Fandom 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 𝕬𝖌𝖊: 𝕽𝖊𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 - 𝕴𝕮

[TYPE]

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[TYPE]

♕ D R A G O N - A G E ♕
R E C L A M A T I O N
A R R I V A L - A T - V A L R O Y E A U X

Morning prayers would be within the hour. The chimes were portent enough, and had the Divine hastening her handmaidens from their languid loitering. Their faces turned down at her chastisement, as they made their way towards throughout her room, collecting the selected and approved vestments for the day. As they returned to clothe her, her own mind strayed away from the duties for the day, lingering instead on the hidden works she had been orchestrating as of late. With each piece of gold they gilded her with, she felt the weight of what was to come press down upon her mind and spirit. Even with all the assurances she mustered together, even she could see what little hope there was to be had. She did not notice the worried looks of the women as they glanced at her small smile. It was not mischievous as it was in her youth. It was not magnanimous as it was when she took her station. It was not merciful as it was when she judged the faltered. No… her smile was something else entirely. A quiet, contemplative thing that had them both worried and relieved. It told them that she had seen much. It told them that she had a plan. It told them, that despite the lack of hope, she at least, had some left.

Well before the hour was done, Justinia had left her room, her measured steps chorused by the soft footfalls of her court. The work she did now, while important, had never intrigued her as the work she did before… Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it challenged her in other ways. Easier ways in some, while most definitely harder in others. Even now she could listen to the various reports that came in, of fallen chantries and rebelling Templars, and with half of her mind focused on other matters, still read between the lines. It was easy enough to decipher truths even Grand Chancellor Roderick could not see with the page in front of his eyes. To his mind the war seemed to be stabilizing, evening out in favour of the church. To her own, it was clear that things were turning in directly the opposite course. With each victory they suffered a defeat they could not afford. While retaking holdfasts might project strength onto Lords high and mighty, it did little to subside the fervour of religious fanatics and people suffering under them. What would a farmer care if a distant enemy to the Chantry had lost his seat? What would a Templar care if diplomacy had convinced a wayward soul? War was not just about lands and coin. Minds mattered far more. And at this point, that was what they were losing most.

As the procession finally entered the grand halls of prayer, the sounds of delicate choral music embracing her spirit and raising it on high, she turned towards the assembly, bowing her head slightly, dismissing them - before turning towards the light and music. Yes, they were losing minds. Faith had always been a fickle thing, and hers had been tested more so than most. But here and now, when she felt the Maker radiating love and peace throughout her spirit, she knew. She had faith. She knew him. His absence… for whatever reason, was not for her to question. It was not for her to judge. But she would have him know her prayers. She would have him know her need. And she would return to him his due. As the group dispersed she made her way to her favoured place to pray, settling herself, and in doing so - settling her spirit. She had done the good work. She had maintained her hope. She had cultivated faith. And now… now she would wait. She would wait and pray.

As Justinia closed her eyes, breathing deep, a hand touched her shoulder. Not bothering to open her eyes, the softest of whispers graced her ear. “They are on their way, Your Holiness. One has crossed the border from Ferelden a few days ago, a few already make their way to Val Royeaux, and have been seen about the city.” The soft touch left her shoulder, the presence gone the next moment. Justinia, silent for a few more moments, smiled once more this morning. This smile radiant as the morning sun, as he lowered her head - her soft whisper of “Thank you.” carrying over the assembled room, the chimes ringing as prayer begun.

The High Chancellor, having been lingering in the Divine’s presence as he always did, let out a snarl towards the woman. Clearly showing his lack of belief in the folly that was about to come, having cautioned against it many times in the past. “It’s pure madness, Your Holiness. These...people are nothing but outcasts and vagrants. Even if the rumors' are true, why trust such a holy duty to those who do not deserve the honour?”

Justinia raised a hand to quell his objections in front of outsiders, ushering the messenger away with a gentle smile. She rose from her seat, directly facing Roderick. Not in an aggressive or even confrontational manner, but in a subtle nod to who was in charge here. “I was but an outcast once, Chancellor. We are not all so fortunate as to have led simple lives. Whatever you believe does not change my decision, for I believe in the Maker. As do you. Perhaps your perception shall change when you greet them. In the gardens of the Grand Cathedral, I think.” Her smirk returned, clearly the Chancellor perplexed by her statement, “Me? I am to be the one to welcome them?” Justinia did not answer the insubordination with a full answer, “Yes.” With that she dismissed the man, returning to her silent daily prayers.
​

 

[BELIAL.]

ℜ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔞
location: val royeaux streets || company: n/a open || tags: n/a​

Every inch of her screamed, skin stretching and pulling with an uncomfortable heat-- her face flushing with a whirlwind of emotions beneath the surface. She could feel her pulse in her ears, which twitched just slightly from their peeking between her fair hair. Looking at the merchant, with wide blue eyes, she bit her lip and nearly drew blood on the spot.

"I'll take it." She said finally, sighing deeply and forcing a smile on her face to fake pleasantries in front of the man. He raised a thick, black brow and pursued his lips together. His mustache quirked in the center, thin and groomed, which Vena noted silently.

"It is an apple, girl," scoffed the merchant with a snort of laughter as he crossed his arms. "But you have stood here pondering for five minutes now."

