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

[overharrowed]

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

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.

Comments

[overharrowed]

"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."

[champions]

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."

[justnice]

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.

[overharrowed]

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.

[ipseite]

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.”

[champions]

"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.

[overharrowed]

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."

[champions]

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."

[justnice]

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.

[ipseite]

“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.

[overharrowed]

"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.

[champions]

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

Because then she really will need to murder someone.

[overharrowed]

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