all the violet tiaras

Everything about Orlais is strange to Svarah, especially the people. In the mountains things must be durable, and most of all they must be practical. Here, though, people seem to take delight in useless and wasteful things. Take the masks: Svarah is sure it makes it harder for people to see where they’re going, and they make it much harder to know what someone is thinking, there is no practical reason for them, but the Orlesians cling to them as children cling to a favourite toy. Still, not everything strange about Orlais is entirely unpleasant. The sun warms her skin in a way it is entirely unused to, and when they ate lunch Amund had surprised her with a dainty, cake that had fit into the palm of her hand and tasted, much to her surprise, of blackberries. He is a good man, this she is certain of, but she must remind herself all to frequently that he is also a good husband for her. 

Worrying thoughts are distracted by a cheerful Orlesian voice by her shoulder and she looks down with a smile. It is impossible to tell what the woman looks like behind the mask, but her voice is warm and her dress beautiful. “Thank you,” her own voice is deep, strong like the mountain and full of accent of its own. “Though the praise cannot all go to me, the mountain beasts are the ones who truly made them after all.” 

The sound of the strange woman’s voice is exactly what Melisende had imagined it to be, although she hadn’t realized that she already had expectations. Although the woman has no way of knowing – aside from crinkles right under Melisende’s eyes – Melisende smiles broadly. She likes smiling, whether or not someone notices it. Probably, this woman will not, if she isn’t used to the masks and how you can see past them. If you know a person well enough, their mask covers nothing, and you can see their teeth through it anytime you want.

She likes the praise directed at the ‘mountain beasts’, whatever they might be. (She’s already curious to see them in their natural homes.) Many traders don’t care about the origins of their products, even when they used to be alive. It’s nice to hear that this woman does. In fact, Melisende feels decided respect towards her. “Right you are,” she agrees. “People sometimes forget that.” Her neck is starting to hurt a little, so she looks down at the furs again. She strokes them lovingly for a moment.

The textures are rich in variety: course, soft, bumpy, smooth... Melisende runs her hand over the materials. Her other hand rests close to her wallet, as has become her habit after being pick-pocketed twice before. Everyone were quick to tell her how she should have adopted that habit in the first place, out of instinct, but Melisende never considered it. She was always too occupied with the sight of something new and luxurious.