[ CLOSED ]

[aenseidhe]

WHO: Iorveth, Thranduil and Gwen
WHAT: Arguing, naked people
WHEN: Directly after this.
WHERE: The Gallows, Thranduil's office
NOTES: Bad words and life choices, also Gwen's boobs.

[ Thankfully, no Templars get in Iorveth's face on the way to Thranduil's office, and he makes it to the door with no blood on his hands. However, he's no less enraged, paranoid, and ready to bolt from this shithole of a city, possibly without a left hand, thanks, Casimir.

Or possibly with all the left hands of all the Rifters. He really shouldn't have mentioned that part.

Shoving the door open, Iorveth marches in looking entirely like the officer that carved vengeance out of men's bodies, claimed trophies from human officers, and burned men alive. There hasn't yet really been cause for him to get so up in arms, until another set of foreign negotiations made rules over his will. It compounds - the thoughts he'd had in wondering what the consequences to telling the Inquisition 'no' would be, how long the Inquisition's insignia will keep him from being cornered into an alienage as well, all the people standing still while things something disgusting occurs and calling it civility, or politics.

It makes his skin crawl. So here he is, because Thranduil called, and somehow he has the respect to obey that when very few else would win it, but today that's been pushed too. ]

What?

Comments

[rowancrowned]

[ it suits him, honestly, all that rage and the tension coiled under his skin like a clockwork ready to spring. thranduil has no chance to appreciate it, only looks him over for blood (hooray, none present) and points to the chair by his desk.

he is... less than elegant. a velvet sleeping robe over hammered satin trousers, so well-tailored, but his hair is unbound and all the rings are off his fingers but for the black whalebone band. ]

Sit, [ he says. ] I will return. You are remarkably efficient at what you do. Were that it were directed elsewhere.

[ and then he leaves for the hall, the first few words of his crystal message audible even through the closed office door. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ he doesn't sit.

instead, he crosses his arms and watches Thranduil flutter around in his robe, looking incredibly annoyed but still incredibly pretty. those things shouldn't be allowed to coincide. a brow cocks for what seems like a half-assed compliment or insult, whichever way it was meant to swing, and he still doesn't really understand why he's here, other than to let Thranduil have an easier time of damage control.

he is very lucky Iorveth likes him. ]

What does that even mean? [ but the elf king is already out the door and babbling into the crystal, pulling it shut behind him.

he is much less lucky that Iorveth has no scruples about snooping in the desks of people he likes.

Soon as the lock of the office door clicks, he's turning back to Thranduil's desk, shuffling through the papers and books and knick knacks set on it, digging through drawers and patting down the sides to look for hidden switches. There has to be more on this than just what was on the vague notice. Unfortunately, it isn't to be found on Thranduil's desk, or on any of his shelves, and there's no squeaky floorboards that might indicate secret hiding spots. ]

A d'yaebl aép arse, Thranduil. [ Iorveth hisses a not very nice collection of words when he comes up with nothing. Alright, he didn't want to have to go digging through Thranduil's room, but, looks like we're at that point. Pacing hurriedly over to the bedroom door, Iorveth tugs some lock picking tools free from one of his pouches and sets to it. The Gallows is really not terribly up to date on security. In moments, the lock clicks free, and Iorveth is stepping through. ]

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle isn't expecting anyone to walk through that door except her husband. this is, by and large, a fair thing to expect when the room is not on fire and coupe has no ready excuse to break out the axe—frustrated with him and with the situation, she has thrown the crystal aside, sweeping out of their bed in search of a robe and, and, and maker she doesn't even know what, a compelling argument that he will listen to—

so when the door opens, it is somewhat too late for thranduil's muffled voice from the crystal tangled in blankets, and she is near to full swing in continuing as if their conversation had no pause, )

There is no earthly fucking—

( the finger she is pointing at him with reflects the dull green of the anchor-shard embedded in that hand. the robe, soft and overlarge and quite probably thranduil's and not her own, covers little of her nude body and indeed functions more to artfully frame it, lithe and scarred and bruised at the hip in a way that leaves little to the imagination as to what explanation there might be for her presence. the mouth, and what a mouth, snaps shut.

that is not thranduil.

she closes the robe. elf. tall. eyepatch.

the split-second decision to brazen it out is as visible as her tits were a moment ago: )

You must be Iorveth.

