[Not long after Sabriel's letter to the council, Korrin has some questions. And she doesn't know or care about Nathaniel, so she'd rather seek out those among their number that she knows best.]
How exactly do the Grey Wardens plan to handle Anders being a known abomination? He's not just a man with a huge body count, he's also a man whose presence is a continued danger to everyone. If he were a regular criminal, I'd almost understand the reasoning for taking him back. But he's not.
[Several days prior to the ball, while Sabriel is working her beautiful fingers to the beautiful bone in Skyhold's library--or presumably her fingers, since Scipio is entirely clueless as to what would be done in a library besides reading but, really, who could spend so much of their time reading; surely a book does not take that long to read and, so, she must be working in some other way--but during her library hours, Sabriel will hear, from outside the library, the whinny of a horse.
This is probably not that unusual. People ride horses, in Skyhold. What is unusual is the proximity of the whinny, which will sound quite close.
This is because the horse is quite close, in fact right outside the door to the library, right below the windows. Truly, there is no finer steed in all of Skyhold as this horse. A powerful beast, muscular in the flank and chest, defined sharply beneath his copper-colored coat, which has been brushed to a shine so great it looks nearly burnished. His form is draped in a brocaded caparison, midnight blue with accents of lighter blue and threaded in silver that catches in the sunlight. This is a horse of which poetry would be written, to say nothing of his rider: Scipio Marvallo, the Marvel himself, dressed to match in deep blues and silvers and greys.
Yet, despite these colors, these are not the clothes of a simple Warden. No: these are the clothes of a man who knows how to dress, who is not afraid of color or the deep cut of a shirt, not afraid of silks, or velvets, or of selling some secret gemstones in order to dress as well as he is. Across the back of the horse, the flow of his cloak has an artful drape to it, one that is not lost even as he wheels his steed around to pace back in the other direction, peering up at the windows as he calls:]
[Libraries do hold a rather singular activity of studying, it's true. Though history nor magical practice and theory don't really change from day to day, there's still a lot to sift through, and sometimes there's pseudo-lessons with the younger mages, as it is right now.
That is what she's doing when she hears the strangely close sound of a horse. It distracts the children; it distracts her. A few crowd the windows. There's a few scattered giggles and looks and fluster. She's curious, certainly, but it isn't until her name and the familiar voice that's calling it when she bolts for the window - or would have, if she wasn't being passed from person to person in the massing crowd who have decided this is much more interesting than whatever they were doing seconds before.
Of course, some people are giving looks due to the disruption of their library time, but no matter. They'll get over it. What matters is, Sabriel makes it to the window and the front of the crowd, peering through the glass, momentarily wrestling with a latch, and, well. Most of her higher functions take a mental holiday. Scipio Marvallo, riding, horse and all, out of one of her daydreams, there below the library window, calling her name. Sabriel was far from Andrastian, but that sight that could send her happily to the Maker's side right now if she weren't so beautifully speechless and contended to just stay in this moment forever - herself a portrait of sophistication despite her mouth being slightly open in surprise, and that she is far from dressed for such an occasion. Whatever this occasion might be. Allow her a moment to try to remember.
The Audience are looking at her expectantly. If she is Sabriel (which she seems to be), there should be A Response. Hushed whispering passes from neighbour to neighbour as she leans against the window frame, a smile creeping onto her face.]
[Ah. There she is, a figure at the window. And what a figure she is, this one that he seeks. With a mighty tug, Scipio wheels his horse around once more and guides him to the window, and comes to a stop just before it, so he might smile up at Sabriel.]
I have been seeking you, Sabriel, yes. Today, and many days before this, though I did not know it.
[To his forehead, he touches his fingertips, a little salute, his head inclined just slightly. And then, to his chest, he touches his fingertips too, right over the heart.]
For I will confess it, I have been thinking much of you, and then more and more. The forever, that we promised--do you remember it? To meet each night, in the tavern. Yet I find this is no longer enough for me. I would look upon your face more, if you would give me the chance. It is a face that any could look upon, for hours--for days!--and never tire of. And so I have spurred myself to boldness!
[The ringing declaration startles his horse, a nervous prance to the side; expertly, Scipio does not miss a beat, and tugs the steed around to turn back again, a pace beneath the window. His eyes are only for Sabriel, not for the ground or the horse's footing, or even for the other faces at the windows.]
I ask you--no, I beg you, Sabriel--will you accompany me to the ball some days from now? It would be the honor of my very life if you agree. With you on my arm, I know that I will be the envy of all in the room--but more than the envy, it is the happiness that I crave, the happiness that will come only if you say yes.
