faderift | It's Not A Pretty Thing To See [Closed]

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It's Not A Pretty Thing To See [Closed]

WHO: Julius, Petrana, Colin, Marisol, and Finch
WHAT: Winning hearts and minds
WHEN: Solace, pre-Tevinter expedition
WHERE: Ferelden
NOTES: Link to OOC post

road leading to a castle, sunset in the background

With Orlais at war, things in Ferelden appear relatively quiet, apart from the seemingly never-ending stream of suitors attempting to catch Queen Anora’s eye. But the Inquisition has heard grumbling, low but persistent, about the news that the Inquisition will support mages’ legal right to inherit and hold titles. Sources have traced much of that grumbling to Bann Selwyn. He is not a particularly influential figure in his own right, but he has friends and allies who are inclined to take his point.

The Inquisition has managed to secure an invitation for a small group to visit Selwyn, along with his wife and his heir. (Thomas has only been the heir since the Fifth Blight; his older brother fell defending Ferelden from Darkspawn.) The information available is mainly that Bann Selwyn is a fairly ordinary Fereldan noble, with aspirations above his station, but hopefully a man to be reasoned with. The situation is not yet a problem; the Inquisition wants to ensure it does not become one.

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The trip from Kirkwall is, by Inquisition standards, pleasant if not quite idyllic. The Waking Sea crossing is relatively smooth, and then it’s a long but undemanding ride more or less due south from Highever. The group has plenty of time to talk, about the mission or anything else, if they wish.

Julius has been, for him, relatively quiet on the trip thus far. His spirits aren't bad, per se; he engages easily enough when someone speaks to him first, but he starts fewer conversations than usual himself.

They're a day or two into the ride when he says, idly, "I wonder how many diplomatic missions you go on before it's silly that you're still assigned to the research division."

Somewhat archly, her attention half upon her reins (a confident horsewoman, even when merely riding the horse and not performing circus tricks upon it), “As ambassador, I had had it in mind to offer the Provost a trade.”

Though she hadn't hit upon who, at the time.

"How much’s that all matter for?"

It’s an honest question, though Finch is too busy scratching his pony’s ears to look up.

"Sort of seems everyone does everything,” A pause, out of consideration for Petrana apparently not any longer — “Well. Only if there’s a job, someone’s got to get stuck with it."

Mages being generally too important to get handed the scut work is a point of contention that he’s not about to bring up while surrounded by them. It’s one thing to rattle at Nell’s crystal; it’s another when they could leave you in a convenient nearby bog.

(It’s Ferelden. Bogs are always convenient.)

"That orange Orlesian was knocking about the joust, and she was a 'diplomat' a while." A sideways smile. That orange Orlesian was a chevalier, and the excitement of the day was in seeing her unhorsed. "Maybe you’re researching diplomacy. Theory. Strategy."

Spectacles. Books. He could go on with this impressive display of vocabulary, but there's a mane to fuss at.

Edited 2018-07-12 00:21 (UTC)

"A fair point," Julius allows. "There's certainly some crossover when an organization is chronically understaffed."

He seems as if he might lapse into silence again, but after moment he goes on. "Regardless, I thought you all should know before we arrived... I was recruited for this particular mission for reasons other than my impressive track record with negotiations." This last a big arch, glancing over at Marisol for a fleeting moment.

"That is... damn, there's no way to... Bann Selwyn is my father." Julius tried to think of a way that he could make it through the entire mission without saying that aloud, but there was nothing for it. It didn't have to come out quite so clumsily, but once it was said he seemed to recover a bit. "I didn't want to blindside you all when we arrived. Given why we're going, I imagine it will come up."

Marisol hums, as if she had been paying attention to the scenery and not the conversation. This would be impossible, of course, because they are in Ferelden. There's only so many shades of brown one can look at with a sense of admiration before you give and accept it is all just sludge. An entire nation of sludge.

