✶ //. Stardusting

"I think if The Maker came right now down to talk to her personally she would shush him to continue her preaching." Zevran nodded, Yevette remained an enigma to him but it was nice to converse with a fellow Antivan in a seemingly never ending sea of Ferelden and Orlesian people. She was quite but sociable, no doubt a skill learned from time in Orlais at court.

"I think I did my repentance during the fifth blight, The Maker will have to make do with that one giant gesture I did." The lie came off his tongue easily as it always did when people brought up that he, although a hero still killed people for money. Though he'd saved the world there was no real repentance in it. He'd let things happen that he wasn't proud of and he'd never be able to repent to the mages for what happened in that tower or to the Dalish for what happened at their camp. All he could do was say he pleaded for their case but it fell upon deaf ears which never felt like enough. He always felt a pang of guilt when talking to a mage or to a Dalish elf.

"My sins?" Zevran asked his voice matching Yevette's whisper. He didn't launch in to what was weighing heavy on his mind. He pretended to count on his fingers. "Oh I would say, there is not enough paper in skyhold to write them all down. But If there were I think the library's shelves would stretch all the way in to the undercroft." he nodded pleased with this acceptable number of books.

He appreciates her comment. More than she probably thinks, it was nice to be met with no judgment. Often Antivan's understood what he was. It was part of the culture.

Zevran’s talk of repentance, sin, libraries stretching into the bowels the keep had her listinging with a stillness learned in Orlais, the kind that made courtiers underestimate her. But her gaze softened at the edges, dark lashes lowering over something almost gentle. Had it not been for something prickling at the back of her neck, like a whisper that told her there were hidden layers beneath the elf's answer. “If the Maker judged by ledgers alone,” she whispered, “none of us would sleep well. Not you, not I, not even Mother Giselle with all her piety.” Her gloved fingertips brushed the bench, tracing the grain of old stone as if she could trace her thoughts. “The good and wicked rarely walk alone. Isn't that what our homeland told us? There are many shades of light and dark, coming together in shadows .”

At his final question, a spark stirred in her expression. A hint of mirth, a glimpse of mischief even perhaps, the sharp delight of a women who knew to navigate salons where rumors were an art form. “Craziest rumor?” Yvette hummed, leaning in just enough to match his conspiratorial tone. “Mm. If you do not mind it bording on absurdity, I would say it is the one where the Duke Prosper de Montfort had his weak heart secretly swapped for that of a nug. Appearently nugs never tire and never lose rhythm, is the old wives tale." She let the absurdity hang for a heartbeat, then added, "Heard he could now waltz through three balls back-to-back without sweating. I've caught a glimpse of the man once, and though I can not testify to his dancing skill I would say the impression he left on me was as a man both rich, vain and medically unsound.” A soft laugh, wicked and polished, slipped from her. “And you? What is the most outrageous rumor you’ve heard since arriving at Skyhold?”

"For the love of Andraste, I have not the patience to coddle the delicate feelings of every last noble on the continent! If the Inquisition's presence offends the arlessa so, perhaps she might consider sending her own bannermen to defend the commonfolk from bandits!"

At that, the heavy door to the war room swings open and Cullen strides out into the corridor, the dark circles beneath his eyes a perfect match for the black storm cloud hanging above his head. His threat is empty, spoken only in frustration - he would never abandon innocent civilians to their fates, no matter how obstructive and ungrateful their rulers are.

Against her better judgement, she slipped from her sister’s quarters, heeled boots whispering along the cold flagstones as she stepped into the hall. Torchlight cast fierce shadows along Cullen’s face, sharper than she remembered from the festivities. Now he looked carved from stormclouds and stone. “No need to apologize, Commander,” she said gently, hands folding before her as though to tamp down her own instinct to immediately retreat. “I… I should make myself scarce.” She turned a fraction, prepared to disappear back into Josephine’s office, but something made her hesitate. A shadow clung to him that had nothing to do with anger. She drew a breath, teeth catching her lower lip for an indecisive nibble. “Forgive me, ser, but… are you… alright?”

verner laughed and moved in front of her, his dagger pointed at her. "should we test it out? i think you'll look lovely in red." he said playfully. "besides, you and i both know that fashions crimes aren't my only type of crime." he pulled the dagger away and went back to walk beside her. verner would never hurt her anyway, it would be a shame to lose a valuable crow and maybe a friend, whatever she was part time or not.

he let the question linger a little bit longer while he put his dagger back in its place before putting his arm around her for a hug. "no price yet, though i'm curious how they would ask, what do you think?" verner asked, completely out of curiosity. he often wondered what kind of price one would ask for his own head. "do you think mine will get a lot?" he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice. "do not worry, yvette, this is an overdue hello to my special partner in crime."

