iras ma ghilas, da'len

⋰⏆◝ﾉ     𝔹𝔼ℝℕ𝔸ℝ𝔻  𝕍𝔸𝕊𝕂𝕀ℝ     ⤐     sulevin  varas  .

𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽  𝚂𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙳𝚂  𝙾𝙵  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙴𝙻𝙵  𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷,   he's  always  infuriated.   without  fail.   frowning,   he  continues  his  trek  from  the  stairwell  to  the  growing  pile  of  wooden  barrels  filled  with  drink,   not  even  acknowledging  her.   what's  the  need,   when  he  knows  he'll  turn  around  and  find  her  an  inch  away  regardless?   with  a  grunt  so  loud  it  nearly  shakes  the  halls  of  skyhold   —   and  certainly  draws  more  than  a  few  eyes,   though  he  hardly  notices   —   he  drops  the  cask  onto  the  stone  floor.   "if  the  orlesians  expected  decent  food  and  drink,   they  should've  offered  coin   —   "   scowling,   he  turns  around   —   sure  enough,   there  she  is.   practically  right  under  his  feet,   staring  up  at  him.   maker  preserve  him.   “rather  than  just  the  gift  of  their  presence.   we  just  survived  a  dragon  attack  and  an  avalanche,   they'll  survive  growling  bellies  if  our  humble  offerings  aren't  to  their  standards.   and  you  can  tell  them  i  personally  said  to  stuff  it.”

"Orlesians always expect decent food and drink. Is that not their whole thing?" And, fair is fair, she had tried to collect coin at the door once people starting arriving. Seemed pertinent, what with the mentioned devastating avalanche. How is the mighty Inquisition meant to stop a war with empty coffers? Josephine had put a stop that rather immediately. Something about how it was ' unbecoming ' or some similar choice words. "Oh, can I deliver that message myself? I do want to see what shade of red Josephine turns when she hears it."

His grin only widened at her threat, and he didn't so much as flinch. If anything he leaned closer, elbow resting casually on his knee as if they were simply discussing the weather. "And you are so noble a woman for sparing me the flames?" His eyebrows raised, his voice a lazy drawl of laughter. "Perhaps I do not mind the heat."

The smirk softened into something almost boyish as he held her gaze, unbothered by the weight of it. "I appreciate your consideration, and your gracious mercy." He lifted his cup in mock salute. "Though if you ever do change your mind..." A glint sparkled in his eyes, his grin goading. "Try not to miss."

Again, fair so rarely has anything to do with what she wants.

Hm. She's met many humans who will simply retreat into silence when faced with someone who talks back - especially when that someone is an elf. This one doesn't. It's an irritating mix of interesting and disappointing that she rather doesn't like. A man can at least have the grace to pretend to be uncomfortable around a mage, enough of them do. Perhaps it has something to do with the drink; people do lose all trace of self-preservation when faced with merriment.

"Do not mistake mercy for disinterest." She folds her arms over her chest, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Restless energy, the kind that makes the skin of her palms itch with the need to channel it somewhere. She can't tell if what he's doing is supposed to be appealing or simply testing. "I never do. And I assure you, you would not enjoy it near as much as you think."

𝐖𝐇𝐎:              solas,     open  to  all {   3/4   } 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄:         skyhold  atrium  library 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍:           17  solace,   9:41  dragon,   early  evening

𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙺𝙴𝙽𝙳  𝙷𝙰𝚂  𝙽𝙾𝚃  𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽  𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻.   it  already  seems  to  be  a  mistake  of  unfathomable  proportions  to  have  led  the  scrappy,   snow-bound  inquisition  here.   one  would  think  errors  of  such  magnitude  would  only  happen  once  in  a  single  lifetime,   and  yet   —   two  such  slips  of  judgement  in  a  matter  of  months.   for  someone  who  considers  himself  of  such  high  intellect,   it's  hardly  excusable.   "what?"   a  grating  voice  from  somewhere  behind  him  interrupts  the  drunken  self-loathing,   and  solas  responds,   muscles  and  veins  in  his  neck  and  forehead  all  flaring  at  once,   before  thinking  much  further.   hopefully  not  a  third  mistake.   he  snaps  shut  the  book  he's  been  pretending  to  read  and  turns  to  the  voice:   slowly,   one  side  of  his  body  at  a  time,   head  hung  low  by  his  shoulders  and  eyes  narrowed.   "hasn't  anyone  ever  told  you  it's  very  rude   —   "   as  he  speaks,   he  moves  to  slam  the  tome  down  onto  a  nearby  desk  with  force.   except  the  teacup   —   ugh   —   on  the  table  is  full  of  blackberry  prophet's  laurel  gin,   and  it's  much  farther  away  than  solas  remembers.   eyes  widen  as  his  hand  falls  through  the  air  with  no  table  to  meet  it,   and  before  he  can  finish  his  admonishment,   he  crashes  to  the  unforgiving  stone  floor  in  a  heap.   and  there  it  is.   the  third  mistake.   "alas,"   he  mumbles  aloud,   dragging  a  cold  hand  down  his  face.

Stumbling across Solas at the most inconvenient of times has been, in her limited exposure, shockingly common. Always where you most or least need him. He'd probably explain it with some long-winded description of Fade energies or some such that she would tune out after several interminable minutes. What she hasn't yet experienced? Whatever state this could be considered.

Huh. Well. That's quite interesting, isn't it? Perhaps her aimless wandering provides something useful yet, if only for her own enjoyment.

She stands in place, arms crossed. Surely someone as intelligent as he purports to be can figure himself out of this predicament without the help of a common city elf. "Do be careful, hahren. What would our Inquisitor think about seeing his expert on the floor like a common drunkard?"

Develva hovered by the infirmary. The Dalish had always felt the most at home by her herbs and medicines, so much so she dedicated herself to the goddess of healing. She was curious about the way the other factions healed and if she could incorporate her skills with theirs. Nobody was currently using it as the infirmary still needed repairs, but there were still medicinal herbs and plenty of supplies she could explore.

The only misgiving that Develva could not forgive was the amount of humans present. The druid rarely left Emerald Graves, and having a human lead the inquisition made Develva uncomfortable. She heard a clatter come from the corner of the room. It must be another one of those stinking humans who love skyhold so much. Almost shadow-like, Develva slowly crept to the noise "I would prefer to be alone while I work" The druid took in the new comer with a tilt of her head.

Dealing with herbs and potions is truly the last place she wants or needs to be - too many flammable elements in one space would probably be considered an act of treason in certain parts of Thedas. She's rummaging around some shelves, inspecting bundles labelled in a script she can hardly read, when her elbow clips a jar and sends it to the floor. It doesn't break, just bounces once and then rolls to a stop at her boot. No explosions, no incidents. Thank Sylaise. Now if only she were here to explain these damned potions. As Sulevin's picking the bottle up, a voice addresses her - huh, a Dalish. Not Sylaise herself, but often just as good.

"And I prefer not to deal with herbs, but here we are." No, no. People skills. No need to be unkind yet. She pulls the piece of vellum from her bag, offering it to the Dalish woman. Arm outstretched, safe distance. The Dalish are better than the humans, if only marginally so, but still. Could never be too careful. "I need herbs to make some poultices. The chance of cider related injuries are rather high in the coming days, and we would rather have them on hand than not."

His expression softened as he shrugged, taking the cup to his own mouth instead and taking a healthy gulp of it. "I believe the intention was to honour our mighty Inquisitor. You know, drink, celebrate, partake in merriment." He exaggerated that last word, his gaze dragging over her as he sized her up to be someone that seemed averse to the idea of celebration. "You are curious about my facilities?" He drawled, unable to help himself from teasing, a dogged smirk about his lips. "I can certainly show you they're in fighting order if you'd like, lady elf."