[aenseidhe]

[ this is... not what he was looking for.

iorveth stands rigidly still in the doorway, hand still not having left the doorknob, single eye somewhat wide, brows lifted, but no real look of shame or awkwardness there. Just surprise. Naked girl in Thranduil's bedroom? He supposes the man probably still has a sex drive at whatever thousand of years he is, but somehow still not what he expected to find in here. Um. ]

On most days.

[ This isn't an elf. He's pretty sure she isn't an elf. Who knows? Shut up, Iorveth, that's not what you're here for. ]

This is more than I needed to know about his personal life. [ Iorveth frowns, stepping into the room instead, and starting to search around on dressers and table tops, as if this should be expected. His social graces aren't awesome. ] Have you seen any documents lying around? Relatively fresh ones?

[ Hey, Thranduil's... lover? paramour? wife?... want to help him snoop in your boyfriend's shit? ]

[elegiaque]

This is more than we would prefer anyone knew about our personal life, ( she says, knotting the robe closed at the waist and scowling, briefly, not at iorveth but at the crystal—thank you for that altogether far too late warning, thranduil, you are on so many hooks it's not even funny.

her arms fold. there are a few ways she could play this, and on another day in different circumstances, she might not choose, )

What exactly are you in here looking for?

( but she has a suspicion, and she knows thranduil to be fond of this elf in particular. maybe they're on the same page. and maybe that would be worth exploring, and further, that might go some ways toward wringing a promise of discretion out of him in exchange. )

[aenseidhe]

Consider it safe. I'm not one prone to gossip with the village house wives.

[ Spoken distracted, with the same wry humor he tends to carry in most of his words. There's not much telling when Thranduil will be back, and Iorveth would rather have what he needs and be gone before he makes it back. And promptly walks in on him snooping around with his half naked... whatever she is to him. Fellow rifter, at least, if the shard in her hand is enough to go by.

He pauses halfway through rummaging in a drawer, casting a considering look back to the girl. She seemed angry enough when the door opened and she thought her lover had returned. Welp, he's always been a terrible liar so why not. ]

Notes on negotiations made on my behalf by nuns and crusaders of a god I do not follow.

[ the chantry part is really a good piece of what pisses him off, but absolutely not the only one. ]

[elegiaque]

The fucking Chantry has its hands under its robes getting hard to the memory of when it had any relevance and power in these negotiations, ( comes out sharp, and that sounds altogether too intimately entangled with the realities of thedas to say rifter—no less angry. more, maybe, for it, the way that anger is a far more satisfying emotion to sink elbow-deep into than fear.

she fears for thranduil. and she's not stupid: one shard may be very like another. perhaps rifters who might pass among them would try to. perhaps all those who bear shards ought to be so bound. she doesn't know iorveth thinks her a rifter, now, but why shouldn't he?

to those who don't know her face, her name...there are more rifters bearing anchor-shards than thedosians. )

Which it does not. In the way that it once did. And if he weren't out here trying to prove a fucking point for the sake of his fucking pride, then he would see that there are other ways to slow this down that don't involve rolling up a damned sleeve—

( gwenaëlle counts backwards from ten in her head. don't yell all the things at iorveth you want to yell at thranduil, you'll run out of steam before you've even got to the good stuff. she flutters her hands at him away from the drawer, searching herself, though she's somewhat resigned to the fact he is much larger than she is and clearly indifferent to privacy, and it's entirely possible he will just start looking in a different cabinet.

(the longer he's in the room, the more it's apparent that it's shared—even if she isn't here on a permanent basis yet, enough of her time and belongings are here to leave a mark, to speak to intimacy and comforts.) )

Frankly, the only shocking part is that none of you were ever killed on sight when the arrivals began, violent strangers falling out of rifts alongside demons. They handled it clumsily. This is an attempt to regain some semblance of control—the appearance of it.

