Orlais was always looking for a new gimmick. Its upper crust were obsessed with the idea of "living fashionably" in every way, emanating style and obeying trend in their dress, their behavior and their thought, always in a constant competition with each other to prove themselves the most enslaved by their nation's fads. It was a badge of honor to be one that so dutifully followed all Orlais' whims; the only honor greater would be to decide what those whims were. So when word spread that the star of the minor elven politician Briala was rising and that their beloved Empress Celene was inclined towards "elven culture" (or the "culture" of one elf in particular), Orlais jumped into a new, deliciously hideous phase – Dalish chic.

Artifacts from elven history that Orlesians had claimed over their centuries of oppression were now displayed with pride in households or hastily restored and highlighted in new exhibits at museums. Cocktail parties or charity balls now adopted "woodland" themes, and all the elven waiters, waitresses, butlers and maids in high society were made to dress like their ancestors, or at least how Orlais imagined their ancestors to be. The treatment of modern elves was in no way improved, but the view of the ancient elves of Arlathan was glamourized tenfold. Now instead being of heathen "knife ears", they were made to seem mystic, omnipotent, wise and even sultry, brimming with all the decadence and power of nature herself. It gave Orlais both a new trend, a new excuse for excess and a new way to trivialize their lessers. Such was a combination she could not resist.

The only ones left unhappy were, naturally, the elves. Ghilena Lavellan was no exception.

Standing in the center of the freshly built Hanal'ghilan Conservatory in downtown Val Royeaux with her arms crossed tightly and her hips jutted roughly to one side, posture screaming anger and disdain, Ghilena sneered. One high-heeled foot tapped the ground like the beat of a hummingbird's wing as her manicured fingernails clicked their own patterns into the line of crystal buttons on her sleeve, each rhythm echoing into the other from off the conservatory's stark white walls and cathedral ceiling. It was to be an opera hall in its completion, an ode to elven music and elegance. As if these shemlen aristocrats know a thing about elegance that isn't regurgitated by their beloved Celene, she thought.

The project for the conservatory had been called "inspired" by all involved. Their idea was that the hall would be elven to its core, designed by elves, built by elves and staffed by elves (with human performers, owners and managers, of course). Ghilena, a budding interior and industrial designer, had wanted to refuse the board's offer of design lead with every fiber of her being… but she had bills to pay. Thus she became yet another begrudging elf roped into a shiny, white, capitalist betrayal of her people.

It wouldn't be shiny and white for long, though. She had a meeting with an artist that very day to discuss what could be done to the expansive walls surrounding the Hanal'ghilan's main stage. Something very classic "elf", she imagined. She knew that's what her employers would be expecting. They'd want something dripping with enough "elven mysticism" to make any knife-ear kitchen hand seem godly in the right suit. Until it was painted, though, Ghilena remained the only speck of color in the room, a vision of tempered rage in a tailored red suit.

She glanced at her watch. Their meeting was for noon. It was 11:58. She sighed, breath heavy and harsh. The girl was not usually so perfectionist, especially with people she'd never met, but everything about this soul-sucking project put her in a bad mood. If that bum didn't show up exactly on time she swore she'd just do the dumb paintings herself. Who even was this guy? Her brother swore by his work and insisted she give him a shot, but she was a regular in Orlais' art circles and she'd never heard his name before. And what was that name again? Solen, Somnas…

A new tapping filled the air – all Ghilena's tapping stopped. This new sound was that of footprints coming down the hall. Immediately the woman fixed her posture, loosened her stance, wiped the anger from her expression and faced forward.

When the elf walked in his eyes locked on her immediately. He gave a small, open smile. "Ah. Ms. Lavellan, I presume?"

A prim blonde brow shot up on Ghilena's face. He was the last thing she'd expected from an artist, especially one acquainted with her brother. For as much as she loved the boy he'd always had a sort of… quiet, daydreaming, "peace, love and irony" feel to him (he'd always described it as a "seafoam grunge aesthetic" himself, whatever that meant). She'd expected this artist friend of his to be the same. Yet he was nothing like her brother, and the way he looked so easily at her with such a natural confidence was almost unsettling. His clothes were practical and mostly undecorated – also surprising for an artist – and they possessed only enough embellishment to draw attention to his natural assets, intricate patterns at the neck and wrists pulling the eye to the strong line in his collarbone and his sculpted hands. The quality of the shirt was masterful, albeit simple – So he cares about quality. Good.

