Just A Bisexual Disaster That Loves Bioware Games

Though it had been years since Josephine had been a bard, she was still perfectly capable of discerning when someone had entered her residence uninvited. It happened infrequently, to be sure. Her renown and role as a foreign diplomat kept most Orlesian nobles from trying to interfere by use of assassins and spies. Still, this was not a first.

Whoever the intruder was, they were clearly an amateur, or utterly unconcerned with being discovered. A previously closed window was now open enough to allow in a draft. The scent of an unfamiliar (and yet familiar?) flower lingered through the embassy’s hallways. She could hear the creak of a door from the direction of her private chambers. The intrusion was so obvious that Josephine hardly felt any fear. An infant bard she could handle herself, even if out of practice.

Josephine pulled a rarely used dagger from its concealed location in a sideboard that ran the length of the hallway between the common areas and the Ambassador’s Suite. She had no intention of using it, of course; she had long-since learned that there was always a better solution than violence. Still, the well-placed threat of force…that could, on occasion, speed negotiations along. She slid the blade carefully into a shirt sleeve, hiding it from immediate view. It was always better to start with a soft word than a sharp blade. It was easier to escalate than de-escalate.

She made her way down the hall to her door, not bothering to try and mask her footfalls. A surprised, infant assassin was a particularly dangerous one. She should know. Josephine pushed open the door to the suite, hinges creaking as it swung open to reveal…

“Leliana!” The Left Hand of the Divine was lounging, easily as anything, on Josephine’s sofa and paging through some trade contracts the ambassador had left there as she’d gone to bed the night before. Leliana looked up at Josephine’s outburst, smirking cockily at the surprise in her voice.

“Josie,” Leliana greeted, rising. Serving as the Left Hand seemed to be treating the Orlesian woman well. Or, perhaps, Josephine supposed she might be biased by the tug of an old ache at the sight of her former lover. Not that she’d any intention of betraying that weakness to Leliana; the bard would only take advantage of it. “Look at you! I see you wasted none of these passed years dawdling. And still, you look as young as the day we first met.”

Oh, but she did want something, didn’t she? “Transparent flattery already? Whatever you want, you must desire it badly,” Josephine said, crossing her arms over her chest and keeping a wary eye on the redhead.

Leliana huffed, but smiled. “You are no less observant, either. Tell me, Josie, how have you been?”

Josephine did not acknowledge the deflection - now that both had acknowledged the truth, they would circle back to her question in due course - and instead answered the question. “Quite well. I am fortunate to enjoy my work, and do so in one of the most interesting cities in Thedas.” If she was, perhaps, a touch bored after years of doing so, she made no mention.

“I may have been rarely in Val Royeaux, but even I have heard of the accomplishments of the chief ambassador from Antiva,” Leliana said, and Josephine nearly let out an unladylike snort. ‘Even she?’ The Left Hand of the Divine, Nightingale of the Imperial Court, likely knew more about everyone of note in all of Orlais than anyone. Still, it was hard to suppress a slight thrill of pleasure at the thought of Leliana keeping up with her all these years in secret as she moved about in the highest levels of secrecy and power.

“I am certain most tales are not even half true,” Josephine demurred, and Leliana laughed. Oh, but she had missed that sound, nearly musical; when Leliana truly laughed, even the Maker himself could hardly fail to take notice.

“So tell me, then,” Leliana said, eyes no longer crinkled with amusement but instead focused, “do you seek no further accolades? Are you to be content?”

Josephine raised her eyebrows in silent question, an answer in itself that Leliana should be perfectly capable of understanding. “The young woman I knew years ago at the University was never one to settle, or sit idle, she gloried in challenge. Has that changed?”

Ashur Vesperian looks across the city to which he had once refused to return and wonders if there's anything he could have done to end up anywhere else. If there was ever truly an escape from this. He supposes his being here answer enough. He should at least feel satisfied that he'd done it on his terms, but the gratification rings hollow.

The youngest Divine in three ages.

Somehow, Ashur is sure his father would find some way to express his disappointment. It should perhaps not spark the amusement that it does.

"You should be more careful,"

Ashur whips around, startled less because there is a stranger on the roof, and more because he hadn't expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon. But it's undoubtedly her, perched there on the roof's edge like an overlarge bird, eyes reflecting a myriad of colors from the shadow of her cowl.

Aegis drops onto his terrace almost soundlessly, her hood slipping off her head with the force of the landing. Ashur is at once thankful that they've been gifted a miraculously clear night in Minrathous. The starlight affects her with a strange, colorless glow.

Her cowl crowds around her neck now, the hair that hasn't been stirred by the removal is contained down the back of her cloak. Usually green eyes seem black with the shadows, the freckles that dust her cheeks are thrown into sharp relief in the starlight, making her look almost the inverse of the night sky, darker pinpricks on a blanket of silver.