"I understand the intentions quite well." And there is a wide gap between understanding and acceptance. "I simply do not believe ' our mighty Inquisitor ' has earned such celebrations."

Mythal'enaste, she really does not like the way he's looking at her. Too familiar. Too much assumption. Typical. "I would be careful with whom you speak to like that, shemlen. A woman lesser than I might have set you on fire before you even finished speaking."

Empty threats, mostly. She's not generally in the habit of murdering allies when their only crimes are being loud and human. No, save those battles for the real problems rather than for some inebriated soldiers. She imagined the commander would have a thing or two to say about it and she never fancied herself a lecture from some men in armor.

Zevran was taking this job as he did most jobs he was tasked with very seriously. He wrote down Sulevin's name then tilted his head glancing at her. Did she just ask about poison? That was actually the fourth thing that Zevran was very skilled at. He didn't know Sulevin very well but she did like to set her fires so he was expecting a firecracker like her to like something spicy.

"Well you know, I always find that poison is best slipped in to wine or a strong drink," Now he was talking business, the wrong kind of business. "Sometimes, depending on what poison you're using it can make food... smell funny. It would tip off the serving boys that something's not right. But bad smelling wine is just a normal wine smell to most common serving boys yes?" Zevran nodded knowingly as if he was an ancient master teaching his student a very valuable lesson.

"Mmm, that's too obvious. Half the magisters in Tevinter expect their goblets to be poisoned at every meal. Which is why we use the cherry cupcakes. Sweet, unassuming." Not that that was anything she'd done, herself. She's rarely known for her clever battle tactics; explosions leave little room for subtlety. But oh, some people are chatty. Especially in the Imperium.

Okay. Serious question. Serious answer. She has one of those, somewhere. "I'm partial to pumpkin bread. Though that's more of a baked good." She taps the bottom of her staff against the ground, thinking. "I do like your olives idea. It'll be good for the humans to expand their palate."

𝐖𝐇𝐎:              bernard  vaskir,     open  to  all 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄:         skyhold  main  hall 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍:           15  solace,   9:41  dragon,   late  afternoon

"𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚈  𝚃𝙾  𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃."   𝙷𝙴'𝚂  𝙽𝙾𝚃  𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚁𝚈.   skar  emerges  from  the  cellars  with  a  large  wooden  cask  slung  precariously  over  his  shoulder,   one  sturdy  arm  wrapped  around  the  perfumed  barrel,   scent  of  spiced  citrus  radiating  from  it  and  almost  strong  enough  to  cover  up  the  stench  of  cheap  booze.   "no  sherry  to  be  found."   he  takes  a  few  steps  back  towards  the  chatter  of  raised  voices  in  the  hall  with  little  regard  for  if  the  inquirer  follows  him  or  not.   "this  tastes  almost  like  whiskey,   and  there's  plenty  of  ale  to  be  had   —   that  dwarf  in  the  corner  is  who  you'll  want  to  talk  with."   please,   just  talk  to  anyone,   anyone  but  him.

"I overheard a group of nobles debating the quality of cider. They seemed disappointed." She had not. But the truth is less fun than a little white lie that keeps a party from becoming deathly dull. "You might cause some sort of Orlesian scandal. And we all know how those incidents play out." God, she'd love to watch Josephine try to sort that out diplomatically. The Inquisition, bested by a cask of mediocre ale. "Might want to be careful with that."

Cassian had worked wonders that night to prove the true lengths of gluttony. He'd eaten like a king, drunk like a fool, and yet somehow still his belly ached for something he couldn't name. As the midnight hour and the dawn of his birthday crept closer, he wandered ━ yes, wandered, there was absolutely no staggering involved ━ out into Skyhold's gardens to breathe in the night's chill and bathe in the silver light of the stars.

