faderift | II. OPEN.

WHO: Sabine and potential best friends. (No.)
WHAT: Having arrived at Skyhold a couple weeks back, Sabine continues to settle in.
WHEN: The end of Haring, the beginning of Wintermarch.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: A couple of prompts below, but let me know if you'd like to do something specific or wish to hash out ideas in plurk or PM.

(BELOW) THE COURTYARD;

[ Busy work cures Sabine of idle hands, sitting nearer the stock of weapons than the actual sparring grounds, although she has a good vantage of the latter. She sits unceremoniously on the ground, her legs clad in simple leggings and in a comfortable configuration of half crossed, one knee up and bent. Work, today, constitutes of the crafting of arrows. A bundle of sticks -- straightened from their natural bend, already stripped of its bark -- is gathered to her left, and she uses a knife to work one end. Feather halves, to line against it, and fibrous string to bind it in place.

It's fiddly, but in this setting, not unnecessary. Conversations drift over her head, and she goes mainly ignored. Her ears mark her as one of the people, especially prominent with her wild hair kept barely tame in a thick braid down her back. Her hands are practiced enough that she doesn't need to watch all the time what she's doing; her eyes dart to the people coming and going around her, the training of recruits across the courtyard, and anything else of interest. ]

(ABOVE) THE BATTLEMENTS;

[ She isn't much of a drinker, but she is Orlesian, and when one wishes to climb the battlements and then climb even more up onto the slanting, frankly dangerous rooftops of Skyhold just to watch the sun go down, you should take some wine.

Somehow, Sabine's managed to get to her perch despite the thick woollen skirt that now drapes about her, and a cutting, cold wind tugs at her hair let free. She has a wineskin in hand, and she takes a generous mouthful of it, which has her jerk back, turn her head, and spit it out again in a steady, mouth-warmed stream down onto the battlements to her side. Ergh. She never thought she'd be picky about her wine, until she drank Fereldan.

Oh well.

Bracing herself, her second swig is just as deep, but gets swallowed this time. Above her, the sky fades from deeper blue, to truer black. ]

(AMONGST) THE MERCHANTS;

[ The market trade growing within the Inquisition is just that -- growing. A sampling of Orlesian and Fereldan wares, from gathered herbs to colourful blankets, to old swords with the dents carelessly banged out of them to a fine old antique shield that still has some sturdy left to it. Practical things, but not always.

All of Sabine's arrows go to the Inquisition, but she has other services she might provide. She doesn't have her own cart, but she does have a blanket, spread out in front of her while she works, displaying little wooden trinkets -- as simple as loose, colourful beads with tiny carvings through to complex designs, such as bracelets carved to spiral thrice around the wrist, or smooth polished wooden earrings that hook into place and nestle behind the ear. Anklets, bracelets, rings of any imagining, all made of wood, of different tones and colours. Most are unpainted, but some have a touch of colour.

Her bare feet are flat against the packed earth as she works on whatever will go on sale next, little carving knife in hand, wood bits to her other side. She doesn't spruik her wares, remaining silent instead, but is quick to make eye contact whenever someone wanderers nearer, as frankly appraising of them as they may be of her work. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( it is a common enough sight, benevenuta moving among the merchants that set out their wares for the appraisal of the inquisition and its people. holding fabrics and leathers up for scrutiny, examining the herbs on offer, occasionally contemplating whether or not they need a new modesty blanket. for future incidents. the dalish seem to admire rutherford as well.

there is no practical (or humorous) purpose to lingering by sabine's wares, but after a second pass, she slows to a stop to take a better look. it is a little - quaint, perhaps, but perhaps the novelty of wooden jewelry might charm her friends. )

What price do you give this?

[ The items on display are at least not crudely made, with some polished to a deep red, deep black, or pale silver, sporting gemstone-like sheens, but most make the familiar curves and lines of woodgrain a part of their charm, quaint or no. Sabine is busy using a small twist of malleable wire to attach a long black rooster feather to an earring by the time Benevenuta pauses on her second pass.

She looks up, probably too expectant to connote a savvy salesperson. There is a slow trickle of the upperclass taking residency in Skyhold, which they describe exactly the audience these little trinkets attract, quaint or not, but even among them, Benevenuta stands out as slightly different. You don't get a lot of nobleborn necromancers.

