It hadn't been the first time one of Leliana's couriers had found themselves at the bottom of the rotunda, but the lines across the messenger's face had deepened; a likely reflection of the sender's own quiet anxieties. The message, too, was the same as it had been a few days ago: if there had been any word from Nanna Amell.
Leliana had, of course, made note of Nanna's newfound attachment to the Inquisition's expert on the Fade. Though she was always watchful over the old friends she had before the Inquisition, having Nanna so frequently on hand made things easy for her. But that only meant that in times like these, when the Warden had suddenly and silently taken flight several days ago, the Spymaster's unease was palpable.
Receiving yet another negative, the courier hadn't left but a few minutes before the silence was broken sudden and abruptly as the door unceremoniously slammed open, and the room was suddenly endowed with the familiar scent of saffron, and an unmistakable hint of elfroot smoke.
Barefoot and clad only in the underdress of her usual robes, Nanna made her first appearance in days stumbling breathless and drunkenly into the candlelight of the rotunda, bracing against the wall for support. Her unbraided hair fell in tight ringlets around her face that she kept having to push out of her face lest they mingle with the dainty pipe in her hand. And most notable of all, was her being splattered head to toe with blood. When she finally seemed to recognize where she was, her eyes glazed and unfocused settled on the elven apostate as though Solas was the one unusual to find here.
"On dhea, hahren!" It was not, in fact, anywhere near morning. "Rookery is...up. Yes? Wrong floor, I think."
@hoboblaidd
