'What were you thinking? Have you lost your mind?' Solas asked himself, over and over again as he wandered around the empty camp. Irritably he kicked at small rocks and scattered twigs littering the trampled dirt with his bare toes. He ground his teeth in growing frustration. It was hours past a sunnily risen dawn with no sign from the rest of the party. There was no account for how much longer she could hold out in her present condition. The long night had taken its toll on the both of them.

Chiyo thankfully remained asleep. Her body needed every restful minute available to continue her stalled fight against the poison that had felled her. It had been such an overwhelming relief to find her still softly breathing when he had risen in the weak light of daybreak.

Motionless and pressed up against him for warmth he'd willfully forgotten for a blissful moment why she was there. Her bolstering scent enveloped him, overpowering the stale air of sickness that hung in the closed tent. Waking up to the silken skin of her neck against his face, it all felt like so much more than he deserved. Solas savored the sensations of having another so close, their rhythms in tandem. Her heartbeat echoed his own. Their breath mingled together, as her chest slowly rose with each encouraging lift of his lungs. When he finally gained the resolve to release her from his arms the sun was fully up, sending a warm glow through the waxed canvas walls. He'd noted only a single splotchy stain of blood on his clothes when he helped resettle her into bed, leaving Chiyo to rest unaccompanied for a time. He thought to leave, to seek out any herbs that could be nearby. But he dared not even step more than a few strides from the tent, fearing what would happen if he turned his back on her for more than a minute.

He paused in his maddened pacing to draw the edge of his shirt to his nose, her scent lingered there still. Blood, sweat and the unique trace of her skin. It was all over him, a glaring reminder of his flagrant indiscretions. He could have wrapped her in the extra bedding and slept alone, it would have had comparatively the same effect. There had been no excusable reason for him to spend the night with her in an idyllic embrace, telling personal stories to fill the vacant hours. Just her plea… her plea did something to him deep inside. It clouded his mind, entrapped in some ominous spell that kept him from thinking clearly.

She was alive because of his actions, be they appropriate or not, and his world had not yet collapsed around him as it would have if she'd perished. It was something to celebrate, he hadn't failed her—only himself.

'Why not simply paint it on the walls, allow everyone to see!' Instead he was chastising himself fiercely for all that he had said to her the previous evening. The slip of endearment had been the least of his offenses. How could he have told her the bare bones of his own story, a secret he had never once uttered before to a living soul in the two years since he'd been reawoken? It was so imprudent of him and left his situation in a precarious bind. Should she figure out the identity he'd been so careful to bury it could mean the end of all his efforts. Or dare he hope… No! He could not take that chance.

Every plan would unravel. Were she to out or reject him the Inquisition would unquestionably turn against the tolerated apostate who'd lied through omission to them from the very beginning. His old name alone was a death sentence. The one that was known so well... Being in anyway accountable for what had happened to the Conclave and Haven warranted unspeakable punishment. Solas would be persecuted by hundreds, thousands even as word spread and he was forced back into hiding where he would watch the world finally succumb to the madness unleashed by his own rash hand.

'Perhaps she won't remember, or fancy it a dream.' He attempted to reassure himself, ignoring the pounding in his chest, his pulse singing fiercely in his ears. Woozy and terrified were only the cusp of the broiled emotions that berated his normally stoic demeanor. Though he remained mostly silent of his inner struggle, his flitting eyes screamed of an entirely disjointed state. He was only grateful for being isolated in his profound agitation.

"How could I be this much a fool…?" Acutely however, he already knew why he'd slipped so far. For the brief moment when Solas considered that he might actually lose her, when the cold of her skin frightened him more than he'd ever thought possible, he had grasped desperately upon a moment where he didn't have to be so utterly alone. That even in death, her knowing but the partial truth would have released the heavy anchors from his tortuous soul. He could have thrown the rest of his life into the void and been content, for his story would have been heard once and persist beyond his solitude. If only for a few precious moments, he would have been free. He loathed the selfish notion of it all. He would never be loosened from the crimes written into the very essence of his being.