Vena frowned, feeling a wave of anxiety puncture her chest. "It shouldn't matter how long I take choosing. You're the vendor aren't you? You're supposed to sell me these apples!" Maybe she was mildly entertained, in her own cold way, with the idea of an Orlesian merchant putting on a whole performance. Boisterous expressions, jarring hand movements. She'd been a little disappointed when the man had simply sneered at her, albeit subtly, and stared as she'd pondered the fruit for selection.

The merchant rolled out a growl, thick with phlegm, in the very Orlesian way that one does. "What do you take me for? Some charlatan? Some bard? I do not sell the fucking Ghislain Apples, I just sell fruit." He seemed to be growing rather irritated, and Vena quickly realized that she was overstaying her welcome. Rummaging quickly for some copper, she held out the payment in one hand and grabbed the apple with the other. The merchant, now satisfied, gestured with his hands in a lofty, waving motion. Vena tried not to show her frustration at this treatment, chalking it up to just a bad day for this man. She was inclined to move on, turning on her heel and moving away. She took a bite of the apple, relishing in its sweetness and crisp exterior--

"Ah! Bonjour and blessed day to you, Madame Laufer. The skies above have parted for your beauty,ma cherie, no doubt! But please, please, do not let me ramble on! Have your selection!" She could hear the merchant speaking loudly, with flavour, then beginning to babble in Orlesian to this woman. Vena tried not to let the knot form in her stomach. She stared at the apple in her hand, wondering if the skin would start to rot or the insides would begin to grow sour. Unfortunately they did not. It was just her mouth that was beginning to burn.

She'd known of her family's relatives in Orlais, and the extravagance that maintained even in the stone-lined walls of their Kirkwall estate. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had once been a mere child, barefooted on the cold ground, staring up at the various portraits and paintings that lined their home. In a whirl, the image of her being young and naive was transformed to fear and terror, as little Vena stared up at the ominous Gallows. Locked up in the tower. No more family paintings. No more stories. Just truths. Realities. All that glitters was not gold, and being a Circle Mage was definitely far from any kind of shiny. At least it was these days.

How she'd even been able to convince her fellow enchanters, and Senior Enchanter Hathaway, to let her head out on this trek alone was beyond her. It felt almost like a double-edged blade to her. Respond to the Divine's call was one thing; abandoning her fellow rebels was another entirely. Guilt ate at her stomach more than the embarrassment that the merchant had filled her with, but she tried to shake it off with another bite of that apple-- terribly delicious, terribly cursed, thing that it was. They'd been traveling for weeks on end out of the Free Marches anyway, making camp away from the main road or being lucky enough to stay at an Inn that would house a whole group of mages; technically apostates. She didn't like to think about that. She'd graduated. She'd passed her Harrowing. She'd done her time, wandering the Circle's halls for some sake or meaning-- she was no apostate.

But if there were no Templars, and if their Circle was ruin and depravity... they had had no choice. It was a matter of life or death that night, and the smell of burning corpses still haunted her.

At least Val Royeaux had its sights.

Finding herself a seat, hoping to eat the snack quickly before she'd make her way to the meeting location, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Maker curse that merchant but... Andraste bless this apple!

 

[Lostboy]

Samwell

Location: Val Royeaux Streets | | Company: N/A Open || Tags: N/A​

Val Royeaux, capital of an empire, a place of gilded marble and finery. Yet even to an outsider all this pomp and fancy was naught but a cover. If one were to scratch the surface you’d eventually find the true city, a place of deathly intrigue and courtly drama. Just how many had been lost to the city and its games? Or more accurately, the Game. More than likely no one would ever know. A certain mage who had just entered the city limits hoped he wouldn’t be one of them.

Samwell Blackmoore was not accustomed to such grandiose surroundings. He was what the Chantry graciously dubbed an apostate, an illegal mage whom deserved to either be locked up in a tower for the rest of his natural days, killed or worse, made tranquil. However, in all his years on the run from the religious authorities he had tended to stay away from large settlements, too many eyes and ears that could betray him at a moments notice to the ever vigilant Templars.

What he did not expect was an invitation to appear in such a city from the Divine herself. At first he thought it was a joke or a trap, yet what it offered could not be understated in its importance to him. The offer of resources he so desperately needed to solve his problem. For he had a strange issue most would decry as possession or that he was an abomination not fit for this world. Sam had found it to be something else entirely.

After being an unwitting sacrifice in a Blood Magic ritual that went awry many years prior Sam had found he had someone else with him. That someone? Velatar, an apparently long dead elf from the days where they were masters of their own destiny. It had been a beneficial partnership, Velatar had given him the magic and spells of an Arcane Warrior and sagely advice. For a while Sam thought it was a demon but realised that Velatar either didn’t want to or couldn’t control his actions or thoughts. Not on purpose anyway.

Sam and Velatar found they were fusing for lack of a better word. Sam began remembering things he had no part in and Velatar found that he was slowly losing himself. What would happen at the end of this fusion neither could rightly say, but both agreed it wasn’t a desired outcome. That is what Sam took up the call, to gain the resources to either split him and Velatar or at least stop the merging.

Sam walked through the streets, feeling like an out of place vagabond. He didn’t have fine clothes of the Val Royeaux citizenry, merely well used but maintained armour, a ruck sack containing his worldly possessions and a greatsword strapped to his back. He would forgive people for not seeing he was a mage, he didn’t exactly fit the robes stereotype.

