faderift | Discretion?

Entry tags:

Discretion?

WHO: Maevaris Tilani and YOU.
WHAT: Maevaris finally reaches Skyhold.
WHEN: Third week of Harvestmere
WHERE: A large spectacle of a tent that she has set up in the Courtyard; Around Skyhold In General
NOTES: Maevaris can be found all over Skyhold after her arrival, so feel free to wildcard me! Points of interest would be the tavern, library, or great hall. Prose or brackets are fine.

If there is one inconvenience to be associated with nobility, it is formality. Everything is a process. What should be a simple decision can take months of planning and preparation and considering the opinions of anyone and everyone of importance. Maevaris making the choice to journey to Skyhold is no exception, and by the time she is set to arrive, there is a mountain’s worth of paperwork that documents every detail of her departure. Appropriate, given that her final destination is an actual mountain.

Letters upon more letters are exchanged, bags upon more bags are packed, and once she is as sure as she can be that her affairs at home have been left in capable hands, she leaves with an entourage fitting of her station. The journey is long and at least mildly cumbersome, by her standards, though even that comes to an end eventually. Formalities and travel times be damned, she makes it. The Inquisition is going to experience the awe and wonder that is Maevaris Tilani, yet.

There are no trumpets announcing her entrance, nor is there a red carpet paving her way. She is followed by a host of people carrying her belongings, but the event appears to be otherwise average in nature. It is nightfall when her company settles in, and they quickly make themselves scarce, working away on something by the light of the moon in an empty corner of the grounds. All in all, it is not nearly as flashy an arrival as one might expect from a magister of her reputation.

By the light of day, her living quarters tell another story.

A large, tucked away section of the Skyhold courtyard that was previously unused is now home to a tent. A giant, gaudy tent, draped in expensive fabrics and immediately offensive to the eye. One that is intimately familiar with Tevinter may note that the style is distinctly reflective of the country, the shapes and colors mirroring their current trends of high fashion. Anyone else is likely to have any number of impressions, ranging from the structure being one of magnificence and beauty to something that is utterly cringe-worthy. One fact remains a constant: It commands attention. The flash is now in full effect.

For those seeking an audience with the mysterious tent’s owner that wish to be polite, there is a bell hanging from a tassel at the entrance that is just waiting to be rung. For those with less manners—or perhaps less of an eye for details—there does not appear to be anything stopping them from barging right on in.

For all its ornaments and imposing presence, it is only a tent, after all.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

How could you not go investigate something like that? It was just... so shiny and colorful and way out of place. Kas had heard it had something to do with an visiting noble, but no noble he had ever seen had things like that.

So he hangs around near it, trying to get a good look of who owns the tent and maybe see what's inside. A princess? A general? The arishok? Who knew.

The owner does emerge, in time. How could it be anyone but, wearing feathers and jewels and such a lovely shade of blue? She has a clipboard in hand, and her attention seems divided between it and the messenger following her that she is in mid-conversation with.

“I understand it is not a decision to be made lightly, but it is not one I can make for them. They must choose for themselves. And soon, before the weather renders such a decision null. That will be all.”

The messenger bows and leaves following a wave of Maevaris’ hand. The magister resumes looking down at her clipboard. Looks up as a certain someone catches her eye. Looks back down, back up, gears turning—And then she lowers her arms, the board left dangling by her side in one hand and the other planted firmly on her waist. She nods in Kas’ direction.

“Can I help you?”

Wow. Don't mind him, his eyes are on the floor and his face way too flushed. That was... a really, really pretty woman in all fanciness, and here he's been a jerk, stalking around her tent.

"Um..." Right, words. How did one use those, again? The teen wasn't quite sure any more. "I was just... curious. Ma'am."

At least that was honest. What was she? She didn't look like any of the nobles he'd seen before, with their masks or furs or strange fashions. This was completely different.

"I'm sorry to disturb you!"