Solas the liar, the fool, the madman. The rebel who had stolen the future of the elvhenan. The apostate who'd been driven away from every clan he'd offered knowledge. The unassuming elf who'd played the role so well that not even the Spymaster had dubbed his story worthy of investigation. Fen'Harel, the Trickster God incarnate, He who hunted alone, did not deserve her mercy. Nor anyone else's.

The Inquisitor's kindness and sincerity was wearing his once steadfast resolve unnervingly thin. The comfortable world she extended him, though he could give so little in return, called to his very core. That wondrous spark, the thoughtful, penetrating nature of her soul threatened to bring him to his knees. He didn't know what alarmed him more—the fact that he could care so much for another or that someone else might… He dared not even think the word. The notion was too hazardous to even entertain. No one could harbor such feelings for the person who had ruined everything out of irrational pride and the lack of other, better options. All the woe afflicting the current age could be traced back to his choices. Chiyo's own suffering was brought upon her by his hand.

If there was anything fragmented about her magic it was from his blunting and blocking her connection to the power that had been her birthright. He'd unintentionally created a world that was widely afraid of what had been the most natural aspect of their existence, where mages were persecuted for being strong enough to still tap into the Fade. If her life had been difficult, her people left to wander the wilderness and lose their heritage, it was because he'd left his kind too weak to fight back against the continued shackles of slavery by a new race of beings. She would never have been destined or ill-fatedly become the Inquisitor if he'd only reconsidered the greater consequences of his blundering actions. It was all his fault, and he would never forgive himself. Blood was on his hands, but not from healing, but neglectful murder.

"What absurd ruination is this..." He groaned miserably, holding his aching head in his hands as he plopped down onto one of the wooden benches ringing the fire, which he had coaxed to life again early that morning.

Cowardice and guilt would not let him surrender to her affections. Pride, intrigue and some ephemeral thing he dared not name, refused to permit him to flee from her generous company. Solas was so consumed that he'd barely heard the approach of a wagon, the wooden wheel creaking across the rough terrain, the jingle of a harness and the clopping foot falls of a trotting beast.

"Solas! Oh tell me, please, tell me we aren't too late!" Cried Dorian in rapt despair, he jumped precariously from his perch on the driver's bench. Surprised by the sound of Dorian's voice, Solas sprung up from the bench, nearly toppling it in his thankful haste.

Chasing the discarded reins, Iron Bull lept down to take hold of a sweating, exhausted pony whose foamy flanks heaved with exerted breath. Far from being an idealized and noble-bred white, the old, wiry steed could only be described as the grayest of gawky nags. Back swayed with age and bearing, the mare had seen far better years than her thin face and coarse feet led on. But Ferelden winters were hard on all creatures, beasts of burden or not. The icy cold stripped even healthy, young animals of their fat and vigor.

Solas dropped his hands in welcomed relief at the return of their party, deserting his fanatical contemplations before they could be more mistakenly noted upon. "Forgive me, no. I was lost in thought. She lives on. Much too stubborn to perish. You could not convince her to die even if it was for her own good." He eyed the rickshaw vehicle for a moment, curious as to why it was loaded with crates of vegetables, baskets of fruit, distressed looking chickens in cages— "…Did you steal this cart?!"

Dorian took no time to pause as he shrugged and mimed a rascally 'perhaps'. Already fleeing for the tent with the medicine he'd brought back in a lively hurry, the mage hustled before he could be further questioned or detained.

"Inquisitor it is I, your gallant knight in shining armor, come to rescue you!"

The remaining two men heard Chiyo weakly groan in disapproval, rather unhappily roused by the Tevinter's raucous return as he threw back the partition, bringing the bright glare of morning with him. "Why so loud…"

"Sorry, he was practicing that line the whole way here." Iron Bull began to unharness the overworked animal that would be too small to carry him without the aid of the cart. He patted the horse that had aided their journey without complaint. "This poor sack of bones was all we could find on the road. We'll take it back. You look a bit rough around the edges… How was last night?"

"I would rather not repeat it." Solas collapsed back onto the roughly hewn bench, already sapped of energy. Even after his deep but brief rest with the Inquisitor, he was still physically exhausted with the mental stress of his actions only adding to the taxation. What he wouldn't give to slip back into the Fade for the rest of the day, to avoid any further confrontation with the Dalish elf that vexed him and return to the relative safety of impartial wandering for a few calming hours. Was this weariness what once drove his people to periodically search out Uthenera? Solas shook his head to clear it of his melancholic ruminations. "Let us just return to Skyhold without anyone else nearly dying. That will be enough for me."