She released her touch as he sheathed the dagger, laughter curling low in her throat. “Still, I expect your bounty would far outsum mine. Infinitely more risk collecting it, which drives up the price. One would have to be very confident, or very stupid, to try. Ending up cold beside you seems to be a common fate for those who miscalculate.” The idea didn’t seem to trouble her; if anything, it delighted her in some wicked, private way. "Trouble always demands a premium.”

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄:  Skyhold  —  eastern  battlements  overlooking  the  training  yard 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍:  20  solace,  9:41  Dragon,  late  morning 𝐖𝐇𝐎:  Lark  Vernhart  &  Yvette  Montilyet 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒:  open  (  @lladastra  )

The  battlements  were  quieter  this  time  of  day,  the  light  leaning  warm  against  stone  and  steel  as  the  yard  below  emptied  out.  Lark  had  claimed  a  spot  near  one  of  the  older  merlons,  elbows  braced  on  cool  rock  as  he  watched  the  recruits  spar  and  the  sun  begin  its  slow  drift  toward  the  mountains.  He  didn’t  get  many  chances  to  sit  still  not  the  way  things  kept  shifting  around  Skyhold  but  today  the  quiet  felt  earned. He  heard  footsteps  behind  him  before  he  saw  her,  light  but  deliberate.  He  glanced  back  just  enough  to  take  the  other  person  in.  Not  a  soldier,  not  a  scout  too  composed  for  either. “Didn’t  think  this  spot  was  popular,”  he  said  with  a  half-smile,  shifting  so  she  could  join  him  if  she  chose.  “Guess  it  makes  sense.  Hard  to  beat  the  view.”  Lark’s  tone  was  easy,  curious  rather  than  prying.  “Hope  I’m  not  in  your  way.  I  can  scoot  if  you  want”  Just  enough  humor  in  his  voice  to  soften  the  offer,  his  eyes  steady  but  open  an  invitation,  not  an  interrogation.

As she approached she found a man sitting near one of the merlons. A image she half-recognized from the festivities, as she had been seated near Lace Harding at a certain point. As he turned slightly, she caught the slanted curve of his smile. Something easy and unguarded, which she answered with one of her own, soft as a brushstroke. “It’s popular at least to one eager to spot a promised carriage on the horizon,” she murmured, coming to stand beside him, “then only to forget their worries in the first place and admire the view instead.” Her gaze slipped toward the valley, the sun folding gold across its edges. “And you are not in the way..how could you be, when you first discovered this marvelous spot?”

He thought he was going to have a quiet moment to himself in the garden but unfortunately Mother Giselle had decided to lead a group in prayer that had turned in to full blown service. Zevran would have gotten up to leave if he wasn't worried that his spot on the bench near a heat source would be taken by some templar that wouldn't appreciate it as much as Zevran did.

More people began to file in sitting next to him as crossed his arms and leaned back intending to take a nap but someone who sat down caught his eye. He was raised Andrastian as a child. He was supposed to be devout but a devout murderous Andrastian elf was too funny a thing and Zevran was only about serious murderous elf business.

She let her gaze drift over the gathering, then back to him. The charming, impossible elf with sin easily worn like a second skin. “Repentance,” she echoed thoughtfully. “A creative endeavor for some. For others, an impossible full-time profession.” Her eyes glinted with something conspiratorial, a flicker of shared guilt of which he was thankfully unaware. Unlike him, she did not wear her raven-coloured past so openly. “Tell me, how bad are we speaking? How many diaries would you need to properly document all the life choices that Andraste might frown upon? One? Ten?” She leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into a velvet whisper. “Or are we talking about a library’s worth?”

“Most impressive sight?” Lace continued. “I think it might have been back at Haven. We were scouting for areas that might have a good lumber supply and came across a small glen. Most people on their pilgrimages don’t leave the road, right? So this place felt untouched.” A soft smile appeared and she could almost feel the cold brush of wind against her face, the sharp cut of each breath. “It was..serene. It was against a sheer stone face and the snow glittered like jewels. I’d never seen anything like it before.”

Did that place still exist? Had the explosion at Haven reached that far or had Corypheus’ armies trampled through, with no regard for the beauty that they destroyed with each step? She felt a pang in her chest and she hoped, hoped that it had remained untouched and beautiful in this world that seemed to be falling apart around them. 

