#howetragic

WHEN SHE SAID

     “Come back to bed.”

Inara’s voice is soft, almost a whisper, almost like perhaps she’s trying not to be heard. He wouldn’t know she was awake at all if not for the way her eyes peek over the top of the blanket hugged to her chest, her body half-curled, half-exposed in the dawn.

When his head turns to look back over his shoulder at her while he tugs on his shirt, she almost seems to shrink. Like she spoke too loud and didn’t mean to. He does not smile, but he means to.

     “You could come with me,” he says.

A rarer offer than her snort makes it seem she realizes. This is his time. His peace.

The mist and dew are his companions on the shooting range, the crisp morning air slipping into his lungs. There’s something about it, raising his bow and nocking an arrow as the Amaranthine mist curls around his ankles, that’s holy. He prefers to enjoy it alone.

But she’s…

Her body rolls, and the blanket goes up over her head.

He smiles.

==

WHEN HE SAID

     “Come back to bed.”

She hears the words a beat after they’re said. Lightning flickers over the stone, illuminating the Warden-Commander’s worried features as she stands at the window. Pain pounds the misty glass, and in the dark she almost thinks she can see—

Something.

She’s never liked storms, and Amaranthine’s skies are full of them. Her nights are often long and dark, made longer by the clouds. The storms growl outside, flash and bang. But this one seems louder than all the rest.

He lights a candle, and her head turns back to him, eyes dark and full of questions. His are blue, and clear as a summer’s day. Well. A summer’s day anywhere but cursed Amaranthine.

He pats the bed next to him, after throwing back the covers she’d replaced so carefully, trying not to wake him.

     “Have you ever heard what the Dalish say about the thunder?” she asks him.

Her fingers are shaking.

Zevran tilted his head back and laughed. "Ah, I take it you've noticed?"

Their little game was fun, and mostly harmless. Which of them could "assassinate" the other, using all the skills at their disposal. For Zevran's part, he was having fun pretending he was being as deadly as he could be. He hadn't played a game like this in years, not since he was a small child learning the basics alongside the other fledglings. The worst his poisons would do is put Nathaniel to sleep or give him a slightly upset stomach.

For his own part, Nathaniel had caused a small scuffle earlier, and before that, had cut loose a few strands of his hair with his arrow at range. Zevran had escaped quickly both times, but not without the thrill of a chase and evasion.

Get Ya Kisses! Platonic Kisses. More Kisses.

It is a very strange feeling for Nathaniel Howe.

He should be thrilled. Work is getting done quickly, Inara reading and signing the paperwork that comes with this round of Landsmeet discussions with a speed and focus that usually entirely escapes her. Every time they are in Denerim, she is unnaturally quiet. She is unnaturally demure. She is calm, focused on the task at hand, no matter how boring and dull it may be. She has no wild urge to run out the door and avoid her work in the market, by a stream, in the sun. She stays shut in their office, her eyes stay focused on the papers before her. 

But he is not thrilled. He’s not even lightly happy. 

The light, the fierce and enduring stubbornness is one of the many things that makes Inara absolutely intoxicating. In her natural state, she is everything he was taught a noble should not be. She is vibrant, her eyes flashing and wild. She is irreverent, her tongue sharp, and free. She has no strict adherence to time, the dawn rarely waking her and the dusk rarely settling her. She attends to tasks when she’s a mind, and no one else can sway her except in the rarest of circumstance. 

This version of Inara in Denerim, it was not right. Seeing her like this, reigned in, defeated, afraid, twitching every time a door opened… it tore something inside of him, made something bleed. 

He had to do something. 

And so he did. 

He told her in the afternoon that Eamon had requested a meeting with them in the evening. She deflated, as he knew that she would, her shoulders sagging and her eyelids fluttering, settling a little heavier on her eyes. He watched her teeth dig in to her lower lip. She agreed, because of course she did. And she continued to flip through papers, underlining, rewriting, signing. She did not even stop for lunch, though he heard her stomach growl. 

     “Come. Let’s meet with Eamon, get it over with,” he said when a messenger delivered a note to him there at the door. 

His back was straight, his eyes were dark as he stood and held the door for her. She walked through without even hesitating, following where he directed through the maze of halls. In the streets of Denerim, she did not even pause by the street performers and merchant stalls, keeping her hood down over her eyes. Like she was afraid to see something, even only out of the corner of her eyes. 

But when he led her to the Redcliffe Estate, to Eamon’s office, it was entirely empty. 

Inara looked around, confused at the abandoned place. 