They said farewell to the tiny camp that had housed them and given them shelter from the rain once Chiyo was well enough to travel. Her color and energy having returned after several horrid tasting treatments administered by the far too chipper Dorian. The party made the long trip back to the Keep hidden in the Frostback Mountains, now mounted thanks to master Dennett's earned generosity. Though Chiyo's freshly amended ailment kept them to a slow walk on their fine steeds. A sturdy gelding bore her without fuss, minding not that she often fell asleep on his back.

Having had enough of the Hinterlands for one extended journey, they were all looking forward to partaking of a few hot meals, a stiff pint or two, and reclaiming their much more comfortable beds. Dorian filled their slow-going voyage with recounts of his most recent act of heroism, adding new aspects and flourishes of artful detail each time he retold the tale of his midnight dash across the wilds.

Bears with a taste for human flesh, ruffians that outnumbered them ten to one, and some watery tart holding up a sword in the Upper Lake calling him to become a king soon stood as testament to his loyalty and bravery. Chiyo would laugh and play along, goading him for more, winking at the Iron Bull who rolled his eye behind Dorian's back each time he re-embellished the tale. Though the Qunari chuckled loudly when Dorian claimed to have fended off a flock of lusty Chantry sisters in protection of Bull's spotless honor and breeches-less glory.

Solas, however, remained quiet most of the time, avoiding prolonged contact with the recovering Inquisitor as much as possible. Chiyo wondered what she had conceivably said or done on that dark eve to have upset him so. He had never turned such a cold shoulder to her, his scant answers now kept to the barest of speech. She remembered most of the night, so she thought, even if some of the details were hazy at best. But she would never forget the care he had shown her. That much she knew to be real and not a delusion of the feverish nightmares that had soon followed.

More than once she had seen the terrifying outline of a large wolf prowling at the edges of her dreamscape. Eyes shining through the darkness, waiting keenly in the shadows, it stalked her movements in complete silence. The beast was there each night that followed until they reached home. But even then she felt a presence, circling at a distance outside her range. She kept her dreaming constricted, too uncertain to wander past the places she understood to be safe. Chiyo wished she could speak to Solas about the matter, but he seemed beyond approach.

Perhaps the visions of dangerous creatures were just from her mind playing tricks as the body healed.


"Maker's breath! What are you doing you sneaky fool?" Harritt the blacksmith jumped back from his workbench, dropping his hammer as a pile of grimy, ruined armor was dumped on his table. The pieces scattered across the already cluttered work surface, ringing off the wide square of engraved steel that currently required his full attention. His shouts echoed through the undercroft, loud enough to startle Dagna from her bizarre and arcane work as well. He looked up from the shield he'd been repairing to the unnerving sight of an apostate glaring at him with narrowed, cuttingly blue eyes.

"I would ask you to explain your work." Solas crossed his arms over his chest and waited with icy, feigned patience. He sounded polite enough, yet there was a brooding menace building behind his words; it corroded his intentions with the accusations he insinuated at. "You've heard by now about the Inquisitor's latest ordeal."

Annoyed and in a rough manner, Harritt picked through the dark, filthy leather abomination. He scoffed at the state of the worn armor, tallying the flaws inaudibly as he inspected the bloodied layers. The stitching of the tanned hide was wide and cheap, the metals used had been hammered too thin. He held up the shoulder guard that had been pierced, inspecting it half-heartedly before pitching it aside. "This garbage is not mine."

Solas did not accept the answer. There had been no one else so relied upon as the man who was disregarding the danger he'd left the Inquisitor in. Solas' own, newer armaments had been prepared by Harritt, as was everyone who accompanied Chiyo to all the far flung reaches of Ferelden and Orlais. "You have personally been responsible for the entire Inner Circle's gear since our days in Haven. Where else would she have gotten armor from?"