“That’s only natural. You don’t see something like this every day.” Maevaris finds all the bumbling awkwardness incredibly charming, and it shows as she laughs lightheartedly, waving his apology off. “No need for apologies, young man. I should really be thanking you, saving me from more serious matters such as you have.”

With a flourishing bow, she is quick to answer his unasked question. No need for him to voice it, when it’s written all over his face. She doubts he would be willingly talking to her if he knew of her identity beforehand, at any rate. Perhaps he’s too young to spot the signs. Give him time. “Magister Maevaris Tilani, at your service.”

Oh no, she was a nice noble. That's... really weird. Kas isn't sure what to think, mildly enchanted by her laugh and the bow and all the prettiness. It reminded him a bit of the talk he had with Varric and the battle Empress.

There's a little gasp as Mae tells the teen her name, and he looks somewhere between intrigued and worried. A magister? Weren't they horrible blood mages that kept slaves and fought the qunari? He'd heard a lot of bad things in his kith and here.

"Oh," he squeaks, not quite sure how to deal with this. "You're... um... okay. Are you here to see the other magister?" That would be Dorian, but he's never met the man, only heard the people talk about him. Apparently he was corrupting the Herald or something.

“No. Well— Yes, but that’s not the only reason I’m here.” Maevaris doesn’t bother to correct him that Dorian is not a magister, not technically. That’s who she assumes he’s talking about, anyway. If there was another magister here, she is sure she’d know of it. Explanations of the class differences in Tevinter are rarely grasped by outsiders, and on the off chance they are, they are usually ignored in favor of blanket terms. She still corrects those that should know better, but she’ll spare the teen a lecture.

Her explanation is considered in a similar vein. Overcomplicating things will get her nowhere. Oversimpflying will only make him feel coddled. Even so, better to start easy and work her way up as needed over getting lost in the details.

“I’m here to keep my fellow countrymen from making a very stupid mistake. And to rectify one that’s already been made.”

He would probably be very grateful if he knew he'd been spared a lecture, because noble stuff really flew over his head anyway and it would just have been frustrating for the both of them in the end. As it was, the teen nods sagely at her explanation. It made sense.

Even more appreciated would have been the fine line between coddling and over-complicating. It seemed Mae had a good head on her shoulders when it came to prideful teens stumbling over their tongues to speak yet carrying far too much pride in their small bodies.

"You mean the Elder One? And the Venatori people?" People talked, but he honestly had little knowledge about just what they were beyond 'Corypheus' and bad things. Tevinter, people said. It was all Tevinter's fault.

"I've never heard of a noble lady to travel so far and come help with things. You must be very brave."

Maevaris was a prideful teenager, too, once upon a time. She still carries that pride with her, but she’s matured over the years, grown into it. As Kas undoubtedly will himself, if given the chance. Empathy in this regard is not difficult to conjure, nor is her impressed expression when he quickly comes to the right conclusion. There’s a certain naïveté about him that makes it difficult to gauge how much he might know, and Mae draws comfort from having apparently made the right call.

“Correct. They pose a threat to everyone, not just the South. I wish more of my people understood that...” She glances down briefly before shaking her head. She’s not going to entertain that train of thought, not right now. “Nonetheless, I will do what I can to stem the tide. It is the least I can do.”

Tevinter is easy to blame. And often deserving of it, true— There is no disputing that. The country’s reputation has made Maevaris’ reception a mixed one, and the kind and unassuming words of the Qunari boy catch her off guard and make her laugh warmly again.

“Bravery is one of the more positive words you could use, yes. I’ll take it. A nice change from all the negativity I’ve heard. How very thoughtful of you.”

Oh no, now he's blushing again. Stupid hormones and pretty women. Rubbing the back of his head somewhat awkwardly, Kas manages an uncertain smile. He had a thousand questions for this woman, but he also knew who he was. What he was.

That she was even speaking to him was a surprise in itself, and he didn't want to jinx that. How many former street kids could say they had a civil discussion with a noble lady that didn't treat him like an idiot or spit after him?