[aenseidhe]

[ that whole jumble of words about clergy jerking off at negotiation tables actually did just come out of this girl's mouth, this girl who seems to be living in this room with thranduil, or just loaning him a lot of her dresses and unmentionables. it's actually enough to have Iorveth let out an ungraceful snort of a laugh. ]

You say hard, but aren't Chantry clergy mainly women? [ mothers and divines and whatever whatever, he's not from here, okay, he doesn't know this shit. okay, but logistics of religious wanking aside - ] Who was it, then? Templars lubing up to plough the rest of us into submission? If they had to let their mages run free, they assumed shiny Rifters were the next best thing to subjugate?

[ it's be nice to know which group exactly is wanting his bodily fluids so bad they're trying to turn it into divine law. and, yes, when she flutters him away from one drawer, he absolutely goes to the next cabinet to continue digging. ]

Prove what point, that we're harmless? Would he like us to move all rifter quarters to the alienage while we're at it?

[ and let's not even start talking about his feelings on the alienage, because we will be 80% to a riot by the time Thranduil wanders himself back to find his nearly naked wife and new adopted extremist else cussing about dumb cunts. ]

[elegiaque]

Your lack of depth perception is no excuse for a lack of sight, ( drolly, keeping half her attention on exactly where he is and what he has his hands in while she's about it—ha, here it is, she gestures the papers under his nose for his attention, and to lead him away from what's probably just more of her smallclothes, all silken and lace and too many fastenings, the sort of things more ordinarily designed for mistresses than brides.

marriage doesn't have to be unromantic. it turns out. )

No, Thranduil can't be one moment castigating mages for their selfishness and then turn around and behave in precisely the same fucking fashion, that's what it is, and which could have been avoided as a problem entirely by taking their part in the first place, you know, but no—

( that gwenaëlle didn't lift a finger on their behalf either is a pretty bit of hypocrisy that she ignores, because it suits her to ignore it, like most things on which she's a hypocrite. she didn't act against them, either, and is less sure her husband can say the same. )

But it's more than that. Templars, mages, the Chantry—we're not just talking about that. Kirkwall isn't just Templars, mages, and the Chantry. Neither is the rest of Thedas. And rifters might as well be demons to most of Thedas, for all they know you. An independent military answerable to all and none, harboring literally every kind of criminal, and probably demons besides, this is about the Inquisition's credibility.

And if they weren't so fucking incompetent, they might have more, and have been strong enough not to need the concessions. The only bloody people in the world trying to do something about the end of it, and that's the best that can be managed. They kept that frigid cunt on the Orlesian throne and does she make herself useful, no.

( hashtag still mad celene's not dead. then, circling back, because it's important that her multilayered crude digs are properly appreciated: )

And all the women who'd have been relevant are dead, it's grasping bureaucrats now. ( men fill the least important roles in the chantry; she did not misspeak, merely means to insinuate everything left is the least of it. a charming young woman by any measure. )

[aenseidhe]

[ already we're familiar enough for cyclops jokes, and if it weren't so amusing how brazen this woman is, Iorveth might've pissed about it. But it's a good joke, and a good point, so instead there's just a short, sharp sound that's a near laugh.

Gwen is rattling off information near faster than Iorveth can take note of it, and while he might have originally thought what the absolute fuck brought this girl and Thranduil together, he's starting to see the appeal. She's honest, painfully so, with no shy bone in her about it. Perhaps he found something useful in the room after all.

It's the part about why Thranduil is making such a fuss, however, that had iorveth's eyes snapping back to her across the room. Which means he also spots her shaking the paper at him, Iorveth commenting as he paces over to read the page over her shoulder. ]

Selfish. Really? Over the phylacteries? [ he snorts, shaking his head before reaching out to turn the page she has over, inspecting the opposite side. ] Only one who's never been hunted would say as much.

[ conveniently, just then, Thranduil's bellowing voice from the hallway beyond his room filters through, with something about seven thousand years and king of elves. Iorveth pauses, long enough to glance up at Gwen pointedly, brow raised. ] Or royalty.

[ not cool, super elf, not cool. But that's neither here nor there, according to Gwen's telling of it. It's the Inquisition and their struggle to remain autonomous among bickering fools, unconcerned about the apocalypse creeping up on them. ]

Perhaps the mages had the right of it. Take the entire Inquisition on strike. Let the Lords and bureaucrates see how they fair again the demon horde on their own.

