maybe cats will take over when we all die. that's a nice thought.

[apostasia]

WHO: Martel + Merrill (closed)
WHAT: If Merrill won't go to the ball, the ball will go to Merrill.
WHEN: backdated to late night after Vivienne and Josephine's soiree.
WHERE: A Skyhold balcony.
NOTES: Saccharine fucking cuteness.

Having spent the better part of the evening discreetly having various delicacies smuggled out of the party by various amenable parties, when Martel parts from Adelaide as the soiree begins to break up, he speaks quietly with a few of the servers to make the last few arrangements. A bribe or two may or may not have been involved in securing the use of a particular balcony (not Vivienne's); lighting the lamps to sweep a bit more than moonlight across stone, he surveys it with a critical eye for just a moment before he makes his way to where Merrill has been staying.

"If you aren't wearing the dress," he says, his voice carrying ahead of him on the off-chance that at this late hour of the night she isn't even decent, "I am going to be exceptionally disappointed in you. I've a surprise."

And - a handful of hair pins and a comb?

Comments

[apostasia]

With a warm hand on her shoulder - an affectionate squeeze that becomes a push, steering her ahead of him - he backs her into the room again so he can...not, actually, close the door, all things considered. The subtle ways in which Martel is so conscious of the conceptual threat of him (the ways he is perfectly capable of working to mitigate it) serve most of all to underscore what a calculated son of a bitch he is. There are times he doesn't counter the small moments another man might have missed; he has almost never actually missed them.

But for Merrill, kindness. Courtesy. And one arched eyebrow to offset the prim tone he adopts--

"On the proviso that you may not inquire after my familiarity with the same. Turn for me."

[chainlightning]

He is a human man -- a Rifter and a mage, though Merrill hardly cares about either of those things. Many elves just like her would feel, if nothing else, a flutter of panic. Perhaps Merrill does too. But she trusts Martel, this brother figure who has only ever been kind to her, enough that she only laughs when he steers her back into the room.

"Then I'll just have to make something up!"

But she turns, Barkley waking in the corner to blink at them before deciding he's a bit too sleepy to bother getting up.

[apostasia]

"Pardon me," he says, brief and polite, before briskly adjusting the sit and lacing of the under-dress; she was never going to persuade the whole to do as it's ought to with that awry. With that done, he rearranges a few parts of the main garment before lacing her into it efficiently with deft hands, smoothing them over her hips to bring the jostled skirts into line.

He turns her again by the shoulders, scrutinizing--

"You know, I think you'll almost do. Sit," with a gesture of the hand still clutching pins and comb against palm with his two smallest fingers, "and I'll do something with your hair. I should warn you that the most impressive thing I can do with a woman's hair is twenty years out of mode even were I in Elenia, but I promise to find it exceptionally beautiful."

[chainlightning]

That same trust allows Merrill to let Martel do as he will, to be still when needed and to move when moved. The dress feels better already, at least in that it doesn't feel as like it's going to fall off -- it still feels strange to wear it, but Merrill supposes that's true of anyone in these things until they get used to them.

"Almost-?" Oh, her hair! Well, if that will finish it, she's glad to let him work. Really, she's glad to let him work anyway; Merrill loves social grooming it when people play with her hair. "Perhaps it's a style never before seen in Thedas. We could start a new trend. Either way, I'm sure it will be lovely."