Very few.

"I'm glad some from your homeland are here to help. There more there are, the less it looks like all of the place is bad. Then maybe there won't be a war or something just because people hold a grudge." All he ever heard was that Tevinter was bad, after all. Now that some people from the place was responsible for so much death and chaos, it seemed like it screamed for war.

That just meant more people like him and he's not okay with that. It's why he's here, too. To change things, to be something.

"Will you be fighting, too? Like... actually killing things?" Kas makes an awkward gesture that may, with imagination, be mimicking casting a spell.

Alright, the tent has her amazed and a little curious. Korrin's already met one she believes to be the inhabitant, given the Tevinter design and gaudiness. Who else could it be but the charming, impeccably-dressed magister she met the other night? Though there were other things she could be doing with her time, the Vashoth mage told herself that she had earned a break. More and more of Skyhold is rising to inhabitable standards and she's played no small part in that. So why not take a moment to socialize and see how the magister is settling in?

With that justification, Korrin approaches the tent once she's had a moment to absorb it in all its glory. Spotting the bell and deciding that it would be more polite than just calling out, she rings it.

“Finally, someone with manners— Come in, come in! I was beginning to think that Fereldans have a bias against bells. Too dainty for their tastes.”

Maevaris is sitting on an appropriately decorative couch when Korrin enters. Her hands are occupied, one with a letter and the other with a magnifying glass. Both are abandoned when her guest is spotted, however, and she sets them down onto a small pile of envelopes on the ground next to the couch. Her face lights up as she stands, both surprised and delighted by her company.

“Korrin! I see your streak of defying expectations continues. I am so pleased. To see you in a place where I can hear my own thoughts makes it all the sweeter.”

There are a few chairs set about in addition to the couch, if Korrin so chooses to take a seat. The interior is as lavish as the outside suggests, full of furniture that seems like it would be better suited to a castle.

"I guess it helps that I'm not Fereldan, then." Korrin flashes a smile as she enters, taking care not to knock aside anything or otherwise disturb the lavish within the tent. It's far more lavish than Korrin could ever imagine having for herself, but it suits the magister perfectly, that much is clear.

She'll take a seat after a good look around, since one didn't set up a tent like this without the expectation that it be admired. "I didn't think to ask where you'd set up in Skyhold, earlier, but upon seeing the exterior, I knew it had to be yours. Nothing else would do, would it?"

“It most certainly does.” Maevaris smirks and inflects in a way that implies that helps with much more than bells, without her having to say so. That would just make it tasteless. “Where are you from? I never did ask.”

When Korrin makes no immediate move for the couch, the magister takes it as a sign to stretch her legs out over most of its length. Her arms frame the back of it, and she rolls her shoulders idly as she settles into her new position. “This is only temporary, believe it or not. I’m overseeing the repairs of one of Skyhold’s many ruined towers. That will be my eventual home away from home. But, for now... I suppose this will do.”

Maevaris looks about the tent herself as if she’s only now affirming the quality, before eventually settling her gaze on Korrin. “Can I get you anything?”

"You know, I'm tired of the local brews. If you brought something native to your own lands, I'd be open to trying it." For all that Korrin's traveled nearly every other part of Thedas, she's never actually been to Tevinter itself. Not past the border, anyway. So it's always held some sort of exotic flare for her, which Maevaris is doing nothing to discourage given both her attire and the furnishings of the tent.

"I'm a Marcher, more or less. Getting more specific than that isn't easy, not when I've always been on the road. I suppose if you really want a specific place, it might be Ostwick now, just for having relatives near it." Korrin shrugs, not having any issue with Ostwick but she hardly has a hometown fondness for it.

She flashes a grin as the image of Maevaris in a tower is not hard to imagine at all. "I can see you as a tower sort of person. You can't come to Skyhold and not take advantage of the magnificent view."