And the man had no hair. That was almost as shocking as his calm demeanor and plain dress all by itself, as most Orlesian men whether human or elf went to great lengths to ensure they looked as young and conventionally handsome as possible. But after a moment of getting used to it, the girl noticed how well he wore the bold look. He had bone structure that could cut glass. He didn't need any hair if it might distract from that.

After a second or two of staring in the most polite way possible, Ghilena returned the smile. "Indeed. It's a pleasure to meet you." She held out her hand and the other man took it, giving it one firm yet gentle shake. "I hope you'll excuse me but with all the running around and planning I've been doing lately I've completely forgotten your name."

His smile changed to a smirk, his eyes lowering and his next words coming out tired. "It is no trouble. I am Solas. I'd assumed Athimrael had told you of me."

Ghilena blinked, a bit confused at the sudden shift. Her cordial smile went thin. "Oh, he has. He's sung your praises. He thinks very highly of you as an artist and practically begged me to meet with you. Beyond exalting your talents, though, he's been rather tight lipped. As much as he insisted I meet you he also insisted I 'see you for myself'." She thought back to the silent excitement in her brother's eyes as he passed off his recommendation and found herself giving Solas a smirk of his own. "I think he intended to surprise me."

The man's smirk widened, but not from… what was that expression earlier, disappointment? Not anymore. Now he seemed entertained.

"Oh? And are you very surprised?"

Ghilena found her mouth falling slightly as she looked him up and down again. Then she shut it tight and gave her most poised, placating ingénue's grin. "Pleasantly." She tipped her chin to the sky, raising herself above his questions. "And I will be even more so if we can come to an agreement today, Messere Solas."

He chuckled softly. "As will I."

Quick as a whip, the woman turned away and began walking to the other end of the hall. As she did, her hands reached out to gesture to the walls around her. "I'm sure my brother has told you the basics of this project. Hanal'ghilan is to be the epitome of elven art and culture… Which, as you and I both know, was mostly lost to the conquests and Marches that took our ancestors."

"So am I supposed to depict what little the Dalish feel was 'recovered'?" He asked.

Ghilena could sense the reluctance in his tone. Not a fan of the Dalish, then?

She wouldn't press for now. Instead, she looked over her shoulder to him with a wry smile. "No. You're supposed to depict what humans think was recovered."

She reached the end of the hall, which held the beginning of the main stage and its adjacent choir section. Ghilena sat on the edge of the choral risers with one leg crossed over the other, sliding a loose strand of wheat yellow hair back into its bun before folding her hands neatly into each other.

"I'll be honest with you, Solas. This isn't about who elves are. It's about humans that want to fetishize something foreign and make themselves seem cultured and worldly in the process. What I need from whichever artist paints these halls is the epitome of that – a melodramatic, shameless caricature of our heritage."

He held his hands behind his back with posture as civil as a knight's, but the rise of his brow said he was curious. "You sound as if you find the conservatory disgusting."

A dry laugh escaped from her chest. "That's probably because I do."

Solas grinned. "Do you usually take such casual approaches to disgust?"

The girl blinked as her laughter's echo died away farther in the hall. "I don't think there's any way to 'casually' disgust something…"

"Then why accept the job here? If you have such strong feelings about it."

Grey eyes leveled the man with a sudden cold stare. He did not know her enough to ask these questions and he shouldn't be wanting to. Ghilena slowly uncrossed her legs and stood to meet. "Will you not accept the job, then? Is it too disgusting for you?"

His grin went crooked, on a flash of white teeth behind his tilted lips. "Is that your way of offering the position?"

It had been a long time since Ghilena had met another elf so well spoken – most of the elvhen that lived in Orlais were either servants or the poor, and while the Dalish kept themselves literate they rarely ventured into the city with their nomadic communes. This man was from neither an alienage nor any Dalish clan. He was an individual unique to their kind, yet somehow and without reason he held an air of nobility around him. He almost seemed entitled. Ghi swore she saw him take on a new shade of amusement every time they exchanged words. It irritated her that he found her amusing and it irritated her that she found him intriguing, and it irritated her that now she'd found another aspect of this job that was, well, irritating.

