Since the dinner, he had tried not to think about her.

       In fairness, if he wanted to pretend that it existed or that it was applicable, he had tried not to think about the other guests, too  —  no need to get caught up in the aging knight’s concerns or the large baron’s large presence, or even to care about how the Marquis ran his marquisate beyond how it helped or hindered with the whole demon thing. As soon as the wound in Michel’s leg healed, he could carry on with his business, and it would easier if he could remain unencumbered by court intrigues.

       Court intrigues like Colombe, who had pretty dark hair and a nice laugh, and must have seen something likeable enough in him to seek him out again. Despite the disgrace, despite the wound … or was he being too hopeful, reading too much into her presence? She and Fabien seemed close, and for all he knew, he had sent her to keep an eye on him or to learn something, like he’d sent the harlequin a few days previously.

       ❝ It doesn’t even hurt anymore, ❞  Michel was in the process of explaining, although the arm braced lightly around her shoulders might have suggested otherwise, the not-so-accidental lean against her side as she helped him through the corridor. Indulgent, really.  ❝ Another week, and I can be less of an inconvenience to you, and the healers, and your lord … ❞

       It was followed by a hesitation; he should leave it there instead of turning his head at an angle to accidentally bump his nose against her forehead in the hope that she might look up, or even reach up and … ah.

      … He could claim he didn’t mean it, but that would be yet another thing that the court of Serault wouldn’t believe if they found out, and it was hardly worth expending a lie over.  ❝ I’m sorry, ❞  Michel muttered as he pulled away; the arm lingered, though, hesitant to let that support go just yet.  ❝ I can … manage the rest of the way on my own, I think. ❞  

          It was something of a shame, Colombe could not help but think. She actually rather liked Michel; he was charming, after his fashion, and his way of looking at the world was rather familiar to her own. Besides which, he was very pretty. Not pretty as Fabien was pretty, nor as Mael nor Hyacinthe, but he had a strong body and features of a classic regularity paired with just enough delicacy of line to escape a description of rugged.

         And he was good company, it seemed, or she had enjoyed the conversations they’d had thus far. If they had met under different circumstances... ah, but that was the shame of it. The circumstances could not be changed. Michel was, or could be, a threat to Serault. And until they knew if he would prove to be one... well, she could like him all that she wanted, but it would not change her loyalties.

         In the meanwhile, it was certainly no hardship to smile at him, to flirt gently, to help the injured man move. She had slipped one arm about his waist as they walked the many corridors and staircases of the Thousand-Windowed Chateau, enjoying the flex of his lean hips and the way he leaned upon her so carefully himself.

         ❝Oh, mais non!❞ she exclaimed in answer to him, ❝oh, but you are no inconvenience at all, Michel! I should be quite desolate without your company! Oh, not that I mean to wish that your injury might linger, of course, I only....❞ She broke off, blushing prettily beneath the half-mask, in the embarrassment which her confused words had brought. 

         And then, moments later, it was certainly not hardship to tilt up her face when he so ‘accidentally’ turned his and brushed against her, not hardship at all to let her lips touch his... oh, just gently, just tentative and sweet, like the woman she was meant to be. 

well i didn’t but it was already on the list of “things to headcanon” and now you’ve made me think about it so here we go…!

the honor guard, to be more formally called the Imperial Guard or Garde Impériale, is a small but elite company of chevaliers, generally numbering between 50 and 100 at a time (the numbers fluctuating due to casualties vs eligible replacements.)  in short, these men and women are the best. they will take new recruits directly from the Academie’s graduating classes into their ranks, but only those few at the absolute top of the class. the rest, and the bulk of the company, are seasoned veterans.

all chevaliers take an oath to the throne; those in the Garde Impériale renew that oath, with additional clauses and caveats. their loyalty is meant to be directly to the governing monarch and to no other; in theory, this loyalty should be transferred when the throne transfers. new oaths would be taken, of course.

so gaspard’s honor guard, specifically, saw a bit of upheaval when he took the throne. a certain number of its members were persuaded to take retirement from active duty – mostly those whose loyalties were at all in question, or were directed too specifically to celene and not to the throne itself – and others were persuaded to request, and by and large were granted, transfers to other duties or companies. the latter was a little shocking, as the Garde Impériale is seen as the most prestigious company, replete with benefits to match its reputation and caché – better pay, better equipment, their pick of the finest horses, etc. they have the right to wear the house mask of the ruling monarch.

to replace those who had, for one reason or another, decided to leave the guard upon his ascension to the throne, gaspard offered positions to men and women with whom he had served personally and whose abilities and loyalties he knew and understood. michel de chevin was one of them, but not the only one, of course. all of his personally recruited guard members were veterans, however.

