i try my best to become poetry. i take a bath and stain the water with black ink.

[trouvaille]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin + YOU.
WHAT: Gwenaëlle arrives in Skyhold, etcetera.
WHEN: The current AC period.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: She is arriving with a retinue, including resources for the Inquisition (a physician who will join the healers included) and her own maid. Also, if you prefer spam to prose, no problem! I will match however you tag in.

( FOR ANDERS )
Gwenaëlle does not seek out a healer herself.

She sends her lady's maid - Katell, a Halamshiral-born elf - to give the anxious request that her lady does not wish to come to the healer's tents and won't he please accompany her back to the lady's rooms?

The small suite that Katell shows him and his accompaniment to is still in the midst of being unpacked for Gwenaëlle's comfort, but even in the arrival chaos it's plain that someone (presumably the Comte Vauquelin) has gone to great efforts to make her as comfortable as can be done, making the rooms a small oasis of Orlesian familiarity, decorated as befits a young woman of her station and inclinations. Silk hangings, art, an already mostly full bookshelf, a full length mirror, her own bedding - and the prideful creature herself sitting on a cushioned chaise, her back stiff and straight, her small hands fidgeting anxiously with the edge of her robe until a moment after the door opens, flattening immediately.

It presents an immediate explanation as to why she might not have wanted to come down to the healing tents; the bandages pressed against the thin robe tell a story that she might not want to go down where she doesn't feel entirely safe to undress.

( FOR ADELAIDE )
It's with some reluctance that Gwenaëlle seeks out the woman she persists in thinking of as Councilor Leblanc rather than Gregoire's sister; he had been persuasive, but she hadn't forgotten that he'd never actually met his older sister. A person could write anything in a letter. Had they even exchanged letters? It hadn't occurred to her to ask, too fixated on the fact he hadn't done anything else - only there's no one else here she might claim anything like acquaintance with and he did promise, and inasmuch as she trusts anyone, she might trust that Gregoire wouldn't make her a promise he didn't at least try to keep. She will, she decides, graciously not blame him for it when this goes awry. She won't even say she told him so. She will let her disappointed silence speak for itself. It will be a very short letter.

He will be so sorry.

At least Cyprienne isn't here to see her fall on her face. She squares her shoulders and dismisses Katell, carrying on up to the battlements (a bit of privacy at this hour - no one needs to see her fall on her face) unaccompanied with a shawl pulled close against the chill in the air, her face bare of the Orlesian mask she'd worn on her journey. It feels strange and uncomfortable to go without it, but she's observed enough of Skyhold in the short time she's been here to hesitate to so visually separate herself, however much she might like to be separate in as many way as possible. Even Madame de Fer is seen here bare-faced -

And if it's good enough for her, then Gwenaëlle is not going to be the one to suggest Lady Vivienne has misstepped. She's stuck here for the foreseeable future; she has to try to adapt. To learn. To be smart whether it's comfortable or not.

"Lady Leblanc?"

( FOR ANYONE )
Having reached the end of her journey to Skyhold, Gwenaëlle isn't entirely sure what - happens next. Her father had sent her here because what else could he do, but he'd been understandably vague about what he imagined being there might entail for her, and she had her doubts that anyone would be interested in helping her figure it out. They all had better things to be doing than paying any heed to some Orlesian debutante with a shard in her hand; what use is that going to be to the Inquisition? It isn't as if they could send her off to close rifts.

It probably isn't as if they'd do that, she thinks, with a spike of fear.

So- for a lack of anything to do with herself (and with Katell engaged in the business of unpacking and organising her accommodation, and for the time being no relief to be found in retreating there), she explores. She goes to see what everyone else does with their time, peering into anywhere she isn't hurried away from, huge eyed and a little bit suspicious.

Comments

[justice_is_blond]

He's tense, at first. It could be a trap considering how many people aren't exactly fond of him. His companion is equally tense and not sure, but the sight of the blood itself and the setting has Anders deciding to wave the other man out of the room so he can see to the woman's wounds and leave her a little privacy.

Maybe it's stupid. That wouldn't be anything new.

"You can lay down if you'd like," he says, stepping closer. "And I'm supposed to inform you that I'm known as Anders before I heal you, if that makes a difference."

