#post;closed

                "You dyed my clothes pink!" Trevelyan throws them back at                 Sera, fitfully, a handful of expensive cotton, colored by the                  cruel machinations of a prankster. She had stomped all the                 way here in her fury, streams of pink flapping beside her like                 the sails on a very angry schooner. But who wouldn't have                 been furious? These were her clothes. Her belongings,                  and Sera had ruined them. ( Supposedly. There was always                 room for doubt, but who else? ) 

                                         "These were important to me ----" The scarf                                          that her sister had knitted for her, before she                                          left was taken. Even that hadn't escaped the                                          fire. "And you just... you!" 

                She will not deny that he unsettles her. Spirits ---- all of them,                 vice and virtue both ---- leave her with an unreapable anxiety.                 A sensation that drags across her body, like pins and needles,                 every time Cole comes into view. ( Or when she chooses to                 seek him out, which Trevelyan believes might be straddling a                 fine line. The first, and sweetest taste. ) 

                 "I... must admit, I did expect you to be..." What was the word to use here? She fumbles, gropes around in her repertoire ---- she was never good around those she admired. Speech became a foreign body. The moon, out of her reach. "Taller. To match the equally tall tales."

                  "But this is ---- fine. Just fine. Don't mind me."

                It's hard to contain her excitement. She vibrates with it ---- a hero in her presence. A hero whose tales she'd satiated herself with as a young girl. Trevelyan has always been good... at compartmentalizing herself. Taking the wickedness of her emotions and stuffing them down. Like cotton in the front of too-big shoes. So she stands... straighter. 

                Even manages a shaky curtsy. 

                "I'm honored, to have you here... Lady Cousland." She flattens her palms against the tops of her pants. "My spymaster speaks fondly of you... though she doesn't do you much justice."

                They're beautiful. The tattoos ---- they were tattoos, right? Something out of a tale, a bard's envenomed epic; to hang on, to catch the eye. Travelyan can't imagine what they must stand for. For all her minute knowledge of the Dalish ( what little there was in the Circle's library ) she knows that the secondhand knowledge of a biased textbook isn't anything like reality, like the firsthand. 

                 And she has the wrong ears, for real firsthand knowledge.