A month after his arrival, he walks into the administration tent to find her.
She is leaning over his assigned desk, her hand on the edge of the wooden table and a pile of papers in front of her. A pile of his papers, he realizes. When she looks up, she wears the driest interpretation of smile he think he has possibly seen. She seems utterly unconcerned at being caught snooping.
"Who are you?"
"General," she greets, moving around the table and proffering a hand. "My name is Yvette Garis, I was assigned to assist you."
He examines her. The hand, milky white and unblemished matches her coiffed white blond hair. Her lips are painted a gaudy shade of red, and she wears a mask, gleaming and silver. A Lady Yvette Garis in his estimation and he almost wonders why she doesn't use the title.
Instead, he wonders who, exactly, is fucking with him.
"Assist me how?"
Yvette glances between his face and her still outstretched hand. Her imitation smile doesn't waver and her hand remains still.
Rylen lets her wait.
"Public relations." She says finally, dropping the hand, but with a hint of wry humor that under any other circumstance would have Rylen grinning. But he is tired, hungry and still smarting from Cullen's idea of a 'friendly spar', and a nosy Orlesian noble woman is reading his mail. So he crosses his arms.
"I don't need an assistant."
"That's not what was conveyed to me," she says, a single finger tapping the papers on the table. He swallows a grimace, narrowing his eyes instead.
"I don't need a minted Orlesian going through my things." He clarifies. "So you can stop pretending to be charming and sod off."
Yvette blinks slowly.
"I see," she says, straightening. She is tall, he realizes now; they are almost eye to eye. He glances down at her feet. They are booted, no heel.
He almost wonders.
"I will tell the Commander his concerns were misplaced then."
She begins to move past him.
"Wait," he says dropping his head with a silent sigh. "Cullen assigned you to me?"
Yvette stops next to him.
"Mmmhm."
He glances across at her. She is eyeing him from the corners of her clear blue eyes. And it is then that Rylen decides the Maker hates him. Because he's never known Cullen to have a sense of humor, and he certainly doesn't make decisions lightly. Rylen weighs up a prolonged argument with the man against handing off some of his more menial tasks to this woman. He comes a swift, exhausting conclusion.
"Go fetch the requisition orders from Threnn," he grumbles, dragging his feet over to his desk. "We can discuss particulars later. Don't touch my things again without permission."
"Noted." She says and he doesn't need to see her to hear the satisfaction in her voice.
Cullen Rutherford is many things, but mischievous is not one of them. When Rylen asks the former Templar if he thinks assigning Yvette to him is some kind of practical joke, the man looks at Rylen as if he just asked him where the hole in the sky came from.
"I thought you'd appreciate the assistance." The commander explains after a moment, observing him over the edict Jim has just handed him. "You're always complaining about the paperwork and we both know your time is better spent in the field. She came very highly recommended."
Rylen snorts.
"By who? The Archdemon?"
"Lady Montilyet." Cullen says, brows furrowed. He signs his name in a scrawl and hands the paper back to Jim. "She was quite insistent we find something for her. Don't worry, apparently Lady Garis comes from a Chevalier family, so she should have some sense of what's required of her."
Rylen snorts.
"That would explain why she's such a tit."
Cullen looks at him for a long moment, long enough for Rylen to feel slightly embarrassed at his childishness. Finally, the Commander runs a hand through his blond hair and sighs deeply. "If you think she's unsuitable though, I can find you another."
Rylen sighs inwardly, despite his dislike of the woman, she hasn't really done anything incompetent. Yet. He shakes his head and vows to live with it; the last thing he wants it to give Cullen another headache.
"I don't like her," he says. "but her work is fine. I'm sure I'll get over it."
The look of relief on Cullen's face is palpable.
It takes a long, long time for Rylen to get over it.
Rylen realizes quickly that Yvette doesn't say what she means. Instead, she uses looks, glances, pauses, implication - anything except Maker given words, to convey meaning. He tries to deescalate his frustration by reminding himself that she is, after all, Orlesian and raised on the rancid diet of courtly intrigue and the 'grand' games they all like to play. Yet, he finds it increasingly difficult to interpret what she might be saying.