As he wandered he felt a cold chill pass through him, even though he had often felt it, he still couldn’t prepare himself for it. A spectral figure now walked next to him, hidden from other eyes, aside from mages who would see the faint outline of a humanoid figure. Velatar was a humanoid silhouette of faint yellow light to Sam’s eyes. The pair walked through the street, with Velatar breaking the silence. “This city is very grand. The perfect place for an overly pampered group of people to dictate to the unwashed masses. I have flashes of memory involving a city like this… But I can’t place the name.” Another side affect of their joining was Velatar’s damaged memory, Sam did hope he could restore that too one day. “Try and be on your best behaviour. We can’t afford you alientaiting the entire religious establishment and losing this chance.”

Sam peered around, only seeing the hustle and bustle, no one really paid much attention to him. He turned to Velatar. “You should have faith in me to at least not burn this holy bridge too soon. Maker knows his servants have the deepest pockets and I can’t fathom anyone else having access to the same resources outside of royalty.” He sighed finding a bench just off the merchant’s thoroughfare. “We will see how real this all is and if we don’t like it we will go. I will try and be on my best behaviour.” He peered at the people going about their lives for a moment. “You have my word.” Velatar nodded and soon faded from Sam’s view, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

What sort of things would he find in this city? It was apparently the cultural hub of the world. Sam wasn’t one for wistfully looking at sculptures or paintings to try and figure out what the artist was trying to convey. He was a much more simpler man, enjoying a good tune in a tavern than a violin piece at a formal ball. Not that he’d say no to free fine food! He chuckled to himself, yes this venture seemed like it would change his life in one way or the other.

He raised an eyebrow at what he could only assume was drama between a customer and an Apple salesmen. Fruit dealer? Fruit monger? He couldn’t really find the right word. Only watch as the elf who had caused the show retreated. He observed her for a moment before returning to his own thoughts, rubbing at his temples. The city was loud but at least it had its entertainments.

 

[TYPE]

location: val royeaux streets || company: ℜ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔞 || tags: BELIAL. Lostboy (mention)


The stale and overbreathed air, stained with filth and debauchery as only and always above an offending stone-trap – Durgen Elgar'arla - such as Val Royeaux - moved over and through him, his feathered face turning then left and right, wide eyes taking in all that lay so far beneath. Dressed in their shining finery, gilded rats were scurrying about their favoured and celebrated maze in search of cheese scraps… None aware the entertainment they offered to their masters who both bet on their success and built more walls in hinderance in equal measures of magnanimous malevolence. Val Royeaux? He would name it Harel – for all it encapsulated was deception. It was a trick, a dreaded thing causing fear and being prideful in that.

Eyes closed then, and reddened darkness allowed him a moment of removed rest, his body turning by practiced instinct, raising, and lowering on warm air - circling once more in a languid, reluctant descent which had taken him the better part of an hour now.

The sun was not kind to them – his eyes, sensitive as they were, but it was what he was, and he was comfortable in that. Thoughts here were simple and there was enough memory only to allow him to drive towards a point – a goal, and not bemoan too extensively the quickly fracturing nature of his freedoms, every lazy swoop lower towards the city another chain link which readied in binding.

Perhaps he was wrong in that. Perhaps he thought here as he thought always – and the illusion of simplicity was but a sweet lie he told himself…

Closer now, Yevrian felt his lungs struggle – an instinctual unintentional holding of his breath straining against his small chest, the panic of smothering in the air rushing through his mind, and he worried at his next breath, dreading the taste of it, dreading the taint of it upon his tongue and his skin. When his talons clasped around a perching rod on which a banner hung across one of the thousands of streets, he finally ceded to reality and breathed in reluctantly.

It tasted dirty. It tasted like waste. Disregard. Excess… It tasted human.

Movement drew his attention, as a young girl who had been rushing through the streets with her brother – both of them dressed in bright colours of yellow and blue and green - had stopped not far below him, and she with her sticky and saccharine smelling fingers was pointing up at the large green owl high above her. She spoke quickly, a language he could understand but would not take the time to decipher now in its clumsy form - and for a second her innocence and loud demeanour had him turning his head to the side, denying inwardly the reality that he found them – the girl and her brother – to be amusing in their eager, wide eyed, curiosity laden bliss. They were quickly joined by an overlarge man who indulged much like his children did, but in lieu the running and jumping they had to burn away at their intake – had become overly round and heavyset. The man peered at Yevrian through his mask, and then bent over. “My dear, such a pretty bird. And matching your dress as well? How marvellous. Perhaps your father should have it caught for you? Would it not look beautiful in a gold cage? On your desk, by the window in your room?”

Yevrian, who had been turning his head in a circle to the bright amusement of the children listened to the man, all good favour leaving him as he watched her curious and joyful eyes be poisoned by her father’s words. Wonder turned to wanting and she reached up towards him with those sticky fingers – the corruption set. “Daddy I want it.” The boy next to her, the one who had enjoyed the strangeness of a vast green owl set above the street, turned to his sister and his father – before hitting her. “NO! I saw it first. I am a boy. I should get it!” Her light laughter now replaced with loud and distressing wailing had her father trying to comfort her, promising the boy that they would find him one as well – and when the three of them looked up, Yevrian was gone.

