#| greeter

“You stopped it from killing me before. Is there some trick to it, some spell that quells the magic?” Wind rustled softly through the grass and trees around them, a stark contrast to the unstable magic that had rained demons from the sky only moments before. The fingers of Viru’s marked hand flexed subtly at her side, clenching and stretching, over and over, as though trying to calm it. Or perhaps contain it.

“That could have gone better.” Her white coat spattered in blood and hands trembling from the lingering adrenaline in her system, Viru looked back over her shoulder with no small amount of disgust toward the battlefield. Dangerous and deadly, a terror to the people, the creature had been deemed. And yet to kill it so callously, for no other reason than it did what it must to survive... “Forgive me. I-- are you alright?” Enjoyable or not, dragon-slaying was no small task. Striking from a distance worked well against soldiers’ blades and axes, less-so against roaring flames, leaving the mages at an unpleasant disadvantage.

“Does it never get in the way?” Stick her in front of nobles or strangers and Viru might just be able to govern her tongue, if she consciously works at it. But with those she’s even mildly comfortable with the chance of blurting every thought that comes to mind increases drastically. Blushing brightly at her own outburst, she stammers, “The uh-- fur. How do you see around it?”

“Your grace.” The words are quiet, if not from respect then from uncertainty. Of all the monarchs she has appeased thus far, this must be the most odd. Not for outrageous clothing nor ridiculous manners, but because she must surely be addressing a child, or close enough to it. Still, this child holds the power to bestow soldiers and resources, for which the Inquisition is desperate. Smile, be polite. If you grimace at every noble you meet we can hardly expect anything good from them. Josephine’s coaching echoes with annoying insistence in the back of her skull. Slowly, her lips lift at the corners, reserved but pleasant.

“--I’m not really one of the little people, but-- do you count me as one of the big  ones?” While she might dispute some matters with Sera, she has never been lacking in admiration for the rogue. The Red Jenny crusade for those who cannot help themselves might be unconventional, but it’s also effective in its way. But recently, she’s wondered if her own status as Lady Inquisitor Lavellen has put her in an even worse light than simply being elfy

“How much of a scandal do you think an elf and a dwarf can cause at the  Winter Palace?” Notice that she says “can” instead of “will”. There’s effort being put into this madness, hypothetically at least. Realistically, she can’t risk offending too many of the Orlesian snobs, but-- a woman can dream.

“Does it ever get easier--?” The question trails off into sudden uncertainty. Of her companions, she expects Blackwall to perhaps understand this subtle ache. This quiet pain of missing voices and fading faces. He’s a Warden, after all. Fallen comrades must be something only too awfully familiar for him.  So why does it feel so wrong to speak of it?

“So-- what you’re trying to say is that bringing  ANOTHER  Elven apostate AND  a Dwarven storyteller  AND  a disowned Magister’s son to the party is... a bad  idea? Is that right?” She feigns a melodramatic confusion, tilting her head to one side and furrowing her brows as though her adviser had spoken to her in another tongue. In truth, she’s dying to laugh at Josephine’s reaction to her suggested “guests” who will venture forth to the Winter Palace with her.