faderift | OPEN: this will be a better year

OPEN: this will be a better year

WHO: Everyone
WHAT: First Day
WHEN: Wintermarch 1 (forward-dated)
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Scouts from both the Western Approach and Emprise du Lion are welcome (but not required) to have returned to Skyhold in time for this event.

There have been better First Day feasts, and less crowded ones, and cheerier ones. It isn't a good year for many to look back on, and this one isn't starting any better. Reports from both Eastern and Western Orlais are grim. Many in the Inquisition can't afford to take more than a few hours away from their work, if that.

But for those who can, the ambassador does her best. At lunchtime some tables, hot food, and finery are reserved for visiting nobility and wealthy pilgrims--cause for grumbling in some quarters, perhaps, but they're the people filling the Inquisition's coffers, and allowances must be made--but there's plenty of stew, bread, and ale for everyone, even with the soldiers and refugees who stay outside the fortress invited inside for the holiday. The recently repaired garden and its carefully tended plants aren't off limits, but anyone noisy and holding a drink will be stopped at the door; the battlements, with their potential for deadly falls, are blocked by Inquisition guards. But the courtyards brim with people, most of them happy despite the possibility that the world might end before another First Day arrives.

If the courtyards are too full of tipsy visitors for comfort, there's also the valley beyond the fortress, expansive, barren, and covered in snow. By the river the soldiers help the refugees make a bonfire larger than would ever be allowed inside Skyhold's walls, and some lend their shields to use as sleds down the embankments. A group of scouts start the most intense game of hide and seek Thedas has ever seen, with snowballs to the face for whoever is found first. In the camp, a refugee girl with her hand wrapped in a green scarf chases other children around the tents, shouting raaar, I'm from the rifts!

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"They're called 'saarebas', which means 'dangerous thing'. That alone speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Korrin frowns, staring at the flames of the bonfire. This isn't exactly typical celebration chatter, but he asked. And if there's one thing Korrin is always willing to do, it's educate people on the horrors of the Qun.

"They aren't seen as anything other than weapons, and they're even more tightly controlled then normal Qunari. The Circle is a horrible system, but this makes it seem tame by comparison. Being chained and masked, lips sewn shut, constantly under the supervision of a handler who can kill them if they even think they've had contact with spirits or demons...and that's only what I've been told. I'm sure there are horror stories beyond that."

He smiles around the eyes as Adelaide reaches over with her patpat, vaguely calculating-- but thoughts of petty revenge are diverted by the velveteen tossed into his lap.

"What's this?" he narrates, as he picks at the drawstring on the bag, attempting with one hand, before he cedes he must sit up properly to fuss with it. "I was half-way expecting yet another book or a scroll to translate -- people simply adore giving me those, by the crate. Or perhaps something amphibian."

Benevenuta.

But he pauses as he tumbles the ring into his palm, still expecting something more practical than pretty. He lifts it more towards the light as he studies it, a crooked smile when recognising the the stone set into the black wood. "Oh, this is much better."

Korrin may not know much in the way of details regarding their relationship, but time spent with them both during the scouting mission made it evident to her eyes. You can't spend weeks camping with people and not notice such things, after all. But they had a mission, so teasing and prying could wait. Even now, she's reluctant to do so for fear that Sam's mood will plummet again. It's better to distract him.

"Exactly. So, drink up and figure out the best way to take advantage of that. Have you seen Adelaide's ice fortresses?" She sounds almost as giddy as the children discovering it earlier, but can't help it--those ice constructs are a sight to behold.

Alayre knew sooner or later that question would come. He's quite aware to some extent, how bad this little affair has with Salvatore looks. The age difference alone makes him look like guilty party in this. Factor his status amongst the Templars and some would think this literally political suicide. To be honest, Alayre hadn't thought of any of the repercussions until after everything transpired. A true earnest fool at heart.

"...I'm aware." A sigh leaves him as he tries not to look terribly aghast now. "Leave it to bad timing or poor taste on my part. I knew from the start this would paint me in a poor frame but so soon?" Alayre can't help but look quite worried now. If anything, he doesn't want any ill to befall Salvatore. That young man still has a full life to live and one he should live without the murmurs.

"There are always rumours," he says, with the complacency of someone who has been the subject of many almost since birth - long before he was the renegade he was the great hope of the knighthood, his mother's project at court, an exhausting friend and a dangerous enemy. He has been courting attention of one kind or another for too long, and while Skyhold's interpersonal politics are not without their deeper, darker waters...

...he is not much the subject of those. Not yet, at least. For now, he can appreciate the lighter note he strikes in this place, as opposed to the shark-infested waters of Aldreas's Elenia.

"I choose to find them flattering."

That talkative side is definitely noted and Korrin grins, making a mental note to bring more strong alcohol is way. It's a shame there's no more of that maraas-lok to offer...after sledding, because the effect of it having been consumed before would be disastrous. As it is, she expects that steering will fall to her unless Merrick's truly insistent. And if he is, that's what healing potions are for. (She might have prepared ahead of time just for this circumstance.)

