless idiots." She nods toward the tents of the sleeping Wardens, and even in the darkness is unable to conceal the subtle glint of affection in her glance.
Edited 2017-12-01 07:48 (UTC)
elegiaque: (Default)

gwenaëlle vauquelin

[personal profile] elegiaque 2017-12-01 07:48 am (UTC)(link)
elegiaque: (169)

closed; galadriel, haldir. (thranduil?)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2017-12-01 07:58 am (UTC)(link)
It isn't exactly indiscreet, coming to find Thranduil's room - Coupe's, as well, because the Maker is cold and dead inside and hates her, she can only assume - when it isn't as if there's some secret of their having a connection. He lived in her home, still keeps a room there; she visits his offices in the Gallows. He gifted her with a dog. It is perfectly usual that she should seek out his company, and if she happens to be in a particularly good mood-

well, the sight of Galadriel crumpled to nothing on his bed, in what certainly look like his clothes, bloody fabric she presumes to have been what they replaced beside her, that will put paid to it.

Gwenaëlle stands in the doorway for a few moments, bewildered. Galadriel's been gone for months. She's not been paying nearly enough attention to rifters, apparently. What the fuck is going on.

After a moment, she leaves.

-and returns, an armful of fabric and her sewing basket under her arm. It's only fair, she reasons, because there are a few items of Galadriel's clothes repurposed in her own wardrobe of necessity. She's repaying the favor the elven woman wasn't aware she'd done her, that's all. Presumably, at some point, some of this will begin to make sense, but until then she occupies one of the chairs allotted to this shared room and squints an estimate of Galadriel's measurements. It'll be easier when she wakes up, but taking apart the dress in the first place

(thank the Maker for Orlesian fashion, else so little a thing as she is would never have enough fabric to repurpose for so tall a one as Galadriel)

will take a bit of time, anyway.
justice_is_blond: (A dark joy)

[personal profile] justice_is_blond 2017-12-01 07:59 am (UTC)(link)
Anders chuckles.

"Because you could? I came to see if I could learn anything of the magic used here. Not for this purpose, but because there's no telling what might have practical applications elsewhere. Or perhaps you were simply curious. Or perhaps you doubted what stories you've heard? Many Thedosian authors have habits of... exaggerating."

He loves you, Varric, but come on. "Or possibly you were bored. The tavern's nice, but it's a tavern, and it's not the Hanged Man or the Pearl. Not to say that the Pearl is still as good as it was; I'm quite certain it's not."
laurenande: (pic#9667156)

[personal profile] laurenande 2017-12-01 08:08 am (UTC)(link)
For as long as there has been a dawn, Galadriel has always been a creature in tune with it; she walks with it and it resides, in part, within her. That she does not awaken until well past noon, halfway to dusk, is a testament to how thoroughly she had exhausted herself. When her eyes open, her vision drifts before her for a moment, the world blurry and indistinct until it rights itself. She doesn't lift her head at the sight of someone in the room, not until she is fully roused and her vision cleared.

A woman sits across from her and Galadriel recognizes her, though she cannot name her just yet. (Truly, she would have trouble placing her own name after the last few days.) Her brow dips and, with the stiffness of recent injury, she pushes herself to sitting. Thranduil's clothes fall awkwardly on her and she is nearly tangled in the mess of his robes and trousers, but she finds the way.

"What are you doing?" she asks, sounding not at all like the refined elf she is; her voice is a harsh rumble just this side of a croak. It is the voice of someone who is terribly hung-over and, frankly, she nearly looks the part.
elegiaque: (140)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2017-12-01 08:14 am (UTC)(link)
Gwenaëlle doesn't actually look up from what she's doing - it's somewhat precise work, trying not to damage anything she's taking apart in order to creatively put back together, gold-rimmed spectacles resting on the end of her nose to bring detail into focus - but answers, “Sewing,” which seems somewhat obvious.

Of all the things currently happening, she is of the opinion it actually makes some sense.

“You can't wear that out,” she says, squinting down at her hands, “you only look like you're attempting a bad Thranduil costume. I think there's enough skirt in this to become a dress that won't fit you indecently, but it'll be easier to tell if you can stand.”

The question is implied. Galadriel looks appalling; Gwenaëlle is not making any assumptions about what she can or cannot do.
elegiaque: (189)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2017-12-01 08:23 am (UTC)(link)
Is she?

Gwenaëlle straightens her spectacles, then on second thought removes them, attaching them back to the chain at her hip that lets them disappear between the thick folds of her gown. If they manage to be ruined from there, she'll have larger problems to contend with. Her notes are still clutched, crumpled, in one hand; she does not appear, upon first glance, to be bleeding from anywhere. Probably she'll find bruises, later, but the only injuries visible on her person are the old burn scars from the rage demon that slash up into her decolletage.

