Discretion?

[magistermaevaris]

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.

Comments

[liberalum]

"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.

[magistermaevaris]

“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.

[liberalum]

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."