She's pretty seriously hurt from what he can see. Logically, it wouldn't make a difference. But some people clearly prefer pain to certain sources of help.

[trouvaille]

The blank look she presents him with says it doesn't, and that she's mildly annoyed by the delay; she forces herself to relax the tension in her hands and lower them from her lap to the chaise, watching him with undisguised suspicion that has nothing to do with being Anders and everything to do with being a mage. Mages are not something Gwenaëlle has had a great deal of exposure to; she can't claim great acquaintance with Madame de Fer, and is generally of the opinion that she doesn't really count. She's in her own league, obviously. All of these other people - and him Fereldan, too, probably. Or...something, she doesn't place the accent.

After a moment, "I wouldn't and it doesn't."

So get on with it is sort of heavily implied, and that's when her hard as diamond exterior cracks a little and uncertainty shows through - how does it work, with mages? The wounds are extensive, as he can tell at even a glance, cauterised slashes on her torso and thigh that bleed sluggishly from exertion even as she's been tended to by her physician all the way from Orlais. Should she take her robe? What does he have to do?

Instead of asking, she sets her mouth and waits. He can just tell her if he needs anything.

(Katell excuses herself. Gwenaëlle doesn't acknowledge it, which is the same as permission.)

[justice_is_blond]

He approves of practicality. Healing is healing, no matter the source, and while the initial comment is a little more like an order than he appreciates, her expression changes it. She's hurt and tense and in pain.

"Breathe. This will feel warm, and may hurt initially if there's anything trapped inside the wounds. Could you tell me how you got them? The means, weaponry, that sort of thing."

His hands glow green as he focuses on what comes first, stopping the bleeding. Only then can he focus deeper on the muscle and tissue damage, seek out any possible poison, and so on.

"It's most important in case poison could have been introduced," he continues. Talking tends to help most patients, though he's not entirely sure this will be the case for her.

[trouvaille]

Poison makes her momentarily blanch; she doesn't seem particularly comforted by his bedside manner, but then, she doesn't seem as if she's terribly willing to be comforted, either. It takes her a few moments after he says breathe to remember to actually do it, exhaling so quickly and suddenly that it hurts before she measures her next breath with a bit more forced steadiness.

The journey from Orlais was not a comfortable one, and she'd been worn out at the beginning of it. There's an element of bloody-mindedness in how stiffly she can still manage to hold herself, here at the other end.

"It was a rage demon," she says, her gaze fixed at some point over his shoulder. "The - claws. It burned."

Her terse recounting is almost clinical. The experience had not been.

[justice_is_blond]

"Thank you." Rage demon he knows, and knows well. It also explains the cauterization he's finding and having to work with. It's never easy to mend around burned flesh, but at least the victims of Rage demons never bleed out.

"If you need to lean back or lean on me you may, the pain will get worse for a short time as I undo the burn damage while weaving flesh back together." His voice is more gentle now. She's been through a lot, and it's a mark of stubbornness or shock (or both) that she's still upright.

"In a few moments I can give you something for the pain, as well. I'm sorry, I'd give it now, but I need you conscious and aware for a time longer so your body has a chance to begin to accept the healing." Pain is not negligible. He doesn't like when his patients hurt, but she needs to make it just a little further as he works. "If it hits a point where it becomes unbearable, I'll adjust what I'm doing. Simply let me know."

And then it's time to focus and start bringing nerves and flesh back to life.

[arcaneadvisor]

Waiting drives her to distraction.

There's little that can be done about that however and so waiting is what she must do, and she's never been one for sitting idle (not that there was ever a chance, not when her life was Flemeth, the Fifth Blight, Kieran, her research) and the door to her study lies open. This part of Skyhold is quiet enough most of the time that she can get away with it, though she of course locks it tight the instant she leaves, and nothing truly valuable is ever outside her reach.

Organised chaos is the best desription that can be given; piles of books, vellum and parchments, crystals of various origins, and candles burning low take up much of the space, a staff that leans against the desk. A small arrangment of plants grow by one window, mostly seeds from the wilds that she wouldn't plant in the main garden. A mage's study, if anything, Morrigan's domain for the moment.