Again flying, lower than before – the owl soundlessly made its way through the city, staying above them all, out of their sticky, covetous reaches. In the distance there stood the place of their meeting – gardens restrained to the point where they might as well have been stone or glass – or paint, for they grew as if placed in boxes, and every spontaneous bloom of beauty was hastened away with shears and rakes. It felt unnatural. And he dreaded going there for more reasons than he cared to admit.

Swiftly, rising higher, he swooped expertly through a collection of flags, lanterns and banners which hung about the way, cluttering the skies with colour and light – before landing at rest within a dull and disused alleyway. His mouth had the taste of apple within it, and he wondered at the craving – something he had rarely, and which caught him by surprise. Having seen a man sell them, he in a sudden flourish of green light stood once more, tall, and strong – his more elaborate armour and dress hidden by a large green cloak. His spear gripped firmly in his hand, he started his cautious march through the shadowed backstreets, and into the light. Reaching behind him, he pulled a cowl over his blonde head, and turned his face down a fraction so as to hide his Vallaslin.

He was in no need or desire for the opinions of Orlesians.

He had reached the vendor when he saw an elf walk away, sensing the distaste in the air for a second. His instincts widened and his awareness thrumming with the presence of spiritual energy, he looked around – worrying at the presence of Era'harel, seeing nothing obvious – yet - readying his staff, nonetheless. He walked then behind the elf-girl eating her apple, pulling from a pouch a few coins of unsure value, not bothering to speak to the vendor – placing them down and grabbing an apple – his trailing of her slow and easy.
His curiosity did not always take him in this way – but perhaps it was the confident way she walked then, through the streets – unafraid. He looked then beyond her – seeing her walking towards the gates and entrance of their meeting place, still being a ways away. His step increasing had him walking at her side a moment later, his face mostly hidden, his voice pleasant enough. “I would have half expected this to be rotten, but in a city like this – their ego would never allow it. Let alone the fact that selling subpar produce would be seen as a slight – and here I hear those are lethal things.” He kept looking forward, as he took another bite – continuing to match her step.

It felt curiosity natural. Like suddenly talking with an old friend.​

 

[idalie]

Guillemot De Clermont
Location: Val Royeaux Markets || Company: Samwell || Tags: Lostboy ​

Time meant little to the wheels of progress, those great whining mechanisms of culture and art which fuelled Val Royeaux’s renaissance spirit. Eight years and not once had Clermont looked over his shoulder; eight years and not once had he thought to return. When he’d left those city gates he’d been a fresh-faced soldier of fortune, not the ragged knight who dragged himself back through them. A pauper’s mercenary, donning dented armour still bearing flakes of scraped paintwork and well-used chainmail. Coagulated blood matted hair to one side of the sellsword’s head, helmet propped underarm as he swayed back and forth with the stallion’s trot.

Loosely, Guillemot let the reins rest in his gauntleted fist, surveying the bustling city with growing nausea. People, especially too many of them, were something he sought to avoid at every opportunity. Now he’d been invited amongst throngs of merchants and their dutiful consumers, riding the tidal wave of foot traffic from one street to another returned discarded instincts. This old haunt of deceit and debauchery had been his home, an embarrassing battleground of political defeat that like his father - he’d never asked for and suffered by all the same.

Perhaps it was why Florian had so pressed Guille in his later years to marry, although by then far too much damage had been done. The Black Sheep had succeeded only once in the public eye besides the celebration of his birth, as victor of the Grand Tourney, for that short golden moment he’d basked in the sun with his cousins; a royal of divine right. He still cherished it, gladly among those of his time in the Academie des Chevaliers. Clermont pondered whether Ser Belliveau still mentored and in tandem, whether they were still giving the elves hell.

Back then, Gods he’d felt strong. As if the world owed him something and he’d make it pay. Now it was a process of realising you were in debt up to your eyes at every turn. For much of his exile, it’d been gruelling physical work where he landed labour as a lone wanderer; ploughing fields with oxen where stones jarred your joints and staggered your back, hoisting hour after hour under the hot sun moving hay bales for fear of bad forecast, even some of it he’d say was worse than what they’d done to him in the academy. While they’d taught you the meaning of breaking your physical limits, living hand to mouth was far beyond anything the chevalier's code outlined. Every evening they’d slept comfortably, every weekend they drank themselves into stupors on hoppy lush ales - out on the land, he’d passed out in barns and lifted lead bones back on the toil by dawn, drinking watery piss that passed as beer.

The Knight dismounted with a dull clank, feet slamming into the paved stone as he led by the horse’s bridle. Towering above the crowd, he pushed through the sea of bodies to divert the current. One thought occupied his now overwhelmed senses, to reach the Grand Cathedral and put this call to summons down. If not for who asked of it, he’d still be sitting in some backwater town of the Free Marches, sinking a fresh paycheque into lager.

He supposed all this was something important. Templars, apostates, Kirkwall chantry blown from the inside out and blood mages a new foul symptom of an oppressive system. He’d avoided much of the conflict so far and neither did he care. It wasn’t his business, wasn’t his fault, wasn’t his people. Sir Clermont had washed his hands of it before he’d even heard the news and now, waded waist-deep through the thick of it by choice.

