Nyssa had been to numerous dinner parties in Orlais.
Never as a guest, of course—servants were not invited to sit with the genterie at any occasion, let alone a formal dinner. The University of Orlais held such events from time to time when raising funds for their research and education programs. Nyssa would serve the drinks, listen to the nobles' gossip and think of how zie could use that information later—ideally, to help other servants avoid becoming collateral damage in the Grand Game. In reality, that wasn't always the case. One thing zie had learned quickly was that dinners were less about what was served and more about who was invited, who was in attendance… and who was not.
A dinner party at Skyhold was not quite the same, but it wasn't for lack of trying. The surroundings may have lacked the gaudiness of Orlesian trappings, but the table could have been plucked from any Val Royeaux noble's house. Fine crystal wine glasses, a tablecloth white enough to blind hir in broad daylight, nine different types of cutlery: a demonstration in excess.
At least zie didn't have to serve. That was a bonus.
"Wine, my dear?"
Nyssa glanced up at the human who had spoken. Her rich, dark skin, high cheekbones and full lips gave away her Rivaini heritage. That, and her imperious poise made her recognisable even to Nyssa.
Madame de Fer. The Lady of Iron.
As little attention as zie paid to Orlesian politics, even zie knew of her reputation as a powerful and respected advisor to Empress Celene. The woman sat at the head of the table, dressed in red velvet and fine silk, and regarded the seated guests before her like a queen receiving her subjects. Even knowing this was the Inquisitor's domain, zie felt uneasy. There was something about Orlesians that always made hir anxious. Particularly the nobles.
"Thank you, Madame," zie said, and let a servant pour hir a glass. It had been months since zie had tasted real wine, or at least, the type made in vineyards. The closest zie had gotten was weak dandelion infusions and brews made from fermented fruit. Most city elves could not afford much more than that, and neither could zie, on a servant's salary.
To hir right was a dark-haired woman in rich purple and gold, who had been introduced as Lady Montilyet, the Inquisition's diplomat. She picked up her glass with a delicate, manicured hand and took a tentative sip. Across from her sat Cassandra, looking like she had eaten something sour; and Leliana, sipping her wine and watching the rest of them with mild interest. To hir left was Dorian, looking faintly amused, and Ghil, wearing an expression of polite resignation. No doubt he had endured this rigmarole many times since becoming Inquisitor.
"I overheard an interesting tale yesterday," Dorian said conversationally. Rings clinked on his wine glass as he took a sip. "Hm. Agreggio Pavali. I didn't expect to find a Tevinter wine at an Orlesian table. I hope you're not losing your touch, my dear woman?" he added to Madame de Fer.
"Not at all, darling," she replied sweetly, and picked up her own glass. "It was all we had on hand at such short notice. With the sudden arrival of our newest associate—"
Nyssa felt hir heart skip a beat as the others looked at hir.
"Ah, as I was saying," Dorian continued. "I was walking past the healer's tent the other day and I overheard a few grumbles from some of the new mage recruits. Something about an upstart Dalish barging into the tent and ordering them around?"
Nyssa narrowly avoided choking on hir next sip of wine, smothering hir cough in hir elbow, and reached instead for the bread basket. Dorian's moustache quirked as he looked at hir.
He was thoroughly enjoying this. The ass.
Ghil raised his eyebrows and glanced at Dorian.
"Upstart Dalish?" he asked after a moment, then his freckled face broke into a grin.
"I'm not talking about you, dear man," Dorian replied, with an air of weary resignation. "Not unless you suddenly developed a talent for magic."
"He's talking about me," Nyssa said.
"Well, obviously."
Zie ignored him. "Yes, I've been lending a hand in the healers' tent for the last few days. Yes, I may have ruffled a few feathers." Zie took a deep breath. "In my defense, half of them didn't know healing spells, and the other half didn't even know how to make a bloody poultice!"
Ghil laughed softly. Flushing, Nyssa pressed hir lips together, reached for hir wine, then thought better of it. Creators knew zie would misjudge hir ability to hold alcohol and end up paying for it the next morning.
