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

[trouvaille]

This time, when she laughs, it isn't so harsh a sound; it isn't that she can't be so prickly and unreasonable as to take offense at someone else's edge when they've already tolerated her company and her attitude in spite of getting poked in their tender places, it's just that ... you know, sometimes she isn't. Gwenaëlle being friendly looks confusingly similar to Gwenaëlle thinking about the different ways a human body can be broken down for parts, the differences subtle and mercurial.

"No - why would anyone who lives here need to know what it's like? And if I start writing about their inner sanctums, I absolutely will not get permission. No; make my observations and then share them. I've a publisher in Orlais. It wouldn't be a great difficulty to send manuscripts."

A potentially very useful resource for an Inquisition beset by rumours and in need of support, and a potential source of profit for Gwenaëlle, too. Or for the Inquisition, she supposes, if they insist or if she decides she's feeling exceptionally gracious.

She isn't feeling so gracious that she dignifies that inquiry about the shard.

[nonsibi]

"All the way in Orlais." He shakes his head in disappointment. "So we don't get the benefit of your observations, just because we're not Orlesian. Typical. We're here living it, yeah, but depending on how it's written? We're going to want to read it. If it's funny especially. Unless it's going to be some dry report, or just empy propaganda. Then I guess I wouldn't bother reading it no matter where it was published."

Throwing around 'a publisher in Orlais' isn't your everyday thing, but she's a lady of Orlais. Even if an occupation like writing isn't quite typical of ladies, it's a path that makes a certain amount of sense. More probable than just anybody getting a publishing deal in Orlais.

Bellamy leans his elbow on his knee and puts his chin in his hand, considering Lady Gwenaëlle like this, with a look to indicate he's measuring her up. (Again--a little more pleasantly this time, and a great deal more sarcastically. This is mostly for a joke.)

"If you've got a publisher, you've been published before," he guesses, which is not a totally subtle conclusion to draw. "What's your style?"

[trouvaille]

"A manuscript published in Orlais has legs," she says, primly. "I'm sure that there's nothing stopping anyone in Skyhold from reading it, I only don't see why they would, especially if I've got to mind my words."

If. If she gets permission, that will go without saying; on the other hand, if the advisors deny her...well, they're going to save the world, supposedly, much too busy to stand over her writing desk and ensure she doesn't write anything and, say, keep it to herself for the time being. She'd quite like to envision a world in which she hasn't got to live in Skyhold with the fucking Inquisition, and in that markedly less rift-bothering future, she might perhaps share her significantly less edited version of accounts as a complete work.

But that's a thought she doesn't feel the need to voice - Bellamy is likable (...that might be news to other people who've met him), but Gwenaëlle isn't going to assume that means he wouldn't tell Ambassador Montilyet that she's trouble at the first hint it might serve him to do so. And she isn't, anyway, she's just - observant. In ways that some people might find inconvenient or rude. Sometimes.

"My father is a patron of the arts. I write about the works and the artists for him, sometimes. I suppose my style is 'truthful'."

True. Not the full truth, but a convenient one when she has absolutely no intention of outing her pseudonym without a tight leash.

(And if he thinks by 'truthful' she might mean 'someone did once cry', he's been paying attention.)

[nonsibi]

Considering her approach to tending his wound, Bellamy can absolutely guess at what she means by 'truthful'. Her truth probably came barbed, and honed to murderous points. More than sufficient enough to make artists cry.

Which is why he smiles.

"Hey, when that manuscript makes it back here from Orlais, on its legs, you can help me read between your polite lines." It's a kind of request. Maybe he's supposed to ask more nicely, with more flourishing, but if they're talking about truth, plain speech seems easiest. "Benefit of having you around is, you can tell me what you really meant. If it gets published."

Maybe when. Women who are so very self-possessed can usually get what they want. Women with connections, even more so.

"I never read much art critique. But I've always preferred the truth."

[trouvaille]

Tellingly, she doesn't take the time to dispute his if; she smiles at him, polished and untrustworthy, knowing. When. Now or however long it takes her to disentangle herself from this mess-- and if it's that, she abruptly decides, she will make a point of ensuring he receives a copy of his very own. She'll have to find out his full name and where on earth he's from between then and now, but these are details for later. She is as utterly confident in her ability to do it as she is in the inevitability of getting her way.

So she'll be vexed if he dies first.

"People often say," she says, in the tone of slightly critical observation. "A little more rare they actually mean it."

[nonsibi]

She's not wrong about that, in the very general. Nor is she wrong to be suspicious of how much Bellamy means it. People often say a lot. That's part of his problem with people.

Which means he meets her observation without flinching. "I've heard a lot of nice lies." He shrugs, one shouldered. Not much bothered, which might suggest that somewhere in the very recent past he was very bothered, but has taught himself not to be, or learned not to be. Or maybe his shrug is just a shrug. "And a lot of shitty lies, too. I prefer the truth to either of those. And I actually mean that."

Stress on the actually, mimicking her tone. He smiles, dryly, to show that there should be no hard feelings.

"I think I can take reading a few honest truths about the Inquisition. Hell, I think I'll enjoy it."

[trouvaille]

"That, I believe." He definitely seems like he'd enjoy it.

And the critical tone that lingers is softened - or just differently edged - by the playful way she pushes her shoulder against his before she rises, dusting off her skirts absently and ineffectively. (The worst of it is really at the hem, and there is neither anything she can do about that now nor indeed any inclination in her to fuss over it immediately. Katell will sigh over it, later, but they haven't the sort of mistress-and-maid relationship as to invite familiar scolding; Gwenaëlle in all probability hasn't had any kind of scolding and certainly not any earnest dressing down since the late Comtesse's passing.)

"What is your name? I don't believe you gave it."

Nor did she give hers, but in fairness, she's usually introduced by someone else. It's the done thing. Skyhold is all manner of new experiences.