#fadewalking

Felassan didn't want to have this conversation. He probably shouldn't have this conversation. But he was going to have this conversation anyway, for all the good it would probably do him.

Which was how he found himself leaning against the doorway of the Dread Wolfs... war room, he supposed. Wasn't really big enough for a proper war room, but there was a table with a map on it. Although very, very few people were actually allowed up here.

What did it say about him that Solas' chambers also doubled as his planning space? It wasn't like they could make more room in the Lighthouse, if needed.

But Solas was Solas, so here they were.

Gaze set, it's with some moodiness that Dorian believes his collar too despairingly tight. He can list the reasons, even prattle them, perhaps even belt them them to the rafters in a song, but admitting to each one leaves the last one realer. Alas, bad ideas, Dorian supposes, are all he has:

One, this ensemble's atrocious. Two, all these syrup-sweet smiles scream of knives and home. And Maker, last but not least in a worry-inducing third, Solas, as he has been, holds him firm in his sights.

Right. Why? He catalogues his mind for whatever nonsense he might have conceivably bandied. It gnaws at his skin, that sharp, needling stare and these gossiping, jewel-strewn nobles offering their distance. Dorian strides right over rather done with mysteries. Like making for a guillotine, in Orlais, it's appropriate.

"Escape with me a while, won't you? The stars are out for you to dance under in case you're wondering. We haven't any rivers to provide you with the ambiance, but I'm hoping you're amenable to a fountain with an infant's arse strut about it."

Waiting. Waiting.

How long had he been waiting at this point? Rook wasn't sure. There was no way for him to tell the passing of time here, when a new day begun and when it ended. All he could do was watch over Solas and hope that he would wake soon from his dark and dreamless sleep, come back to him and Felassan. Until then he would remain here, forget the rest of the world, need to protect that once encompassed the many narrowed to just Solas.

Rook found it easier to exist in bird form. Feeling all he did in his elvhen form, in the body he had made to follow Solas, it hurt too much. But when Felassan arrived the rook (bird) form flew down from his perch upon the barrier that had formed around Solas, the man appearing in a swirl of blue light. Rook looked tired, unkempt. It wasn't like he was constantly preening, quite relaxed about his appearance, but he had looked after himself at the very least.

"How long has it been?" Rook asked, voice cracking a little, clearing his throat. He spoke very little these days, only to Felassan. "It already feels like an eternity."

He looked over at the barrier and the sleeping Dread Wolf. His friend. No, friend didn't quite encompass the depth of emotion the two had shared. Rook would call his own feelings love, but Solas had always been ensnared by Mythal. Nothing romantic, at least that Rook had noticed, but a deep devotion to an elvhen who was the reason Solas had compromised his values time and time again for.

@fadewalking

"Nor are listening ears, at this point." Solas mused. Unearthing a spy in the Inquisition's ranks, while not exactly common, was less rare than anyone might've liked.

Though, there had not yet been one as well liked as the one captured earlier today. A cook, apparently, who was friendly and chatty with everyone she crossed paths with. But a spy nevertheless. And soon the task of judgement would be saddled on the Inquisitor, and she would have to make a choice.

"What are you thinking?"

'What are you thinking?' Solas asks, and Regin... Wishes she knew.

She exhales shakily, toying with the end of the braid of her hair.

"- I want to know more, mostly, is what I'm thinking. Was she forced to, or threatened to, or was this of her own accord? What- exactly was she reporting, and to whom?" A slow, shaky breath. "How many of our- agents and people under our banner were put into harm's way or killed because of her actions?" She glances to him, lips pressed together in a near- frown.

"... It's not all black and white. Though I think Cassandra would prefer I thought in that range. I don't... Want to go into this half-aimed. I don't want to treat this like it's something easy, or without weight."

In truth, Felassan had stood there for a long few moments, watching as Solas worked. It was no secret that there was a lot riding on Fen'harel's shoulders, and no secret that this -- this war would take its toll.

(Never mind, he told himself, never mind, we do whatever it takes. Our people will be free.)

There was a quirk to his lips, at once fond, exasperated, and sly, a shake of his head following. "Necessity," Felassan replied with a grave tone at odds with his expression - though with Solas's back to him, he hoped his intentions would be less obvious as he approached, finally placing a firm hand on Solas's shoulder.

It's  a  kitchen  she's  unfamiliar  with,  china  she's  never  touched  before,  but  she'd  managed  to  pull  off  a  decent  brew  all  the  same.  Arriving  here  had  been  a  rather  impromptu  affair,  one  driven  by  devastating  blows  that  felt  the  Lighthouse  would  offer  the  elder  necromancer  no  comfort.  She'd  thought  to  herself;  wouldn't  I  want  to  be  in  my  own  bed?  Cradled  in  walls  that  are  mine?  To  know  if  its  night  or  day?  He  deserved  that  much,  and  so  much  more  than  this.

Crushed  lilac  hues  stare  into  the  pair  of  tea  cups,  steam  lifting  in  tendrils  to  warm  her  face  with  a  curling  caress.  She  pauses  however  as  her  throat  dries,  nausea  twisting  her  insides  into  knots.  The  feeling  has  her  hands  slowly  bracing  against  the  edges  of  his  counter  as  her  eyes  start  to  swim.

She  cannot  get  the  image  of  Emmrich's  pleading  eyes  staring  up  at  her,  helpless,  Manfred  unmoving  in  his  embrace  out  of  her  mind.

The  feeling  of  loss  roots  in  her  chest,  mingling  with  her  guilt—she'd  encouraged  this.  She'd  invited  Manfred's  assistance,  the  three  of  them  moving  in  a  near  synergy  she's  not  felt  since  Varric  was  in  the  field.  And  what  do  they  have  to  show  for  it,  now?

Her  knuckle  brushes  an  escaped  tear  from  her  face  as  quickly  as  it  slips,  inhaling  her  emotions  as  she  straightens  her  back.  She  can  almost  feel  Myrna's  hand  against  her  spine  pushing  her  onward.  This  isn't  about  you,  child.

When  she  finally  enters  the  room  he  occupies,  Gwendolyn  stares  at  his  back  turned  to  her.  She  doesn't  want  to  startle  him,  its  so  very  quiet,  and  he  has  been  through  enough.

"  It's  just  me—  "  She  speaks  softly,  brows  twisting  as  she  moves  to  set  the  tray  down  on  the  nearby  table.  Her  fingers  brush  over  the  teapot  gently,  before  her  eyes  drift  up  to  look  at  him.  "  Thought  you—"  She  starts  but  it  catches  in  her  throat,  words  lost  as  she  swallows  it  down.  Why  is  this  so  hard?  She  then  steps  closer  to  him,  albeit  tentatively,  as  her  hands  move  to  slide  up  her  upper  arms,  an  attempt  to  sooth  herself  as  she  pauses  close  to  him  but  a  respectful  distance  so  she's  not  crowding  him.

"  Would  you  like  me  to  stay  with  you,  dragă?  "  She  asks  finally  as  she  lifts  her  eyes  to  finally  look  at  the  side  of  his  face,  her  hands  sliding  away  as  she  observes  him  closely,  trying  to  find  the  minute  shifting  in  his  expression  that  might  tell  her  what  he  needs  if  words  fail  him.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  be  alone.  "