Thankfully, Julius went and said something terribly interesting, after the elf boy nattered on. She could appreciate good staff when they were clever in conversation, and she just wasn't sold on him being clever or competent, yet. Was he brought along in case they needed a distraction, extra dead weight to cut? It was hard to say.

Anyway,

"Julius Selwyn," she breezes, as though the name itself were more important than the rest of the confession. "Just think, for all this time you've been denying people a second initial to carve into trees and surround with hearts."

Finch's eyes stray loose above the reins, expression kept —

Alright, not easy, not any more; but his mouth doesn't turn down, and he doesn't sit up any straighter. It’s overall the look of someone trying not to seem as though they're suddenly paying more attention. It could use some work.

(It's at least better than looking at Marisol, who out of the four, is roundly the most terrifying. Trees, sure. That's what she carves things into.)

"How old’s your brother?"

Younger, probably. That’s about all he knows on inheritance. But it seems better than asking: So, how old’s your Da, when’s he likely to croak? Finch wasn't sent to talk, but it seems worth knowing which party the others most need to listen.

Edited 2018-07-13 09:19 (UTC)

Julius glances at Marisol, his look just this side of arch; he might have replied with something in a similar vein, but then Finch relieves him of the necessity. Instead, he can give the question an honest answer.

"A few years younger than I am, though I'm not precisely sure. 34, maybe? I've never properly spoken to them, we haven't been in touch." Technically, no Circle mages in Ferelden were supposed to be "in touch" with their families, but some had been, to one degree or another. More had reached out after the Circles fell apart. But wherever Julius had run to before the Inquisition, it hadn't involved the Selwyns.

"I'm not entirely sure whether the Inquisition told them I'm among those coming, so it may be a surprise." Almost certainly not a welcome one, at least on the bann's part.

As the individual most likely to be carving Julius's initials into trees, Petrana reaches across the short distance between their mounts to curl her fingers around his hand, a quiet and oddly matter of fact expression of support. Her expression doesn't particularly soften, or shift the apparent focus of her thoughtfulness on this topic, but nevertheless: he may not ask for sympathy, but he has somewhere to lean, all the same.

(This is not at all a conflict of interest, surely, even if her mind is already turning over the new alternatives his birth throws up for the longer game.)

“It is quite the potential statement, sending you to negotiate in that light.”

"Yes. They either wish to harpoon proceedings, or are trying to sweeten them."

This is the unfortunate reality; most families aren't as fucking boss as hers. That the Selwyns are from Feral-den does them no favours. "Do you anticipate a moving reunion, Enchanter Selwyn?"

She's here to love and support, etc.

Julius squeezes Petrana's fingers, able to accept the small gesture where a larger or more explicit one might have been hard to manage. (He is not yet sure whether he'd have asked her to come if it had been up to him, but now that they're well on their way, he finds himself glad to have her there.)

But it's to Marisol he responds. "I do not expect a man eager for a reunion would have spent weeks agitating against mage inheritance. As for my mother and my brother, I have as much information as you." A pause. "I wasn't the oldest. Originally. My older brother apparently died in the Fifth Blight, which left an inconvenient opening for a claim, now that mages might be able to make them."

A sidelong, conspiratorial look. Careful, cataloguing, and then—

a smile.

"Would it not be unfortunate if they were all overcome by a terrible gastric malady? So sad, if he was to abruptly meet his end."

The look he shoots the group is incredulous. Finch should know better than to object. Really. It's that outnumbered bit, again.

Manages to keep his mouth shut, at least — never mind the way his lip curls down, tussles with itself as he slows the pony's trot, allows them both to lapse to the back of the line.

What the hell, guys.

“It would be an ill-timed tragedy,” Petrana demurs, diplomatically—

not before they've had time to truly gain support and momentum in Ferelden specifically behind mage inheritance rights (and marriage rights, and parentage as well; they must come with the prospect of more heirs), not while they're still bound to Kirkwall for the sake of the Inquisition, not before Julius has had a proper chance to stretch his muscles into freedom. Before he's learned he wants it; before he's shown everyone why he deserves it.