The dinner party seemed to drag on while Nyssa sat in near-silence. Servants brought out creamy lettuce soup and flatfish cooked in brown butter, roasted chicken in sweetberry sauce and a salad of wild greens and roast potatoes. Nyssa was content to eat and listen to the conversation across the dinner table, observing the easy banter between Leliana and Lady Montilyet, and the slightly stiff exchange of words from Cassandra and Madame de Fer—or Vivienne, as Cassandra and Ghil called her.
After the last dish had been taken away, all that was left were their half-empty wine glasses, and Leliana and Lady Montilyet were conversing in low murmurs. Cassandra had excused herself, muttering about 'too much paperwork', and Dorian and Ghil were mulling over their wine and listening to the politely curious questions Vivienne directed at Nyssa.
"So, you are both a physician and a magical healer," Vivienne said, her eyebrows arched. "And an apostate, are you not? I assume you were trained in other ways."
It was hard not to get hir hackles raised; the woman was called the Iron Lady for a reason, and she was the Imperial Enchanter for a reason. One did not reach such a high position without cunning. If Nyssa was not careful, zie would reveal more than zie wished to.
Nyssa took another sip of wine to calm hirself before answering. This was not Orlais, and it did not matter if this woman played the Game or not. Zie did not have to participate.
"Technically, an apostate is a mage who rebels against the Chantry," zie pointed out. "I've never been a mage of the Circle."
"Pure semantics, darling. And you did not answer my question."
Nyssa shrugged. "Then yes, if it pleases you. My mother was a mundane healer of no small talent, and I spent equal time under her instruction as I did with my Keeper. I learned many skills from mages whose ways of practicing magic fell outside what the Circles teach."
"A blood mage." Disdain dripped from the Enchanter's voice, and Nyssa gripped hir wine glass as anxiety tightened hir chest. "Disappointing."
"Not blood magic." It would be pointless to make an argument of the Chantry's views on that particular subject. "I learned spirit healing from a Rivaini seer. Are you not Rivaini yourself, Madame?"
Barely a flicker of an eyelash. The shemlen had poise.
Ghil looked at Vivienne. "Your family was from Dairsmuid, yes? I overheard you and Cassandra talking earlier."
"Indeed," Vivienne replied, with an air of indifference. "Fortunately I was born in Wycome, not in the midst of such ludicrous traditions."
Nyssa frowned before zie could help it, taken aback by the dismissal in the woman's tone. It was an attitude zie had seen before, though, in city elves.
An uncomfortable silence fell. Nyssa tapped hir fingers on hir wine glass, musing over the Enchanter's words. The idea of being anything less than proud was foreign to hir; despite the hatred this world had for elves, zie had never felt ashamed for being an elf. Even though zie had left hir clan years ago, zie had grown up among hir people.
Then again, Nyssa thought, perhaps if zie had grown up in a Circle, and all zie knew of magic was taught by the Chantry, zie would believe the Dalish were backwards too. It probably wasn't hir place to judge, and if zie said more it could turn into more of an argument than zie was prepared for. Especially with wine in hir.
Nyssa drained hir glass and stood.
"If you'll excuse me, I have work to do tomorrow. Healing work," zie added, then glanced at Ghil. "Inquisitor, you should come and see me when you have time."
Ghil nodded; his eyes flicked between hir and Vivienne.
Nyssa nodded to Vivienne. "Thank you for inviting me."
Without waiting for a reply zie turned and left, taking the stairs two at a time.
The next week went by quickly.
Only two days after the dinner party the Inquisitor was off again, this time to Kirkwall, to view the wares of the Black Emporium at the invitation of its owner. Nyssa had heard of the place throughout hir travels, but didn't much care that zie wasn't invited along. Plus, zie had work to do—if zie could find a place that wasn't too dark, too noisy, and was well-ventilated.