"Anyone could sneak up on you up here," She chides, though her mouth pulls up at one corner.

"Lucky it was you, then."

Ashur expects her to roll her eyes, but she just smiles at him, decidedly not as sharp as he's become accustomed to. Rather unfortunately, he's enchanted by this softer version. Enchanted by the way it makes her seem even younger than she is. He could almost believe this was another woman altogether.

“See you tonight at Gus’?” she asks in that husky tone she always reserves just for him. Or at least, in his mind he's the only one who gets to hear the way her tongue curls around each syllable.

She lets her hair cascade down her back in just the right way as she gives him that sultry eyebrow raise. His mind is already imagining what his fingers would look like wrapped into those strands as he tries to focus on her words. But by Yoba, he can think of little else as he swallows thickly and prays.

Fuck, she's been bold before but never this needy. And he wonders if she's hit a spell as dry as his. Though with the way half the town is beating down her door that hardly seems possible.

“Sure.” He remembers to grunt- to act disinterested, like he isn't rock hard already as her eyes narrow across the room. He won't ask her to stay despite how badly he wants it. He has pride- somewhere. And that only excites her more as she easily shrugs.

“Or I could just hang out with you now,” she teases with a giggle as he internally groans. One long leg crosses the other as she sits down on a nearby crate, making sure to lean back on her hands and give him a full view of her muscular body stretched out just for him.

She's going to kill him, but at least he will die happy- or maybe not when a bored sigh escapes her within five minutes of waiting. He's supposed to be working, stacking boxes and stocking shelves. Not that she cares as she cocks her head to the side and pouts her bottom lip at him.

The sounds and smells of Cafe Pietra are as lively as they are every night. The clink of porcelain. Laughter from one corner, the source a trio of young Crows just out of fledglinghood. Low murmuring from a couple sitting close together in another. The chatter of multiple conversations carried across the tiles, but none so interesting as that of a pair of men seated at their usual table near the balustrade overlooking the canal.

With a cloth in one hand and tray in the other, Selora tried to look inconspicuous as she sidled closer to the men under the guise of clearing another table.

"Caterina will never go for it," the taller one was saying, tone dismissive. The more handsome of the pair, his long black hair lay in a silken wave over one shoulder, a gold ring gleaming in his ear. Unlike his companion, he ignored his coffee mug in favor of inspecting his nail beds. "She offered it to you, cousin. Not to me."

"She will if I propose it," the other man replied easily, swirling his coffee mug gently before sipping. "It's a chance for you to get out of Treviso, for once."

"I like Treviso."

"As do I," the man's tone turned placating. "Treviso is home. But, Illario, there is a whole world out there." There was a gleam in his dark brown eyes that smacked of mischief. "Besides, Vyrantium is known for it's—"

Illario cleared his throat, eyes falling on her.

Turning quickly, heat rose up her neck as she realized she'd lingered a little too close, too long. Throwing her rag onto the tray, she cursed herself as she pivoted on her heel and marched back toward the bar, whatever Lucanis Dellamorte had been about to say lost to her. Still, she'd at least gotten something. Vyrantium. A contract perhaps? Not enough to bring to Viago, but more than she'd gotten in the three months she'd been undercover here.

When the Talon had brought her from Salle to keep an eye on the Dellamorte cousins, she'd thought he'd plant her among their house, not as a barista in a local cafe. But here she was, going by Rook, and spending her nights serving mostly other Crows while hoping to learn something interesting. After nearly twelve weeks of nothing more noteworthy than the name Illario Dellamorte's latest paramour—if one could call that noteworthy—she'd begun to believe the job useless. Surely she could have learned more being closer to the Dellamortes than working at their favored cafe. She hadn't, as yet, built a good enough argument to bring to Viago about it, but her frustration was growing. At least this was something. Potentially something. What other business could two Crows have in Tevinter if it wasn't a contract?

"You could try being less obvious, you know," Giulia said as Selora dropped her tray behind the bar with a sigh.

Stiffening, she said as lightly as she could manage, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please," the woman laughed, her red curls bouncing. "You aren't the first barista to become infatuated with Illario Dellamorte." She tapped the end of her nose. "I know the signs."

Rook sputtered, reeling back. "I'm not—"

"Memorizing his order…"

"I—" Well, yes, she had done that, but they ordered the same thing every time the came in.

"Lingering around his table," the other woman continued, giving her a look. "Sighing…."

Selora pressed her lips together. As much as part of her took umbrage at the assumption she was the type to fall for silver-tongued charm, the readiest explanation for her interest in the Dellamortes had practically fallen into her lap. She grit her teeth and forced a sheepish smile, ducking her head as if to hide a blush. "You caught me." She fished around for something complimentary to say. "He's just so…"