Returning from the Emprise early had not been a great concern for her. It made sense if Cassandra was in the field for the other founder of the Inquisition to be at Skyhold, the Divine's hands monitoring matters and extending their reach. Hearing of the rift opening in the castle was alarming, though she has not found herself overly consumed with concern on that count, since her return. There have simply been so many things: Zevran, Alayre, the gathering hosted by Lady Vivienne, conversations with Morrigan, endless threads that must be grabbed and pulled, allowed to to the work of unravelling themselves. Their resources are not what they could be, or what Leliana would like, and she finds herself overstretched.
She will endure it. She must.
What catches her interest, though, and justifies a descent from her tower, is the news of a young woman arrived to the castle. A mage, one with scars on her palms, if her scout's words are worth anything at all. It is a concern, but Leliana would sooner she approached the young woman than someone else - so many are quick to judge, with mages, fast to condemn. Better to try and understand, first, even if the Nightingale would condone strict, swift action. Not in this - not against mages, simply for suspicion and based on who they are. That the scars can be seen and that she has come to the Inquisition must mean something, and Leliana is not so far gone as to deny people the right to change.
It is a silly contrivance, really, but silly is so disassociated with Sister Nightingale that it seems the best option, for this. Simple, painless, and it never hurts to let her nugs get a little more socialised. She's fairly sure they enjoy the attention.
"Schmooples!" Her oldest nug friend, still as delightful as he was during the Blight, and her most reliable comrade for such exercises as these. The elderly nug is scuttling across the courtyard, beelining for Clarke, with what appears to be little brown parcel held in his mouth. Despite his age he is still speedy with his scurrying, shooting between Clarke's ankles and lurking behind her. "I apologise for the trouble," she exhales, moving to the young woman in long strides, arms crosses as she looks around her to the nug. "He always thinks he can get away with murder if he runs to a new friend."
Her tone is very dry, an accusation directed at the little bunny-pig, and he squeaks uselessly as he drops the parcel. "Don't make that face at me, ser," she retorts, and the creature does not look even a little chastened.
CLARKE. SKYHOLD. after the rift in skyhold/zevran's return/idk other stuff
She will endure it. She must.
What catches her interest, though, and justifies a descent from her tower, is the news of a young woman arrived to the castle. A mage, one with scars on her palms, if her scout's words are worth anything at all. It is a concern, but Leliana would sooner she approached the young woman than someone else - so many are quick to judge, with mages, fast to condemn. Better to try and understand, first, even if the Nightingale would condone strict, swift action. Not in this - not against mages, simply for suspicion and based on who they are. That the scars can be seen and that she has come to the Inquisition must mean something, and Leliana is not so far gone as to deny people the right to change.
It is a silly contrivance, really, but silly is so disassociated with Sister Nightingale that it seems the best option, for this. Simple, painless, and it never hurts to let her nugs get a little more socialised. She's fairly sure they enjoy the attention.
"Schmooples!" Her oldest nug friend, still as delightful as he was during the Blight, and her most reliable comrade for such exercises as these. The elderly nug is scuttling across the courtyard, beelining for Clarke, with what appears to be little brown parcel held in his mouth. Despite his age he is still speedy with his scurrying, shooting between Clarke's ankles and lurking behind her. "I apologise for the trouble," she exhales, moving to the young woman in long strides, arms crosses as she looks around her to the nug. "He always thinks he can get away with murder if he runs to a new friend."
Her tone is very dry, an accusation directed at the little bunny-pig, and he squeaks uselessly as he drops the parcel. "Don't make that face at me, ser," she retorts, and the creature does not look even a little chastened.