"Not even her size. Probably picked it up from some cheapskate merchant like those louts in the yard." He spoke gruffly, twisting his heavy moustache with an angered frown. Picking up his tools, Harritt went back to work without so much as another glance at the elf that'd snuck up beside him. The head of his hammer precisely tapped the end of a sharp chisel as he continued to remove a critically damaged strip from the large shield. "If she didn't like the armor I made her she should have come to me first. Probably been lying to me about keeping my wares this whole time…"

"That's not true!" Called a small voice from the diminutive Arcanist, bright as a nervous songbird. Dagna approached warily, fiddling with an unfinished blade she had been experimenting on. She twirled the glittering dagger between her gloved fingers, the freshly minted runes flashing in the hilt. "I know what happened to her original set… I mean, it's not like she sold it for coin or tossed it in the rubbish heap. She, ummm… gave it away…"

"Oh for the love of Andraste, why would she do a foolish thing like that?" Frustration boiling, Harritt cast aside the old, favored mallet he'd been swinging. It had been one of the few tools that had made it back with him from Haven, but that did not keep him from chucking it across the room without even a flinch of hesitation.

"Because she cares too much. The Inquisitor does nice stuff for people... When I asked for more research materials she went straight to the Commander to get me them! No questions asked! She's even going to let me experiment on that funny hole in her hand. I just really want to know what makes it… glow…" Dagna faltered as both men's eyes turned her way, she caught herself rambling. The blacksmith's temper was commonplace enough, but the chilly apostate's calm left her unsettled. She stumbled through her responses, trying to direct his piercing gaze focused elsewhere. "I saw a young recruit wearing her armor a few days ago before being sent out to scout what's left of Haven."

Harritt was utterly beside himself, the edge of his chisel became buried upright in the wood of his worktable. "And you couldn't have mentioned it before the Inquisitor left?"

"I asked her to come by the undercroft. I swear!" Dagna chewed at her lip, staring intently at the unfinished knife she'd never stopped twiddling with. "But she promised that everything would be okay, just a short trip, we could whip up something better when there was more time. She didn't want to make me rush."

"Then let us all be sure she keeps her new set. If you are of the mind to craft another." The furious knots in Solas' stomach eased as he listened to the anxious dwarf expel her meandering tale. He was quick to rescind the ill-placed blame he'd been doling out. He knew too well how it felt to bear unwarranted judgements, at least for such specific allegations. He should have gone to the Inquisitor herself first and foremost, but he had his reasons for staying away. "Please do not hesitate to request whatever materials you need." He bowed slightly and took his leave.


Chiyo's shoulders slumped forward and her head felt near to bursting as she exited the war room, finally having completed the first meeting with her advisors since she'd returned from the Hinterlands. Her stamina just wasn't quite back up to the demands of her serious-minded colleagues. She felt roasted under Cullen and Leliana's heated questions and mortified under Josephine's analytical gaze. 'How many times did she plan on nearly getting herself killed' seemed to be the general theme. It was decided that she should not attempt such irrationality more than once per month if she could avoid it. They needed her alive and in one piece. Inquisitors were expensive to replace and hard to come by. The guilt they heaped onto her didn't end at that. They also brought up her indispensability because of the mark. No one else could close the rifts, without it the whole of Thedas would soon be overrun by demon spewing tears. Josephine had tried to kindly point it out to her that the work was far from over, with more to do beyond just clearing Ferelden and Orlais from rifts. There were already pleas for aid from as far away as Rivaine, and the Free Marches had been sending more urgent reports as of late.

Cullen especially had acted with grave concern, mincing his cobbled words as he staggered through his distress. Had he not just hoisted her half frozen, nearly dead body down the mountainside mere months ago? She'd been so lucky to escape Corypheus and the Archdemon; perhaps it would be wiser to not try her luck so frequently. The overworked man had dropped to an open chair at her mumbling retelling of events and hid his aching head in his hands. He vexed of predicted ulcers twisting in his stomach and the loss of all of his hair to come with her next venture out.

Some great leader she was turning out to be...

