II. OPEN.

[glandival]

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. ]

Comments

[glandival]

[ 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.

[ungovernable]

( 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. )

[glandival]

[ 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?

[ungovernable]

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?

[glandival]

[ 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.