You would think it easy enough in a massive fortress, but so far hir search had been fruitless, and the only place left to explore was the depths of the fortress. Zie was too proud and too anxious to ask the Inquisitor or his advisors to displace someone for hir own needs, even if those needs were technically for the Inquisition. So far Skyhold's healers consisted of a few untrained Circle mages and a surgeon who couldn't treat a simple infection without cutting bloody great holes in a patient.
Zie could train them well enough, but zie would need to make healing potions for the time being, as it would not do to kill hirself trying to heal every minor cut and scrape with magic. Zie would just have to make do with what zie could find.
The main hall was almost deserted this early in the morning, save for a few servants lighting the braziers and sweeping the floors. Nyssa crossed the hall with silent footsteps, ignoring the cold stone under hir feet, and took a door on the opposite side.
Zie had walked through this door nearly two weeks ago when going to meet the Inquisition's war council, and zie knew it led to Lady Montilyet's office—but before it did, the corridor followed a staircase down to the lower level.
Two torches framed the archway, and below them the stairs descended into darkness. Nyssa cast a glance around, then lit them with a flick of hir wrist. The fire sputtered to life with a hiss and a few wisps of smoke, and zie fought back the instinctive fear at hir own daring.
It was one thing to cast a spell in the privacy of hir room, especially if the spell was creating some water. Fire was another thing—a destructive force that could easily harm others. It was terrifying, but oddly thrilling, to work hir magic in such a public place.
Nyssa took the stairs slowly, pressing hir hand flat against the wall, and conjuring another mage-light as zie descended. By the time zie got to the lower level, it was so dark zie could barely see two feet in front of hir—but it was just light enough to see an unlit brazier on the edge of hir vision. Zie summoned Veilfire and lit the brazier. The others in the hall flared to life, revealing a hall as vast as the Imperial Palace's ballroom.
Nyssa leaned against the wall and took it in. Stone arches framed the thoroughfare, and the floor was almost entirely covered by a worn, ancient-looking rug. The architecture was like the rest of the fortress: indeterminate, though the simplicity of the design indicated it was probably Fereldan. No carved dogs though. Just two statues on either side of the entrance nearest to hir.
Dwarven statues, Nyssa noted with interest. That was oddly out of place for a Fereldan fortress.
The sound of clattering boots made hir start. Moments later two men, elven and human, appeared on the stairs behind hir. They were wearing Inquisition guard uniforms; both gave hir a startled look.
"See, I told you they'd send someone to clean it," the human said to his companion.
Nyssa bit back an irritated reply and dismissed the mage-light with a wave. "Do I look like a servant to you?"
"She's that Dalish the Inquisitor brought in," the elf said. "You get lost on the way to the forest?"
"Very funny. Are there any spare rooms down here? I need a work space for potion-making."
"That room's spare," the human replied, and pointed to a closed door across the hall. "Nobody wants to go in. It feels strange. Even the servants won't set foot in it."
Nyssa raised hir eyebrows. "Feels strange?"
"Yes." The man shivered, and cast a furtive glance at the door. "Not sure I can describe it. Sort of… cold and wrong."
That was enough to pique hir interest. "Please unlock it for me."
The guards exchanged looks.
"What?" Nyssa said. "Are you not supposed to let anyone inside?"
The elf hesitated. "We got no orders. But… maybe there's something in there that isn't meant to get out."
"Magic," the man interjected, and his companion nodded. "There's all sorts of rooms like that here."
"I'm a mage." It felt strange to say that out loud, and Nyssa couldn't stop the shiver of anxiety that ran down hir spine. "If anything comes out, I'll get rid of it. Give me the key. Quickly now."
One thing zie noticed was the way the guards backpedaled after thrusting the key at hir; zie saw why seconds later—as zie unlocked the door and a rush of magic washed over hir.
"You feel it?" the human said. "Feels odd."
Nyssa summoned hir energy and purged the magic rushing over hir in waves, and the feeling of discomfort faded.