The gambled chances she took had little room for error. The Inquisitor was not ignorant of that. But trouble always seemed to be at her heels, sniffing and snapping until she eventually tripped. It couldn't be helped, and those around her would simply have to get used to it. At least there had been the distraction of their plans at the Winter Palace to derail them from the latest alarm. The ball was just a few short weeks away, but it was a massive opportunity for them to acquire new alliances and most importantly, end the feud that was tearing the neighboring countries apart. There were never ending lists of thing that must be discussed and decided on down to the meaning of the color of horse she would choose to pull her carriage. So many details hinged on perfection, but everyone agreed a royal assassination attempt and trying to stop it were far more pressing matters than the would have, could have beens of her most recent escapade.

It had been unanimously decided, with no hope of overriding their decision that she was to convalesce there at Skyhold until after the obnoxious Orlesian farce was done. No other mission would take her out of those gates until she had recovered and completed their goals at the upcoming ball.

By the time Chiyo escaped them and the befuddling map on which they designed all their plans, her stomach was growling loudly. It reminded her sharply that it was well past midday and she had not eaten any breakfast, having spent those early hours locked away from the general public. She nearly ran down the stairs that led to the lower gallery and to the Hold's main kitchen. If her feet and appetite had not brought her there, her nose surely would have. The bustling kitchen was controlled chaos, a pure display of wonderful magic as she watched them pull the steaming buns from the oven when only minutes before they'd been less appealing raw dough balls. Tray after tray went into the massive oven, the true, hot heart of the Keep. Before becoming the Inquisitor, Chiyo had never had real bread, only the hard tack the soldiers ate or the stiff, dry brown loaves of the peasantry who were willing to trade with the Dalish heathen. Hard, coarse things that kept through the winter without spoiling, they weren't pleasant to eat without soaking in soup or stock.

The head cook had nearly shouted, on the eve of her first day with the Inquisition, when the Herald herself had sprung unannounced through the door. Bread, yeasty and soft clenched in both fists, she had asked the startled woman what the rare, marvelous things in her hands really were. She'd bashfully demanded an explanation as Varric's jolly, proffered one had not sufficed, and another helping were there anymore…

She sighed contentedly before biting into a still warm sweet-bun. The hungry Inquisitor had slipped unobtrusively into the kitchen in hopes of beseeching the serious cook for a morsel or two. Her recounts of the poor meals she had endured in the Hinterlands, of flavorless mushrooms and scrawny bird meat, had been enough to soften the woman's strict heart. How could she be expected to lead the Inquisition on thin broth alone? It wasn't the first time the Inquisitor had come poking around for small treats when the smells of baking wafted through the fortress' main hall. But the white-haired elf had become exceptionally good at weaseling for extra, sweetened delights. Chiyo had even offered to help watch the buns herself while the cook stepped out for more ingredients and to check in on the assistants out in the yard plucking nearly an entire flock of ducks. Claiming that she had observed it being done now enough times to keep them from burning, she had convinced the cook to leave her with the covetous staple.

The main door opened suddenly and she froze mid-bite into her stolen delicacy, eyes wide with guiltiness as she looked towards the latest intruder.

"What a heavenly fragrance, you have certainly outdone—Inquisitor, I wasn't expecting…." Solas paused, freezing to the spot and staring back at the mage whose presence had completely surprised him. The apostate cleared his throat to say more as he gripped the door, but instead of speaking again he promptly turned to leave.

"Wait!" Chiyo offered up one of the warm deserts, delectably spiced and oozing with buttery sugars. "Here, didn't you want one of these?"

Solas stopped inside the narrow doorway, the tip of his traitorous tongue rolled behind sternly held lips. "No, I seldom care for such sweets." But the famished look in his returning eyes gave him away.

Plating the sticky bun, she set it on the table that stood between them as a friendly lure. Chiyo licked at the sweet glazing on her fingertips, waiting for him to take the bait. "Then what did you come here for. If not tea or sweets, dinner isn't for a few hours still…"

The temptation was too great; the Dalish had accurately remembered something correctly after all about the Dread Wolf. Solas abandoned the security of the entryway and sidled over to the wide table with carefully groomed indifference. "I was hoping to have a word with you." He claimed, certainly simple hunger and a freely given offering could not be his only excuse. This must seem to be for business, not pleasure, if he were to come away from the interaction with all his facilities intact.

"And you knew I'd be here… because?" She smiled victoriously and finished her own pilfered snack, teasing him with each slow, deliberate bite.