“Of course I have something native! What kind of magister do you take me for?” Maevaris feigns offense, sinking into the couch cushions as if she is taken aback before she laughs it off. “You’ll have to be more specific than that. Do you want something mild and pleasant, or something stronger? You strike me as the strong type, but it’s only polite to ask.”

She nods along to Korrin’s explanation, nonchalantly tapping her fingers on the back of the couch. For all her dramatics, she does look genuinely interested. “Can’t say I’m much familiar with the Marches. I’m not awfully fond of travelling often. I like to put down roots.” Yet here she is, situated in the South. Will the irony never cease? She pauses, as if to soak it in. “Do you like it? Life on the road? Or do you only do it out of necessity?”

An arm is bent at the elbow so Maevaris can examine her nails. “The view is nice... If you like mountains. I like the height. Something about towering over others...” She looks over her hand to stare directly at Korrin, chin tilted upwards. That smirk still hasn’t left. “It’s very empowering.”

That provokes a throaty laugh from Korrin, who no doubt can understand something about appreciating heights. "Fair enough. I admit, it has its uses; intimidating those who deserve it, impressing others. Sure, it can be isolating, but there are perks." If you're going to be different, why not revel in it? At least that's Korrin's way of thinking, as she's long ago gotten over any awkwardness about standing out.

She leans back, shrugging as she mulls over the questions asked. "I've never known anything else. To me, it'd be weird to stay in one place for very long. It is what it is. Though if there is lasting change for Vashoth and mage alike in the South, we'll see. I'm not a Circle mage, as you might have guessed, so it's not as though staying put anywhere for long was ever a great idea."

Whether they would even bother with Vashoth is another idea, but Korrin's not going to give them the chance, if the Circles ever return. Oh, right, drinks. "And you're not wrong, something stronger is fine with me. Most human brews honestly don't affect me much unless I'm actually trying to become intoxicated, so I'm not worried about that."

Up until right that moment Varric had never been bothered by an actual lack of literal fanfare. Between the repairs to Skyhold, everyone running around, and the ever-present and increasingly murderous tension, a guy in tights with a trumpet would have been both amusing and helpful. (Were tights in season in Minrathous? They were in Orlais, but Tevinter was hot enough that pants probably weren't in season.) As it was, Varric didn't notice Mae's arrival, not until the following morning. He was just getting some bread and butter for breakfast when he spotted Mae's tent.

And he knew it was her tent because there was, absolutely and definitively, no other person who would travel to the ass end of Thedas with a tent like that.

He made a beeline for it, breakfast in hand, and immediately wrote off any work he thought he was going to get done this morning. He saw the bell, of course, but Varric didn't bother ringing it. Despite the opulent nature of Mae's portable lodgings, (and the general atmosphere of potential murder,) the Inquisition was not a fancy party and not ringing the bell let him announce himself.

"Please tell me you just got here," Varric said loudly as he strolled into the tent, confident that it probably had (a very small but appropriately posh) foyer of some kind. He wasn't shouting but he was definitely speaking at a volume that was hard to ignore. "If this has been here for more than a day and I didn't notice, I'm going to have to get new glasses."

Unfortunately for her fashionable sensibilities, a proper foyer proved to be impossible with the amount of furniture she brought along. The most she could manage was a narrow hallway of sorts, adorned with a long rug that leads the way to an upscale sitting room. She is elsewhere in her maze of a tent when her favorite cousin arrives, though she does not remain so for long, not with an announcement like his.

“Varric,” Maevaris proudly exclaims as she sweeps into the room and quickly envelops him in a hug. Were they in public, her reaction would be less intimate, more restrained— But in public they are not, and so Varric receives the brunt end of her affection. No need for formalities in the privacy of her own tent. “You’re in luck. I only arrived late last night. Your glasses will live to see the light of another day.”

She pries herself away to hold him at arm’s length, a hand on each shoulder. His fistful of bread has not escaped her notice, and she raises an eyebrow curiously while she addresses him further. “Have you come to join me for breakfast, or are you only here to chastise me over not finding you sooner? A girl needs her beauty sleep, you know.”