"It was a magic ward," zie said absently, though hir mind was racing. Who would have put a ward on this room? Not the Inquisitor surely; he was no mage. Perhaps Solas or Dorian, or one of the rebel mages.
A tingle of ambient energy ghosted over Nyssa's skin as zie stepped inside. None of the spell remained—it was the Veil zie felt, and it was thinner here than anywhere else in the fortress. The room was tiny, its walls framed by bookshelves that reached towards the darkened ceiling. In the centre was a solid wooden desk piled with books of all sizes. They had been shoved to one side to make room for a large book stand.
At a glance Nyssa could see the room had clearly not been touched for many years. There were cobwebs strung across the bookshelves, and a thick layer of dust on everything from the chair to the book resting on its stand. The room smelled of mildew, and there was a faint metallic tang in the air.
Nyssa leaned against the desk and studied the tome laying open on the stand. The pages looked so brittle zie dared not touch them. Up close zie could make out faded writing in neat rows; some old dialect of the King's tongue, perhaps. Curiosity tempted hir to sit down and examine the tome further, but there was work to be done.
Nyssa rested hir hands on hir hips and surveyed the room with a frown.
No windows. Small space. Barely any room to move. It was the least ideal place to make potions, and there had to be somewhere better.
"Maybe if I clean," zie said out loud, and ran a finger over one of the bookshelves. Unlikely, but it was worth a shot—and if this was all zie had to work with, a clean environment was better than dust and cobwebs.
Cleaning the room from top to bottom took almost two hours (one hour for cleaning, and another for the distraction the old tome offered). By the time Nyssa finished, hir stomach was rumbling and hir tunic had so much dust zie had to shake it out in the hall. On the plus side, every surface was wiped clean, the braziers scraped free of wax, and every book reshelved. Sounds of thuds and scraping from above told hir there were people gathering in the hall.
Nyssa locked the door and placed another magical ward upon it, in case the guards or anyone else returned, and took the stairs back to the main hall.
People were rapidly filing into the great hall now it was long past dawn, from construction workers to guards, to people in robes from the Circles of Magi. The long tables that had lined the walls had been moved to the centre and laid out with dozens of trenchers. The smell of hot, fresh bread wafted past hir, and hir stomach rumbled.
"Alright, shh," zie mumbled, and a man in mage robes shot hir an odd look. Zie ignored him and began to pick hir way through the crowd.
"Hey, Marigold!"
The voice was familiar. Nyssa glanced to hir left and saw Varric appear out of the crowd, raising his hand in greeting.
"Oh, are you talking to me?" zie asked, eyebrows raising. "Am I Marigold?"
"You got it."
Marigold wasn't so bad, Nyssa thought, and followed the dwarf as he shouldered his way through the crowd. There were worse nicknames.
"Now you know why there's so many humans at Skyhold," Varric said, as zie followed him. "They can't resist free food."
Nyssa laughed. "Can you blame them?"
He shrugged. "I guess not. Most of them do nothing but gossip and bitch about how the food isn't fancy enough. Me, I wish my problems were that small."
"You could leave if you wanted to," Nyssa pointed out. "Your problems would likely get a bit smaller if you walked away."
Varric made a non-committal sound. "I don't think the Seeker would be very happy if I up and left. I was her prisoner before all this shit happened."
Nyssa stood on hir tiptoes and peeked over a woman's shoulder to see what was on the tables. Slices of bread with slabs of butter and jars of honey; that, zie had expected. Zie also caught sight of marbled goose eggs, some sort of porridge, sausages, rashers of bacon and crispy fried fish.
"Look at all this food," zie said, as zie helped hirself. "Are there that many people here?"
"Nah, the servants get whatever's left over. And, since you're going to ask, I'm still here because I figured Kirkwall could do without me for a while." Varric let hir go in front of him, grabbed a plate and piled it with eggs, sausages and the porridge. "Besides, with everything that's going on with Corypheus and the giant hole in the sky, where else am I going to get inspiration for my next book? You can't make this shit up."