[She leans further forward, arms tucked in a fold beneath her for support, the smile spreading. Amused, charmed, despite her sensibilities; flattery which she takes to heart, masterful riding, and handsome dress! (Not that he is not handsome all the time, but his attire is very complimentary in every way.) There is something he is planning, she's quite sure.
It could be the ball. She dismisses that thought almost as immediately as it forms.
Then he actually invites her. To the ball. With him. With her. To the ball. Together.
His every action still continues to surprise her. She makes a lovely statue whilst she straightens - yes, of course she will, she will, of course - and then stops. She has her own mischief, her humour, a glint in her eye; why not respond in kind?]
I do remember such forevers, [she leans forward once again, smile fond, amused and light,] but those forevers do not provide me with a dress to wear for such a grand occasion. Look at you! Look at me! I would be dull at your side, dressed as you are-- [and the horse. Is he planning to bring the horse?] --there is no compare.
Yet, you are lucky that are those that would correct such a lack of foresight, which makes me free to attend. Which, I suppose, has us in agreement [do you see what she did there], for my reply will be... hmm. [She smiles properly.] Yes. Yes, I will. I would very much like to go with you, Scipio.
You would look good in anything! You would be a fitting companion no matter what you wore, trousers, a gown--a shift--
[He doesn't say nothing at all. But he does pause, tellingly, leaving a space to indicate that he might say it. That same veiled reference is in his next protestation, too:]
You must not turn me down for want of clothing.
[--But he hardly needs to protest. She accepts. She will find a dress, and accept, and Scipio's face splits into a huge grin as he wheels his horse around again, in excitement.]
She accepts!
[Loudly, in case anyone has missed it. The horse whinnies sharply, an echo of his excitement, maybe slightly more panicked. Its forehooves leave the ground as it rears up--not terribly high, not terribly dangerous, but very striking, like something out of a portrait. The way he says it, it's clear that he expects applause--and, ridiculously, he gets his applause, here and there in the crowd. At the very least, there are murmurs, excited, pleased for Sabriel, in awe (for better or for worse) at the display. The moment is just that kind of a moment.]
Sabriel! You have, twice over, made me the luckiest man in all of Skyhold! This will be a night of which songs are written, truly!
I have been informed that Warden Hansen was captured in the Approach. I felt it appropriate to pass the information on, in the event you were not aware.
( brisk and brief. it does not invite query as to why she was informed in the first place. )
[The news settles. She's silent, processing. A flicker of fear races down her spine. Sabriel shushes it. There's time for that later.] I... understand. I was not yet aware, no. [And why is Benevenuta the one to pass her this information, or any information at all? She is wise enough not to ask about that.] And the rest? Have you heard of their safety?
( there is a delay before this next message. benevenuta's voice is careful on the other end of the crystal; precise, as if she is choosing each word and setting it down like a jeweler. )
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How exactly do the Grey Wardens plan to handle Anders being a known abomination? He's not just a man with a huge body count, he's also a man whose presence is a continued danger to everyone. If he were a regular criminal, I'd almost understand the reasoning for taking him back. But he's not.
an invitation to the prom
This is probably not that unusual. People ride horses, in Skyhold. What is unusual is the proximity of the whinny, which will sound quite close.
This is because the horse is quite close, in fact right outside the door to the library, right below the windows. Truly, there is no finer steed in all of Skyhold as this horse. A powerful beast, muscular in the flank and chest, defined sharply beneath his copper-colored coat, which has been brushed to a shine so great it looks nearly burnished. His form is draped in a brocaded caparison, midnight blue with accents of lighter blue and threaded in silver that catches in the sunlight. This is a horse of which poetry would be written, to say nothing of his rider: Scipio Marvallo, the Marvel himself, dressed to match in deep blues and silvers and greys.
Yet, despite these colors, these are not the clothes of a simple Warden. No: these are the clothes of a man who knows how to dress, who is not afraid of color or the deep cut of a shirt, not afraid of silks, or velvets, or of selling some secret gemstones in order to dress as well as he is. Across the back of the horse, the flow of his cloak has an artful drape to it, one that is not lost even as he wheels his steed around to pace back in the other direction, peering up at the windows as he calls:]
SABRIEL!
it's as beautiful as i imagined
That is what she's doing when she hears the strangely close sound of a horse. It distracts the children; it distracts her. A few crowd the windows. There's a few scattered giggles and looks and fluster. She's curious, certainly, but it isn't until her name and the familiar voice that's calling it when she bolts for the window - or would have, if she wasn't being passed from person to person in the massing crowd who have decided this is much more interesting than whatever they were doing seconds before.
