#psiithuros

The first three in my inbox get a kiss: 3/3

At last, Urian set down the page. His fingertips rested lightly on its surface as he fixed Selenius with a pale green stare. His amanuensis and Left Hand, a friend of many years, bore it easily enough, not squirming in his chair despite the simmering annoyance swimming in those eyes.

“Sephus Porenni, dead,” he said. “Assassinated.” Selenius nodded. “I had plans for young Porenni,” Urian added, mildly.

His lips pressed together. The young Porenni heir had been a crawling worm of a man, prone to decadence of all kinds -- forgivable, if there’d been an ounce of intelligence or political acumen to back it up. In this case, there’d been none, and Urian would likely have disposed of the young man himself in any case. After using him. His sheer stupid piggish avarice had made him useful, easily manipulated with a few careful promises.

And foolish though the young man was, he came of an old, good family, with influence and prestige and weight behind it -- a conservative family, nationalist in a way which Urian found rather distasteful. Urian had planned to manipulate the Porenni heir into publicly supporting a motion set to be introduced in the Magisterium’s next session -- a motion, seemingly quite logical indeed, to tighten restrictions on the lyrium trade and entirely eliminate the black market smuggling of the stuff. It also, not incidentally, cast veiled but venomous aspersions on the two dwarven Houses who currently shared a monopoly on the legitimate trade. 

In short, the motion would anger and incite not only those powerful dwarven Houses and thus the entire Ambassadoria; but the Carta as well, the powerful criminal organization responsible for most of the lyrium smuggling. 

Urian wouldn’t have had to lift a finger to see House Porenni and its associated cabal of nationalists brought down; the dwarves would have done it for him, and all because young Sephus was too stupid and blindered to see the effect of supporting such an incendiary motion.

“Sura Katsaros,” Urian said aloud, thoughtfully, tapping at her name where it sat in black ink upon the page. “And you’re quite certain blood magic was involved? No, of course you are.” Selenius never reported anything he wasn’t entirely certain about; he was quite conscientious that way. Urian sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to call the Templars on her.” He did not sound particularly distressed by the notion, merely weary.

Selenius nodded, shifting his weight as though to stand and write out the order on the spot, but Urian held up a quelling hand. “Or...” said the Divine, his lips curving into a wicked little smile, “perhaps not. Porenni himself was a fool, but a well-guarded one, and she managed to remove him without his people being aware. There’s potential in a young woman like that.”

“Yes, your Perfection,” Selenius agreed, after a thoughtful silence. One thing they shared was a reluctance to discard good tools while there was still use in them.

“Write her,” Urian instructed. “I shall expect her to present herself to me at my family estate in the Gilded Quarter tomorrow, two hours past lunch.”

„They will eat me alive if I falter.“ Though she did not exactly trust Elif, she was relatively positive that her own misfortune would be of no advantage to the nevarran – and as long as their goals did not conflict, they could be relatively frank. Besides, it wasn't as though it wasn't obvious knowledge: with all eyes on her, Janna could not afford making any mistakes. While she could not afford weakness, neither could she afford appearing too strong, or else even more powerful people would be threatened by each breath she took. She would need to tear herself to shreds and piece herself into a new shape to fit the needs of all.

     The afternoon was crisp cold, but at least it was not actively snowing or raining this time. A weather just about acceptable enough for a walk. Janna's steps slowed, then they came to a halt entirely as she turned to look at Elif. „Inveniam viam, aut faciam. I will find a way, or I will make one. Trapped I may be, but as long as the fiddler lives, we still dance.“

Mathematically it would make sense; there’s 100 people on that ship and in return for letting a handful perish, they will get the full backing of the Qunari Armada. The Inquisition has been promised better reports, perhaps more man power. What The Iron Bull can provide is trivial in comparison. 

muse meta //  meme cache

You bet your sweet ass Varric has regrets, that he holds onto them as they fester and gnaw at him. He holds onto those griefs — those about Bartrand, his family, his friends, Hawke, Kirkwall. He regrets how he handled Kirkwall after it started to crumble, how he had to leave Kirkwall to serve the Inquisition and stayed even after he was told he could go. It’s bane things he regrets, grief that he shouldn’t carry, alas he does. 

They lay buried in his words, hidden in beautiful poetry. You can see the truth in his words if you dig deep enough you can find his meaning. His revisions, his lies change things, making it to something that he yearns to have. 

It had been, most of all, a business trip, rather than a journey of pleasure. To be quite frank, if Radonis had wished to travel for his own amusement, he would have sooner visited Antiva rather than Nevarra, for how interesting Nevarra could be. It was, therefore, in the spirit of a business trip that he was heading back towards the Imperium.

And in that spirit that he stared at the innkeeper as if the man were begging to be incinerated on the spot.

Radonis took a deep breath. « My good man », he said, commendably keeping his voice low and level, despite that certain hint that indicates how one is about to consume the last inch of his patience. « I have two dracolisks outside, which need tending. And my bodyguard too, you’ll agree that he also needs some deserved rest. In fact, as I understand, there’s no other inn for miles and I need some rest as well, since it appears to be night. Which means--- »

The man in front of him, his Nevarran accent thick, dragged a hand down his face. « Sir, I get you, but we’ve got no rooms. »

« Which means, that I do not quite care where we will sleep, but it will certainly not be on the stones of the Imperial Highway. »

Now, Radonis did not carry his family staff, that which had belonged to his father. Too ceremonial, too valuable, too much a staff. Instead, he carried one that could just as easily be mistaken for a mere halberd. It did not necessarily classify him as a mage, though he hardly had any doubts that both accent and demeanour would classify him as Tevinter.