faderift | IV. SEMI-CLOSED.

It's a surprise, though a pleasant one, how temperate the weather can be this high in the mountains. Surrounded by nothing but rock and snow, the gardens still bloom with green grass undaunted by the chill, and flowers surrounding the walkways and pavilion. It's a pleasant enough place to spend a few hours, when she allows herself the time.

Just now she's brought out her chessboard, and a bottle of wine. A downright indulgence, given her usually busy schedule. Occasionally she takes a modest sip from her glass, tilting her head before moving a piece into position. No greater enemy than oneself, it makes sense to hone her tactics against her own mind, for lack of anyone else to challenge.

Everyone else is just as busy, after all. Perhaps she'll find time to inquire after that nice healer she met in the tavern. Later.

Edited 2016-01-19 16:31 (UTC)

"What a sorry sight this is."

Dorian invites himself in the way he ordinarily opts to when he judges a situation in which he is welcome, or at least, one he can warm himself to. It's a sunny day in Skyhold, and unless you looked upwards to the white faces of sheer mountainside looming around their little fortress, you could trick yourself to thinking it was warm. Every now and then, a sharp wind, smelling of ice, would cut through and remind you of where you are.

But the garden is sheltered that way, permitting the best of the sunlight and protected from the worst of the mountainly winds. Upon spying Mia, he'd wandered over, cast his judgment, and now sits down in the empty chair opposite her with the languid assumption of a large, handsome cat.

"I'm not sure what it says for our chess-playing populace that Mia Rutherford doesn't deign to seek us out; nothing good, I suspect."

He doesn't all the time seek out others to relax with, but when he does, he allows himself to become absorbed in the moment. Or for the moment to be absorbed, saturated, by him. One of those.

"You mistake consideration for elitism, Lord Pavus."

Though he's doing it on purpose, that much is clear. Her lips curl with good-humor as she waves at the chair he's already decided to occupy, with all the grace one might expect of a Tevinter noble. "By all means, join me."

She's not seen much of him since their rather bracing encounter in the hills of Redcliffe, which honestly wasn't much of a surprise. After the death of the Inquisitor, he must have--

Well. No good assuming. They'd run in very different circles, that was all. It doesn't mean she's not pleased to see him. He'd made a sparkling first impression, after all.

"Well, that does sound like me."

Dorian tips his attention down at the board, spending only a short amount of time analysing its current state of play, before he reaches out and shifts a piece. Cullen has, in the past, noted before that Dorian tends to act swiftly in a game that is basically an exercise in consideration and strategy, and now is no exception.

Expecting she must play like her brother -- or that her brother plays like her -- Dorian settles in for the inevitable wait, knitting his fingers together, rolling foot at the end of his ankle.

"I'm glad to see you haven't yet lifted your skirts and fled east. Less bears, of late, granted."

"And leave you to your own devices? Perish the thought."

Keenly surveying the board, Mia calmly reaches out, plucking up on of her pieces and maneuvering it into position, her hands settling back into her lap as she waits him to take his turn. "No, I decided I could be of some use, after all. There's certainly shortage of things to do around here...although it's come with a few unwelcome surprises along the way."

Not least of all that business with the abomination. But there's no helping that now.

Dorian is quick to countermove, the click of his next piece sounding out within a moment after hers. It's not attempt to quicken the match, certainly not to throw it, but it might be a touch of showing off. The corners of his eyes crinkle at her words.

"That's what keeps things lively. It can't all be the endless drudgery of saving all of Thedas as we know it. If we're to spend half the time fending off ourselves, well, more's the challenge, I say."

He settles back again.

"Your brother's a decent sort, yes? Other former Templars might have turned the lot of us out by now." There's a hint of sarcasm in Dorian's tone, because obviously, this was an act of basic sense and empathy, but, you know, there's not a lot of that going around these days.

"I hope you're not expecting a defense of them. I know what the templars are. What the Order does to people, mages and recruits alike." She still hasn't quite forgiven them for it, the malice or the incompetence, but the individual templars she's met here seem a mostly decent sort.