Nyssa knew when a subject change was in order, so zie took a bite of hir bread and closed hir eyes, savouring the taste of butter on hir tongue. Back with hir clan, it would have been too plain—halla butter was strong and salty, and hir taste buds had not yet adjusted to the blandness of human food. The enjoyable simplicity of bread and butter was something zie hadn't experienced in a long time.
"Do you know when the Inquisitor will return?" zie asked, after zie'd swallowed hir mouthful.
"Today or tomorrow." Varric tore a chunk off his own bread and shredded it between thick fingers. "Why?"
"Curiosity, I suppose. I wondered if—"
"Lady Nyssa?" a voice said from behind hir.
Nyssa cringed visibly at the title before zie could stop hirself, and Varric shot hir a curious glance. Zie turned around, and spotted an elven woman in full Inquisition uniform, carrying her helmet on one hip.
"Calista, yes?" Nyssa asked; zie recognised the freckled, good-natured face. The woman had escorted hir to the war room when zie'd first arrived. "How are you?"
The woman looked surprised; evidently she hadn't expected Nyssa to remember her or her sister. "Very well, my lady. Thank you for asking… oh. Uh, Ambassador Montilyet wants to see you."
Varric nudged hir with his elbow. "Hey, Ruffles finally summoned you. I knew she would."
"I've met her before," Nyssa replied vaguely; there was no need to tell him about the awkward dinner party zie'd attended. "Can I finish my food first?"
"Of course, my lady," Calista said. "Her room is just across the hall."
Before the dinner party, Nyssa had seen the Ambassador in passing before on her way to the war room, or in the main hall with Leliana. Zie had paid little attention to her at the time, but as zie entered the antechamber and the woman behind the desk stood to greet hir, Nyssa allowed hirself to observe more. Up close, Lady Montilyet was younger than zie had expected; perhaps even younger than zie. She dressed in rich blues and golds that complimented the olive undertones of her brown skin, and her dark hair was pulled back into a chignon.
"Mistress Ralaferin," she said. "Come in."
"Lady Montilyet." Once again Nyssa had to force hir muscles to relax, and hir stomach to stop churning wildly. "You wanted to see me?"
Lady Montilyet gestured for her to sit. "Please, 'Josephine' is fine. Forgive my lateness in meeting with you, I have been preoccupied with some rather… delicate negotiations."
"And how many Orlesian tantrums did that entail?"
The ambassador's mouth quirked. "About as many as you'd expect." She seemed to suddenly realise what she'd said, and coughed politely. "At any rate, we already met at Vivienne's event, but I thought it proper that we should meet privately. Inquisitor Lavellan tells me you have been assisting the healers."
This isn't an interrogation, Nyssa reminded hirself, twisting hir hands in hir lap. Healing people is a good thing.
"I've been doing what I can," zie said.
"Do you require supplies?"
Nyssa resisted the urge to shift nervously in hir seat and considered.
"Medicinal herbs. Canavaris—elfroot," zie corrected, and Josephine nodded. "Spindleweed, embrium, foxmint and dawn lotus would help. Prophet's laurel, crystal grace and witherstalk also, if you're able to get them."
Josephine picked up her quill and made a note on the piece of paper in front of her.
"I should have little trouble," she said. "Is there anything else?"
Nyssa's thoughts flicked to the little room zie had just spent the last few hours cleaning.
"There is the matter of some space," zie said hesitantly, and the woman's eyebrows rose. "I found a room in the lower levels to work from, but making potions in a space with little air is a recipe for disaster. If you have a room or a corner to spare with better air flow…"
"Ah," Josephine replied. "As a matter of fact… the Inquisitor has set his mind on clearing one of the smaller towers for a hospice. I am certain you could use some of the space, if you wish."
It took Nyssa a moment to process; zie sat back in hir chair, unable to help the little smile tugging at hir mouth. "Truly?"
"Of course." Josephine smiled at hir surprised expression. "Our resources are not limitless, of course, but you are performing a service for the Inquisition. We will likely need healers in the months to come. It seems likely this war will escalate."