Some uppity elf bartered for an apple, another similarly followed, watched on by a lone human of good stature and bearing weapons by the shoulder. “Looking for a cathedral by any chance? Or can you even swing that thing without cutting the back of your neck.” Guille remarked, interrupting abrasively to the tune of a husky, rumbling bass and twist of a lip.

 

[Epiphany]

Chise Cantori Klaret

While a collection of humans and elves milled about the marketplace, a rather lovely carriage rolled on by, meandering its way through the crowded streets at a at-times glacial pace. Thankfully, the passengers didn't particularly mind the wait. Assuming they were in a condition to mind much of anything.

An Orlesian noble of only moderate renown briefly leaned out the window before his friend, a cousin who served as an officer in the Royal Guard, pulled him back inside. "None of that now, Bastien. You may think the sweet air will revive you, and so it can, but your mask might be recognized along with your condition! No need to have that kind of talk tomorrow, mon ami."

"Is it tomorrow or is it today?"

Both men, quite clearly as drunk as they were rich, frowned in contemplation. After an excessive amount of time, the noble lifted his masked face and peered curiously at their guest. She waved a diffident hand, and if she looked entirely different from them, she didn't appear to be any more sober. Her cheeks were flushed, her posture relaxed into the plush purple cushions of the carriage, and her hooded cloak was packed away in favor of a rather nice green dress that managed to flatter her short stature.

"The sun is up, mis amigos," she answered with a toss of that hand towards the window the noble had just recently vacated. "The natural result to an evening and a night well spent. Why, do you have somewhere to be?"

Lord Bastien Aubert, the esteemed sommelier of the Maison de Jahgu, took far too long to comprehend the answer. For her part, Chise repressed a sigh, mindful that no matter how tedious this conversation had turned out to be, at least it carried her inevitably closer to her destination. At last, she leaned forward in her seat, swaying slightly before reaching up to pat the man familiarly on the cheek. "My good man, Lord Bastien, the answer is 'no'. It is time for bed for us, I believe, despite the sun making liars of us."

"Do you even know where your accommodations are?" asked Commander Keenan Aubert, swaying slightly himself as the rocking motion of the carriage over cobblestones continued.

"Possibly across town, now that I think of it," Chise said, affecting a thoughtful expression while ignoring the gleam in the officer's eyes. "I don't suppose you esteemed gentlemen can recommend me a place for the night? Day?"

"Depends on if you're going to be as snobbish over the Maison de Jahgu as you were over Le Tombeau de Taillefer."

"It's not my fault your ancestors didn't hire good, dwarven architects," Chise said with a cheeky grin. "If you'd come to Orzammar in the first place, Taillefers wouldn't have those cracks. Ah, I see my stop just ahead!"

Sure enough, the carriage had merged into a lane of traffic paralleling the southern entrance to the Grand Cathedral. Even to Chise's experienced, jaded eyes, the sheer scale of the vast building took a full minute to take in. Antiva had its share of wondrous architecture but nothing like this. For a brief moment, she let herself be bemused and awestruck. Then Chise kept her face droopy and dreamy while her eyes quickly flicked over the tide of people crossing by. No one familiar. No suspicious staring. No evidence she'd been tailed here.

"You'll have to come see us," Lord Aubert murmured, his head now resting on his cousin's shoulder and looking like he was fighting a losing battel against sleep. "After your appointment with the Divine."

"Depends on how the negotiation for commissions go. But I wouldn't miss you for the world, my friends. Come, say your goodbyes so we may be reunited just as swiftly."

Chise gave each a kiss and a promising, smoldering look before finally disentangling herself from the carriage. Once outside, she craned her neck up at the driver and shook her head at his speculative look. "Take them home and put them to bed. I don't envy them the headache they will have when they rise, that is for certain!" He flashed her a grin beneath his servant's mask and finally eased the carriage on its way.

Leaving the Dwarf standing before the Cathedral in her green dress, her pack slung over one shoulder. Now that her transportation was gone, Chise abandoned the pretense of being intoxicated from all the wine she'd expertly not consumed all night. Instead, she walked slowly through the breath-taking courtyard, half filled with Chantry priests getting ready for morning prayers. So she simply looked like she knew where she was going until the crowd had dropped off enough for her to slip into a stone alcove set along the great interior walls of the structure's wings.

There were the gardens, just beyond. And she had a clear, unimpeded view of their main entrance. Time to see who else might have received this curious summons. If she had competition for the job, better to spot them before they spotted her after all.

 

[RayPurchase]

Armand Devereux
Location: The Grand Cathedral
Interaction: Epiphany




It wasn't just a city. No what it truely was went far deeper than the marble and gilded walls, those trappings that they all dressed themselves in. It was a mighty living being, the streets its blood vessels full of people and energy, the Chantry its beating heart, even in such trying times as these, and its soul... Well that was something harder to quantify wasn't it? That was in no one place, building or person. No that was the game.

The Grand Game.