Solas gave up the small, poorly executed ruse. It was senseless to continue when he'd already been overcome. If he fought anymore she would be sure to hear his belly howl in protest. "You are too clever for me. I'd assumed no one would find out that I have been persuading the poor woman into early helpings. I do not always eat when I should. Perhaps, since you are here, I might request a moment of your time. If you are not needed somewhere else and can spare it."

"By all means." Chiyo left him to eat while she searched the nearby cupboards for a jug of spicy cider she had happened upon during a previous visit. It was one of the assistant's private stock, stashed well to keep the cook and any passersby from draining the heady brew. But they had not anticipated a nosy Herald to spend much of her time poking around in their kitchen.

Dodging a preoccupied drudge peeling their way through a pile of roots, he took to an open chair before savoring the feel of soft, sweet and wholesome bread against his teeth. Distracted and pacified by the wondrous treat, surrounded by simple comforts and rich smells, it was easier for him to relax slightly. The rigid tightness in his jaw eased while he chewed and the timidity about his manners began to slacken as he settled into his seat. "Dagna told me a curious tale about your armor. I wished to understand your reasoning. Is it true that you gave your quality gear to a new recruit?"

"She didn't have shoes." Chiyo answered plainly, having never held the intent of hiding her deed. The act was of her own volition and she wasn't required to explain her personal choices to anyone. Though the Inquisitor's motives were hers alone, she was not above disclosing them to the mage that had not judged her directly for any of her other actions since they'd first met. Solas may not always agree, but he'd never once told her she'd been in the wrong. Spying the earthen container tucked behind a sack of tubers, she lifted it from its hiding place and returned to the worktable.

"Poor girl needed real footwear with thick soles and lacings, like shemlens prefer. Just thin strips of hide were wrapped around her feet. She was a flat ear—sorry, that was rude of me." She said as she glanced up at Solas and corrected her misguided word use. A few months living among such diverse strangers would not immediately undo a lifetime of perceptions accepted by a Dalish tribe. Even as progressive the clan Lavellan was, there was still language they used amongst themselves to refer to outsiders, often being far less than kind. Her own reception by humans had made her think twice about how she referred to others, but still she caught herself slipping from time to time. "She was a city elf, and didn't even know how to wrap her feet like the Dalish."

Solas turned over a clean mug for her, having already demolished the sticky morsel while she'd been engrossed with her search. "This recruit you mean, you say she was ill-prepared for the task. What brought her here?" He asked, remaining neutral to the newcomer's origins.

"Nor a coat or any gear. She was wearing several ratty shirts instead. Yet she survived the trip here and still wanted to undergo more." Chiyo pulled the thick cork with a swift pop and filled the glass to the brim. She gestured him to grab a second cup and poured another. "So ready to give her young life away to the Inquisition. Leaving her home, her family, a life that could have taken any path she wanted. But she chose this one wholeheartedly, even if it was out of desperation. The least I could offer her was coin for good footwear and equipment worthy of her sacrifice. She's even smaller than I am, too vulnerable for such risky work unprotected."

He mulled over her sincere expressions, hiding his frown behind the mug he held to his lips. What value did she hold to her life if she was so prepared to ransom her own security for a complete stranger's sake? When did her safety become important enough to even cross her mind? It was wildly reckless of her, no matter how kind of a gesture. A scout could be replaced, though unfortunate, they had young runners in droves all striving to advance within the growing force. There were not others waiting in line to take her place if she were lost to them, through bravery or folly, it could not be so simply justified. But her compassion was an important factor of her leadership; it would assure people that they were making the right choice in siding with the Inquisition. Those acts made her both more real to the masses and would appear more holy as the story was spread throughout the ranks. He knew these deeds were unplanned and truly from her genuine heart. The loyalty it stood to inspire was in many ways a frightening thing, the power she wielded now was immense. If she succeeded in saving their world, what could she claim for those valiant efforts? Others that had come before her had certainly asked for just rewards, but Chiyo had asked for nothing from the start.

"What would you ask for yourself in return from the Inquisition? You have already given them everything you have freely." Solas asked as he took another bite and tilted his unadorned head slightly, still listening through his own heavy thoughts and awaiting an answer.