“Yes,” she decides. A good enough answer that will have to do for now. “Are you Fingon?”

'Unharmed', but possibly 'slightly shocky' if she can take the time - swaying very slightly where she stands - to inquire after an introduction.
kecharitomene: (052)

[personal profile] kecharitomene 2017-12-01 08:26 am (UTC)(link)
“So many strangers,” she says, in lilting lament - the brightness of her eyes, slightly wild, never dims. “I'd stay near a friend, if I can- what a good surprise to find her here! I heard her name.”

Can't wait to see her again.
laurenande: (pic#9662098)

[personal profile] laurenande 2017-12-01 08:28 am (UTC)(link)
In truth, Galadriel was uncertain of that, herself. Unfortunately the only way to know was to attempt it and so she did. With a hand at her side, bracing it gently, Galadriel stood as she always did. The result was a sharp hiss and the quendi curling sharply to the side as she dug her hand into the pain there. Her feet stayed beneath her, but it took her some time to regain any semblance of composure.

When she drew herself to standing, well, she was very tall, even by the standards of the Eldar.

She shuffled across the room toward the woman in the chair--Gwen, she thought? No, it was longer. Her memory was rarely so poor and the pounding in her head did her few favors--and the sunlight spilling through the window highlighted a strangeness in her skin that caught Galadriel's full attention.

She was bruised, where the mark cut across her hand and where the Elessar had dug into her palm. It was strange, seeing blue in her skin.

"It is a lovely color; it seems these lands wish me to dress more colorfully so perhaps it is best I acquiesce."
ungovernable: (050)

[personal profile] ungovernable 2017-12-01 08:32 am (UTC)(link)
“Too long.”

Perhaps precisely long enough - but that is a broader matter than simply the last time these two women spoke. Benevenuta casts a glance out from their position to study the crowds, her smile small but...well, much as it ever is. She has the look of a woman with a secret - many secrets - and the inclination to perhaps tell one or two.

Now and then.

“Nevarra suits you, if I might be so bold. You're with the Inquisition's delegation, I assume?”
elegiaque: (091)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2017-12-01 08:47 am (UTC)(link)
“If it makes you feel better,” a little dryly, “it's downright conservative by Orlesian standards.” In colour, at least. The bodice is a little racier than anything she'd imagine seeing Galadriel in, but then, they are very different women.

On her feet, she doesn't look much better - and Gwenaëlle does do her the courtesy of looking up and taking her in, then, and not only so she can get a better notion of what she needs to sew. She puts the partially deconstructed gown aside to stand, herself; a quick and dirty bit of measurement, imprecise, she can be generous in her cut and drape and it can always be refined, later.

Galadriel doesn't look as if she should be wearing anything particularly constricting, regardless.

“I don't know if you remember me. Lady Gwenaëlle Vauquelin.”
laurenande: (1)

[personal profile] laurenande 2017-12-01 09:00 am (UTC)(link)
"Ah, that is right, my grasp of the past and, admittedly, the present is...strained, at the moment," Galadriel admitted, as politely as she was able. "You have my apologies, Gwenaëlle."

She looked over the dress and the pieces she had already undone as the shorter woman rose to gauge her height. She knew not how human women were wont to dress, in Thedas or in Arda, but it did not seem terribly unlike what she favored. The neckline was definitely a departure, but not so dramatic that it was less decent than her previous garments.

"I recall we spoke on occasion, of varied things, and that you had an obedient dog. Why are you here?"

There were multiple beds in this room. It was possible one was hers, though she'd been passing certain she'd taken Thranduil's the night before.

"Surely I did not claim your bed?"
elegiaque: (134)

[personal profile] elegiaque 2017-12-01 09:08 am (UTC)(link)
In a manner of speaking.

-is absolutely not what comes out of her mouth, but there is a fleeting moment where something interesting happens to her expression and she looks fixedly past Galadriel's shoulder.

“I was looking for Thranduil,” she says, instead of - whatever that was - and shrugs, elegant, the embroidery in her skirts that flirts with being visible when she moves mirroring his favoured style in ways that many, probably, will overlook. “I found you. He gave me some things of yours, months ago now - more of his son's, honestly - when I needed something to alter for...”

Her nose wrinkles. The less said about what her altered trousers are for, the better.

“It doesn't matter. You obviously haven't got any luggage and you look a fright, it's a fair trade. Your clothes then for mine now.”

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