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Yes he thinks, though the words don’t escape his lips. Furious eyes fixate on this newcomer–one who actually is putting up a better argument than the one he reluctantly relinquishes from the corner he’d backed him into. Instinct, at first, causes his feet to bring their bodies a little too close. But he looks at her–truly looks–and for a moment, feels something like shame at his own aggression. There is strength in her sinews, perhaps a slumbering wanderess in her bones. An overwhelming defiance in her golden eyes that brings a hint of peachy tint to his cheeks. Damn the institute for ever letting him learn to feel. 

          “What you need are some good mechanics. Wasteland folk. People           that know what a wrench can do. Diamond City’s got the brightest           lights in the Commonwealth and it’s got nothing to do with fusion cores.”

And it’s an argument that does little to bolster his own case, but Thom is a wanderer himself; the cores serve only as his portable power supply. He cannot tote generators about as much as he’d like (though it’s not to say he certainly hasn’t tried), but cores? They burn out fast and are a terrible burden to recharge. Perhaps his anger fades to shades of pity when she tells him how they run the whole damn vault off the stuff. 

But he is still entirely stonefaced when his leather pack slings off his shoulders, as a hand reaches in and fishes out those three fusion cores, all in sorry states of charge. He deposits them each, one two three, into her waiting hands. 

          “If I can get a bed and a hot meal for this, I suppose I can spare the           resources. I’m here to trade and I’ll be gone in the morning.”

            “Come with me.”

She mulls over his words as she leads him deeper into the Vault; his earlier ones, stating to them, very succinctly for a complete stranger, the flaw in their system. It is a matter that has plagued her thoughts for some time now, the dread of realization that this cannot go on forever. They cannot keep taking and taking from the outside world, relying on their emissaries’ ability to extort civilly from their visitors. One day, someone will realize that the security team’s laser pistols ran out of charge years ago; that none of them had any formal training whatsoever, let alone combat experience; that all of this is a sham, and all they had to do was force their way in, and that would be the end of the Vault.

            “Do you personally know anyone with such expertise?” she asks, turning to glance at him after calling the elevator. For all intents and purposes, he was crude to look at---utterly disheveled in every way, and God--when was the last time he had a shower? But despite it all, there is a solemn sense of purpose in the square of his shoulders; and a distinct air of having seen it all so that nothing fazes him. It is a look that inspires trust, no matter how bad he might smell.

she is actually quite startled by the exclamation. wide eyes of gold leave the sight of a budding flower and rest upon the ambassador swiftly heading her way. hands would reach upwards as feet inch forward to reach the woman mid-stride, palms splayed to gently grasp at her arm, a touch of worry marking amariel’s features.

“There’s no time to explain, I’m afraid.”

          Josephine offers nothing more than that, quickening her footsteps instead in the direction of her office with the hopes that the Inquisitor would follow. And she has no doubt that she would; Amari knows her well enough to know that her Ambassador does not overreact without reason.

          She is sorry that she has to manipulate that trust, just this once.

          Once they are in her office, Josephine shuts and locks the door behind them and all but hurries towards her desk, upon which sits something with jagged edges, covered with a napkin. By this time, she suspects that Amari will have guessed that it had all been a ruse, and so by the time she gets behind her desk and lifts the napkin covering the plate of dessert, she’s grinning from ear to ear.

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@antivanambassador

“Es schienen so golden die Sterne-” 

How odd it feels, harsh words bouncing from the back of her tongue to the roof of her mouth, like dusting a bookshelf after many weeks of neglect. She’s not used to it anymore, the sound of Nevarran coming from her own lips.  

“–Am Fenster ich einsam stand.”

No one ever tells you that language is a conductor of memories; and so it sends her spiralling deeper and deeper into memories. 

“Und hörte aus weiter Ferne–”

Her mother used to sing when she would braid her hair. She had a beautiful voice, Cassandra remembers. 

“–Ein Posthorn im stillen Land.”

Song. Song and dance and trumpets, many trumpets. If her home was anything, it was not quiet.  