She takes her time looking up from her work, her sigh sharp because she had hoped for one of Leliana's runners but they would speak up, surely. "Can I assist you?" She asks in the end, finally addressing the figure at her door.

[trouvaille]

So this is where Celene's witch had gone.

It makes sense, she supposes. She makes more sense in Skyhold than Gwenaëlle is inclined to think she ever did in the heart of the Imperial Court, and the thought is even not intended to insult her. She mightn't repeat it out loud, regardless. People are so touchy about her observations, sometimes, and she has a more than healthy wariness of anyone with that much power - but not quite enough to startle and excuse herself the way a gentler creature might. She stiffens in the doorway, and then decides to take it for an invitation whether it was or not.

Something says to her this is not a woman who will hesitate to throw her out if she doesn't wish the company - and, equally, that she isn't one to be impressed by scurrying creatures who haven't the backbone to be presumptuous.

"My lady," she says, after a moment, by way of more or less polite greeting. "I'm - acquainting myself with the castle. I thought I might find something to do. I don't mean to interrupt."

But she has, and she isn't very sorry about it if someone will only talk to her.

[arcaneadvisor]

Players of the game remember names, faces, entire lineages, lists of favours, blackmails, slights real or perceived all to further themselves. Morrigan remembers names and faces because it keeps a person alive, and she sits up a little straighter, setting the quill aside. And here she thought it would only be Vivienne that she would know from the court here, what with the war distracting so very many of them.

"Morrigan will suffice."

Orlais was where a title mattered. From some in Skyhold she will allow it but here she can be Morrigan; after all, she is one of several who were there during the Fifth Blight and her presence combined with the rest does rather confirm that yes, she indeed is the Morrigan from the tales.

"Acquainting yourself," she murmurs, looking amused as she looks over her once again. Bards are rogues after all but she likes to think that she knows the type well enough. "I am sure there are many an eager young man or woman who would be delighted to show you about, and there are many who would quickly put you to work. Come, sit, give me your name, the intricacies of the elven tongue require a distraction from time to time."

Insufferably vague nonsense and forgotten fragments, most of which can barely even be read these days, and yet she knows there will still be so many who will argue with what she has found.

[trouvaille]

"Morrigan," she repeats, and - comes, sits, the whisper-rustle of petticoats following her down as she arranges the skirts of her traveling dress. (It had been easier just to put it back on, when Anders was done; Katell is still unpacking and organising her things, and it hadn't been worth interrupting the process to dig through for something else.) "Gwenaëlle Vauquelin."

Lady, but -

She's already been invited to set aside the same for Morrigan, and she doesn't particularly want to start her first proper conversation with the woman by implying she might set herself above someone at Empress Celene's elbow. Not when that someone might actually be useful and interesting for reasons besides Celene's attention, certainly; her hand aches where the anchor-shard pulses, and she flexes it absently, hides it in the folds of her skirts as she's becoming accustomed to doing.

(She would like not to have to get accustomed to having it. She would also like there to be less elven nonsense here in Skyhold and the Inquisition, but she manages to keep her reaction to a small tightening around the mouth instead of a grimace; leading with an insult to her work will get her no where. She's a lot of things, but not stupid.)

With a brief, tight smile - "I'd sort of hoped to get acquainted enough I might find something that I can actually be of any use in to put myself to work."

There doesn't seem to be a shortage of things to do, but Gwenaëlle is not exactly suitable to most of them.

[fleurdesel]

"Yes?" Not many have come for her on the battlements- if only for that she is not often on them enough to warrant being sought out here. But here she is and here she's found, frowning at the distance until her attention is otherwise taken by a young Orlesian woman that looks to be in some shade of distress.

Most that came to Skyhold tended to be or find distress in time, it is not that unusual.

[trouvaille]

It does rather look as if Gwenaëlle is steeling herself to put her hand into fire.

(This is also how it feels. She's a lot of things, but she isn't always as subtle as she'd like to be in her own reactions - even the blankness she can so abruptly adopt is a tell of its own, in the end.)

"Gregoire suggested that I might seek you out. When I arrived." Which she has. Arrived, that is. Some self-control pulled tight prevents the last two remarks from actually coming out of her mouth, but the slight awkwardness of the moment hangs in the air regardless. "I believe that you also know my uncle. Gervais Vauquelin."