Rylen is a simple mason's son; he has never understood what is so grand about being underhand. He is direct, he is unambiguous. Yvette is as circuitous a woman as he has ever known and it frustrates him to no end. If it weren't for her surprisingly blighted competence he'd probably take back Cullen's initial offer of a replacement.
Two weeks after his conversation with Cullen, he enters the administration tent to find she's rearranged his workspace into a cacophony of neat bundles and hanging messenger bags.
"I was a Knight-Captain for 6 years," he snaps when she arrives minutes later. "I have a system."
Yvette replies with her imitation smile. The one that hides her arrogance. He despises it.
"The Inquisition has grown quite remarkably Ser," she observes. "How many soldiers would you say are now in Haven?"
Rylen purses his lips.
"Almost 600."
"I'd say it's closer to 700."
"Why did you ask if you already knew the answer?" He says, following her movement across the tent with narrowed eyes. Yvette ignores him.
"I used to spend my summers in Brassard-manot, near Velrun," she says instead. "There was a small Templar company stationed at the chantry nearby, barely 100 members. I remember one day my aunt coming back from Velrun with the most amusing story."
Rylen leans back in his chair.
"Is this going anywhere Yvette," he says, crossing his arms. The woman tosses her head in annoyance at his interruption but she doesn't stop.
"We'd heard a week earlier that the Knight-Lieutenant had sent most of the company north to Val Foret for the Summerday celebrations there. Well, quite remarkably, my aunt had been walking outside the village and came across the very same Templar company on their way back from Val Foret. Can you imagine; nearly 100 tired hungry Templars, on the road for days, forced to turn back. And not just turn back, to continue." Yvette smiles. "It turned out that the Knight-Lieutenant had mistaken the destination and having misplaced the original missive, neglected to confirm the assignment. The Knight-Commander had actually told him to send them south to Val Firmin." Yvette laughs. Rylen looks up at her, annoyance bubbling in his chest.
"I'm not an idiot Yvette." He says.
"Of course not," says Yvette. "Neither was the Knight-Lieutenant, quite the opposite in fact."
Rylen doesn't know what she is trying to placate him or not. Probably not.
"So you've rearranged my desk out of fear that I'll sent Haven's troops to Val Royeux instead of the Hinterlands?"
"Organization is control," states Yvette, hands moving to her hips. "Without a clean house, even a clever man can lose control."
Rylen looks at her for a long moment. It is the clearest he has even heard her speak. Oddly, her conviction amuses him.
"So I'm clever then?"
Yvette falters, ever so slightly.
"Now, I didn't say that."
Rylen resists the urge to laugh; he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. She has still ruined his desk and he has no desire to learn how to file missives that were perfectly happy sitting in piles. Instead, he punishes her by sending her to liaise with Seeker Penderghast about the latest Hinterlands operation. Penderghast has no love for Orlesian circuity and Yvette seems to have a particular dislike in being the subject of any kind of scorn.
Maybe, Rylen thinks, she will learn something.
Yvette learns very little, and if anything she doubles down on her existing bad habits. In response, Rylen spends the next fortnight pretending to be a man who has spontaneously lost the ability to interpret subtext. He explicitly ignores every thinly veiled hint, every circuitous suggestion, every pointed look and he gets very good at uttering the phrase "what's your point?" with just the right amount of ignorance to make Yvette's jaw clench. He can tell she is frustrated, but he finds he does not care, he even revels in it. Something childish in him compels him to the low road, and Maker is it ever sweet.
Their mutual frustration comes to a head when Yvette gives the cadets a day off over Wintersend. Rylen finds this out when a snowball hits the side of his head on the way back from the armory. Harritt has been complaining about the lack of good steel and everyone is tense after the Inquisitor's failure in Val Royeaux. His head already hurts from the fumes of the furnace, so when the ice smacks against his temple, he has half a mind to spar the moron into the dirt. There is silence for a moment. Then the idiots mutter a string of excuses, most of which lead with the phrase: "Lieutenant Garis-" and what is left of Rylen's patience unravels at his feet. He marches past the fools and and strides into the administration tent.