Nathaniel locked the door behind them, barred it with the chain that would lock it even against a key. As she looked up at him, baffled, he slid slow against her. His fingers snagged beneath her jaw, his thin fingers pressing but not piercing. His thumb curled over her chin, and he pulled her close for a kiss. 

     “Eamon just left the city,” he told her, voice low and sweet. 

If he were to die and meet the Maker, he knew exactly what question he was going to ask: how did Ferelden manage to be cold, wet, and humid all at the same time? What curse had He laid on this land to make such a combination possible, and what could have angered Him so?

He blamed Inara. Not for invoking the Maker's wrath, but... well, actually, if rumor was to be believed, it was the old Warden Commander's fault for numerous things that befell Amaranthine. But specifically, he was blaming her for being here in the first place. The second culprit was just ahead of him.

Nathaniel made a lovely little picture, sitting on a log by a campfire, listening intently to someone else, firelight gilding his cheeks and brow while casting his eyes in deep shadow. It'd be distracting, if it weren't for the big, heavy blanket thrown across his shoulders--and the current object of Dorian's attention.

Slipping behind the other man, Dorian leaned down as if to murmur something in Nathaniel's ear. The other person at the fire--one of the brighter sparks here in the South--bowed and took their leave. It really wasn't necessary, but it did mean that Dorian now felt free to be completely shameless.

If asked later, he'd simply say that being cold leads one to madness.

Sacred Romantic Prompts | @valorcorrupt / @howetragic

"I stopped when you called, didn't I?"

They were close, enough space for either one to close in, or carefully withdraw. It would only need for one of them to make the move first. Her chin tilted just so, not quite outright challenging him to try. A subtle, perhaps even subconscious gesture.

"Whatever could be so important to call me over?"

The tone in her voice added to the gesture, a playful sort of undertone to the teasing, furthering the dare to follow up. To say anything. To close the gap, or dare say reach out to touch her. Anything to show this delicate pursuit...

Loud & Deafening Silence | @howetragic

She'd been running little sleep--then again she didn't need much. Regardless, it was only a few hours of intangibility in some forgotten, shadowy corner that no one would come across the little void being. She really didn't have the energy for that conversation.

Kar ran through her mental itinerary: Get the materials list from the smiths before the ore merchant arrived so she could get it all in one go, pop into the town proper to have a chat with the local farmer to see about solving her flax situation with a local source, a small expedition for more pigment materials-- she'd run out of one of her colors for her current project, oh-- and get to spinning more at some point. In between the growing queue of repairs, checking that one hinge on one of the doors in the main hall that squeaked in a manner that would likely be the catalyst to her turn towards villainy, and--and---and--

She'd happenchance to glance towards Nathaniel's way, only half acknowledging him as she continued her intended path-- only to catch him pat on the bench beside him. Kar hesitates, then opts to carve a little time, settling down, despite her restless mind.

"Hi." she greeted, hands fidgeting slightly.

Relationship Building | @howetragic

Where others' eyes might glaze over on the topic, I feel Nathaniel would appreciate Kar's rambling over the nuances of production. Sourcing, logistics, the occasional trading drama, her predictions on what will sell, what will not--not just locally but continental. (Example wool trade: her rambling every bit of it from the farm to the loom.) Given her wide range of crafting skill it covers anything from ore and gemstones to silkworms, and more. (I imagine him falling a little in love and feeling a little pride after catching her haggling traders and otherwise moving and shaking in trade.)

Both aren't PDA-Heavy people, especially in public. I like the idea of them using their pickpocket skills to slip each other little things in each other's pockets, etc. (Though Nathaniel lacks Kar's skill at sleight of hand-- which I'm sure if he asked nicely she'd teach him.)

What probably lowkey drew him in is her duality in being both "free-spirited just a silly little guy" and "vaguely unsettling and intimidating" vibes. (And the fact she probably did not take ANY shit the second she set foot into the castle and was like "this is what I am, deal or kick me out, I'll just go elsewhere and do my own thing with Blackjack and Hookers!")

They are definitely the parallel "play" types, where sharing space, doing their own thing is often enough.

Miscellaneous Starters | @howetragic

"Maybe they do," Kar agreed--well partly agreed. There were a few souls who unfortunately that the misfortune of looking annoyed would mean a target towards some further bothering. Just a little button pushing for funsies.

She leaned in just so. Close enough to be cheeky, just on the edge of personal space. A hit of something more than just playfulness to it. If he was keen enough to pick up what she was putting down.

"And are you busy?" She teased, the slight curve of a smile. And there were even less who may have the mixed fortune of a little flirtatious provocation...