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“My, my, my you look absolutely delicious, Meserre.”
A hand laid itself on the Inquisitor's shoulder, causing him to tense. He turned around and his pink diamond-cut eyes met the face of a young woman, putting on her best airs.
The Inquisitor knew bringing a dead organization back, taking keeps, and saving Thedas would not be easy; but he never thought it would be the mingling that would trip him up. It was his duty to be the symbol and figurehead for the Inquisition, meaning balls, parties, and all the other frivolous events. He was almost certain the only thing keeping him from going raving mad, stripping down to his smalls, and exiting the keep screaming, was the same involuntary presences he had made at gatherings in Tevinter.
“Avanna, madame.” He took the woman's hand and bowed placing a kiss upon it, choosing to ignore her off-putting and inappropriate flirt.
“Oh, what a luscious language. I did not know anyone here spoke the old language.” The woman leaned in closer, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.
“I spent many years studying it, yes. I am from—further North, you see.”
“Ah, that does explain the extravagant party theme then.” The women gestured to the Orlesian silk decorations and the wide array of foreign foods, no doubt taking the black masks and brazen finery everyone was wearing into account.
“I am afraid so, I would not feel at—home without it.” Honestly, it was a touch too flashy for him, but it was the setting he could most ease into. Besides, a party with slaves, magic, and orgies like in Tevinter, would probably not go over too well here and would still be just as nerve-wracking for him.
“I understand, ser. If I may be so forward and ask a question?” She fluttered her eyelashes and he found himself wanting to leave, because he did mind, very much. He nodded instead, not trusting his voice to be free of venom.
“It must get lonely in this stone keep all by yourself, I sure a little bit of clever—company, that you could—converse with would be a nice change.”
“The offer is tempting milady, but despite what you think, I have enough, intelligent companions here to entertain me.”
As if on cue, an Orlesian beauty with bronze skin and wearing an elegant ensemble of light blue silk, with gold trimmings, a silver mask, and a few well-placed feathers, strolled up beside him and intertwined her arm with his.
“Inquisitor, you left while the rest of us were still getting ready.” Vivienne laid her head on his shoulder and he forced himself not to tense up again. While he had been pulled out of the fire, he was now treading through an ice dragon's den.
“I do apologize Vivienne, but the guests were arriving and I would have been a poor host not to greet them.”
“You are forgiven—for now.” The words held double meaning and were enforced by an uncomfortable feeling of freezing magic threatening along his skin. “Who is your darling friend?”
“I don't believe I caught a name, Lady...?” The Inquisitor turned his attention back to the presumptuous woman. Her face red, from anger or embarrassment was uncertain.
“It is unimportant, Messere. Excuse me.” The woman turned and left dramatically, with an offended huff.
“Thank you, Vivienne.” The Inquisitor nodded and went to leave, but Vivienne kept her tight grip.
“Our dear Seeker has yet to come down. You will go up there and accompany her down.” Vivienne looked him in the eyes and he felt like a Circle apprentice caught with his robes down. He nodded, trying not to flinch or show fear behind his mask. Vivienne released him and headed towards a certain, boisterous storyteller, embellishing the death of a giant by the Inquisition's army.
The Inquisitor took the time to check his own appearance, since he had just gotten in from outside in the mud and wind. The red hood of his cape was sliding backwards off his head, his golden mask was slightly askew, his red face paint was melting from sweat, his black, silk top was wrinkled from Vivienne's clutch, and his leather pants had gotten dirt from outside on them.
He started up the keep as he worked on brushing the dirt of his clothes and lifting the hood back into place, pausing halfway up to ask a servant to bring him a rag and more paint. When he finally made it to the floor with the private dressing rooms, he could hear shouting from down the hall.
“BULLSHIT! I KNOW DAMN WELL THERE ARE OTHER THINGS THAN THAT!”
The Inquisitor allowed himself a chuckle before slipping his neutral mask back into place and his golden one off. The Inquisitor came to the open door, leaning in the doorway and watching the servants scatter under the outrage of a Seeker.
“Such language would be considered unsightly of a woman of your stature, Seeker.” The Inquisitor watched the servant holding the thin and gaudy dress scurry past him, using his appearance as a chance to escape the Seeker's wrath.
“Inquisitor!? I—forgive me, but I refuse to wear something like—that.” Cassandra made a face a she thought back to the piece of cloth, the Inquisitor amusement growing behind his indifferent face.
“Oh, I see nothing wrong with what you are wearing, now.” The Inquisitor could not stop his eyes from gliding over the Chantry robe the Seeker wore, it was not brightly colored or as simple as a normal robe. It was crimson with gold designs flowing across it and a black coat over it. It was his colors and it suited her so very well. He stifled out the possessive want for her to always wear his colors, it was hard to remember he was a mage—a blood mage and she a Chantry Seeker.
“I was told it was not formal enough.” Cassandra watched him, almost challenging him to agree.
“It is my party and I do believe I just said I like your outfit.” The Inquisitor let a smirk slip onto his face. Cassandra stared at him as red slowly crept up her neck, she turned to grabbed her black mask from the side table and avoid the Inquisitor's gaze.