Still. It's a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, and she's not shy about pointing these things out. One eyebrow arches as she moves to counter, blocking Dorian's approach with a shift of her knight.

"Of course, one only imagines what might have occurred by now if less upstanding Tevinter mages had made it into our ranks. We've been lucky in the character of those we've attracted to the cause, thus far."

"The less upstanding Tevinter mages know better than to try," Dorian says, wry, accepting the implication of compliment with grace as he casts his attention onto the chessboard, chin in hand. "Besides the ones attempting to dismantle Thedas under the Elder One's command, of course."

Latent frustration always warms his words when he speaks of his homeland, and now is no different. A little fond, in a way, like he's talking about an embarrassing uncle who drinks too much at Wintersend dinners.

He steals for himself a particularly tempting pawn.

"First blood."

How else could it be borne? It's no fault of Dorian's that his countrymen do what they do, or that Tevinter has the ire of every other nation in Thedas. Yet it is home to him, it must be, even now.

There's a faint curl of sympathy in her smile as her eyes dart towards the board. "My goodness. So it is. I must guard myself more closely, lest you sweep my legs out from under me," she tuts, shifting another piece into place and putting his advance at a standstill. At least for the moment.

"You must play often."

"Now, I don't believe that for a second," Dorian says, without particular vehemence save for his customary flare. "Cullen's far craftier at this game than anyone would give him credit for, myself included it, and-- for the love of the Maker, never tell him I said that. But I suspect he had to get it from somewhere."

He shifts a piece, aggressive advancement falling to the wayside for the moment. "I suppose you can take that to mean that if this whole affair," he waves his hand, referring to Skyhold, the Inquisition, Thedas at large, "is won via marvellous tactical decisions under direction of our Commander, the credit will be all yours.

"Wonderful game," he adds. "I play often enough. It was fashionable for a few winters in the courts of Minrathous. Little tables set up everywhere, good music, wine, company. Well, certainly music and wine."

"The credit will be his. I command no armies," Mia corrects delicately, before shifting her play to the side of the board, letting her fingers tap thoughtfully against her chin. "I may have taught him, but that skill is his own now. There might even be a chance that if we played now, he could best me."

A chance. A small one. She still plays far more often than he.

"What, no games on lawns with people taking the place of your pieces? Zevran's told me of the way the lords play in Antiva. I wouldn't have suspected Tevinter of taking the more modest approach."

Dorian isn't altogether very familiar with Zevran, and rolls his eyes immediately at mention of Antiva; which is rich, of a Tevinter, speaking to a southerner, but he's found quite a few allies in disparaging Antiva.

"There's a thought. Perhaps in that format, your pawn might have defended itself, and changed the course of the game completely. Such as, away from my inevitable victory."

He moves one of his pieces of harms way, before reaching for the wine she has set out to see himself to a glass. "But lets not give my homeland more ideas as to how it can best exploit others for its idle entertainments, although I wouldn't be shocked to discover they've already stolen it."

"Inevitable victory. I do like your optimism, Lord Pavus. Though I fear it may not last long."

And as she speaks, one of her knights shifts forward, poised to take a pawn of his own and put his back line into substantial peril. She doesn't look overly smug, to her credit, simply pleased.

"And what occupies you these days? I've no doubt you've a unique perspective to add to the proceedings."

Dorian tsks at this move, but doesn't look altogether disheartened. Inevitable victories are only good fun when there's an element of challenge. His next move is one of aggression, splitting focus, rather than a rush to escape or defend, a bold sweep of his bishop across the checkered board.

"Despairing at the state of our internal politics, mostly," he says, light as you please. "Whether those involved would call my perspective unique is really a matter of how euphemistic they might feel like being."

"Is it that dire? I wouldn't know. I never get invited to those meetings," she replies with a dry smile. A fact for which everyone is likely grateful.

One pawn maneuvers readily forward, ready to defend against the incoming bishop, but also slinking upwards along the side of the board.

"I understand there are a lot of strong wills and conflicting opinions, and without..." She pauses, tone gentling somewhat. "Without strong leadership at the head, it's all so much noise from down below."

IV. SEMI-CLOSED.

That Thing We Discussed

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