There is no sly, sidelong smile. No hint of anything untoward.

...but put a pin in that idea, Marisol, for later.

“Our purpose here today is stability.”

Today.

"I would like the opportunity to ever go on a diplomatic mission again, yes," he says, dry. "Your kindness in offering overwhelms me, however."

He glances back at Finch. "...this is a purely diplomatic mission, you needn't make that face." He knows the one. "The worst that's meant to happen on this particular trip is a lot of potentially circular conversations."

Julius can joke, which is probably best, for all he looks a bit tired already when they haven't even arrived yet.

A sigh, pained. "I hope 'circular' wasn't a pun, Enchanter."

Because then she really will need to murder someone.

He laughs, abrupt. "...it certainly wasn't, Maker, how little do you think of me? Puns, honestly."

When the group arrives at Selwyn's home, they are met by servants; a human housekeeper informs them that rooms have been prepared and that the bann will give them time to freshen up before the evening’s feast in their honor. He has evidently invited a few of his more favored freeholders to join the family and the Inquisition’s representatives. The housekeeper then assigns servants (a mix of humans and elves) to show them to their respective rooms, which are not terribly near one another, by design or otherwise.

When it comes time for the feast, the Inquisition's representatives are shown to the castle’s grand hall, lit warmly by a large central fireplace. The table is well-set and no one is likely to go hungry, though the spread is nothing to hold a candle to some of the finer noble houses in Thedas. A few freeholders mill about, some with drinks in hand, conversing but not bold enough to approach the visitors.

A woman in her early sixties comes to meet them. Her dress is simple, but fine, and from her ease it seems certain she is the lady of the house. “Welcome, all of you. I hope you had a pleasant journey?” Her eyes linger on Julius, just barely longer than the others, but her manners are warm and genuine.

[Catch-all for one-on-one threads. Contact me if you'd like NPCs.]

Dinner the night of their arrival had been awkward, but at least not outright disastrous. Lady Selwyn was polite, if careful with her words. Thomas Selwyn, the current heir, had the look of man who was torn between pressing the guests for news of the wider world and attempting to escape to somewhere quieter at any given moment. Bann Selwyn's temper was short beneath an almost aggressive veneer of hospitality.

Other than the sense that the servants had been instructed to keep an eye on them, the Inquisition representatives found themselves with more or less run of their host's home. Julius dutifully spent a lot of that time working on various Selwyns, sometimes with Marisol or Petrana, sometimes on his own.

But he can't work all of the time, and he's aware he's not the only person who might feel strange being back in Ferelden, for all they are not especially near Lake Calenhad. It's a few hours after supper one night when he goes looking for Colin.

The other Fereldan has kept quiet for most of the trip. Quiet is how Colin tends to keep most of the time, and isn't a sign of a good or bad mood. His preference, especially around nobles, is to wait till he's been spoken to and weigh his options then. That doesn't mean he doesn't have opinions once Julius gets him alone.

And alone he is, having been dragged off by an upset groom after a wet-behind-the-ears stableboy managed to get kicked in the ribs by a gelding. And after Colin confirmed that the boy's ribs had not hurt the horse's hoof, he saw to the boy while the groom saw to the horse. He's on his way back, holding a lantern and wading through the damp grass when Julius approaches. The opinion he'd kept to himself all day now shows in the crook of his eyebrow and the tic of one corner of his mouth.

"So. You're a nob."

It's not a bad thing, necessarily. It's very nearly funny, in fact. Not because Julius deserves or does not deserve it, but because despite what people said, there was some remnant of classism in the Circle. And usually, those mages born with silver spoons in their mouths were easy to spot, but this one had escaped Colin. But more than that, there's a note of admiration in what he says. Julius was a highborn brat all along, and he hadn't treated Colin any differently.