“Lord Inquisitor, your paint?” A servant appeared in the doorway, extending a wet cloth, bowl of red pain, a pouch of kohl, and a brush to the Inquisitor. He accepted them, thanked the servant, and dismissed him.
“Do you mind if I use your mirror?” The Inquisitor's amusement returned as Cassandra nodded and continued to avert her eyes. He stepped into the room and sat down at the mirror, placing his supplies on the vanity. He then wiped away the running red from his face, careful not to smear it and salvaging what he could of the design. More red paint was applied to the faded spiral designs, accentuating the structure of his lower face. He watched Cassandra become fascinated with his work in the mirror, pride swelling inside him. Lastly he applied a touch of kohl under his eyes, just enough to hide the skin peaking out from the eyes of his mask. “I could do you next.”
Cassandra jumped, not expecting his attention as he set his gold mask in place.
“Excuse me!?”
The Inquisitor chuckled, turning to her in the chair and draping his arm over the back of it.
“It is rather annoying to wear that plain black mask all night and be mistaken for someone less important the entire time. If you want I could do your face and you wouldn't be forced suffer needless prodding or wear the mask.”
“I...I would like that.” Cassandra sat the black mask back down and moved towards the Inquisitor, she could see his eyes light up and more of his usual neutrality lost to subtle excitement. He got up from the chair in front of her mirror and offered her the seat, turning so it was facing outward. “Have you done someone's face before, besides your own that is?”
“Yes, I helped do quite a few makeups for the Magistrate's parties and a few for random Magisters. The black masks are usually reserved for less important guests, the host and a few of the nobles or Magisters usually have elegant paints and masks.”
The Inquisitor started to set up, he pulled the stool at the end of her bed over and set the paint within reach on the vanity. He then left the room, his steps disappearing. Cassandra was not sure where he had gone off to and it worried her a bit, she also worried that the party would be long over by the time the two of them got down there. The Inquisitor needed to be there, he was the face of the Inquisition. It was only a few minutes before the Inquisitor returned, carrying three more bowls. One bowl had gold paint, another a lighter, clearer red color, and the last was simply water. He sat down, placing his bowls beside the other and picked up the brush.
“Let's get started, then.”
The next few minutes seemed to draw on for hours, Cassandra's nerves grating together. The Inquisitor's emotionless smirk had become an enjoyable grin as he worked diligently on his masterpiece, and he did not seem to realize how close he was getting as he tilted her head into the light to expect his lines. Cassandra could feel each stroke of the brush and each breath of the Inquisitor as he moved down her face, working curves along her cheeks. A swirl of gold started at her eyelid and slide down to her lips, the original red fleshing out leaves along the curling, branching gold and he repeated it on the other side. Finally he appeared to finish with the design, dipping his clean brush in the unused, reddish paint.
“Have you ever tried a dragon fruit?” The Inquisitor pulled away, unnerving Cassandra with a stare.
“I have never even heard of such a thing.”
“I see, it is a fruit from Seheron, so I can see how it would be rare here in the south.” The Inquisitor leaned back in, carefully running the brush across Cassandra's lips and painting them a very light, shimmering red. “I asked, because I am using dragon fruit on your lips, so do try not to lick them the rest of the night... or do, I know a few noblewomen who'd chew on their lips rather cutely. I suppose now though, it was only because they liked the taste of dragon fruit.”
Cassandra fought back the heat that threatened to overtake her face again, nodding a bit as the Inquisitor talked more about the other paintings he had done. She could see the life flowing in his eyes, the light pink gems far more animated than she had ever seen.
The Inquisitor finished the first layer of her lips and went to dip the brush back in the crushed fruit, Cassandra took the moment to lightly lick her lips, tasting a slight sweetness. She sat there contemplating the taste, it lingered on her tongue and she found herself unable to compare to anything she had before. Finally she realized the Inquisitor had not gone back to painting and she looked up, his hand poised in midair before her face. His eyes were wide and focused lower on her face, the light in them glossy and his pupil so small that they looked like real gems.
“Inquisitor?” Cassandra raised an eyebrow, reaching to push his hand away from her face. She gasped as he grabbed her hand, his brush fell to the floor and his other hand grabbed her chin. Her eyes widened as the Inquisitor pressed his lips against hers, the smell of magic and herb soap surrounding her. The Inquisitor's eyes shut and she felt the smallest probe against her lips, his tongue swept across them. After only a short while the Inquisitor pulled away, his eyes still closed and his breaths heavy along her wet lips.
“Kevesh!” The Inquisitor withdrew complete, so fast it took her a moment to notice and she jumped as she did. He stood quickly and walked to the door, without looking back. He paused in the doorway and cleared his throat.
“Well, I do need to be getting back to the party. You look—Varric and Vivienne will love to see how you look, so please hurry downstairs.” The Inquisitor still did not look back as he left the room, Cassandra hearing him talking to himself in his old language as his steps faded down the hallway.
Cassandra sat there by herself for a moment, before looking over at the bowls and the brush. Eventually she pulled herself from the confusion and decided to worry on it later, she got up and exited the room. She could see the Inquisitor turn around a corner, frantically gesturing to no one and she heard only one last phrase before he disappeared down the stairs.
“Festis bei umo canavarum.”