Chiyo shook her head, tracing the heavy ceramic edge of her drink. "There is an opportunity here that is greater than my own desires. I have a chance to do something good for the future of the elves, even if I only succeed in bringing them a little dignity. That would be so much more than they have now."

The enduring injustices of her race always lingered in the back of her mind, surfacing more and more as she furthered her interactions with humans. She'd seen far too few elves since she'd left the safety of her clan. It was disheartening to witness so many straining just to survive in a world that did not always care for them. Though her people were far from perfect, the Dalish too proud of their broken heritage and their struggle to reclaim what had been stolen from them, they deserved to be left in peace.

Solas couldn't help but implore further. Her lack of selfishness was dumbfounding. "Do you ever think of yourself?" Her low laugh that followed reminded him of distant thunder rolling, a gentle storm on the horizon that promised a nourishing rain.

"Constantly." She vied for another snack, leaning towards the cooling batch on the nearby side table, her mischievous eye looked away from the equally hungry mage. She cocked her head at the boy in the corner, who'd been enviously watching them through his tedious chores and silently gave him permission to take one himself. "I will never be able to live without sugar again. We never had such sweets back home. And such rich butter! Flour was expensive enough to trade for in the Free Marches, but there was little money left over for such luxuries. Wild honey did well enough, but this is on an entirely different level. These would be even better if they were filled with fresh halla cheese."

Solas held out his plate, joining her in the indulgence. Bliss settled where anxiety should have remained in his worrisome heart. "You continue to surprise me, Chiyo. What end is there to your mystery?"

A smile bloomed across her face, beyond that of generous gluttony at the repeated sound of her own name. "Eat; we must hurry before the cook returns and the kitchen begins to prepare dinner in earnest. I may or may not have made off with a whole bird the last time they roasted duck and fear she won't let me have a second chance at that again…"


"Oh Inquisitor… red is your color. You really shouldn't wear so much sage or gray!" Josephine cooed to Chiyo as she stepped out from behind the illustrated changing screen. Decorated with stylized blood lotus and water-birds, it was a prized possession of the Enchanter who'd placed it centrally in her private quarters. The long, divided layers of her ethereal skirts dragged across the wooden floor, exposing her pale legs with each stride between the assorted gauzy slits. Tucked at the waist, and tailored tightly around her upper body, the sheer dress hung off her narrow form in floaty waves.

"It just doesn't seem very practical. What purpose do these clothes serve? Where am I to hide my weapons if I can barely hide my own body?" Ambling forward gracelessly, Chiyo tried not to trip and ruin the exquisite garment. It was an expensive gift she had not been able or allowed to decline. She stepped gingerly onto a short, sturdy stool provided, bringing her height almost to that of the elegant woman currently eyeing her with a critical gaze. Holding her breath as the seamstress stooped and bobbed about, the Inquisitor did her best not to move. She had learned from the very first fitting that if she did, she would stab herself with the pins temporarily embedded in the dress.

A quick prod from Vivienne corrected her posture, refusing to let the petite mage spoil her vision of perfection. "Don't slouch dear; you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You will be laughed out of Orlais if this hemline isn't straight though. This will be your armor against the court. It must be utterly flawless if you are to be a commanding presence. The nobility must be left speechless. They will see you standing unafraid and unmasked. With this dress, you will announce that the Inquisition has nothing to hide, as our enemies shroud themselves ever more."

"But isn't it a bit much?" Chiyo pleaded, having her hand slapped sharply for attempting to pull at the top of the dress that constricted her chest. The alluringly transparent décolletage cut straight across a pair of breasts that would have never been ample enough to fill one of Vivienne's more customary designs. Her shoulders were left bare but for a narrow band of see-through red fabric cresting over each arm, to show off her fine boning and the lean muscle that had developed from the years of wielding a staff. Still visible, the wound inflicted weeks before had dulled to a dark, purpled scar, though considering the refinery she was swathed in it would hopefully not distract from the beautiful gown. At first after initially seeing the scar, the impossibly impeccable knight enchantress had tried all sorts of schemes to cover it, but nothing suited any of her unbending visions or designs. A collared shawl had been rudimentarily constructed, but the ill at ease elf had been quick to remove the constricting garment from her neck and refused to wear it again. The spidery-thin silk, dyed to the rich standard hue of the Inquisition's proclaimed colors and the other ornamentations would just have to suffice as a diversion from the blemish.