Making her Gwenaëlle, or 'young Gwen' in the gently affectionate way that Gervais had referred to the little girl he'd never seen. (Adelaide, in his letters, had been 'a bright thing indeed, brother, that I cannot say I'm not glad is not anywhere near you'. Emeric had laughed and read the compliment intended - not for him - behind the words.)

[fleurdesel]

There'd been letters, mentions of a friend. someone that kept up with him, that kept life interesting even if the details were horrifically vague. As such there is a vague notion of who she might be made concrete at the mention of Gervais.

Senior Enchanter Vauquelin, she reminds herself as she has since she got over her desperate need for more than his approval. She had that, she had his respect, she needed little more- save perhaps to know whether or not he survived the events at the Spire. That gaping wide unknown staggers her now and then when she trips on it. There's a minute tension that locks around her jaw and eyes at that- perhaps she knows? If he wrote anywhere it might be home. If he hid anywhere-

"You must be Gwen, yes? Gregoire has wrote of you, and your uncle spoke of you with great affection." A beat passes and she clears her throat. "Have you heard anything of him?"

[trouvaille]

(He's probably dead, Emeric had said, angrily, sweeping aside a handful of letters that were not from his brother - Gwenaëlle had lowered herself so slowly and carefully to pick them up, taken them away, read them. Penned thoughtful responses. Said nothing, waiting for him to sign his name to them, unsure what to do with his grief or the quieter echo of it in her own heart.)

"No," she says, stirring herself from the memory with a short, sharp shake of her head.

Then, more measured, caught out, "We haven't heard anything."

He could be alive, she thinks. She'd wanted to say so, Papa, he could be alive, but she doesn't know and he doesn't know and she never met her uncle, anyway. She never knew him, really, outside of the occasional letter and her father's stories about fishing a curious boy out of all sorts of trouble, which she hadn't believed. Her fingers twist in the edge of her shawl and she comes, uninvited, to sit by Adelaide.

He traveled, she doesn't say, because Adelaide probably knows more about the workings of her uncle's life than she does. She has probably had all of those thoughts, about what might or might not have happened to him, and doesn't need to rake back through them when Gwenaëlle can't offer anything new except the slight awkwardness with which she handles these sorts of things. He might be alive.

Maybe she'll meet him. One day.

(He is probably dead.)

[nonsibi]

"It's just a knife," Bellamy says, without looking around at her. He's caught sight of her in his periphery, standing just at the threshold leading to this smaller courtyard. Good enough to start a conversation. In profile, the shape of his smile suggests more of a smirk than he actually means it to be.

One last time, he draws the whetstone along the edge of the knife in question. The blade is already razor-sharp; this attention isn't likely to get it much sharper. But what Bellamy does with his time is, he occupies it. And if this sounds extra forceful, that's because it kind of is.

The courtyard is chilly, but he's down to his shirt anyways, sleeves racked up around his elbows, leather armor unbuckled and hanging loose or stripped off entirely. He's been at this for awhile. There's a shallow cut over his left eyebrow, a trophy from a scuffle earlier this morning. An organized scuffle.

When Bellamy finally deigns to face her head on, the shape of his smile becomes easier to read as something almost friendly. He pinches the knife between the flat of forefinger and his thumb and holds it up for her viewing pleasure.

"Never seen one before?"

It's more teasing than it is him trying to be an asshole. His flat accent suggests that he was raised by dwarves. He wasn't raised by dwarves.

[trouvaille]

Well.

There are worse places to have ended up than an audience to whoever this is and his current state of what she would archly describe as dishabille did it not involve so much armor. Or, no; she revises that thought. The presence of armor absolutely only makes it better to describe it that way, however inaccurate (he is wearing a bit too much, still, for the proper definition thereof). It would make a clever contrast; she makes a note of it for later, when she sits down to write.

"Au contraire," she says, light, and then, very blandly, "I've never seen such a tall dwarf."

But now that they're talking, she wanders further into the space, head tilted, curious. Her gaze lingers on the cut and she thinks about offering, and then - doesn't. Maybe in a bit. Maybe if she can get a sense of exactly how pointlessly masculine he's going to be about it if she does. He can't be much older than she is - so probably 'very'.