“My ma would be honoured if her decorations even slightly inspired tonight’s events.” At this, Lace’s smile turned into a full grin. “We could probably gather enough boughs to at least decorate above the fireplaces. I’d wager the heat would help spread their fresh smell throughout the hall, without needing to completely deforest the area.”

As not to linger, on tradegy past, she refocused on the topic of decorating. Her gaze drifted back toward Skyhold’s towering stone, the cold hall beyond. “Above the fireplaces,” she echoed, the idea blooming like heat against her ribs. A rare sensation she had yearned to feel for months back in Orlais, when all colors seemed to have dulled. “That would be perfect. The scent would linger in the hall like a memory of somewhere softer than all this stone.” A breath of laughter slipped past her lips, quiet but genuine. “Though I hope we'll not have to answer to the Commander if we strip the mountains bare of cover in the name of decoration.”

The grin she gave Lace was slower this time. “Lets make your mother proud, then. Skyhold could use a touch of the world you came from. A touch of every nation, so it may show unity. Something warm. Something real.” A pause, the slightest tilt of her head. “If you’re willing, I’d be honored to help you gather the boughs. Even a Montilyet can manage a bit of manual labor when the reward is worth it.”

𝐖𝐇𝐎:          bernard  vaskir,     open  to  all     {   1/4   } 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄:     skyhold  undercroft 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍:       19  solace,   9:41  dragon,   dawn

𝙸𝚃  𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳𝙽'𝚃  𝙱𝙴  𝙰  𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙴  𝚃𝙾  𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴  that  skar  is  already  awake  and  working  by  the  time  the  first  bit  of  sun  even  thinks  about  dragging  itself  over  the  snow-covered  peaks  which  surround  skyhold.   the  undercroft's  knife-bright  lantern  glow  spills  out  into  the  cold  basement  room,   metal  ringing  in  steady  intervals   —   measured,   deliberate,   like  he’s  daring  the  rest  keep  to  complain.   a  mess  of  gears,   scrap,   and  half-dissected  devices  cover  the  worktable  near  the  anvil.   skar  stands  over  it  all  bare-armed  and  scowling,   forge  gloves  inches  away,   waiting  to  be  put  into  use  again.   weathered  face  is  covered  with  grime  and  soot  already.   when  he  finally  speaks,  he  doesn’t  so  much  as  glance  up.   these  are  only  experiments  so  far,   but  he's  prepared  for  war.   "step  careful.   half  this  shit  will  explode  if  you  breathe  on  it  wrong."   the  faintest  curl  of  his  mouth   —   not  quite  a  smile,   more  like  a  challenge.   "unless  you’re  here  to  make  things  interesting.   in  that  case   —   don’t  let  me  stop  you.”

When she finally dared to step a little closer, she did so ascareful as a cat on a sill. “Explosions do carry a certain dramatic,” she said, voice low and still tainted with a touch of sleepiness of the early hours. “But I promise not to breathe wrong on anything that will make us all regrettably famous.” She glanced at the scattered gears with the eye of someone who appreciated crafts, then let her eyes find his face. “You dare me to make things interesting and I almost wish I could. Instead I’ll be the polite spectator, for now. Tell me, if you will be so kind, are these experiments meant to save us, or merely to startle the enemy into admiration?”

verner allowed himself a moment before starting his journey back to kirkwall, with how this day has been going, he should've known that it would only get worse and talking face to face with his brother was definitely there. he took the quiet moment to try calm himself before deciding that the walk and the ride itself will be enough for him. it's not that verner chose on his own to come to skyhold each other, he was bound by a contract, the only downside to being a crow, he supposed.

as verner started walking, idly playing with his dagger by spinning it around, he noticed a familiar woman walking ahead of him. verner smiled and decided to catch up to her, making sure to step on a branch, so yvette won't think some sort of danger has come up behind her. once verner was next to her, he leaned in. "you know, if i didn't make sure you heard me, you could've been dead." he pulled back and smirked.