The myriad of whispers, plots, counter-plots, betrayals, bluffs, double bluffs, traps, ambushes and honeyed words. That was what truely ran this place. Lying just below the surface, almost invisible to the untrained eye behind the hustle and bustle of everyday life, but to Armand it was clear as the rising sun on a clear summers day. Conversations that ebbed and flowed like the tide as those caught in them threw suspicious glares at those passing too close, two merchants engaged in a game of Wicked Grace just a scant few metres away, the pot they dueled over amounted to little more than a few Royals and Crowns, but the winnings went far beyond such a vulgar thing such as a monetary prize. A favour perhaps, such an innocent thing alone, a merchant's favour to boot, not a lord, governor or chevalier, but a humble merchant. But there was power in such a thing, a domino in a chain of far reaching consequences that could lead to the toppling of a house, or perhaps more. And a simple game of Wicked Grace could set such a chain of events into motion.

Armand closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. The various smells of people and businesses combining into a singular perfume that was Val Royeaux. It had been too long since he had sampled that heady concoction. What had it been, the Duke de Virais' ball... or perhaps the Countess of Montfort's soiree. One of the two at the very least. Alas the game had taken him far from this gem of a city, it often had little regard for the personal preferences of its players. And what was a Bard but the conductors, the intermediaries between the composers and orchestra, making sure that the rhythm and tune was played just as intended. Perhaps that was too romantic a description of himself and his ilk. In many other cultures and countries they would just be common rogues for hire, but thankfully in Orlais they had managed to worm their way into the very fabric of society, and as such they were anything but common mucks. It was only Orlais where the potential prey would willingly invite a viper such as himself into their home, fully aware of the venom he came wielding, all to match him in a battle of the minds. The fact that he had survived this long wasn't at all off putting to those nobles he found himself in a potentially deadly dance with, it just made his own downfall a far more valuable prize.

From his vantage point, sat atop a high wall his feet dangling at head height, Armand had a fine view of the spires and gardens of the Grand Cathedral glinting in the sunlight, standing tall over the city, an impregnable bastion of faith and normality in these testing times. The truth was another matter entirely, otherwise he would not have found himself here, but the visuals went a long way, as long as those spires still stood then that alone was a huge comfort to those ants who scurried in its shadow. But he had time to kill, and what better way than to sit here and watch the comings and goings of the vast multitude of visitors and residents that populated the streets, each going about their lives whilst he glanced through this altogether brief window, opening up a world of revelations. It was the carriage that caught his attention. Not the carriage itself mind you, it was gaudy enough to not raise any eyebrows, but not too ostentatious to strike it as unusual. No it was the figure that emerged, not some wispy Lord or Lady as the carriage would suggest but a dwarf. Now Dwarves weren't exactly a rarity, the grip they held on commerce was near legendary, the intermediaries between the treasures of the depths and the markets of the surface, but to see one effectively using a noble's carriage to hail a ride to the center of the Chantry? Armand's knowledge on the Dwarves' and their particular religious peculiarities wasn't exactly of a scholarly level, but he knew enough to know that a Dwarf in a Chantry was a rare thing indeed. Perhaps an invite similar to his own had found its way to this surface dweller. A merchant, a mercenary, connections to the Carta? Any were possible, Divine Justinia was no pious simpleton, for years she had played The Game with the best of them, he was under no illusion that he wasn't the only one invited, there would be others, what better way to meet one? Or if he was wrong, perhaps there would still be a juicy catch at the end of this particular string.

Slipping down from the wall he landed softly, his leather boots preventing any sort of echo off of the cobblestones. His garment's were rather understated by Orlesian standards, the charcoal doublet he was wearing had a weaving red pattern to it, intricately snaking its way across his front and over his shoulders. He adjusted the simple half mask that obscured the top half of his face; porcelain white and smooth, the only decoration was the green pair of serpents that curved above the blue eyes that peered out, giving the illusion of him constantly being caught in a state of deep thought seemingly a single eyebrow raised. Aside from that he was unencumbered, well aside from the knife up one of his sleeves and the other concealed with the rise of his left boot. Both easily accessible and completely functional in appearance and use. His other tools were stashed in abandoned dwelling a short run under duress away. If this was a trap then no amount of toys would see himself safely extricated. The Dwarf did well however, moving with purpose even as her very being cried out as not belonging when set against the backdrop of the Cathedral. Armand gently sidestepped the Brothers and Sisters he encountered, a muttered apology here and benediction in response. He paused by a statue of Andraste, dipping down beside it on one knee, both hopefully concealing him from view, or simply passing off as a simple devotee knelt in a moment of contemplation of their insignificance compared to the Maker and his divinity. There weren't many about at this hour, but still a healthy enough number to make it plausible to a hasty gaze. The green clad dwarf had come to a halt, he almost missed her in fact, only the small shock of green in one of the alcoves marking her presence. He flicked his eyes from the alcove to the main entrance to the Cathedral. The perfect spot to catch the comings and goings that morning. A coincidence? Alone yes, but with everything else... he allowed a smile to slip over his features. Indeed as he had thought before, there was a juicy fish to be found at the end of this. Now how to proceed?

To wait in the shadows until he could slip into a more reactionary role? The most conservative option, but where was the fun, the thrill of the chase...

Slipping in behind with some questions, a knife point offering sufficient incentive for a uncooperative tongue? Maybe not the best way to enamour those who it appeared that he shared an invitation and most likely goal with.

