@cantoinmaschera for feynriel !!

This boy, she thinks, has a funny way of turning up wherever there’s unrest among the party-goers, smoothing it down like so many ruffled feathers until no one’s anymore concerned about the bloodstains on the marbled floors than if they’d never seen it in the first place.

Vivienne does not recognize the young man from her tenure at court—she purses her lips, eyebrows crawling upwards in that considering way that, for Vivienne, might as well be a scowl—and that, in itself, ought to be a cause for concern when they know the Venatori have infiltrated the ball.

She pauses to inquire with Josephine, but Josephine does not know him either. She asks around the ball, but the courtiers laugh peaceably and wave a hand and tell her oh, that’s just Vincent, as if they’re talking about one of the harlequins entertaining on the dance floor.

Morrigan drifts by like a shadow in the outer hallways, ever watching on the outskirts of the event. She tilts her head and hums thoughtfully, brow furrowed. Eyes open, Inquisitor, is all she says.

No answers, then. Fine. If nothing else, he has a habit of existing wherever there’s trouble. If anyone’s seen anything out of the ordinary this evening and can point her in the direction of the Elder One’s agents, it’ll be him.

It takes a certain amount of.... maneuvering through idle conversations and brightly gilded rooms, always one eye following him, before she catches him alone out in the garden

She announces herself with a caprice flicked idly off the end of her thumb, aimed just past his shoulder, glinting once, twice in the light as it spins, then disappears into the dark water as she draws up beside him.

“You’ll have to forgive me for not catching your proper title, Master Vincent. Your reputation shrouds you in mystery,” she greets, and inclines her head with a sidelong glance and a thin smile. “Inquisitor Lavellan. I’m sure you’ve heard them frantically whispering my name in the corridors. How do you find the Winter Palace this evening?”

ourdawncomes‌:

She glances sidelong, an eyebrow arcing upward, bemused grin plucking at the corners of her lips. Not like the First Enchanter to be caught curled up with her pristine shoes in her seat like an apprentice. Hers, by contrast, are the same mud-caked boots she wore to the courtyard this morning, dried by now.

“Ha,” she huffs, and it does not seem appropriate to laugh under the circumstances, but here she is. “Poorly.” She raises her left hand, waggling her fingers for show as she turns to face Vivienne more full and leans against the bookshelf, leaving Massache in its place for some other poor recruit in need to seek out. “But I suppose that’s the point. What would the troops think of our esteemed Inquisitor stringing together dandelions in the garden, though? ‘It’s practice for swordplay’ strikes me as a poor excuse.”

mercysought‌:

For a moment, her gaze is held fast by the Priestess’ own, dark and furious, and she is reminded of the raw power of the magic that courses just underneath. Only for a moment, and then she averts her eyes and hisses quietly, tongue to teeth, a noise of consideration.

“It’s only a rite of passage, symbolic at best. You and I both know that. He...perhaps, does not.” Hmmm. Another sound. Low and frustrated. Not quite, she thinks. Perhaps her curiosity goes further than the Priestess’ on this matter. “But Solas does not strike me as the sort to simply forget that the Fade can be fickle. He’s said so himself a time or two. What could he have seen that upset him so?”

@valorcorrupt liked for a starter !!

It’s Blackwall who notices first and leans over to murmur in her ear, hushed enough to keep his observations between the two of them. She watches more closely after that, and she can see it, too: the way Inara bends at the elbow too far as she parries an incoming blow, the stiffness in the sweep she returns to her sparring partner, suggesting some weakness in the joint she’s kept quiet about.

She gives it a few minutes before she saunters over to the edge of the training yard and leans on the fence.

“Warden,” she interrupts. Impersonal. Not likely to arouse any suspicion of ulterior motives. She cocks her head toward the armory, empty at this hour with the smiths out to lunch. “A word? Cullen brought some reports from the Approach and I’d like your opinion.”

@theharellan @ourdawncomes liked for a starter !!

“Madame de Fer.” Polite. Formal. Though with her back turned to the First Enchanter, the taut draw of her shoulders betrays that she has been caught wrong-footed, wandering into the upstairs library currently occupied by a woman she has spoken to little since Haven burned, and not accidentally.

She rests with a finger hooked in the binding of a tome by Massache, tugged part-way from the shelf. She exhales sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut for just a moment. This silent treatment accomplishes nothing for anyone, she knows, and if the First Enchanter is to attend the Inquisition, at least the Inquisitor ought to speak with her.

“Perhaps you’ll indulge me for a moment. Commander Helaine and I have been running drills with a blade in the yard all morning, and I admit I...struggle with the form. I’m not accustomed to wielding any weapon left-handed very often, much less a blade,” she ventures, and she laughs wryly. “I fear the Commander’s losing patience with me. What would you suggest?”

@mercysought liked for a starter !!

She doesn’t intervene in the terse exchange presented her on the battlements—she does not think Solas would back down on her behalf, and the Priestess is quiet capable of fighting her own fights. Instead she waits, and when the Priestess breaks from him she falls into step beside her, hands clasped behind her back, sparing but a curious glance over her shoulder at Solas ( who seems less than pleased about the outcome of the conversation—but he’s often less than pleased about a lot of things, so what’s new? ).

“Do I want to know what about your efforts he took umbrage with? Or is it a generalized objection to...” and she gestures vaguely to the pale branches spun along her cheekbones, “all things this.”