She never heard the twig snap. It had been just one sound among dozens in a keep alive with movement, but she felt the warmth slip in at her side. A breath against her ear, too close, too familiar. Instinct lunged through her; she jabbed an elbow back but the cloak caught, tangled, slowing her movement to something laughably clumsy. The shadow beside her had already retreated a step by the time she spun, cloak flaring, breath sharp in her chest. And there he was. One of the last men she’d expected to materialize from the shadows. “You wouldn’t risk such a trusted ally, would you? Even if they might be a little out of practice” she murmured, letting the shock melt into a slow, wicked smile even though her cheeks burned with a flare of shame. Her eyes dragged over him. Same posture, same danger coiled beneath casual nonchalance. “Besides, given your record of fashion crimes, I think you severely overestimate how good I look in blood red.” The smile sharpened. Wicked, forgotten, a sliver of the woman she used to be when they had truly known one another.

He paused there, because she had mentioned her sister twice now, and even Cassian in his current state couldn't miss something so blatantly under his nose. His hand dropped and he angled his head, studying her with a more careful approach than before. "She sounds... formidable." He said lightly, but the warmth underneath gave him away. "So much so that I'm starting to feel personally responsible for your future scolding."

When she stood, he followed her lead with far more grace than had become him on the way down. "As for the ale, I'll take the burden from you. A hero's duty, truly." He laughed. Then, unable to resist, he leaned in a fraction, enough to drop his voice into that low, warm register he so easily slipped into. "If your sister's scrutiny is the greater danger, I could see you safely delivered to your door." A flicker shone through his eyes, something mischievous as his grin sharpened. "Or..."

He let the word hang, eyebrows arching. "My barracks are... unbecoming at best. But significantly lacking in a sinister sister figure." He lowered his chin, towering over her. "What do you say, Yvette? Shall I escort you to safety, or smuggle you away from it?"

She rose with fluid grace, but the real surprise was how Cassian followed. Almost steady, with even the faintest touch of elegance in his climb from the bench. Making herself once more if a mild excess of wine was not making her see things. “A true hero,” she teased lightly, soft laughter curling from her like perfume as she stepped over to pluck the abandoned ale from the snow-packed ground. The ground was cold enough that it hadn’t spoiled into a luke-warm brew. She was halfway into offering it back when he leaned in, bold enough to steal her breath for a heartbeat. His shadow loomed over her slight frame, his voice lowered into a dare. An escort her to 'safety', or to whisk her into trouble. She studied him from inches away, unwavering, as her eyes darkened now. Her lips curled with a matching spark that could be mistaken for mischief of a similar nature. Rising onto her toes, she brought her mouth dangerously close to his ear before she spoke. “However tempting you might think the offer, and your ambition admirable…” Her words brushed between them like smoke. “Perhaps you should learn to keep your feet beneath you before you try dancing with a Montilyet.”

Yvette's greeting is as proper as one would expect from a Montilyet, but Cullen holds up a hand at the use of his former title, dismissing it as politely as he can. "Ah, please - my tenure in that capacity was so brief I hardly feel I merit the continued use of its stylings," Though a surprising number of the letters Cullen receives continue to come addressed as such. Would people still rush to call him Knight-Commander if they knew the extent of the path he has chosen? What he means to give up? The decision he has quietly made is as good as turning his back on the Order forever, and it weighs on his heart, even as he persists. "Commander suits me well enough, my lady."

Echoing her laugh with a soft chuckle of his own, Cullen shakes his head slightly, "I suppose I can understand that, having siblings myself." Though it is strange to imagine Rosalie being the one to observe his behaviour and trying to deduce the truth his wellbeing from it - that would be a feat best left to his eldest sister, Mia. "Your concern for your sister speaks well of you, Lady Yvette. She is the best of us," he says with sincerity, "This whole enterprise would've fallen to ruin, were it not for her influence." For as little love as he has for society and its trappings, Cullen can see the merit in Josephine's endeavours - she secures their audiences, their funding, their easy passage through lands governed by the gentry. Without her, the Inquisition's legitimacy would suffer.

Her gaze drifted to the frosted windows, lips curling thoughtfully. “Hardship I am accustomed to, suffering bickering nobility is considered a weekly duty where I come from. The snow, however…” She exhaled a quiet puff of amusement. “Let us say it is less familiar. Exceptionally beautiful, when the sun bothers to grace us though. Who knows, Skyhold may even coax a spark of inspiration from me” Her eyes flicked back to him, dark but ember warm.

His question lingered, tugging her into a small pause. Yvette’s gaze turned inward, contemplative, as if she weighed her days like fruit in her palm. “I do not know yet,” she admitted softly. “Perhaps my stay will depend on how sufferable I prove in the coming days… and the quality of the wine.” A mock-serious nod. “You must understand, commander, bad wine is poison to an Antivan. We must flee the scene before it leaks into our blood.” A small shrug, silver-light and resigned. “In other words... time shall tell.” Her smile returned, slow and sincere. “But for now? It is a welcome change of scenery.”