When Dorian gets to the entrance of the tent, he spies the bell easily, and sets it ringing with a sharp flick of his fingers, nail to metal.

For the novelty of it more than manners, but it all shakes out to be about the same, and besides, they both each deserve a reunion and entrance on their own terms. He smartly steps back, and twists a glance over his shoulder at the courtyard at large. He hadn't seen fit to hang back for a very long time upon learning of her arrival, but he had selected the hour of his visit with care. Avoiding when Maevaris was suffering the lesser company of another, although indicative of her letters, Dorian suspects she has more friends here already than he began with.

The one he'd made is dead already, but others have since warmed to him. And of course, there is Felix.

Poor Felix.

Dorian arrived in Skyhold with substantially less than an entourage and his own tent, but he's still dug up something of a welcome present; a bottle of West Hill brandy is held by the neck in one hand. Despite roughing it for the last however long, he is pristinely and precisely groomed, comfortable in his light-weight armor that suits a Tevinter climate better than the cold mountains, if far more practical than some of the old court fashions of years ago. His hands are clean of the dust they accumulate in the library.

Maevaris has been entertaining guests since she first woke up this morning. New and old faces alike, come to gawk or complain or do business or some combination thereof. It’s a reaction she fully anticipated, nay, invited, making a spectacle such as she has. One does not wave a colorful flag in a sea of dull shades of gray in hopes of flying under the radar. For all her open invitations, it does not make the process any less taxing, and her enthusiasm has begun to wane slightly by the time Dorian makes his appearance. There’s no exuberant offer to walk right on in as he rings the bell. Instead—

“A moment, if you please,” is heard from inside, accompanied by the sounds of shuffling feet. Maevaris sounds ever the gracious host, though there is a hint of fatigue to her words, if you squint. A few moments more and the fabric of the tent parts, revealing one (1) magister. Her eyes positively light up when she recognizes just who is visiting this time, and Dorian’s presence seems to be enough to invigorate her. “Dorian! Well, now I feel a fool for making you wait. In this cold, no less! I don’t know how you stand it.” It is not nearly so cold inside Skyhold as it is outside of it. This does not stop Maevaris from complaining in the least.

She holds open the bolt of cloth that serves as the entrance of the tent, motioning for him to enter. “Come inside, now, before we both wither away. It’s a real risk, out here, I swear it.”

"I enter a state of disassociation every time I step outside," Dorian assures, flatly humourous, swishing his way inside the tent without so much as a second glance backwards. "Couldn't tell you why, what with it being nearly so cold on the inside as it is out."

Once their delicate sensibilities are safely removed from the Abject Bitter Cold of the sun-warmed courtyard, he greets her more familiarly with a peck to the cheek, a hand resting feather-light on her arm before it takes flight again.

"It's good to see you. And your accommodations, livening up the place. I've brought something to fend off the worst of the perpetual winter."

The bottle of West Hill is offered for her to take and inspect.

“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working. You look as dashing as the last time I saw you. I was half expecting to find you covered in mud. Never have I been more glad to be wrong.”

With the offensive courtyard no longer a concern as she follows Dorian inside, Maevaris turns her attention to more pressing matters. Namely, her guest and his thoughtful housewarming (tentwarming?) gift. First, a friendly squeeze of the arm before he pulls away. There is no escaping her endearment. Next, the bottle is plucked from his hands, examined at length as a pleasantly surprised smile creeps up Maevaris’ face.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” She makes a show of holding the bottle at arm’s length to emphasize her first statement before quickly clutching it to her chest to accentuate the next. “No, that’s a lie. You should have. And you did! Surely fortune smiles upon me on this day.”

Maevaris prowls the tent like a fox, the mischievous tilt of her head and quirk of her brow only adding to the imagery. “Shall we open this now, or wait for the sun to set like sensible adults?” It’s always 5 o’clock somewhere. Or perhaps not, in Thedas. It’s the thought that counts.