[ maybe that's cruel. Maybe he doesn't care. ] Worst case scenario, our enemy frees us of some annoyances, and we get a short vacation.

[elegiaque]

( gwenaëlle follows iorveth's gaze to the sound of thranduil losing his cool—marvelous, brilliant, that all surely bodes well. who is up here to overhear that? pity's sake. she glances back at iorveth when he raises his brow, taking a deep, steady breath and releasing it slowly. )

The mages, ( instead of commenting on billowy cloak king of yell, ) had a goal, a plan, and negotiators.

( her left hand, bearing the shard, clenches briefly on the pages clutched in it—she releases that, makes herself do it, doesn't think on the things she is acutely aware of, like that the fact of rifters are almost certainly why the issue of rift closures and inquisition membership has never been forced with her. it's precisely what makes all of this so pertinent—

rifters that come and go like shifting wind, useful but mistrusted. quick to assume, she's seen, and slower to understand. that will not serve if they mean to bargain; they will lose if they don't take the time to be wise about it, and in more than two years, gwenaëlle has seen little to make her optimistic about rifters acting in concert. some few are bright enough, driven enough, goal-oriented enough; not enough.

she must speak with araceli, she thinks. )

I wonder if there's a head-count of how many shard-bearers within the Inquisition are Thedosian, ( is not an unrelated thought. dangerously easy to undermine, if it's a high number. )

[aenseidhe]

[ negotiators. everyone keeps coming back to it, and while Iorveth knows that's the reasonable thing, that this world isn't so dissolved into vitriol and venom that it wouldn't be a joke, the urge to roll his eye at the thought of it still needs to be stifled down.]

And should we get negotiators, what minority left is there to pass the shackles onto next? [ Iorveth says flatly, ] Perhaps we should wrangle in some Dalish for it. Native heretics make excellent sacrifices.

[ That is a Joke, they are absolutely not scape-goating the dalish, let alone anyone else, and Iorveth doesn't honestly believe that was the sole intention in passing this on to the Rifters. Perhaps some didn't find much objection to it when it was proposed, though. But such is the way of things. People are gross. Sighing, Iorveth reaches to dig in one of the leather pouches at his hip, pulling out a small notebook as he starts to jot down some scribbles in a foreign language, glancing from the notes Gwen holds, and back to his writing, idly running commentary. ] In a hundred years, I've yet to see a diplomatic meeting of humans meant for negotiation resolved without at least one set of unfortunates ruined for it.

[ He'd been within that group of unfortunates several times. enough that everything about this situation makes his skin crawl and gives volume to the voice in the back of his mind saying run. ]

Inessa had mentioned the shards embedded in natives are often unstable. Sometimes fatal. [ It takes leverage away from Rifters if the Inquisition is able to make their own rifters, but if it were so reliable a thing, wouldn't it have already been tried often enough? A beat, and he watches her a moment, running back through the conversation thus far. ] Is that what you are?

[elegiaque]

The anchor-shards will kill us all, unchecked, ( is a very blunt assessment, ) that's why they fucking hurt. The fatality had hers embedded in her chest.

( the time delay on that was not what it would be, for the rest. it is what it is. and it's better than gwenaëlle taking breath to speak on the fucking dalish, because—

because she had the chance to do something monstrous and she knew better, even if blood screaming for retribution didn't want to. and she needs to remember she knew better. she is not exempt from all of this, from knowing better than to tear themselves apart from the inside out when the outside is plenty ready to take advantage of the chaos. she understands thranduil's reticence on these matters, but

but. iorveth isn't wrong about the limitations and risks of negotiating. nor is anyone else wrong that no matter what they do, negotiating is where they'll end up, and their position is stronger if they're smarter before they get there.

after a moment, )

Yes, that's what I am. It's rare, I think. Accidental—a fade rift derailed the carriage I was traveling in, there weren't a great many survivors. And I had a anchor-shard, at the end of it.

[aenseidhe]

The Fates must favor you alive.

[ Iorveth voices, after a time of silence, thinking on the odds of that happening just so. A rift at the exact moment a carriage passes, holding the exact woman of a rare few capable of holding a shard, and she ends up one of the few to live. He isn't so religious in the ways the Chantry followers, but there's a spirituality in Aen Seidhe culture, in all of them. The take away, otherwise, is that the Inquisition cannot make their own Rifters. He takes note of that too.