"What in blighted hells were you thinking?"
Yvette looks up from her seat. She has apparently predicted this reaction because all she does in response is raise an eyebrow.
"Is this about the cadets?"
"No, Yvette, it's about lunch-" He snaps. "Of course it's about the cadets, what made you think you could sanction them a fucking day off?"
"I didn't sanction anything," Yvette snaps from her seat, facade breaking for just a brief second. "I asked you."
Rylen heaves from his dressing down, scowling deeply at the woman before him. He works very hard to resist seizing the closest thing and tossing it across the tent.
"You hinted at it Yvette, that is not the same as asking!"
"Well I 'hinted' to Cullen and he seemed to understand." She says. "You think I would just give everyone day off without permission?"
There is a pause. Rylen doesn't know what surprises him most; that Yvette is apparently friendly enough with Cullen to call him Cullen, that Cullen was able to interpret what this ridiculous woman was saying or that Cullen actually agreed to a day off.
Cullen. This is all his fault.
"I-," he begins, but he can't really argue with orders from his direct superior. Instead, he narrows his eyes. "Are we going to need another conversation about boundaries Yvette?"
"I didn't want to bother you unnecessarily, Ser." She mocks. "Since you find my presence so distasteful."
"So you bestowed it on the Commander of the Inquisition."
Yvette stands suddenly, ramrod, eyes hard.
"Have I done something in particular to offend you Ser?" She asks with a grimace that makes it seem like it physically pains her to ask such a direct question.
Rylen pauses. Yvette seems genuinely distressed behind her mask and he wonders suddenly it reveling in the low road was the smartest course to take. Perhaps, he thinks, Yvette truly doesn't not realize how frustrating her mannerisms can be.
"Why are you here Yvette?" He asks. Yvette seems a little blindsided by the question.
"Ser?"
Rylen places a hand on his desk and looks at her evenly.
"I'm sick of this Yvette," he says, gesturing between them. "I need you to talk to me, clearly, without all the bullshit subtext, without the riddles. I don't like it, I won't have it. You're not in Orlais anymore, and there is no grand game you need to play here." He takes a breath and continues quietly. "So, I want you to start now and just tell me plainly in Maker's Common; why did you join the Inquisition?"
Yvette looks at him for a long moment. Some kind of understanding seems to dawn in her eyes.
"I want to do something useful with my life," she says.
It is a general, but still far more honest answer than he expected. He thinks is possible Yvette is less invested in her facade than she lets on. Both this thought and her answer pique his curiosity, more than he wants to admit.
"Good," he says. "Then we have a common goal."
Abruptly, Yvette scoffs.
"Common goal," she echos, her face contorting beneath her mask. "You were a knight-captain, now you are second-in-command of the Inquisition, how have you not done something useful with your life?"
"Usefulness is not a destination," he says and Yvette's mouth quirks.
"I thought you didn't endorse riddles."
"Oh sod off."
But Rylen grins, basking in this odd moment of clear understanding between them. It has been a long, tense month and it feels like a weight has been lifted all of a sudden. Quite abruptly he has to resist the urge to ask her more; why she doesn't think theres anything useful for her to do in Orlais, why the Inquisition of all things. But this is enough for now though, he thinks. It will be a long time before he is ready to learn about Yvette's presumably insane upbringing, and Yvette, he suspects has exhausted her daily limit for directness. Indeed, she sighs and he sees just how tired she looks beneath her mask.
"Please understand Ser," she says. "I am not inclined toward speaking plainly, it may take some time."
Rylen nods.
"I'm not asking you to abandon yourself," he says. "Just be forthcoming with me at the very least. I promise you I not banish you from polite society if you say something ill-considered."
He is rewarded with a polite smile.
"Who knows," he says, with false levity. "Maybe you'll even have some bright ideas you'll wish to share."
