A Land of Adventure, That Thedas Is (SJ and Luana)

[sjdude]

If there was one thing that had to be learned to be a thief in Thedas, it was that all the good stuff was in Orlais. Orlais, the land of masks and finery and lovely jewels. Of course, to a Marcher like Callum Forsten, it was a land with a lot of intricacies and social structure. It was impossible to get a party to the right party in Orlais, unless you knew someone, or had played the Game right.

Thankfully, for Callum, he had made the right friends. His time in Kirkwall had got him into the good graces of several movers and shakers, to which he had received references. One had led him to Orlais, where the steal of the lifetime had appeared. The Stars, a set of jewels that shone like their namesake, had been acquired by the Marquis de Montebou, a high-ranking noble in the Orlais court. He was set to show them off at his fall exhibition, a grand affair at his estate in the northern mountains.

The invitation was secured, but unfortunately, Callum needed an in if he was going to successfully navigate the Orlesian Game. One had been presented to himself, a connection that his employer had made. He hadn't been clued into the identity of this connection, but he was to travel to the estate of the Marquis, The Fingers of Gold with said contact.

A little snort escaped him, which he made sure to stifle. The open-air cafe hewas staying in was for the most part empty, but an older Orlesian couple looked at him with sideways glances. Callum took a sip of his wine, finding himself wishing for something with a little more quick. He wondered, absently, if some Antivan brandy might be acquired before he left to spare him the journey. He wasn't sure what cover he would have to endure to gain access to the exhibition, but with the way things had gone in the business of late, he was going to end up as the arm candy of an elderly noblewoman.

Callum thought he could havedone better than that. For someone born a gutter rat in Lowtown, he didn't look it. His mother had been a thief, and she had taught him all the ways to read a man and con him. Before he had even left the Marches, he had begun to cultivate the image he would wear. His dark hair had been cut short of its usual shoulder-length, just long enough now to lazily toussle. He had warm eyes like sunstones, with intelligence and mirth playing in his gaze. He would never pass for the Orlesian nobility with stocky shoulders that narrowed down to a slim waist, his loose shirt hiding a muscular frame that was used to climbing and acrobatics. It wasn't a look for pampered nobles.

He enjoyed the afternoon sun, finishing off his meal and wine, waiting for his contact. His contact would supposedly know who he was, and would know his name. So, with a lazy expression, the Cat of Kirkwall waited.

 

[Luana_Blodwyn]

Clack, clack, clack, clack the sound reverberated amongst the sun warmed stones. Summer in Orelais was certainly a beautiful time. Of course, fall was less stifling when one had to dress appropriately. Appropriate being a cinched corset, layers of silks and samite. Heavy skirts and thick blouses. The elderly couple raised their heads to the approaching sound. At first it was a strange, glittering creature. As it approached their mouths opened unbecomingly. This was no monster of the valley nor creature of the fade but a woman. A mane of wildly curling red hair flowed down to her waist, heedless of Orlesian hair styling. Her skin was pearlescent, accentuated by the mask that covered half of her face. Many masks were fairly plain yet this one seemed to shimmer somewhere between green and blue. The shape of it was smaller, allowing her nose to be seen, and was vaguely reminiscent of a butterfly. The woman's green eyes shine brightly through the mask. Her gown was the color of ice, the hem of her skirt painstakingly embroidered to appear frosted while her corset was a blaze of red with tone on tone flames embroidered in. In her hand she carried her staff, letting the haft strike the stone with every right step. At the crest of the staff two dragons twirled with one another until their noses touched; one dragon of purple the other green.

Despite the auspiciousness of the woman's attire a pair of long, pointed, and multiply pierced ears jutted from the side of her head. Though the mask covered half her face it appeared the woman did not bear the facial markings usual to her people. She walked with a slow, purposeful stride towards the cafe, as though she had all the time in the world. A man stood at the entrance to the small and his back straightened a little. "Tea, if you please, not too hot," she said with that well practiced nonchalance. The man was below her, barely worth even those few words. She turned and without hesitating moment walked to Callum's table. She stopped beside the chair across from him.

Charged silence followed as she gazed at the man. This Cat of Kirkwall she had heard so much about. Her eyes have nothing away and her face even less. She turned her head towards the building just as a woman came scurrying out with a tray laden with cup, saucer, a steaming tea pot and small crock of honey. The tray was set down on the table. The Mage woman nodded to the serving woman as she took her seat. With a bow the serving woman scurried away. She said nothing as she poured out her tea and added a fair helping of honey. Her eyes drifted back to Callum's as she stirred her tea. Everything she did seemed methodical and deliberate, as if even every blink of her eyes she consciously controlled.

"Callum, I presume," she finally said in a soft voice. Despite her quiet volume her tone spoke like a clangor of Chantry bells. He, too, was beneath her. She raised the cup to her dark ruby lips and took a bit. "I am appointed court Mage of her most royal of majesties Queen Celeste of Orlais. You may call me Kira, as I understand we shall be working together." She took another sip of her tea as she continued to study Callum as though studying an ancient tome containing a myriad of secrets. Yet the small raise of her lip suggested she was not all together pleased.