The loose layers that often twisted around her legs and the sweeping length were not entirely unmanageable. She could learn to walk adequately in anything given enough time and practice. It was the delicately wrought cage about her waist that perturbed Chiyo the most. No matter how many times the finely dressed ladies reassured her that it was only a decorative girdle. She did not revel in the attentions being given to her, preferring to watch such spectacles rather than being central to them. But the outfit felt more than slightly off-putting. These were not the formal, protective garbs of a proud elf, but of a human noble. She was dressed as the people who had subjugated her kind, and thought of donning such silks before those worst offenders made her skin crawl. If the other Lavellans saw her in such a state, ridicule would be the least of her concerns.

Josephine continued her dotage, clasping her hands together with delight. She was giddy to the point of turning pink beneath her rich skin tone with the idea of having a life-sized doll to dress up. "That neckline with those gorgeous sleeves! And the skirts! Nothing of mine skims like that. What an extraordinarily creative girdle! Madame de Fer your designs are ingenious! Do you have your sketchbook?" The bubbling Antivan asked as she neared the table covered in ribbons, thread, beads, pieces of jewelry and of course, the Enchanter's private, design filled manuscript.

Vivienne waved to the nearby book, busy adjusting a fold and keeping a watchful eye on the apprehensive woman she was decorating. "You may look, but if I see any of my work coming from your closet over the next few weeks I will be most displeased."

"Dancing in this will be a nightmare." She muttered to herself. Chiyo fidgeted with the intricate, golden metal that encircled most of her middle. Hard and utterly stiff in comparison to the gossamer transparency of the gown. Reaching as high as her sternum allowed, a filigreed eye and sword made up the center of the design. The Andrastian based emblem would follow into her next mission. She would walk into the Winter Palace displaying the sign of the Inquisition so none could question her presence or who she was representing.

"Do you like it?" Vivienne asked nonchalantly, continuing to straighten a piece of the glittering fabric so that the shallow, layered openings that began at her thighs hung true. "You certainly have a figure for formal dress, though suppler curves are much more in vogue this season. A lady will always have the wrong body for what fashion currently demands. It is our curse. But no one else will be wearing a gown like this and they will be unable to compare it to anything present."

"It's breath-taking. Your gift is far too generous." The Inquisitor replied honestly, already wearing her sentiments unchecked, for she couldn't fill her lungs thoroughly with the tight lacing and tailoring that had already been completed. "I have never worn such finery. But what if there is fighting, won't it get in the way?"

Brandishing two distinct looking slippers, the sophisticated Enchanter took her time holding each against the dress. An important detail that could not be overlooked or decided in haste. "Any woman worth her salt should be able to conquer the world and look stunning at the same time. But if you can survive the night without getting blood on your clothes I would recommend it. The color will help hide a few transgressions, but the stains will show before long."

"I hope you're right. I have a bad feeling about this ball." Chiyo wrinkled her nose slightly and curled her long toes at the sight of fancy footwear.

"I would be concerned if you didn't feel uneasy. Court is no place for the inexperienced." Vivienne cautioned, having played the Game countless time during her years both in a Circle and at the empress' side. "And don't give me that look. You will not go barefoot in front of Empress Celene."

"If only you had more hair…" Josephine sighed softly as she tried to place a decorative hairpiece in the Inquisitor's short tresses. But as her fingers touched the locks she often romantically described in her letters as moonlit, she startled Chiyo with the unexpectedly personal touch that was too close to the mage's sensitive ear. In her panic, the Herald nearly jumped from the pedestal and bumped into the seamstress, earning her a solid poke with a sharp needle into her leg, doubling her alarmed shout anew.

"Maker guide me through this and Andraste lend me patience…" groaned Vivienne as she swatted away the mortified Ambassador while the Inquisitor apologized profusely to the cursing consultant. Hopping on one leg, she barely avoided stepping on her threatened skirts that would be torn off in her distress. "May we all survive the final fitting…"