And once the two of them are done pouring over the notes Thranduil did not do a splendid job of hiding, all that's left is to wait, Gwen quietly fuming at the edge of the bed, Iorveth leaned against a dresser with his arms crossed, staring at a far well. Also fuming. You know what really makes times like these such a little less? ] Want to smoke?



[ about forty or so minutes later, they're still in the same room, Gwen still in Thranduil's robe, and Iorveth with his typical headscarf replaced with a silken, silver pillow case instead, half of it flopped back, oddly reminiscent of a certain elf lord's hair. his weapons have been discarded somewhere to the side, along with the heavy chainmail and leather armor worn over top of his typical garb.

Walking into the room, the first thing that hits the sense is the overwhelming scent of weed. Iorveth can be seen on the floor, flopped on a bunch of pillows, snickering like a school girl, with Gwen standing up, straight backed and imperial looking. ]

Do the twirl again! Do the twirl!

[rowancrowned]

[ it is a very good twirl, but that is beside the point. he is tired; he has spent the last hour and change arguing with fools and the eager and those in both categories who he feels will be able to handle further steps.

if they attempt to take blood from galadriel, there will be a massacre. if they hang it over the head of iorveth, there will be a massacre. if bronach is afraid, she will flee from kirkwall and die in some bower before allowing herself to be enslaved. they are his, all of them, and he will do what he must to keep them safe.

(you can take the king out of elvenking but what you have left over is still ancient and dangerous.)

he hears them before he sees them, sees gwenaëlle finish her spin with his circlet upon her head and makes sure the door to his office is closed and barred before he lingers in the doorway.

that is the smell of pipeweed.

somehow, this crisis seems far more manageable than the one he just left. ]

I was gone but an hour, [ he complains, ] and I return to you, and you up to-- this.

[ where is leviathan. where is hardie. why is this his life. ]

[aenseidhe]

[ iorveth, once gwen finishes her spot on twirl, is snickering like a boy much younger than a century, possibly with a snort-laugh in there somewhere, because they smoked a lot to deal with this bullshit day. there's mock applause and all.

but when Thranduil speaks up, its like being caught by dad with your hand in the liquor cabinet, and iorveth jumps some, before dissolving into another bought of laughter. hanging his head backwards over the pile of pillows he's made his throne, he offers a gift: ]

Only an hour, meaning there's still time to catch up.

[ the gift is the weed pipe. with pipeweed in it. just for you, booboo. ]

[elegiaque]

( leviathan, for reference, is clasped in one arm of gwenaëlle's, partly within the voluminous sleeve and so not immediately obvious until she turns and two sets of wide eyes fall on thranduil's arrival.

she tucks the robe conscientiously. possibly she has been obliged to do so several times already, that it's so thoughtless a gesture to tug it closed again. )

Hello, darling,

( blithely, )

Is anything on fire?

[rowancrowned]

[ he bends to pluck the pipe out of iorveth's fingers and take a drag. he is no wizard to blow smoke rings, but when he exhales after a hold, the smoke curls pleasingly nonetheless.

he offers it back to iorveth. ]

Not yet, my love, [ two can play at this game. at least kylo ren didn't also come up here and stumble upon gwen and gwen's breasts. only iorveth.

which is its own set of problems. he holds his hands out for leviathan, who is definitely having the time of his little nug life, but all good things must end. ]

What are your thoughts on revolution?

[aenseidhe]

[ A sharp grin of approval is flashed for Thranduil deciding to join their nonsense rather than scold them for it. white teeth bared and scarred lips curled, he somehow manages to still look dangerous despite being blazed out of his mind. ]

Commander Nugithan will be leading the charge on chicken-back. [ Iorveth helpfully answers for the critter that he probably spent ten minutes trying to have a conversation with not terribly long ago. ]

We're going to need you to acquire the Commander some Templar flags to heretically burn, if you please.

[ 'heretically' is not a word, shut up, Iorveth. ]

[elegiaque]

( surrendering leviathan only a little reluctantly (she waves, mouth downturned, goodbye commander), gwenaëlle's gaze tilts back up and she brightens, adding helpfully, )

You know, the bird is bigger than Hardie, and he manages Hardie's back, it's perfect.