But she was a dwarf, and if there was anything Armand had discovered from his limited interaction with them, they themselves preferred the direct route. Why not just address what he could see so plainly. Sweeping round the the rear of the alcove, using the various statues and topiary pieces to disrupt sight of his route, finally approaching round the corner from the other side, a somewhat roundabout route, but as the alcove came back into view the dwarf was still there, her focus still seemingly on the doorway. Armand padded closer, leaning against the stonewall a few feet behind her before gently clearing his throat, a few polite coughs emanating from him.

"Anything taken your fancy Madame Dwarf? Hoping to catch a sight of the Divine herself leaving to take a stroll about the gardens, I hear she is most partial to the hydrangeas at this time of year, and they have a particularly fabulous arrangement here," Armand switched his gaze from the Dwarf to the doorway. "Still I'd recommend a far different seat for that, and you did appear to choose this one oh so carefully. Perhaps it is not someone leaving you seek, but someone who has not yet arrived?"

 

[BELIAL.]

ℜ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔞
location: val royeaux streets || company: yevrian || tags: TYPE ​

Vena hadn't been too caught off guard by the sudden appearance of someone beside her, talking to her no less. Having gotten up after taking a first few bites of the apple and opting to continue to walk anyway, legs antsy and busy mind, not even the jolt of the voice next to her gave her immediate concern. She simply nodded along, matching pace as well, slurping at a bit of the juice that dripped down the side of the apple.

"I would have half expected this to be rotten, but in a city like this – their ego would never allow it. Let alone the fact that selling subpar produce would be seen as a slight – and here I hear those are lethal things,” he said.

"Well it is not so bad," Vena reasoned to the man. "His attitude was more than rotten enough, I'd say."

Then she stopped, suddenly aware of her own presence and the man next to her. Mid bite, turning her head, her eyes widened and she missed, catching her lip under some teeth. Wincing with a quick hand to her mouth, to hide the bits of apple that threatened to spill out from her surprise. The man was cloaked, but from as close as they were she thought she could see faint tattoos-- Vallaslin, if she remembered. A few of the mages at the Circle had been removed from their Dalish communities, one boy suffering excruciating nightmares from his powers and little option existing outside of the Circle's protection and guidance. She remembered him fondly, though a pang of heartache when she recalled seeing his lifeless eyes beneath some rubble at the Gallows.

She finally swallowed, tasting blood on the way down. "Wait-- sorry, do I know you?" Part of her felt she did, but it was a tiny enough of a niggle that she didn't pay it too much mind. It wouldn't make sense for her to know anybody here, unless they were some escaped mage from Kirkwall. She looked at him deeply, and the green cloak.

"Do you know me?" Maybe that'd been why he'd taken up the conversation so quickly. She was unsure of the elven population in Orlais, but his accent let her know that he definitely wasn't from here. Neither was she.

 

[TYPE]

location: val royeaux streets || company: ℜ𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔫𝔫𝔞 || tags: BELIAL.

"He seemed the type to be a pain about the wrong things..." He smiled at her comment on the seller of the apples, peering over his shoulder at the man - reassessing him and coming to much the same conclusion before turning back to her and keeping pace, not failing to notice her sloppy eating. He shook his head in a manner he often did when indulging his childhood friends, taking a messy bite of his own fruit. It was nice - nothing like the ones that grew in hidden valleys away from the eyes of all but those who knew where they were hidden. It always tasted strangely of metal - and whether it was but the greedy hands playing with gold before the sale, or the act of sale in the first place, Yevrian was not sure. It was not something he was keen on pondering. At least not this very moment.

She stopped then, suddenly, and so he did as well, casually resting his legs and rolling his shoulders. His brow only furrowed a moment later as she looked him over, seeing the markings on his face - obviously present on him, and obviously absent on her. He was not sure what was going within her mind, but she seemed confused, she seemed concerned and she then seemed to get lost within herself - and he wondered whether following her down her memories would be worth it. Before he could think more on it she returned, and he clearly saw that her confusion remained, the strange fondness he read in her not there for him. Perhaps for another?

The thought struck him, and he stopped his own casual movements while waiting for her to recover.

What was he doing?

Why should he care?

He had rushed up to a complete stranger and had conversed with her as if she were kin known since they were children. He quickly and instinctively stepped back from her, his ears twitching along with his nose, his mind expanding as he worried at his own mental state. Was he under some spell? Had she confounded his senses? He peered down at his hands, perfectly still and calm. His heart was quiet as well. He returned his eyes to her and found the same confusion he felt still there with her.

It was her her.

Her lip was bleeding.

"No..." He stepped away, his confusion rising, looking away again from her - almost pleading for the presence of some demon... some mage... He peered at the apple, smelling it half-heartedly for any herbs or poisons that might have addled his behavior - knowing well that the intent to join her had started prior to him acquiring it. She was speaking and he caught only the last two words, shaking his head.

"No... No. I..." He reached up, rubbing his hand over his face. Shame was coloring it, and he felt embarrassed more so than he had in a long time. "I mistook...? You?" She was distinct. To Shemlen he had heard they looked the same, but to him she was as distinct as any he had known. Her face carried a pleasant strength that had him thinking on her persona, her will - and it reminded him of his father. Perhaps in being an owl for so long, those first instincts of recognition ran wild... one he returned to himself.

"Ir abelas." He stepped away from her, not wanting her to feel further stressed by his presence.