For the first time since he'd arrived, she let her irritation show. The woman frowned. "No it is not, Messere Solas." She raised her head haughtily and walked past him. "I haven't even seen any of your work yet. I have no reason to believe you're even qualified to accept the project. I'm simply inquiring as to whether or not your morals would get in the way of your work, should you prove yourself worthy of it."

At first Solas calmly watched her walk away, blue eyes a mix of a wonder and aggravation, but when she reached the end of her words he scoffed and began walking after with a purpose. "I can assure you now that you won't find anyone more 'worthy' of depicting elven culture, even if it is in the form of this demented caricature you seek."

"Oh won't I?" The girl asked facing away from him. Her question flung to meet the man from a westward wall, entering the echo chamber along with her angry footfalls and his prideful chase.

He sneered. "Or perhaps you simply won't find one willing to sell their soul along with their talent."

Now she turned. The woman gave her most diplomatic, acidic smile and threw open the entrance door.

"Perhaps I won't then. I will certainly let you know if I do, Messere Solas. It was lovely to meet you. Truly an enlightening visit."

Solas stiffened. He still felt a sting from the earlier jab at his pride, but when he looked between the open door, the hall they'd come from and the stubborn smile of the elf before him his anger began to soften… if only a little. He sighed.

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to agitate you, and that last comment was… rude of me."

Ghilena's face went blank. Was he seriously apologizing?

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of something; a receipt from an art supply store. Reaching into his other pocket he found a small tin of sketching pencils, all worn in half from use. He scribbled something on the back of the receipt and handed it to her with a hesitant smile.

"I have a few ideas in mind. I'll put together some sketches tonight and meet you tomorrow."

Ghilena's brow furrowed in immediate protest. She turned away. "Messere Solas, as we are obviously not in a position where we can cooperate with each other…"

"Solas."

Her sentence broke off. She looked back at him. "What?"

"It's just Solas. Not 'messere'. Solas is my first name."

The elf rolled her eyes. "Fine. Solas. The fact remains that…"

"I'll see you tomorrow." He walked through the door.

Ghilena stalled, following him with her eyes as he strode past her. She whirled around and stared into his back. "Excuse me?"

Solas looked over his shoulder with a congenial smile. "And it was lovely to meet you as well… da'len."

Da'len? Why, you little-

And he was gone, swept away by the sidewalk traffic of an Orlesian lunch hour. Ghilena stood in the doorway of the Hanal'ghilan, flushed and furious in her red suit with the door handle still held tight in her hand. In her other hand, the crumpled receipt. Ghilena was frozen at the threshold until the stares of passerby woke her from her stupor, and only then did she remember the paper. She turned back into the conservatory and, grumbling under her breath as she went, folded it flat and read.

Le Masque du Lion, 2:00

And a phone number. Signed, Solas. It was an artist's signature, too.

Smug little prick, Ghilena thought and crumpled the paper again. She resolved to throw it away as soon as she got home and abandon him at lunch the next day. What right did he have to ask her, his potential employer, so many shameful questions? He spoke like a prince with the propriety of a pig. Or maybe he was trying to agitate her on purpose after all, despite his apology claiming otherwise…

Oh, whatever. It doesn't matter either way. I'm not meeting him tomorrow and that's final… And I'm going to have a talk with Athimrael. Why does he idolize that bastard? And why was he so excited about me meeting him, anyway?

Without an artist to make arrangements with Ghilena's work day was cut short. She went home and hopped onto the internet to search for other elven mural painters in the area – And it HAS to be an elf. The whole project's bullshit but it can't be TOO bullshit or the Orlesians get mad – but there was no fire behind her eyes. Scrolling through classifieds, artist's personal websites and ads did nothing but bore her. None caught her attention. And when she changed from her suit to her sleepwear that night and the receipt fell out of her pocket she realized she'd completely forgotten her resolve. But when she picked it up, she didn't throw it in the garbage or shove it in her laundry basket along with her clothes like she would do when she particularly didn't care. She looked at it, sighed and placed it on her bedside table.

Her last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were of the earful she needed to give her baby brother. She knew exactly why he was so excited to introduce them, and this more than anything else that had happened that day really and truly irritated her.