Nyssa nodded absently, noting the concern lacing Josephine's voice (though her expression remained politely neutral). Zie had been brought up to speed on the way back from Dirthavaren, though the Inquisitor had been vague on the details of this 'Elder One'. Still, ideas were forming in hir head at lightning speed. Hir own hospice! A space for healing? Equipment to make potions and poultices? It seemed too good to be true.
"I must ask," Josephine began, and Nyssa dragged hir focus back to the woman. She looked almost embarrassed, zie thought, as she toyed with the feather of her quill. "Have you had any… difficulties with any of our ranks?"
"You mean, has anyone called me a knife-ear yet?"
A flash of discomfort passed over Josephine's face. Odd for a diplomat to show such an expression, but then again, the word typically prompted strong reactions in even the most tolerant of humans. It was unusual enough that she should even ask, Nyssa thought, and shook hir head. "Nothing I can't handle."
"The Inquisitor said much the same," Josephine said, with a hint of exasperation.
"Did he tell you how often we're asked about—" Nyssa gestured to hir face.
"The tattoos? Yes, quite." Josephine took a neatly folded piece of paper from a small pile on her desk. "I confess, before the Inquisition, I had not met many Dalish elves. Another reason why I asked you to see me." She indicated the paper. "This is a missive I have prepared for clan Lavellan. The Inquisitor has advised me this time, but in future I will write to other clans in Ferelden and the Free Marches, including clan Ralaferin. If you wish to include a letter of a personal nature…"
Nyssa shifted uncomfortably, but was spared replying when the door to the antechamber creaked open. A human man entered, carrying two large books.
"Forgive my interruption, Ambassador Montilyet," the man said. "Messere Solas's requisition has arrived."
"Ah. Indeed." Josephine stood. "Please put the books on my desk."
"I can take those," Nyssa offered. "It's on my way."
The messenger threw hir a glance. "Are you sure, uh…" Evidently he didn't know how to address her, for he trailed off awkwardly. "They're quite heavy."
"I'm sure they are. Here, give them to me."
He was right; the books were heavy and dusty. Nyssa wrinkled hir nose to stop from sneezing as he reluctantly deposited them in hir arms, and unable to help hirself, zie took a quick peek at the covers.
"Aren't Sister Laudine's books banned by the Chantry? And..." zie shifted the stack to one arm and rubbed the dust off one of the covers. "I've never even heard of this one."
"I have my ways," Josephine said, and Nyssa grinned at the note of mischief in her voice. "Thank you for your time, Mistress Ralaferin. If you decide to write to your clan, please let me know."
Sharp, Nyssa thought as zie left the room. Zie had hoped to avoid thinking about writing to hir clan, but clearly Josephine had picked up on that.
The hall was almost empty just after the morning meal, though a few humans lingered around the tables still. Nobody paid attention to Nyssa as zie ducked across the hall and through the opposite door.
Zie hadn't been into the rotunda before, only seen it from above when in the rookery or the library. Solas's study was at the base of the rotunda, and for a person who reportedly preferred solitude, it seemed an odd place to choose. The room was bare of furniture save for a couch, an end table and a large desk in the centre of the room, strewn with all manner of papers and books. On the desk was also what looked like a large, glowing stone shard. That was the first thing that caught hir eye as zie took a few tentative steps into the room. As zie entered, a splash of pigment on the right wall caught hir attention. Zie tilted hir head back and squinted. An array of colours unfolded in hir peripheral vision, then in hir entire field of view as zie twisted hir head to see.
An entire section of the wall—from the floor to the wooden railing of the second floor—was covered by an enormous painting. Swathes of dark paint dominated the piece, framing a hulking, sinister figure with its hands surrounding an orb. Nyssa recognised the distinctive green-yellow of elven magic, and beneath it a silhouette of a Chantry burning.
Nyssa's breath caught in hir throat out of pure wonder. Zie placed the books on the desk and went to the wall, hir hand ghosting over the dried pigment, tracing bursts of orange.