Yvette is correct when she says that it will take some time for her to speak plainly. Two weeks after their conversation and she is still more likely to make an obscure comment instead of actually voicing her thoughts. Rylen decides it is within his interest to enable her development by asking very pointed and clear questions whenever he suspects she has something to say. Privately, he thinks of it as 'communication training'.
As if the Maker himself is playing some kind of practical joke, the first time Yvette independently voices her opinion unprompted is to scold him for his efforts.
"I'm not a child Ser," she snaps one day.
Rylen blinks. He had been absentmindedly been asking her to clarify what she meant by 'the cadets seem uninspired'.
"What?"
Yvette sighs and drops the quill in her hand directly into the bottle on her desk. It is an oddly deft move.
"You do not need to treat me as if I am a child," she says. "I know you're trying to help me, but asking me over an over what I mean like I am 6 years old is not helpful."
Rylen raises an eyebrow.
"It's just a general observation," she clarifies with a shrug. "The cadets seem uninspired at the moment. There is not much beyond that, I meant exactly what I said."
"Ah," Rylen says. He feels a little sheepish, but not that much. Yvette is getting better but she can still be insufferably obnoxious. "Then why mention it?"
Yvette looks at him, incredulity pulling at her brow.
"Do they not have conversation in Starkhaven?" She says. When Rylen says nothing she waves a hand; "You know, small talk and such?"
"Of course there's conversation in Starkhaven," Rylen says reflexively. "But we generally reserve the small talk for special occasions."
Yvette shakes her head, the most minute of smiles playing at her lips.
"I'll save the small talk for your birthday then."
Rylen grins. He leans back into his chair.
"See you're learning."
Yvette's observation about cadet morale ends up being more salient than Rylen, or even she, initially gave it credit for. Over the ensuing weeks a combination of flagging infrastructure and a sense that progress has stalled due to the Inquisitor's never-ending negotiations with the Mages begin to create problems. Factions arise within the companies. Skirmishes begin to pop up between not only Templars and the newly emancipated Mages, but Elves and Humans, Fereldens and Orlesians. Rylen has enough experience from Starkhaven and Kirkwall to handle the odd internal division. But even he has to admit that the people the Inquisitor tends to adopt are a far cry from his old Templar officers. They are older than his usual fare, and thus more set in their ways. They are uninitiated to the rigors of being soldiers and more often than not struggle to fall into the hierarchy of military life. All that binds them is the faith in the Herald and Rylen increasingly finds himself somewhat ill equipped to coordinate such a diverse group of individuals. He is a good captain but he is only one man and Cullen is under enough pressure as it is. This is his job, this is what he is here for and he is failing. Oddly, the antidote to the chaos comes in part from his enigmatic assistant and a series of complicated team-based war games.
"It was something we did at the Academie." She explains. "I think if will help."
From what he can gather, Yvette's general idea is that team-based training will give common purpose and promote camaraderie among the different factions, even if just for a day.
"What does it involve?" He says, willing to try anything. Yvette holds up a red flag.
"Do Templars play capture the flag Ser?"
"That's a game for children," he says with a frown. Yvette holds up a sword.
"Not in Orlais."
Yvette's capturez le drapeau is a huge success and against all his expectations she is only barely smug about it. Rather, it energizes her. She becomes more open about her opinions on operations, making helpful and sometimes less helpful suggestions here and there. Rylen is unsure exactly if he prefers this new Yvette; there is something unsettling about it. No longer can he justify his dislike of her on her manner alone, and if he's being honest with himself he likes her more now than not. But there is still something about her that makes him feel off kilter.
It annoys him to no end.
Cullen takes him aside one day and floats his intention to ween off Lyrium in the coming months. Rylen is surprised, but not shocked. Cullen had once or twice mentioned the idea in Kirkwall, but it has always been in passing, a vague comment, something Rylen has never taken seriously. Rylen wondered then and he wonders now if it is even possible, but Cullen seems determined enough.
"Things seem to be under control for the time being," Cullen says, pacing a hole into the middle of the administration tent. He glances at Rylen's pristinely organized desk. "Now is the time."
Rylen clears his throat.
"With respect," he says. "Why?"