"The last time I did this was with my company, not far from Emprise du Lion. There's nothing like letting off some steam with extreme winter sports, especially when you have nothing to do but wait. That required healers afterward, but it was so worth it."

( in fairness, he has also not much let her feet touch the ground at all - at least until he was sure she wasn't going to bite him or run away. he slows a little that she might keep up better, keeps her turning, lifting, dancing, and he enjoys it more than he might've thought he would. it isn't as if he picked her up to dance not to enjoy it, only

only.

by the time they slow (a judgement call on the number of turns and the amount of alcohol in her small body), his own smile is easy, a bit less troublemaking. )

There.

Was that truly so terrible?

Oh hey, there's that familiar voice from the sending crystal. Glancing up from her ale, Korrin grins back. Her ordeal at Emprise du Lion hasn't entirely left her and won't until she can go back and do more about what was seen, but for now, the food and company is helping a great deal.

"No idea, but I'll take it. We've have precious little to celebrate, so that's all the more reason to enjoy it now. Consider it some preemptive celebrating for when that asshole darkspawn magister is put in the ground, too." They can't possibly endure another year with him trying to rip open the Veil, so either he succeeds or they do. She'll focus on the latter for sanity's sake.

"If I may be blunt- it is not a mere matter of timing nor taste, but a matter of intent." As are all things on either side of the vein. "There is no time when such a courtship would not paint either of you in a negative light. That I have not heard rumors of him being coerced or that he is attempting to earn himself additional favor to cover something far more sinister is nothing short of a miracle. That he is a necromancer does not help; it is a misunderstood school of magic even by other mages; let alone those that are neither mage nor templar."

Adelaide keeps her voice and tone even; it is a delicate subject at best and were it not for the even more delicate state of affairs between templars and mages it would still be something to handle gently. She is not a gentle woman- but a wrong word, a misinterpretation of intent, a raised voice; that would twist the interpretation of professional concern into something highly personal and entirely counterproductive. "I will make the assumption that neither of you are coerced into this courtship, that this is something you have both chosen in good faith."

"Nevarra ... that is a place I have only heard of in tales." Far and exotic away places, only between the pages of books and in the shops in Redcliffe. Of course, now she had traveled as far as Orlais so who knew how far she would travel now?

She made a soft 'hmm' noise, before looking out to the refugee camps, "Well, if you wish to visit more often, I know they would appreciate the help of a mage. Fires easily made, some healing, that sort of thing." She nodded towards the people, all laughing and dancing around the fire. "I have quite a few mage friends -- I know that most of you are concerned about what happened in the aftermath of the abomination. If you and yours came out to help the common folk? I think you'll find the Mage Council will get a lot of support in kind."

A quirk of the smile. "You know, if you're up taking suggestions for someone without a lick of magic in her."

[ She seems to at least favour being airborne, now that she knows its coming. Sensing each coil of tension in his shoulders before bigger lifts, Sabine even hops up into it -- a sense of self-preservation, mainly, to prevent herself being dragged about, but some mutual enthusiasm puts spring in her step.

And then it's over, and she shoves him in the chest, which does more to lever herself back. It's rough, but she does everything roughly, teeth finally showing as her smile splits wider. ]

Not terrible. You would shame yourself in Orlesian court, though. The shems dance there as if with pikes in their asses, you see, not as if they like dancing.

"So you truly did give him a frog, Nut-Nut?" With the lilt of her voice and the softness offered by wine, it rounds out into a long murmur of 'noot-noot'. Either it is the gesture or the comfortable girlishness of Benevenuta that earned her this demotion or promotion into a deeper layer of endearment.

Though Dorian will not by any means be spared.

But for now, the comb, the tangles, and she slowly works them out with steady hands. The ring is artful, lovely, and well chosen. Benevenuta truly seems to have a gift for them. "Perhaps because you insist that you can do so in your sleep. They are merely attempting to help you find your rest."

By contrast, Benevenuta can't even approach herself other than a little bit sideways - every decision, every impulse, weighed and assessed and judged and counter-argued and her own desires secondary to her higher goals. Pragmatism that would sacrifice everything, even herself and even that which she loves most, on the altar of what she believes is right.

She is very dangerous, this little Northern mage. All the moreso for the ease with which she insinuates herself - laughing, now, as she turns in the steps of the dance, graceful here as she is deft in the Vault at their meetings.

Well-intentioned, always, but trouble in a pretty package.

"What drew you to the Inquisition?" she asks, immediately. "To stand for Council?"

"Point taken. I think most of this night is owed elsewhere, but what time I have now is yours...and I can make up those hours later." Korrin can't resist a suggestive grin, reconsidering her stance of a moment ago. "I suppose can be persuaded to leave dancing behind sooner than anticipated, in light of that."

But not instantly, because she hadn't danced in a while, and doing so with Zevran is treat in and of itself.

We were never supposed to, but we did anyway. Up until this past year we were permitted if only because it would give the Templars a little time of their own to celebrate elsewhere. A few would always remain with us- magic and wine do not often mix well; and every year since I reached my majority we had the same three.