( so their feelings are 'enthusiastic', if hazy from iorveth's pipe. the circlet comes askew as she follows the nug forward into thranduil's arms, looping hers around his waist. )

Are we revolting? I'm prepared to reconsider how vexed I am with you.

[rowancrowned]

I was correct, [ he says, to one of them. which one? ] You like him. Too much, I think.

[ gwenaëlle, then. he uses the toe of his slipper to gently prod at iorveth, somewhere around his ribcage, rather than say 'move you great big high lump, I too wish to sit'. no. only prodding.

leviathan he sets down onto the bed very gently, and he cups gwenaëlle's face in his hands, looking down at her. ]

Possibly. I am ever prepared to graciously accept surrender.

[elegiaque]

( considering her present mood, and what iorveth's initial crystal messages had interrupted, that is a provocative tone to take with her on several different levels and she is provoked on at least three of them—the part of her that likes to defy him at every turn warring with the part that rather likes it when he looks at her meaningfully and asks for surrender. that part sees her pliant under his hands, fingers snagged in his sleeping robe,

the circlet very slowly sliding down the back of her head. )

I don't want anyone to have your blood, Thranduil.

( judiciously, ) Except me.

( she has no need of or purpose for his blood. that she has thought writing her name on him with a knife is irrelevant, and only fantasy. even so, the pedant's impulse is ever-present. and then, )

I think I like Iorveth exactly the right amount for someone I wasn't warned would be there in anything like time enough—

[aenseidhe]

[ the prodding at his side is plenty enough to cause iorveth to squirm himself to the side a bit, making space for the other big lump of fancy elf to settle himself down. for gwen, he casts a frown over his shoulder. hey, not his fault. ]

Had I known, I'd have knocked.

[ said like it's been announced several times already. he'd have knocked, but he'd have also still broken in, that part was not up for negotiation. thranduil may also find his notes from the negotiations spread out on one of the dressers not far away, as the two of them have already thoroughly gone through them, sober and high. ]

You ought to know, [ thranduil ] I had several offers of assistance in revolution and denied all of them in favor of appeasing your demands for my presence. It was extremely difficult for me.

[ because he loves revolution, it's his favorite. given he's broke into this office twice now, it's entirely feasible he could've broke himself out before thranduil's return, so appreciate him, okay? ]

[rowancrowned]

[ thranduil settles into place beside iorveth, gwenaëlle still curled around his middle. he drank with coupe, smoked with them, but he still has the grace to pluck the circlet from gwenaëlle's hair before it can fall off and hit the stone floor. ]

This, [ he says, and it too gets placed on the bed. leviathan noses at it. ] is irreparable and you will need it in one piece if you intend to perform your twirling again. And- you like him very much, given that he is still here.

[ the room is a mess. there was very obviously snooping and he will need to check his real hiding places later to make sure they did not stumble upon anything by accident-- not that there's much to hide, what kind of fool hides seditious documents in their own bedroom?

he leaves one hand to stroke through gwenaëlle's hair and uses the other to cup iorveth's face, thumb brushing his jaw through the bandanna. and the pillowcase. both of them are very very good at innovating, but did it really need to be at his expense? ]

You would not refuse me. I knew that. [ he leans forward, his forehead pressing against iorveth, the briefest of elven embraces before he draws back. ] You have my thanks.

[ thranduil scoffs, and shifts his shoulders to compensate for sitting on a robe he cannot remove while seated, determined to give himself a bit more freedom of movement. ]

It is my blood.

[elegiaque]

( thranduil is yet tall enough that once sitting, it's comfortable enough that gwenaëlle still stands, insinuating herself between his knees and leaning her weight against him and not disputing, immediately, that iorveth's presence speaks to her ease with it. because it does, probably, and she's still sufficiently in the mood to argue with him that it seems wholly unnecessary to touch on something more obviously agreeable. )

Everything that's yours is mine, ( is instead muttered obstinately, of thranduil's blood, tangling her fingers loose enough in his hair at his back to suggest the spectre of her fist, pulling, without quite following through.

they do still have company. interesting company. )