Chapter Text
"So. Small clothes were mentioned."
Josephine nearly fell out of her chair.
Brin Lavellan rolled a quill, idly, between her fingers.
At first glance, her focus appeared, solely, on the object, at hand. At second: something that looked very near a smirk.
But, it could have been a play of the light, or the various strokes of the woman’s tattoos, or her imagination, for all she knew and the other was concerned—because a moment longer—and the elf’s face was the very model of Dalish impassivity.
The ambassador straightened in her chair.
How convenient.
“My lady?” The perfect intonation of muted misunderstanding. The elf was not the only one who could feign nonchalance: she had perfected it in five different languages.
"Small clothes." An internalized sigh. Because the words were entirely too brazen. And if the woman could say those two, so shamelessly and with no observable heed of company, she could only imagine the spare ‘colorful’ phrases that might be uttered in the presence of their next visiting dignitary. "I don't know whose. Leliana wouldn't tell me."
Leli—Maker.
Josephine laid her quill to the right of her parchment; folded her hands. "Mistress Lavellan…"
“We agreed you wouldn’t call me that.”
"And I requested you refrain referring to me as 'Scribbles'."
A smile. One she had to ignore from the simple distraction. “But it's clever—and awfully spot on. Unlike, 'Jotting' or 'Chicken Scratch’; those hardly roll off the tongue.” A beat. “Well. My tongue. I’m quite convinced yours could roll any it put its mind to. But we aren’t all Antivan, are we?”
Her lips parted. Closed. “‘Chicken—"
“Oh, I'm sure you have wonderful penmanship, being a diplomat, and writing to those important people. But think of the conversations it would start! ‘Madame Chicken Scratch, you say? However did you come by such a title?' Then you would laugh politely, and they would laugh politely, and I would have more wine because—Orlesians.” She made a face. “The next thing you know, they’re joining our cause. Ready to fight, send aid or approve edicts, all because of a well placed moniker.”
“You mentioned small clothes.” Yes. The other had gone so far with the business of this ‘moniker’, that she actually employed the previous, albeit mortifying, subject to cease the current one.
Brin pointed the quill at her. "Right. I hope you know, your friend, Leliana, is an incurable tease. We were right in the middle of a charming discussion on how the two of you became better acquainted, and then, she mentioned escaping to real parties and smalls being pinned on chantry boards—but wouldn't say more.” Dipped, auburn brows. “I begged like you wouldn't believe, but nothing. So, I hoped to gain your assistance."
Josephine straightened, again. Hoped the warm light of the candles masked the heat creeping up her neck. "With?"
"The smalls!” Oh. Lovely.
And, she was certain. So very certain, that the scarlet had bloomed in her cheeks for all to see.
“Come on.” The other woman seemed wholly unaffected by her condition—except for the was there/wasn’t there, smirk. “Aren't all Antivans sexual deviants with wondrously open minds?"
"…Is that the official, Dalish opinion?"
A shrug. “You shemlen all look the same, so we have a system.” She counted off her fingers. “Orlesians: fancy; Fereldans: hounds; Antivans: illicit purveyors of sex."
A frown. “You do realize that is the equivalent of humans viewing the Dalish as ‘uncultured barbarians’?
“Yes. But now we’re even.” Her clear eyes sparkled, before she tsked impatiently. “Now: the—"
Josephine raised a hand. “Please.” An actual plea. She had dealt with marquis who were less difficult. “What is it you wish to know?"
Another smile—accomplished. And, if the discussion matter hadn't been so wholly inappropriate, she might have actually admired the expression. The way the tendrils of her intricate markings crinkled and stretched along porcelain skin, and—
All right. So, there may have been a bit of admiring.
Brin leaned forward in her chair—seemingly unaware of her staring. “Were they yours or Leliana's?"
"Really?" The ambassador leaned back, a single brow raised. "Not the color, or the material, or if the nail ruined the lining forever?”
A smirk. Slow. “Only if they were yours."
Oh.
…Oh.
Ahem.
Another subtle shift. “They belonged to Leliana.”
The elf's face broke into another brilliant smile, though—she was sure…there was the briefest instant of disappointment in her eyes.
“I figured as much. It's always the religious ones; too many rules, and such." The Herald rose from her chair, returning the quill she ‘requisitioned’. "Suppose I'll let you get back to work. Can’t live up to that classy moniker if that hand of yours is still.” A wink. “Thanks for the help."
"Of course." The ambassador dipped her head in a respectful bow.
Brin turned away with a two-fingered wave.
Josephine waited for the definitive ‘click’ of the door, the natural silence that came with her designated space…
She fell back into her chair.
Sighed….
A smile.
Serves her right.
The smalls had been hers — in fact, she wore them not long ago — but maybe that would teach Leliana not to tell the Herald of Andraste, stories of personal nature.
…Not that a part of her wasn’t interested in the outcome, the look on Lady Lavellan’s face, if she were to discover the truth.
Josephine’s expression grew…before she reached across her desk to capture the leather bound quill the other toyed with, dipping its tip in ink to proceed in her daily correspondence, once more.