#vinquisition

         SURROUNDED ON all sides, cullen turns to prayer. pleading with the maker to spare him the turmoil of this day. orlesian politics, is there no greater evil? has he not been punished enough for his sins? must he now exchange pleasantries with masks for atonement? no, he will hide. off the vestibule there is a space uninhabited by foolish fancy beyond the clawing reach of nobility. a garden. beautiful, but under construction and therefore unfit for the soiree. perfectly suited, though, for a commander reaching his last nerve.

           HE DROPS his weight without thought onto the marble bench, setting free a long caged sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose. there he sits for sometime, unmoving, as if he were the latest piece of the garden. a statue of a subdued commander. that would be his title were he a fixture here. he chuckles to himself at the thought, interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. panicked, he attempts to conceal himself behind a tree. 

           THERE'S NO joy in what he's about to do ;; not even the prospect of relief can inspire a modicum of excitement. healers don't work. elfroot neither. no poultices, potions, or prayers could alleviate the unending pounding against cullen's skull. so, it's with a gruff sigh, he walks through the archway to the elfs habitation.

           HE OPENS his mouth, as if to speak, before closing it once more, eyes quickly darting to the side in pensive consideration. he doesn't want to pry. but such things are not considered gossip, no! he assures himself of this. no, his inquiry is purely an occupational necessity, not of such a frivolous nature that might accompany josephine's queries. 

           HE RUBS his temples, pressing his eyes shut as hard as he can, as if by doing so, he will make up for hours of lost sleep. soldiers need weapons, weapons require ore, ore requires trade and for that, he will have to wait on josephine to finish her personal business. perhaps he can pester the requisition officer for some spare iron.. obsidian would be best, but he mustn't push his luck. he could venture outside skyhold himself, but.. no. he releases his eyelids from their duties and again returns to his papers before catching a figure passing by the doorway.

             IT'S NOT often the military adviser finds himself wandering the gardens. one might think he was chained to the desk in his office. conditions had to be just right, you see, for cullen to allow himself a break. for starters, his stack of reports must be dwindled to less than four centimeters high, and it must coincide with the time period widely regarded as "lunch". today, these conditions were met. from across the way he sees a familiar face.