Of course, some people are giving looks due to the disruption of their library time, but no matter. They'll get over it. What matters is, Sabriel makes it to the window and the front of the crowd, peering through the glass, momentarily wrestling with a latch, and, well. Most of her higher functions take a mental holiday. Scipio Marvallo, riding, horse and all, out of one of her daydreams, there below the library window, calling her name. Sabriel was far from Andrastian, but that sight that could send her happily to the Maker's side right now if she weren't so beautifully speechless and contended to just stay in this moment forever - herself a portrait of sophistication despite her mouth being slightly open in surprise, and that she is far from dressed for such an occasion. Whatever this occasion might be. Allow her a moment to try to remember.
The Audience are looking at her expectantly. If she is Sabriel (which she seems to be), there should be A Response. Hushed whispering passes from neighbour to neighbour as she leans against the window frame, a smile creeping onto her face.]
You are seeking me, good Ser?
:*
I have been seeking you, Sabriel, yes. Today, and many days before this, though I did not know it.
[To his forehead, he touches his fingertips, a little salute, his head inclined just slightly. And then, to his chest, he touches his fingertips too, right over the heart.]
For I will confess it, I have been thinking much of you, and then more and more. The forever, that we promised--do you remember it? To meet each night, in the tavern. Yet I find this is no longer enough for me. I would look upon your face more, if you would give me the chance. It is a face that any could look upon, for hours--for days!--and never tire of. And so I have spurred myself to boldness!
[The ringing declaration startles his horse, a nervous prance to the side; expertly, Scipio does not miss a beat, and tugs the steed around to turn back again, a pace beneath the window. His eyes are only for Sabriel, not for the ground or the horse's footing, or even for the other faces at the windows.]
I ask you--no, I beg you, Sabriel--will you accompany me to the ball some days from now? It would be the honor of my very life if you agree. With you on my arm, I know that I will be the envy of all in the room--but more than the envy, it is the happiness that I crave, the happiness that will come only if you say yes.
no subject
It could be the ball. She dismisses that thought almost as immediately as it forms.
Then he actually invites her. To the ball. With him. With her. To the ball. Together.
His every action still continues to surprise her. She makes a lovely statue whilst she straightens - yes, of course she will, she will, of course - and then stops. She has her own mischief, her humour, a glint in her eye; why not respond in kind?]
I do remember such forevers, [she leans forward once again, smile fond, amused and light,] but those forevers do not provide me with a dress to wear for such a grand occasion. Look at you! Look at me! I would be dull at your side, dressed as you are-- [and the horse. Is he planning to bring the horse?] --there is no compare.
Yet, you are lucky that are those that would correct such a lack of foresight, which makes me free to attend. Which, I suppose, has us in agreement [do you see what she did there], for my reply will be... hmm. [She smiles properly.] Yes. Yes, I will. I would very much like to go with you, Scipio.
no subject
[He doesn't say nothing at all. But he does pause, tellingly, leaving a space to indicate that he might say it. That same veiled reference is in his next protestation, too:]
You must not turn me down for want of clothing.
[--But he hardly needs to protest. She accepts. She will find a dress, and accept, and Scipio's face splits into a huge grin as he wheels his horse around again, in excitement.]
She accepts!
[Loudly, in case anyone has missed it. The horse whinnies sharply, an echo of his excitement, maybe slightly more panicked. Its forehooves leave the ground as it rears up--not terribly high, not terribly dangerous, but very striking, like something out of a portrait. The way he says it, it's clear that he expects applause--and, ridiculously, he gets his applause, here and there in the crowd. At the very least, there are murmurs, excited, pleased for Sabriel, in awe (for better or for worse) at the display. The moment is just that kind of a moment.]
Sabriel! You have, twice over, made me the luckiest man in all of Skyhold! This will be a night of which songs are written, truly!
sending crystal. drakonis 8, late evening.
( brisk and brief. it does not invite query as to why she was informed in the first place. )
no subject
[The news settles. She's silent, processing. A flicker of fear races down her spine. Sabriel shushes it. There's time for that later.] I... understand. I was not yet aware, no. [And why is Benevenuta the one to pass her this information, or any information at all? She is wise enough not to ask about that.] And the rest? Have you heard of their safety?
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[A small sigh.] I appreciate you taking the time to tell me, Benevenuta. [She does, sincerely.] This will not stand for long. You have my word.
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I would be most grateful to be kept appraised.