[nonsibi]

"Never heard that before," he says, in a way that suggests he's heard that before.

But his smile keeps the corner of his mouth hitched up, as he flips the knife around and shoves it back into the sheath at his belt. A shift to the side makes room for it, a move that requires some deftness, since he's still sitting.

All that done, he can give her fuller attention. She's sleekly beautiful, polished in a way that he's familiar with only from a distance. These are objective observations, even if they count for a lot. For his part, Bellamy still hasn't done anything about the cut on his forehead, or even acknowledged it. Instead, he arches his eyebrows at her.

"Just looking?"

[trouvaille]

Just looking. Hmm. Not offering is a decision she makes in a split second - she has a terrible habit of making a lot of decisions that way, for as considered as she'd like to be...considered.

"No," she decides, stopping in front of him; the sheer volume of skirts involved in the dress she's wearing manage to invade his space before she's even near him, but she ignores the enforced barrier and tilts his face to her with a light touch of her fingertips (warm, soft; she hasn't lifted anything more complex to wield than a pen in probably her entire life) and a critical look. "You aren't impressing anyone going about bleeding from the face, you know."

That may not be true. She stopped, after all, and seems to have taken it upon herself to clean him up.

[glandival]

It's early evening and Sabine is pink around her faded freckles when she emerges from the tavern, having started a little early in order to be best make herself scarce when it all gets a bit rowdier, manlier, humaner. It isn't wholly necessary, but more instinctual, and her spirits are relatively high as she steps out onto the battlements.

She is holding the lidded tankard she brought with her for the purposes of filling it with fragrant beer upon leaving again, and she holds this at a loose hover as she hops along the stone. She is dressed simply, practical and beskirted but not entirely servantly, some character and sturdiness about the sleeves, the cut of her neckline, the touches of wooden jewellery.

With a sharp turn and a flap of woollen skirt, she propels herself around a corner, and stops short upon half-running into someone, beer sloshing heavily in hand.

[trouvaille]

"Excuse me," comes the somewhat affronted 'greeting' from 'someone' - perhaps not an unfamiliar someone, in the shape of her mouth and eyes unusually bare of the Orlesian masks, the way that she twitches her skirts with her fingers as she steps sharply and suddenly backwards to avoid the slosh of what is undoubtedly cheap Fereldan pig-swill. In this elf girl's handling of it she can find fault only in that it might spill on her, because Maker knows it hardly warrants being treated with any respect on its own dubious merits, and it smells appalling--

Her eyes narrow as her chin lifts and she studies said clumsy elf girl down the length of her aristocratic nose.

"I know you," she says, abruptly. "Don't I."

[glandival]

Whoops. Sabine hefts the tankard a little higher, a hand touching its base to inspect the run off -- fortunately, only a little has escaped, but what doesn't escape is notice that she is definitely more concerned with the state of her beer as opposed to anyone saying 'excuse me' in that inflection.

But inevitably, she looks over, and isn't shy as to her expression as her nose wrinkles and she squints, recognition slapping her in the face at about the same time.

"Lady Vauquelin," she says, before she can say no. This is probably where she should bow her head and shuffle aside, but her hand only grips her drink tighter as she gazes at Gwen directly, and then up and down as if frisking her for clues. "You were not here for the soiree."

Which means: what are you doing here now?

[trouvaille]

Gwenaëlle doesn't fight her rising irritation, watching Sabine prioritize that vile drink over her dignity (probably, she thinks uncharitably, because she has so little experience with dignity to know how to properly respect it). She hides her clenching hands in the folds of her gown, because she is very familiar with her own dignity and what is and is not appropriately ladylike.

A lady doesn't fly into a rage at the drop of a hat, just because some - some -

Well, a lady just doesn't. She can hear the Comtesse's voice in the back of her mind, so her jaw tightens and she doesn't say the first several things to come to mind, finally settling on,

"I was not," in a bored tone of voice that does not suggest she intends to explain herself to the likes of Sabine. "How astutely observed."