Cullen stares intently at his hands for a moment.
"Don't you ever resent it?" He says. "Resent the hold it has on you?"
"I've never thought about it in those terms," Rylen says with a shrug. "It's a tool."
"A tool," Cullen echoes, before switching his fervent gaze toward Rylen. "Our tool, or the Orders?"
Rylen has never imagined his life as anything other than a Templar, so he has never really viewed Lyrium as anything other than a means to an end. He understands that Cullen has opinions on what their defection to the Inquisition represents, but he finds himself struggling to appreciate the fervor with which Cullen wishes to shed his 'leash'.
Then again, Rylen has never worked with anyone as batshit crazy as Meridith Stannard.
"You wish to be free from the Order's influence." He states.
"I wish to be free to make things better," Cullen corrects him. "Not just for us, but for the Mages too."
It is a good idea, in theory. But most ideas are.
"What do you need me to do?" Rylen asks.
Cullen smiles at him, a thankful lilt to his brow.
"Just keep an eye on me," he says.
In addition to Cullen's revelation, Yvette decides that it is a good time to restructure the cadettraining. She pitches the overhaul to him like this:
Templar methods are valuable, but they are specialized in fighting magic. There is too much reliance on brawn and not enough on correct body form. This isolates some of the smaller cadets who could be utilized for their agility. (Not to mention the mages) Endurance training and correct recovery should play a greater roleOn this last point she sighs. "Quite frankly Ser, the ignorance of some of these men and injury is astounding. There won't always be a Mage around to fix everything."
Rylen leans back in his chair and observes her.
"It's not a bad idea," he says finally, thinking of the mountains of work they'd both have to do. "But who exactly is going to spearhead this overhaul?"
For the first time since he's known her Rylen watches as Yvette flushes. He blinks. After months of inscrutability, it is quite frankly endearing.
"I will," she says, confident, despite her pink ears and Rylen cannot help grinning
"You."
Yvette seems to miss-attribute his amusement to her ability because she frowns.
"Oui, why is that so amusing?"
Rylen shakes his head.
"It's not," he clarifies. "I've just never seen you blush before. I thought you had ah-like facepaint or whatever it is to stop such indecency."
Yvette's eyes narrow behind her mask.
"I'm not blushing." She says reflexively.
"You are."
"I'm not."
Rylen decides to drop the matter with a gesture of surrender. Yvette is nothing if not stubborn and he is less interested in forcing her to admit to her pink cheeks than he is genuinely curious about her plan. Indeed, than he is curious about why it seems to inspire such a reaction. This revelation surprises him. So he nods, "As you say."
"I have already mentioned it to Amelie, she seemed open to the idea." She says. "I'll lead the training for the first few weeks, then she and her lieutenants can take over."
Rylen has never actually seen Yvette train but he knows she does. Amelie, an Orlesian half-elf captain who trains most of the cadets, spars with her in the early morning before the camp wakens. Amelie is as lively as Yvette is aloof, but often mentions to him how good it would be to have his aide put them through their paces. Apparently, Yvette is quite skilled with an arming sword.
Yet, despite this, and for all the progress Yvette has made, Rylen still can't truly imagine her doing something as undignified as sweat.
"You'll lead the training?"
"Oui," she says and there is now something challenging in her eye. "You should come along Ser, maybe you'll learn something."
Yvette trains the same way she organizes; with ruthless efficiency and indomitable attention to detail. She begins nervously, Rylen knows her tells well enough by now, conscious of whether the others will view her as an authority. But before the end of the first day it is clear she is more than qualified. He enters the Singing Maiden sore in places he hasn't been in years and ready to sleep for a week. Cullen eyes him as he slouches over their table.
"I asked Josephine about her background." He says, sipping his stein with thoughtful precision. "Did you know she actually trained as a Chevalier?"
Rylen shakes his head.
"Why isn't she one then?" He grumbles. "Would have saved me a lot of grief."
Cullen shrugs.
"Josephine wouldn't say," he says.
Rylen rolls his eyes and hoofs down his food. He wonders what other significant things he doesn't know about Yvette.