Dorian follows her lead, finding a place to sit, which he does, a leg kicked jaunty over the other knee in his recline. He's allowing Maevaris to play hostess, seeing as he's secured the liquor. Musing; "If you'd have run into me when I first arrived in the south, I might have been. The mud is very hard to avoid. But one can make even mud dashing, in a pinch.

"As for sensible adulthood, there's no one about to necessitate such a façade. Please, dear lady, if you'd be so good."

Comfortable all at once in these surroundings, he relaxes in ways he hadn't noticed he was tense. All this old wood and old stone and suspicion and biting winds have that wearing affect on a man. "I will say that the south has some fine liquor to recommend it, and that brandy bears a close resemblance. Still, it does burn the chill from one's bones."

That tent being spotted by the resident Soporati was, all in all, quite inevitable, and more than that, if looks could kill, Krem's could have set that tent on fire. Nothing against Maeveris herself, but if there was one thing he was almost certain he could expect from someone that put something so godawful in their own corner of the courtyard, it was someone expecting to be waited on hand and foot. Obviously. That was what Tevinter magisters all tended to want.

He was being unfair. Perhaps this was one of those rare sorts that believed in what they were doing here. One of those magisters that would go out of their way to manufacture dirt-cheap clothes for the downtrodden. The fabled Good Tevinter, so to speak.

So here he was, sitting outside of the Herald's Rest, with an eye on the massive tent, arms crossed and eyes narrowed and just waiting for the tent's owner to show themselves.

When Maevaris finally shows herself, she is alone. This is somewhat of a rarity, as Krem would probably notice from keeping a watchful eye on the tent for so long. People have been coming and going from the tent since early morning, some staying for nary a minute and others for hours. With the bulk of her business apparently done for the day, she is finally heading to the tavern for some well-earned rest and relaxation. Whether that’s a reflection of how well (or how poorly) things have gone remains up for interpretation.

For how long the day has stretched on, it does not show on her face. She carries herself with as much poise as she ever has, her expression serene and thoughtful.

... Up until Krem’s death glare crosses her path, that is. Once she sees that, her lips twitch in amusement as she tilts her chin to get a good look at him. She stops in place, loosely crosses her own arms in a mirror of his position, though hers are far more at ease.

“Relax, darling. If you keep that up for much longer, you’re going to wrinkle that handsome face of yours.”

Maevaris looked flawless when she emerged, and it only intensified his suspicion. Krem's tension only drew tighter when she approached.

"What does Tevinter want here?" he asked, keeping his voice low and quiet, wanting to avoid making a scene. He would likely be seen as the antagonist in such a scenario, which...well. Wouldn't be entirely inaccurate, he supposed. "We were all under the impression that the Imperium had no interest in a small organization slaying demons in the South."

“I don’t believe I’m of the position to know the wants of an entire country. That would be a question better suited for the Archon, I think.” A bold retort, given Krem’s less than kind expression. If it intimidates her, her face makes no indication of it. She looks cool as a cucumber, only shining further in the presence of pressure.

Her coy smile does fade, however, if only so she can project a more serious air as she taps her foot and forges on ahead. “But you’re right. The Imperium has its sights set elsewhere. The Venatori, on the other hand, do not. It is a problem. One I am here to correct.”

"You. Against the entire force of the Venatori?" Krem's skepticism is written all over his face. But if this woman wants to try, more power to her. "The Magisterium is still focused on throwing men against the qunari and one just shows up here to combat a cult set up by another magister. Forgive me if I'm not exactly the most accepting of this whole...thing" He waves a hand at it, still looking sour. He'd keep his nose out of it unless he had no other choice but to be involved, let her do as she wished, but it isn't going to stop him right in this moment from being suspicious.