"You come from the marches, yes? Kirkwall, how very fascinating. I have not yet had the fortune to see the Marches for myself. A spectacular history there. I had the very good fortune to meet the Inquisitor some time ago, of course that was several years ago. It seems the Maker plays his hand in the most surprising of place. Were you by chance there when the circle fell? The knight commander going mad with red lyrium. How very interesting it would have been to see." It seemed the woman had no wish to yet discuss their business arrangement. Though by the way she kept her staff across her knees and the constant flit of her eyes in many direction she thought she had good cause.

 

[sjdude]

Callum was very sure, despite himself, that he had never viewed a mage who made such a composed, rote, and obnoxiously Orlesian entrance before in his life. While the mirth did play across his lips as he looked at her, in all her finery and elegance, he thought it an interesting contradiction. Callum had grown up near the alienage in Kirkwall, where he had more than his share of elves to last himself quite some time. With a natural agility all their own, his greatest competition on the roofs of Kirkwall’s Hightown were elfin in origin.

Callum found himself wishing again for something stronger. Andrase’s tits, it wasn’t some elderly Comtessa, it was the Court Mage herself. Berger had set him with the Court Mage as his in for the exhibition? He mused that somewhere, the Maker was laughing his sweaty fat ass off. He gestured to the server for some more wine, knowing he would just have to satisfy himself with some of the Orlesian fare.

He watched her, and how in her estimation for the moment, he was found lacking. He knew the face from countless encounters. He didn’t mind it. Callum hardly struck someone as a master thief. He started his own evaluation of Kira, noting her staff and the craftsmanship. Fereldan staves were always much more solid, utilitarian, while Marcher fare generally had a combative lean. He didn’t know what else to think, not yet. The fare she was wearing was, like most of Orlesian, concealing. One didn't judge a scroll by the parchment it was written on.

When she asked about Kirkwall and the incident of the Circle and the apostate Anders, he frowned. “Unfortunately, I was in Kirkwall when that particular disaster struck. I was mostly just trying to survive, so I admit that I can't give you much on how it was. I made my way to Starkhaven and took up residence there for the last few years while things cooled down.” Truth be told, he had stayed in Kirkwall for a few days, at least long enough to take advantage of the chaos and get some looting done before hightailing it out.

Callum focused back on the matter at hand once his cup of wine was refreshed. “So, Messere Kira, I do wish to get to know my traveling companion.” He said, and he took a sip of his wine. “After all, we are going to be traveling up to the Fingers together, and I would rather us not be complete strangers.” His face was genial, relaxed. He kept his voice low to discourage any unwelcome listeners. “After all, a Free Marcher showing up as a Court Mage's escort will be rather intriguing.” He noted. “Our history will have to be decently established.”

 

[Luana_Blodwyn]

Kira listened politely as he spoke, however briefly, of the events that besieged Kirkwall. She passively sipped her tea as he gave his small account. Her lips turned down just a little when he had little more to tell. "Well, it is for the better. I've heard several accounts, chiefly from mages and Templars, so you can imagine the stories are, shall we say, skewed." With a small sigh she set down her empty cup. "A shame really...though relations between mages, Templars and even the Chantry have been rife with troubles those events cost us dearly. Though with our new Most Holy perhaps things will finally look up." As she spoke she poured more tea from the pot and added another overflowing spoon of honey to her cup. Her eyes remained on her saucer for a time. Her mask twitched downward as she frowned in thought.

"Yes...a story. I have tried to think of something, anything that might explain you away. Sadly I have never been very creative nor imaginative. It is why I do not fare so well in the fade. Nearly killed at my own harrowing. Praise Andraste a Templar found kindness in him and stayed his blade. It take imagination, you know, to venture far into the fade." She gave a rueful smile as she sipped her tea. "But I digress. Celeste is aware of my departure and we shall reunite at the exhibition, she does loves spectacular jewels." Her mouth quelled up as if amused. It was not too well know of Celeste's indisgressions, yet somehow it seemed every knew anyways.

Tea finished Kira rose to her feet in her languid fashion. She reached into a pocket of her skirts and withdre some coin, enough to pay for her tea and his wine. "Now I must see a man about a horse. I have not ridden in quite some time and am eager to do so. We will be more unobtrusive if traveling as such. Meet me at the inn when you are ready to depart." She stepped her right foot back and curtsied elegantly before turning on her heel. Her elegant staff tapped on every right foot as she strolled away.

There was but one inn just outside of the town that had a stable. All was prepared. A tall, lean gelding of ash grey was tethered to a post. His saddle was simple with saddlebags hanging off the side and a bag tied behind the cantle. Beside the gelding stood a magnificent creature. It's coat was as brown and glossy as a chestnut with streaks of black running from neck to rump in to particular pattern. The beast stood with its head high, thick neck supporting a rack of antlers nearly four feet at the widest point. The halla bore no saddle but had packs like saddlebags draped across his flank and a bag much like the gelding. Kira stepped from the inn her staff still in hand. She wore nearly the same garments save for her skirts. Rather than the ostentatiously designed frosted skirts she wore a simple, right pair of black riding breeches. Boots of perfectly polished druffalo calf skin, dyed black to match her breeches. She walked up to the halla and the beast lowered his head so she could gently stroke his muzzle. Clearly the woman didn't quite grasp the word unobtrusive.