Two flagons of ale in hand and half a pie clenched between his teeth, Cassian dropped himself onto one of the garden's low walls with all the grace of a falling sack of flour. Ale splashed down his tunic as he set the drinks beside him and tore the remaining crust from his mouth, leaning back to study the night sky as if it might hold all the answers he refused to look for.

Footsteps stirred behind him, soft against the gravel. He didn't bother to look. "Sit with me." He said, offering one of the flagons outward without turning his head. "It is bad luck to let a man toast his birthday alone."

The thought of being far enough out of her wits to get inebriated is an unacceptable trade. Clearly, she's in the minority. Ah, yes, the Inquisition's greatest and finest. She had escaped outside after her mandated social time, requiring air that didn't smell like ale and that particular perfume of fear and desperation that seems to cling to everyone since Haven.

It seems, however, that scent has followed her regardless. Of course. She assumes he's one of the soldiers - he's got that build and look and arrogance about him. She'd never be able to pick him out of a crowd; all the humans under the commander look and sound exactly the same. And this is exactly what she'd expect of them.

She's tempted to ignite the grass around him, just to see how he'd react. See how good those instincts are. She resists, barely. Doesn't sit, doesn't take the offered drink. Toast anything with a human? Perish the thought.

"Is this part of the commander's training regimen? Swing your swords, raise your shields, lose control of your facilities in the midst of a war?"

Lace was many things a good dwarf should not be; Andrastian, a surfacer, a member of a non-dwarven inquisition. But there was one thing she held strong to and that was she was steadiest when her feet were on the ground. Heights were for the tall folk who didn't come from the Stone. And sure, she'd never been underground but there was something ancestral that told her to stay firmly attached to the earth.

And despite all that, Lace found herself peering over the gaps in the battlement to watch the many people already at work, preparing for the gala. She'd be down there soon enough but for now, she planned to indulge in a quick bout of people watching until the queasiness in her stomach grew too much to handle.

In the early hour, Lace hadn't expected many to be passing through this part of the wall so the approaching steps had her stepping away from the edge. "And here I thought everyone not assigned a task would be trying to rest before the whirlwind of the next couple days."

Alas, everyone ignores the elf, and thus the party goes forward. In the Imperium, that would be considered a gilded invitation for an assassination. She's heard more than once that she's too paranoid; perhaps everyone else isn't paranoid enough.

She's no guard, but she's good at watching and listening and blowing things up when necessary. So she's camped herself in an optimal position to watch a particularly egregious section of the fortress, where a quarter of the wall has crumbled away to nothing.

"What's that saying? No rest for something or other?" This is her task, anyway. Self-appointed, maybe, but appointed nonetheless. She gestures with the edge of her staff toward the gap in the stone. "You see that hole? Leads into the corridor right off the hall. Ideal spot for someone to infiltrate, especially with an entire army's guard down. I'm observing." There's no such thing as too careful, after all. Sulevin knows enough about Harding to know that she could appreciate the caution, probably. "I would figure you'd be down there, in the thick of planning."

Zevran blocked the busiest part of Skyhold, the entrance to the warmth. He stood with a journal and a pencil he'd lifted from someone's office. While people were cleaning, decorating and fighting over who got what bunk, Zevran was on duty helping out the overwhelmed kitchen by doing what he did best... second best... no what he did third best! Talking to people.

"Now before you come in from the cold, you must answer this very important and vital to the cause question." Zevran looked at his list trying to guess what answer this person was going to give him. He'd gotten a lot of answers very quickly in this area and most were the same but, he had gotten a few bizzare ones from people who weren't used to being out of the cold. Anything to get indoors.

Ah. The mouthy elf; Sulevin can never quite tell if the whole glib thing is an act or just...how he is. She could probably just walk past him (or find another way in, the exterior is teeming with holes, a security nightmare that makes her teeth hurt), but she's been gently instructed more than once to work on her people skills. So. She gives him a smile that she hopes looks sincere rather than just annoyed.

"Are you after a serious suggestion? Or shall I do the whole ' poisoned cherry cupcakes ' routine?"