[ She snorts a soft laugh, leaning over to squeeze his hand. A little longer than her usual flitting touches, but there none the less. ]

Augustine, Pascal and- [ She cuts herself off quietly, suddenly, throat catching around the name.

Dead.

He's dead. He is dead, he is gone, he cannot do anything further but the twist in his lips and the darkness in his eyes linger for a few tense moments before Adelaide is able to swallow past it. Force her way through for tonight is a good night. She wishes it to remain so. ]

And. Unger. Every year they minded us so nothing was burnt.

"LeBlancs don't fall face first into snowbanks. Nor do we sled. We glide." Across ice and snow and marbled tile- or so her mother taught her best she could before she was taken to the spire. She sips her own wine, or rather she drains the mug and stands, brushing off her skirts.

"I assume that was meant as some manner of invitation or challenge, yes? Do you mean to follow through, ser, or are you merely running your mouth as you so love to do, ser."

"He killed it," Benevenuta informs her immediately, turning shameless traitor - her eyes closed as Adelaide's hands move in her hair, tolerating the diminutive from her where someone else might've got, if not a sharp word, then certainly a long, arch stare. "Set the little thing on fire, and after I had fetched it for him especially--"

But her smile had mirrored Dorian's at his pleasure with her gift, and it doesn't change.

"Always..." It takes a moment for the thought to occur- though being spurred on by his commentary on said rumors assists with connecting the dots. Before, in the Spire, there had been hushed wispers. That was half of life no matter what was being said- but something such as this? No one dared to speak of for fear of being overheard and taken to task by a senior enchanter- or a templar.

SO that anyone would think that they-

That he and she-

That they were at all-

"Someone truly thinks that you and I are lovers?!" For a moment her incredulity has her voice cracking sharp like anger. And just as quickly it shatters into peals of helpless, hopeless laughter.

"--and you laughed," Dorian interjects, mid-slipping the ring over a knuckle, with the air of happily dragging her down with him. "Nut-Nut knows I detest creatures that haven't the decency to be furry and adorable, and even those have their own sins."

Nature, basically, can fuck right off.

But he repeats this nickname with relish, mirth glittering in grey eyes as he tries the ring on a different finger, where it stays. Fingers wiggle, letting it sparkle in nearby firelight.

At that last, Benevenuta's small chuckle is warm, not mocking, as is her smile - she touches Katniss' arm with an easy familiarity bred of their dancing, companionable. "It is a worthy thought. I am a member of that Council - perhaps I might put it to my colleagues."

A moment later, thoughtful, "I should be surprised were Lady LeBlanc not already so occupied. She is a healer - as I am not - and her heart is as large as her mind practical."

Though she speaks of her as a colleague, the tone she uses calls her friend, absently affectionate.

"And yet you prefer the company of men that are both furry and adorable, are they not, Do-do?" This is not done on accident and not done entirely with malice; the way Dorian twists the diminutive isn't entirely wrong; but one must be Orlesian to truly understand the subtle nuances of butchering a name out of affection.

And of these two Northern Mages she has found herself terribly fond.

Ostensibly unmoved beside her, he says, "Don't be so quick to protect my feelings, my lady," drier than the Western Approach, the edge of his amusement betraying him in any pretenses to affront.

Self-preservation began this acquaintance, but -

He rather likes it, when she laughs. It suits her. It eases her in a way that he doesn't think anything else he can do will, and there is a part of him - Sephrenia's part - that wants to.

"You are coming along so well, Sam. I am certain that soon we will be able to begin fade meditations properly, so you might better understand the murmuring of spirits." She doesn't wish to rush their training- it is so fragile a thread they draw through the veil, something of will and spun glass. All it takes is one miscalculation for it to shatter and a student to become possessed.

But Sam is a diligent student and knows the shape and sound of a Spirit's voice. She has less to fear, here. "A few days to recover is more than reasonable. Let me know when you are ready to resume, yes?"

Edited (I CAN SPEL I SWEAR) 2016-01-02 15:40 (UTC)

Orlais becomes more appealing by the day, ( very dryly. ) But you wound me, Sabine, throwing that word about when I had imagined it just for me.

( --so not ignorant, then, just a delayed and calculated response. he can be charming and teasing and friendly, when he wants to be, it just.

doesn't happen very often, and is absolutely best handled with terrible jokes at his own expense. he did not, actually, imagine it was her special pet name for him, but you know. if they're handing out special pet names, he definitely wants that one, it's hilarious.

to him. because he's awful! )

How long has it been since a fit of laughter has left her with hiccups? Far, far too long. She has not laughed like this, so long, so bright, so full since well before the Spire. Since, perhaps, Robert. She quiets somewhat after a moment, wiping at her eyes, the bubbles of her laughter interrupted by the odd hitch in her breath until she is able to settle herself.

Of course looking to Martel only sets off a shorter fit of giggling that she presses a hand to her mouth to muffle, cheek pressed to his shoulder. "I suppose I should say that I am flattered?"

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