He pushed himself up an inch, then sighed and let himself fall back again, staring at the sky as if this night had personally betrayed him. Still he laughed, warm enough to make the night seem a little less cold. "So the Orlesian custom is to laugh a man to death then. Good to know." He brushed a few twigs from his arm, only managing to smear dirt down his sleeve. "You're cruel, I can respect that." Still, there was only jest in his tone. "Though if you joined me, we'd make a fine pair of fools."

Finally he dragged himself up to sitting, then used the wall to haul himself back up. He was, quite frankly, a mess. A muddy Marcher indeed. But even though he was dirt-smeared and twig-laden, he still managed that grin. "Let it be known." He begun, voice smooth and expression suave. "I did not fall from the ale. I fell because you smiled at me like that, and I was not built to withstand it." His brow quirked, the corner of his mouth curving upward. It was an expression that read: did I rectify myself? "Now I must insist you drink far more, to either forget this happened or to allow yourself to be inebriated enough that you find me charming."

Her lips parted, the faintest nervous edge to the motion when he called her cruel. The word made something inside her trembled. Was it the wine? Sudden nerves? The unfamiliar sharpness of a man she couldn’t categorize? Or a mirror she never wished to face. It made her fidget with the seam of her glove as she offered him a smaller smile to soften the blow. “I hope you do not truly deem me too cruel." Courts she understood. Masks, lies, lists of sins pinned behind jeweled smiles. They were all elements which she could navigate. But a person like him? A man without a dossier of crimes to judge? A stranger who met her not with calculation but with bare, open grin? It unsettled her. So she chose not to linger, and focus on the continuation of banter. “If I joined you in that hedge, my sister would have my head before breakfast. There is a reputation to uphold, and hedge-diving is rarely considered an elegant sport. No matter how temptingly you attempt to sell it.”

When he managed to haul himself upright, she shook her head, amusement warm and bright, and closed the distance. Crouching before him with ease, the hem of her trousers muddying, as though she’d done so in another life. Without hesitation she began plucking twigs from his attire, brushing away dirt with little regard for her gloves. “You continue to surprise me with your determination, ser,” she murmured, eyes flicking up to his. “Consider me thoroughly wooed. Clearly my smile was so blinding your knees simply surrendered.” The absurdity still hadn’t caught up to her. Only the closeness, the strange ease, the way laughter lingered in her chest. At his insistence she drink more, she laughed once more under her breath and shook her head. “That pitcher of ale will be the death of my tastebuds… and of me. Which, surely, you and the rest of this world would deem a tragedy.” She straightened, still brushing a stubborn leaf from his shoulder. “And if I stumble into my room more drunk than I am now, there will be consequences. Older sisters are relentless in their scrutiny. So you must defend my honor… by saving me from another drop. -- I only hope this righteous act will not ruin your birthday celebration”

She stepped a little further from the edge, shoulders relaxing a hair as she lost sight of the grass below. “I have to admit, the biggest party I’ve been to before this was for my Uncle Duilan. My ma wove these gigantic garlands and strung them from our home to the barn, with a few candles to illuminate the area once night fell.” 

It had been the first nameday celebration since they returned from Denerim and while they hadn’t had much, her ma had made sure that their place was fit to welcome the Queen Anora herself. Maker but she missed her ma something fierce. “A far cry from what I imagine Lady Josephine and yourself have planned to celebrate the new Inquisitor.”

Her expression shifted the instant garlands were mentioned. Yvette’s eyes widened, face turning contemplative as she began to picture them: greenery sweeping like soft strokes of paint across the vaulted space of Skyhold’s grand hall. “Garlands?” she echoed, almost reverent. “Oh, that would be… gorgeous.” She tilted her head, calculating. “But do we even have enough greenery? These pines are stubborn and sparse, but if we could gather enough branches… the scent alone would make the hall feel alive. It would give the place a rustic charm it desperately needs.” Her lips curved, warm and sincere. “The celebration you described... your mother’s garlands lit by candlelight. it must have looked positively magical.”

It was rare to hear another Antivan accent in the halls of Have, Skyhold. It was Skyhold now. The only other one around was Josiphine and well she was usually much too busy for Zevran to bother. This woman also just happened to be a Montilyet, most likely visting said very busy sister for the festivities. For a brief moment Zevran felt a pang of nostalgia for his beloved Antiva city, a city that could be fixed if he put in enough work.

