#vitterfolk

     Saarebas wasn’t fond of the Storm Coast, but the Inquisitor wanted      someone to help the Blades of Hessarian, or the scouts. Honestly,      she wasn’t sure why they wanted her here, but she didn’t ask questions.      There must be some reason, and she was happy to help out. Entirely      unaware that any plans between the Qunari and the Inquisition were      in play, Saarebas sets to work. The Blades of Hessarian point her in      direction of useful plants and metals to help keep their (and the      Inquisition’s) stocks full. It isn’t exciting work, but she knows she’s      helping out and that’s good enough for her.

     What she isn’t expecting is to run into anyone. The Venatori, as far as      she was aware, had been dealt with by the Inquisitor weeks ago. Besides      the wildlife, the Blades and the Inquisition camps there was nobody here.      In the far reaches of the Storm Coast interaction was even rarer. Nobody      but the wildlife usually. So when she happens upon a small camp she falters,      looking around for signs of life.

         She knows that no matter what anyone had said, she’d hated herself after Leanda ( she does still, but those first months after her death had been sharper, even, than her usual ).  She knows that nothing had fixed it after Bethany, or Carver; that the pain and the agony must run their course and be spent, and that words will do nothing.  And yet still she is here.  Faye --- loves Merrill, simply, in whatever stilted, poisonous way a woman like her is capable of it.  She does not want her to be alone.  Not after -------

✞ Hen visste inte hur hen hamnade här, eller hur här var. Enligt träden var hen i en skog, en mörk, stor skog hen inte visste vägen ut av, springande genom skogen i panik, rädd för något som inte verkligen fanns, rädd för HONOM. Det var sådant att hen hamnade i skogen, utom att veta var hen var, eller hur hen skulle komma tillbaka till hens hus, helt desorienterad. Plötsligt hörte hen en röst, en kvinnlig röst, kommande från inte allt för langt bort.

    There was a hard line to the old woman’s mouth as she stared at the elf her men brought in along with a few other potential new members--enough of them Tal-Vashoth that personal interviews were needed. Shokrakar would have meetings with each of them, and if she decided they were worthy to join up she would pick which unit they’d be assigned. The elf had been her last interview for a reason, the old mercenary trusted her instincts after so many years, and today they screamed at her ‘That one is not quite right.’ So she sat, one hand on her knee and the other holding the edge of her hatchet to it’s sharpening wheel, her foot occasionally tapping the pedal as needed.

    “You lot get smaller each time they send you, maybe next time they’ll send a dwarf.” Or a child, it’s a legitimate fear of hers, she knows the softspot she has for those smaller and weaker than herself, especially children, is an obvious one. Shokrakar has dealt with the infrequent visits of those of the qun, usually Antaam but occasionally Ben-Hassrath, long enough know that it was only a matter of time before they made an attempt to exploit it.

    “I know a qunari when I see them, what’s your purpose among my people?” Which is assuming that he was meant to be see, since the qunari weren’t stupid. Her company was the largest organized coalition of Tal-Vashoth outside Seheron, the Qun weren’t fond of her but she was also too far from their shores to be considered more than a nuisance. That didn’t mean Shokrakar wasn’t occasionally greeted with the news that a new member of the Valo-Kas had been Ben-Hassrath and slaughtered half her unit in their sleep--It was what made the personally overseen interviews necessary.

When Flavius looked at the green salon, or any other room of the palace, he saw something other than simply the teal-lined ivory furniture, something more than the floors of jetstone quarried in Kirkwall when it was still Emerius, more than the carved decorations on colums; more than what any guest could see. 

Flavius saw the polishing of every tile; they should shine enough to be used as a mirror. He saw the dust on the details, or lack thereof. He saw the names and faces of every slave and servant who was tasked with sweeping, cleaning, dusting off every corner of the room, every ornament, curtain, and sofa. He saw their schedules, when their job was supposed to begin and when it was supposed to be concluded. 

In front of the floor-length windows in-between the pillars of the colonnade, now closed to keep the heat of Minrathous outside of the palace, on the other side of the room, was a corner dedicated to musical instruments, displaying a harp (of Orlesian manufacture), a lyre, a harpsichord, and an aulos. A minute elven woman with curly hair stood up from the stool where she was sitting the moment the two of them entered the room.

Flavius turned towards the new potential musician and, raising a hand, he hinted at the musical instruments. « This is where you will be performing if you are hired. And this is Irene, the palace’s harp player and our main singer. » The woman nodded and hinted half a bow, glancing up with scrutinising eyes. « Irene, this is Gatt, Serena’s substitute. »