To its left was another painting, and another further along the wall. All three shared a palette—golds, oranges, browns and blacks all blending into a perfect harmony of colour.
Tears pricked hir eyes. Zie had seen this style of painting only in the deepest and oldest elven ruins, and even then they had been faded echoes, some so chipped and cracked zie could hardly see any paint at all, let alone interpret it… but these were fresh and bright and so distinctly elven.
"Hello."
Nyssa jumped and glanced around, blinking in embarrassment, and noticed a wooden platform set against the far wall. Solas stood on the platform looking down at hir, a ragged cloth bunched in his hand.
"Did you paint these?" zie asked. "These frescoes, these are… did you paint them?"
"I did, yes."
"They're extraordinary." A delighted laugh escaped hir before zie could stop it, and to cover hir embarrassment zie turned to look at the frescoes again.
"Thank you," Solas replied. "I had thought to record the events of the past few months, but writing seemed inadequate."
"I know what you mean." Zie gestured to the books on the table. "I just met with Josephine Montilyet, and your books arrived. I thought to bring them."
"You did not have to do that, but thank you."
Zie shrugged. "It was on my way."
Solas tossed the rag back onto the platform and shimmed down the ladder. As he approached zie was struck suddenly by how tall he was—not just compared to hir, which could apply to most people, elven or not. He was taller than most elves zie had met, even the men.
"Excellent," he said, as he examined the books. "I am surprised the Ambassador was able to obtain these titles in particular."
Nyssa shrugged. "She seems good at what she does. No doubt she plays the Game like the rest of them."
"Indeed."
Solas's head was still bent over the books, so Nyssa went back to examining the paintings.
The pigment had been applied on top of a plaster mix coating—it was an ancient technique, and would ensure the paintings would keep their rich colours for many years to come.
"The paintings please you, I take it."
Nyssa glanced back at Solas over hir shoulder and smiled. "I've only seen these in the oldest ruins of our people, and not for a long time."
"Our people?"
"Elves."
"Hmm." Solas didn't look up from his books. "Do your people not think of other elves as mere 'flat-ears?'"
Nyssa's spine stiffened.
It would not do to be baited into an argument, zie reminded hirself, and fought down the annoyance threatening to furrow hir brow. This was not why zie was here.
Seconds crawled by in tense silence. Eventually Solas looked up, straightened, and regarded hir with a mildly curious expression.
"My people?" Nyssa said, when it became clear he was waiting for an answer.
Solas indicated hir with a gesture. "You bear the marks of Mythal. You are clearly Dalish, but you have not referred to me as a 'flat-ear'. Nor have you denigrated my lack of vallaslin."
"Are you… asking me why I haven't insulted you yet?"
"I am merely curious."
'Mere curiosity' had been used often enough as an excuse to insult; Nyssa had enough experience to know that. For a moment zie considered giving in to hir anger and letting him have it. Zie would see just how much of the elven language he knew—but no, that was petty, Nyssa thought, and stepped away from the wall. Behaving like a petulant child would not serve either of them, however satisfying it would be. If zie wanted to work with the Inquisition, zie had to get along with all of the Inquisitor's associates.
"I am not a spokesperson for all Dalish," zie said finally, and stepped away from the wall. "Excuse me."
Nyssa turned heel and left before Solas could reply, taking the stairs two at a time until zie was breathing hard from the exertion. Zie kept going through the library, barrelling past Madame Vivienne's room, out to the battlements and to hir own room. Only then did zie shut the door and sit down, hir breaths coming in harsh pants.
It wasn't the first time zie'd been taken to task for something 'the Dalish' had done wrong, as if one individual elf was representative for many hundreds of elves. It was an infuriating double-standard; even so, hir own anger surprised hir. It was never easy not to take personally, but even an elf like Solas should have known better.
But who cared what the man thought, Nyssa said to hirself, and tossed hir bag on the chair. It wasn't important.