Julius doesn't make a face, though if Colin wants to speculate that he would like to, he may.

"Technically, I suppose. It's not as if I was here long enough for it to have made much of a difference."

He knows what Colin means, but Julius came to the Circle young enough to plausibly claim he didn't even remember where he'd come from. It was a falsehood that would not have taken if he'd been 10 or 12 -- but at 6, he could stick to it without straining credulity too much.

"I didn't see that it was ever going to matter. Though there are a lot of things I didn't see coming, I suppose. There was a time it seemed easier not to complicate what people thought of me unnecessarily." Sort of bleakly funny, now.

At first, it might seem difficult to approach Lady Selwyn apart from her husband, but only at first. Much of the day-to-day administration of the castle bores him, in truth, and there is simply much of her day when she busies herself with things he prefers to leave fully in her hands. When she's apart from him, she seems to come slightly into focus, no longer intent on smoothing rough edges or receding into the background.

She is in her element, here in her home, and while her demeanor is always somewhat muted, one gets a much better sense of her in overhearing her speaking to their steward or their quartermaster than in observing her conversation at dinner.

While she's interested in their guests (some more than others), she doesn't expect to be approached, especially for the first day or so. It makes her easy enough to find.

Mme de Cedoux does not seek Lady Selwyn out.

She does not appear to have sought Lady Selwyn out, at least, when their paths cross; the approach naturally coincidental. Her interest in the home has been polite and genuine and marvelously nonspecific—it is her first visit to Ferelden, she explains to those of the household who entertain her charming curiosity, and those who don't find it charming certainly find it novel enough that such an Orlesian-seeming woman evinces such earnest enthusiasm for learning of Ferelden people and custom. Amiable and smoothed of edges—Orlais without all the Orlais, she overhears in her wake, not a compliment but useful nevertheless—she is sufficiently tolerated and indulged to further her acquaintance.

She is not so unusual a sight, querying this or that; wishing, you see, to better understand how Ferelden conducts itself, as she is better acquainted with the Free Marches, and perhaps they are not the only acquaintance with Thedas that one might wish to consider oneself well-rounded.

“Madame,” she says, warmly, when she rounds to Lady Selwyn. “Forgive me; I did not know I was not alone.”

She smiles in return; if she has concerns about rifters, mages or both, she certainly keeps those concerns much better-concealed than her husband. "Mme de Cedoux," she says with perfect politeness, maybe just a hint of warmth. "There is nothing to forgive; I had hoped you all would make yourselves quite at home. I hope you've been enjoying your stay, thus far?"

If nothing else, at least one of the Selwyns does not intend to squander the opportunities presented by hosting representatives of the Inquisition when their neighbors have not been so favored.

“I've found it extremely illuminating,” mirroring the expression expertly, with perhaps a little more warmth; it is fitting that the Inquisition put forth its best foot, and Petrana be openhanded, openhearted. Yes; this is an opportunity. For the better if one of the Selwyns can see as much, too, but useful to know that perhaps only one of them does.

Finding herself welcome, or at least not openly unwelcome, she continues til she might come to a companionable stop at Lady Selwyn's side. “I have spent little time in this part of the world, til now, and it is most educational. I see why one might feel moved to defend it.”

An opening, if she likes. Or not.

Lady Selwyn seems, very briefly, to consider the woman in front of her. There's something of her son in her, though Petrana might be better positioned to see it than Lady Selwyn herself. The same deliberateness behind a smile, if muted in the older woman and sharpened in the younger man.

"I think it is a natural thing, to wish to defend one's home. It is what the Inquisition is trying to do, is it not, on a larger scale? Or so I understand, I don't pretend to know so much about these things as you and your companions must."

An instinctive softening of her view, though more habitual than anything.

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It's Not A Pretty Thing To See [Closed]

On the Road

Julius - OTA (threadjacking encouraged)

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Arrival

In The Castle (And Environs)

For Colin

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For Petrana

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