Sabine indicates her wares by hovering a hand over groups of them; ]

Twenty crowns. Thirty crowns. Fifty, [ is reserved for what are arguably less flashy than some, and smaller, but more fine, more innovative, less common. ] And these, [ she wiggles her fingers over where beads are strung on leather string, or are gathered in bowls, bright coloured and plain both. She wears some on a loop around an exposed ankle. ] Five bits each.

[ And she waits for Benevenuta to complain, or walk away. The beads are priced like dirt, but everything else bears the tag of real jewellery, if not in the upper echelons that precious metals require. ]

( neither of these things happen. benevenuta lowers herself carefully for a better look, grasping her skirts to keep the hem from the dirt at the edge of the blanket upon which the jewelry is spread. the black and the silver catch her eye (of course) and she lingers over them, thoughtful, imagining this piece or that against her own colouring, or a friend's. )

They are quite lovely, ( she says, thoughtful, and if there is a hint of surprise in her tone - well, it's made of wood. by an elf. she did not anticipate closer examination giving her more than 'quaint' in the first place. but how charming they are, how finely crafted! perhaps she will send her mother a gift, as well; she might like that. )

Do you by any chance take custom work? ( a light inquiry to purpose, though she seems occupied enough with selecting from what's already on offer. )

Not usually by chance, Lady Thevenet.

[ Well, one of them is acquainted.

When the lady crouches down, Sabine settles her position to tuck her bare feet beneath her own skirts, posture pulling back and up as she sets aside the piece she's working on now that a meaningful transaction is taking place. Her eyes follow the woman's hands, looking back up once satisfied as to their whereabouts. ]

They are humble materials, but versatile for that.

( her name merits a look up - smiling, faintly, not expecting it but not quite surprised, either. she is something a little unique in skyhold, that's so, and she has hardly hidden herself in the ivory tower she had so protested knight-commander baratheon trying to cloister her in. lady thevenet, councilor thevenet, that northern mage, the woman; yes.

she doesn't question where sabine learned her name, simply accepts name and title as appropriate. )

You know me, ( she says, speculative. ) I suppose you know of Altus Pavus as well, and Lady LeBlanc? Your work would make excellent gifts, and I would welcome your thoughts on something suitable.

( as the craftswoman behind it. if she has a notion for colouring, or style. )

[ White shows briefly around her eyes at those names -- another Counciler, and a Tevinter, and all three of noble houses. Her wares attract customers with money, but rarely heirs of true nobility, even if one's a mage. She looks down at her own creations, at once thoughtful and reluctant, but the latter is something stifled down, amongst other things.

In Halamshiral, her aunt had always been the one to haggle and bargain and sell. Not for the first time, she tries to think how she would do this. ]

The Lady LeBlanc may like the red, [ she suggests, dancing her fingers over a selection of necklaces and bracelets. ] It is the last of the Heartlands Red I brought with me. Native to our country. The Tevint-- [ UM. ] Altus Pavus would perhaps like something smaller. Complementary. [ She can imagine a spirit healer mage wearing bracelets of oak that clack together or draping beads; a northern Magister, less. ] These rings here are for men. I can set them with jewels or glass crystal, if provided them.

( benevenuta's gaze holds very steady, pleasant expression unchanged, as sabine skitters back from the edge; by the last syllable of pavus she is back to studying the wares, lifting the bracelets indicated for adelaide, and then setting them aside to touch the rings with curiosity, thoughtful, picturing them on dorian's hands.

he would appreciate the distinction, she thinks, of her having something personalised for him. )

If I supply you with the jewel, will it be ready by the First Day?

( she isn't asking how much it will cost. and she is still smiling. )

[ Some mental finger counting goes here-- it's a tight turn around, but practically possible. Sabine has picked up one of the other red bracelets further out of Benevenuta's reach, placing it closer for inspection -- it is designed like a little ring of laurel leaves, curling and fine -- as she considers. ]

Oui, [ she decides. ] One jewel or shard, I can do it by then. For custom gifts--

[ Her head tips. ]

--with swiftness, I will take an advance with the jewel?

Yes, I think that is very fair.

( she gathers a few of the bracelets - including the laurel leaves, how pretty, her fingers lingering on it as she chooses from the selection - of red and silver, in the meanwhile-- )

These I shall take now, and I will return with the jewel in - perhaps an hour?

[ Great, who doesn't love money, not this elf. Sabine takes up the pouch she uses for her takings while her other hand hovers out, palm flat, to accept her earnings, ever so slightly coarse in her exchanges. ]

I will be here, still, then. Eh, merci.

II. OPEN.

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