“Das Herz mir im Leib entbrennte, 

Da hab ich mir heimlich gedacht: 

Ach, wer da mitreisen könnte 

Of all the languages of Thedas (Tevinter notwithstanding), Josephine has always found Nevarran the most intriguing. To the untrained ear, it has a sound akin to a geometry of curt, harsh syllables, strung together like clunky, misshapen freshwater pearls and yet strict in its execution. She knows only enough to make a favorable first impression with Nevarran delegates; her enjoyment of their literature had been made possible only by the virtue of translated works, which is why when the Seeker had agreed to translate a particularly rare copy of a collection of poems for her, Josephine had been over the moon.

            The Ambassador doesn’t realize that she’s been staring, slackjawed with chin in one propped-up hand, at Cassandra until the Seeker stops and makes an abrupt switch of language to Common. Her cheeks warm with the realization, causing her to hastily separate hand from chin.

             She must have looked like an utter fool.

        It seemed that the Count of Monte Cristo always seemed to come directly before or after strange coincidences and amazing feats.     It did nothing to undermine his reputation, that was for certain – what a man, the people would say! He, who arrived seemingly overnight and swept Orlais off of its feet in just as short a time! He, with that pale face and dark hair that alluded to older, deeply noble lineage! He, who arrived on invitation for saving a viscount from bandits! The rumors circling around him flew, and there never seemed to be enough things to say about the Count of Monte Cristo.    If that wasn’t enough, there were rumors that he was the richest man in Thedas – people had joked that he lent money to kings, that diamonds spilled from his pockets when he walked onto the streets – and upon meeting such a man, one would find no more sensible holder of such a fortune. Angelo Zatarra seemed to care little for his money, and more about his vast richness in other things – in culture, intelligence, and charm.                        Perhaps that was why he was loved so unanimously.    He was not among the first to come and see the Inquisition – in fact, it had been well heard of by the time The Count had decided to visit. And yet, his visiting suddenly made it significant again, as if if was new once more. After all, anywhere the Count went had to be noteworthy to some degree, at least.    He would make his acquaintances first with their ambassador, Josephine Montilyet. It was only natural…and here he arrived, without the presumtousness of a big announcement, without a train of peers who admired him, an altogether strange thing for traditional nobles, indeed. He entered gracefully, an altogether peculiar sight: no mask, dressed quite simply in plain colors ( but fabrics that were no doubt expensive ) with little if any jewelry…and yet, there was no doubt that this was the famed Count of Monte Cristo. The man had an undeniably significant presence.

The atmosphere in the room shifted when he walked in, and both air and light seem to bend and change around him. His walk was not typical of a frivolous noble, one that she would have no qualms dismissing immediately after the introduction; no, he had the air of someone who demanded to be taken seriously, even if none of his actions or words bore any sign of it. She noted, too, his unwavering gaze, as if he knew things about her that she had never shared with anyone.

         This was a man who did not need to explain himself; the effect of his presence did all the talking for him.

         She drew a deep breath and braced herself mentally---dealing with such a slippery but affecting individual as himself warranted more caution than usual. And yet at the same time... there was a sort of temptation beckoning to her, crooking its finger at her in an invitation; come, look, and you might just like what you see---whatever it was that was buried beneath the carefully tailored layers of silk, velvet and brocade. An engima, and wouldn’t she like to try and solve it and be rewarded by his friendship and confidence?

          Josephine relaxed into a smile, one that brimmed with courteous warmth and pleasure at the prospect at his acquaintance---and nothing more. She, too, could return the favor of the bait, inviting him to try and unravel her facade, though she did not doubt that he would recognize what she was trying to accomplish, in which case it would serve as a cautionary message to him: that she had played every Game there was to play, and he would be wise not to underestimate her.

Lady Ambassador. Commander Cullen. Nightingale of the Imperial Court.

“ shenanigans “yeah right you sinner, i know what u rly wanted. i got dem receipts. i can’tbelieve i just wrote this either. also little is not in my vocabulary so thisis so long i cry. :^) help me. this is very nsfw i’m not even remotely sorry.