“Not just me, I hope. I was of the impression that the Inquisition didn’t tolerate that blasted cult, either. Or has that changed since my arrival? I am not here under jurisdiction of the Magisterium, so that would be most unfortunate.” The good humor Maevaris has been so steadily supplying is fading fast. It is not easy to discourage her, but Krem has managed to hit something of a sore spot. She does not look hurt so much as she does unimpressed, her eyes narrowing just so, her head held higher.

“Acceptance is not something I’ve ever found to be given freely. It is something I’ve had to fight for every day since I was...” A slight pause as Maevaris shifts uncomfortably and clears her throat. “Young. So you’ll forgive me if I dismiss your suspicion in favor of going about my day.”

"Not just you, except you would be the only one here to offer anything at all. That's what's wrong here," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead then kneading his fingers into his temple. "If they're even remotely concerned, why haven't we heard more than a derisive snort from anyone besides...well, yourself, and Pavus?" More than his frustration with her, he's just frustrated at all of it, and even if she is impressing upon him that, ok, a good magister does exist, it's just one in the face of how many more that would sooner see them all die out?

The commentary and dismissal catch his attention, and he has to take a moment to parse that. The furrow of his brow this time is less aggravation and more subtle disbelief. But this is neither the time, nor place to ask anything personal, not of someone he'd already done a very good job making an ass of himself in front of.

Finally he just slouches an inch, his hand coming to rest on his hip as he gestures at the courtyard in general. "D'you need any help getting around here? I can at least offer directions to wherever you were headed before."

“Of that, we are in agreement. Most magisters see fit to either take advantage of the South’s weakness or ignore the situation entirely. They think themselves safe. They are wrong. With any luck, I will be able to convince them otherwise. Until then, I refuse to sit idly by when I could be making a difference here.”

The state of their home country’s affairs is enough to frustrate anyone. Save for those that do nothing but benefit from them, arguably, though even they long for days of glory that have long since passed. Among them, looking to the future is blasphemous. Good thing that blasphemy is something Maevaris excels in. Better yet that her words look to have broken through Krem’s defenses. She’ll take the small victories where she can.

Her edges soften slightly when he concedes to civility, but they do not disappear. It’s too soon for that. Voice yielding yet stern, Maevaris leans back a bit as she flicks her eyes from Krem’s head down to his feet, almost incredulous of his offer.

“I was going to the tavern. I believed a drink in the public’s eye would lift my spirits. Now I’m having second thoughts.”

"Men in there might be on edge, not all that inclined to be friendly," Krem points out with a mild grimace. Whatever he might have thought upon realization that they had a magister here, they weren't exactly likely to be all that forgiving after speaking with her. He stands still for the look she's giving him, casting her a sideways sort of grimace.

He picks some at his nails, glancing back at the tavern door. "Could grab a couple of bottles. I thought about going in for another pint, anyway."

Among the people staring (because there are a number) is one small, unkempt Dalish elf. It's a sort of side-eye. She is clearly judging whoever set this huge tent up for one person. She pulls a couple of people aside and asks if this is the Empress of Orlais or something, but no. It's a lone magister. Taking up huge amounts of courtyard space. Just for herself.

The fuck does she think she is?

The owner of the tent ends up being as difficult to spot as the tent itself. Which is to say: Not at all. If her ensemble wasn’t enough to give Maevaris away, the way she carries herself is. The way her shoulders are held back, her chin held high, her every footstep measured and her gaze calculated as she scrutinizes her surroundings. These are small enough details on their own, simple to ignore or overlook with only the one present. Add them all together and they make her status easy to glean from a glance. She looks like she floats above it all. She looks important. Or, perhaps more accurately, she looks like she thinks she’s important.

All of this and more is made evident when she exits the tent and catches wind of the onlookers, locking eyes with the lot of them. Her stare is enough to make most of them scatter. Pel, most noticeably, does not. Admirable. The elf’s conviction is rewarded with Maevaris approaching, her hands clasped in front of her navel as she does so. It comes off very noble and overly polite, which is realistically only likely to agitate Pel further.

“Is something wrong, dear?”

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Discretion?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Sorry so late!

no subject