in times of peace, the Garde Impériale:

guards important buildings such as the Imperial Palace, the Winter Palace, etc;

serves as personal bodyguards to members of the royal family and the emperor/empress;

serves as a guard assigned to visiting nobility and dignitaries from other nations;

performs certain ceremonial duties (such as serving in the funerals of fallen soldiers; or marking important imperial holidays, etc);

travels with the monarch if and when they leave the empire in order to guard them and maintain the dignity of their position;

supports Val Royeaux’s city guard as needed

       “I...have we met before?” He looked familiar, and his name was equally recognisable, but Emmaera struggled to remember just where she had seen the former Chevalier. Furrowing her brows in thought, the Inquisitor spoke again, this time in native tongue. It might have seemed bizarre to her companions, but she still wasn’t quite comfortable with everyone knowing what she had been doing in Val Royeaux before the events at the Conclave.

  Emprise du Lion had yielded something interesting after all! Its land coated in white and glistening, hypnotic red. Singing its little tune that one could nearly hum themselves if they but drew close enough. Lingered by it long enough. But oh no it was not the red lyric that had been fun to the elf. The whispers on the lips of those about Skyhold when they’d all returned - a new wave of help, including that rather dashing blond Shem who’d stood out in the snow alone - had been more than enough for her to gather the importance of this Shem.

  Sigriss had indeed been present when they’d first encountered him, oh yes. Had she been paying much attention when the Inquisitor spoke to him? NO, pffft. Why would she? Her eyes had found the horizon that dotted and specked itself with the moving forms of red templars far more of interest than another human male in any form of armor. In any form of redemption or desire to protect. Oh how silly, silly, silly.

  Now her sudden piqued attention was not for the same reason as others. There were…other. Other. With grace and ease, Sigriss moved down the flat railing of the battlement stairs. One step off with a teasing whistle at Michel as she did so — approaching with a chuckle on her lips. " Michel, no? Sigriss of Clan Mitheleneil. " Two fingers circled and waved in the air. As if the rest of her had bowed ( though it had not. Who cared for such formalities? ). " You find the most INTERESTING friends. " And though there was a lopsided smile tugging at her lips, there was no humor in her voice. Tone low so that no others might partake in their conversation. Honeyed eyes staring with growing intensity at the chevalier.

orlesian grey wardens, requested by @servesorlais​

Sister Nightingale often prayed by her small altar in the recess of the wall. Sharidan would find her kneeling in front of the candle-lit statue of Andraste, silent, caught up in her worship, perhaps in her unresolved grief, perhaps in regrets. Whenever he approached she stood up, as if, just like in Haven those very first days, he were not meant to be a witness to her faith or whichever other burdens and doubts she carried. Sometimes she would return to her altar as soon as he walked again towards the stairs.

That day, when she knelt again, Sharidan leaned against the railing in the middle of the tower. The chains and cages hanging from the ceiling rattled whenever the birds inside moved their wings, hopped around, cawed.

He brought Leliana the news that Michel had agreed to help them with the Eluvians. Whatever upper hand she wished to have over Briala, they were one step closer. There had been no mention of Celene on her side, and Sharidan had decided to do Michel the courtesy of keeping his grief private.

He glanced over his shoulder, towards his spymaster. Was she used to it? To the assassinations? Did she forget the dead or did she quietly repeat their names in her prayers?

The ravens kept cawing. An owl’s hoot wouldn’t have been entirely out of place under the high roof.

Silently, Sharidan called to Falon’din; the deceased Empress wouldn’t want the god of death as her guide and Sharidan himself wasn’t certain that any and all of his people would be pleased by the prayer. But if he must harbour guilt, then it would be the friend of the dead who could deliver him from it even more so than Andraste, even if Mythal would not judge him innocent regardless.

And thus between the Prophetess and the Lethanavir, someone would calm her soul, guide her feet to the Beyond, and lead his remorse to rest once and for all.

Soldiers trained in the enclosures in the middle of the courtyard, quickly turning the slightly snow-touched soil into mud. 

Sharidan had one very soft boot perched on the lower part of the fence and an elbow resting above it, and observed his forces hit each other with swords and shields of wood. It wasn’t unlike watching young hunters wrestle in the grass, learning to keep their balance, sharpening their reflexes and senses.

« Consider dodging, soldier », he commented aloud. « Fight like that against a bear and it will take you down in no time. »

Having them ready to besiege Adamant Fortress was not going to be a stroll through the prairies in springtime.