"Ah sold your soul for the Empresses coin I see." Zevran's tone was playful and teasing. Many of Antiva's wealthy merchant families had strong ties to Orlais and even a lowly born elf Antivan like himself knew that. "I jest, though I understand I too enjoy those little macaroons." Zevran made a circle with his thumb and index finger referencing the size of those tasty little sweets. He always stopped for some when he was in Orlais for contracts. Zevran looked down and quickly scribbled Macaroons in to his journal. Why didn't he think of those sooner?

When Zevran mentioned the chef’s complaint about too many sweets, Yvette let out a dramatic gasp, hand flying to her chest in theatrical offense. “Too many sweet things?” she repeated, as though he’d declared sky blue an unacceptable shade. “Maker preserve us. I understand the lack of fish, for this is hardly the coast after all, but fewer desserts?” She shook her head, auburn curls spilling over her shoulder as she gave the heavens a look of betrayed disbelief. “There is no such thing as too many desserts on a celebration menu. That man should be grateful you haven’t demanded a chocolate fountain.”

⋰⏆◝ﾉ     𝕍𝔸𝔼𝕃𝔼ℕ  𝔸ℝ𝔸𝕍𝔼𝕃𝕃𝔼     ⤐     yvette  montilyet  .

"𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚂𝙴  𝙰𝚁𝙴  𝙳𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚄𝚂  𝙳𝙰𝚈𝚂,"   𝙷𝙴  𝙰𝙳𝙼𝙾𝙽𝙸𝚂𝙷𝙴𝚂  lightly.   "i  know  your  sister  has  told  you  as  much,   though  i  get  the  sense  she  may  spare  you  many  details  in  any  letters  you  two  might  exchange."   he  drops  her  hand  as  she  confesses  her  concern  for  him,   and  amber  eyes  go  wide.   "worried  for  me?"   ah,   no   —   worried  for  the  inquisition.   vaelen  had  managed  to  stay  out  of  the  mage-templar  war  for  the  most  part,   seeking  refuge  in  his  mother's  val  royeaux  estate.   but  when  the  mages  were  conscripted  into  the  inquisition,   vaelen  felt  it  would  be  in  everyone's  best  interest  to  comply  and  make  the  journey  to  haven.   he  would  never  let  templars  knock  down  his  mother's  door  in  search  of  him,   and  he  had  feared  at  the  time  the  inquisition  may  be  worse  still.   thankfully,   that  doesn't  seem  to  be  the  case   —   but  he's  still  admittedly  wary.   and  for  better  or  for  worse,   now  he's  here.   

"it  was   —   "   terrifying.   the  worst  day  of  his  life.   he'd  feared  that  he  wouldn't  survive,   and  so  many  had  fallen  before  his  eyes.   this  age  has  brought  true  horrors,   and  it  does  not  seem  they  will  cease  any  time  soon.   briefly  lost  in  thought,   vaelen  clears  his  throat  and  averts  misty  eyes.   "i  am  alive."   he  turns  back  to  yvette  with  a  sad  smile,   voice  breaking  with  emotion.   "and  i  treasure  your  friendship,   perhaps  more  than  ever  before.   i  am  alive.   yes."   he  laughs  when  the  attention  turns  back  to  her  choice  of  clothing  for  the  evening  and  admires  the  shimmer  as  the  candlelight  plays  on  the  thread.   "no,   it  is  beautiful,   yvette.   just  far  different  from  what  i'm  accustomed  to  seeing  you  in."   he  smiles  at  her  again,   full  of  warmth  once  more.   "luckily,   i  never  have  to  worry  about  such  things,"   he  jokes,   turning  in  the  same  fashion  that  yvette  had,   showing  off  his  thick  mage  robes.

Her voice softened further as she watched him falter, words catching on the horrors that still clung to his memory. Her hands, still in his, gave a tender squeeze to hands that had grown rougher, the faint callouses telling their own story. Yvette’s heart ached for him, though her composure never wavered. She didn’t ask for more; the shadows in his eyes spoke loudly enough. “Alive indeed,” she murmured, releasing a steadying breath. “And we shall keep you that way. I may have little talent for war or weaponry, but seeing Skyhold alive like this..” her gaze swept briefly across the laughter and music, “—it makes me hopeful that we’ll prevail, in some way.”

When his expression softened again and he confessed how much he treasured their friendship, her smile bloomed, rich and genuine. “I do treasure it as well” she said simply, feeling the words resonate in her chest.