[lifeofendurance]

Emeric had written ahead that little Gwenaëlle would be traveling to Skyhold with an escort. He'd been rather vague about the reasons why and Aleron never felt it was his place to inquire. For that matter, he still remains in surprise that any of Mirielle's family should bother to keep in touch as they have. Some few of them did express aloud the blame that he's placed on his own shoulders: he should have known better. Most did not and were profuse in their sympathies and kindnesses. Even years after the fact, when he'd requested to be transferred away to give them the space to grieve, they continue to write and tell him of their families.

Little Gwen should be arriving any day now and Aleron hasn't the foggiest how she's grown up. It seems an impossible task to stay on constant watch for her arrival, not knowing the precise day of arrival, nor knowing how to recognize her when she comes. So he stays busy, keeping to his routine, though he frequently breaks with it to check the gates for new arrivals.

At the moment, he is engaged with pouring over the stacks in the library. For once he is not in his armor, but in a sharp embroidered tunic in blue and silver, sent from his mother. It's no secret (even to Aleron) that Marlie is determined to thrust her son forward under her family's banner, since the Darton one is so squarely set on his twin. He doesn't care for the machinations of Mother, but being a practical man, does not mind making use of solid clothing of quality make.

[trouvaille]

The only reliable way Emeric has ever discovered to keep Gwenaëlle out of his affairs or generally from interfering in something he wishes to accomplish is simply to not let her know of it; she would have objected, quite likely, to his writing to Aleron. On what basis - he couldn't say. Gwenaëlle, if she were compelled to think about it, as she's about to be, probably couldn't say either, but nevertheless, if she thinks about it, then: yes. She probably would have objected, maybe just on principle. Maybe just because she's objected to literally everything involved in the decision - also one she was locked out of - to send her to the Inquisition, and why not add one more thing to upset her?

Emeric has always detested upsetting his daughter.

So she isn't expecting Aleron, when she sees him - and he has changed less, since the last she saw him. He had been a man grown when she was still small enough to want to sit in Mirielle's lap and play with her new jewelry; her first thought, when she catches sight of that distinctive profile, is that he's smaller than she remembers. First of all, it's probably that she's bigger, and second of all - well, the sentiment might not survive his standing up. She never grew very tall.

He looks a bit more Orlesian than she remembers, too, but that will be his mother's influence, probably.

Self-conscious of her new scars in a way she hadn't been a moment ago, she wishes she'd brought a shawl to the library - brushes the thought aside with disgust a moment later, forcing her steps forward until she can join him by the shelves. Much has changed, but not those huge, solemn dark eyes; she studies him as if she's examining the time that's passed between them, and then says,

"No, I definitely remember you taller."

[lifeofendurance]

The sound of an unfamiliar voice so close grabs the Seeker's attention and he looks up to identify the source. It gnaws at him that he doesn't know the voice, but he feels as though he does. Same for the very lovely, albeit young, face before him.

Frankly, he's staring while attempting to put the pieces together.

There are some aspects of one's life that never truly fades from memory. One such instance being the rather precious cousin of Mirielle's with the huge eyes that they both doted on. Little Gwenaëlle was one of the reasons his wife has been so insistent that she wanted little ones of her own, despite all the cautions that had been given to the contrary. The connection clicks for him. It's her.

It's rather like the stunning response he'd had at seeing his sisters after decades away from home. No longer babes in arms, but women grown. Why do the womenfolk do this anyway? Grow up and give him frightful worries about their welfare and safety. He now feels... very old.

"Little Gwen? Maker, look at you..." It's her. He's absolutely certain. Rising to his feet, he takes hold of both her hands and warmly faire en bise each of her cheeks. "You've become a lovely lady."

[trouvaille]

"You've become an old man," she protests, laughing, pleased in spite of herself by the sudden display of affection and returning the greeting; so many years removed, and so young when she'd known them, it's easy to think perhaps he only tolerated the little thing laying in his wife's lap. He is the more reserved. But, no, here they are - he calls her little Gwen and kisses her cheeks and calls her lovely. It isn't the worst greeting she's ever had -

It is rather better than most she's found in Skyhold so far.

"I should protect my cheeks from being pinched," she says, her lips quirking, touching her thumb to his nose lightly. (Boop.) "You are a grandfather in a younger man's costume. Little Gwen, indeed."

Well, she isn't very tall. It isn't as if it's not still accurate.