He tasted blood, and without thinking reached upwards, a spell healing flesh that was not cut as his thumb ran over his lower lip.​

 

[Lostboy]

Samwell

Location: Val Royeaux Markets | | Company: Guillemot || Tags: idalie ​

Samwell found his thoughts abruptly interrupted by a strange voice. The mage looked up to see a man who looked like he’d come straight from battle. He raised an eyebrow at the sheer strangeness of the encounter. He was about to reply to the first part of his inquiry before the barb came. Samwell sighed. Why were city people the same? Or was it just the Orlesian people? A strange and arrogant lot to be sure! A ghostly presence manifested behind him and a spectral hand rested on his shoulder. “Do not overreact. Wasting your chance on this… Vagabond... Would be unwise. We can't meet the priestess if you are dead or in the cells!” He looked to his side to look at the spectral figure only known to him for a fleeting moment. He sighed deeply again. The etheral elf was right. As usual.

Sam however did not want to take the insults lying down. “Well, I would say that I know how to use this blade with a greater skill than you clearly display in maintaining your personal cleanliness.” His voice was smooth, hinting at a education and had a teasing edge to it. He looked the man up and down. “I knew times were tough but my word… Are they letting tramps be chevaliers now? Is your steed a donkey? Or did you have to settle for a broom with a crudely made horse’s head on top? Do you have to make your own clopping noises?” He clearly wasn’t intimidated and seemingly enjoyed throwing some snarky reamarks Guillemot’s way.

“As to your initial enquiry. I am actually. Yet, I tend to avoid such places when I can.” He shrugged. “Came here for some peace and quiet and well…” Sam gestured to the tattered looking man. “I find that peace and quiet ever so fleeting. City life eh?” The half elf scratched at his chin, pondering why the man was asking if he was to go to the cathedral. “Are you looking for one to? I have a job there. Do you have something similar? Or are you just hoping for them to offer you a bath? At this point either or would be a boon to you, I am sure.”

The mage pondered if it was a good idea to annoy a potential companion, one that may have been in the city for the same task as Sam. It wasn't like he was used to having anyone with him. He had been a loner for most of his days, especially after all that dreaded cult business of the past. Yet he couldn't help himself when it came to being thorny or rude, it was almost as much his armour as the metal and leather that encased his form. Plus... He did enjoy the looks of annoyance that tended to grace the faces of those he crossed words with. From the sneer of a upjumped peasant to the glare of a noble who thought themselves the Maker's gift, they all were remarkably similair. It was something he found that linked everyone, regardles of class or race. Samwell could only wonder what sort of look this bloodied knight would pull.

Even though Velatar's face was usually obsruced but Sam could imagine it would be grimacing at that moment. Oh how that ghost wished he could punch his prickly partner most days.

 

[idalie]

Guillemot De Clermont
Location: Val Royeaux Markets || Company: Samwell || Tags: Lostboy ​

“You mistake every fucking Orlesian as a Chevalier? Or were you feeling particularly subtle about being a cocksucking gypsy?” Clermont inquired as politely as he could muster, offering a smarmy, teeth-baring smirk as return payment. “Look, son, you’re one of the only people ‘round who has a big fuck-off sword on his back - besides the guard. Which means you’re a bastard with cash, compensating for a lack of anything between your legs, or a merc who’s on his way to a job. And you sure as the Divine don’t look like you’re inbred enough for a Lord’s mistress to have squeezed you out.”

He mustered a guffaw, “That’s real cheap of you to say, half-wit. Fuck me, I’ve seen sideshow hecklers dig deeper. Been beaten by laundry wives with sharper tongues.” Guillemot began walking ahead with stallion in tow, passing by the hot-tempered traveller with a resting expression of clear disdain. “‘Course, I like smelling like horseshit and finding skin in my gauntlets, it’s a real pull. Ladies love it.”

Clermont quickly became less amused and more frustrated, pausing on the front foot to eye Samwell. “Andraste’s tits, I asked you about the fucking Cathedral, not whether you were a fucking agnostic.” He continued trudging onward, “I’ve got a little work for Justinia the conniving bitch herself, so unless that’s your direction, go do a syphilitic whore.” He wasn’t one for mincing words, unlike the great Orlesian tradition of Bards, Clermont had the innate ability to avoid any and all uses of charisma and diplomacy. Rather, he was more or less prepared to fight his way out of badly communicated messages instead of opening negotiation. Once upon a time, it was seen as charmingly crude, almost a decade in the back-end of nowhere and he’d become a public nuisance.

The kid would find his way to the Church if he was really there for the same job, otherwise, Guillemot could safely assume they’d not cross paths again - and if they did, avoid getting his guts spilled over it. One’s thing for sure, if he had the balls to talk back he’d make for a good young, dumb, and easy to rile vanguard. Introductions certainly wouldn’t be needed after this size-comparison contest of exquisite prose. Better men had sneered, better men were dead.

He wouldn’t lie that the Chevalier comment caught the big-man off guard, it’d been a while since anyone had fancied themselves a guess. Most the backward labourers and amateur brawl bookmakers didn’t know the difference between style but made up for it in a lust of bloodshed for gold. Real fighters after his own heart. Which is why he particularly liked to bet the odds against himself and cheat most of them out a week's wage.