thecapitol | the waves beside them danced; but they

Entry tags:

the waves beside them danced; but they

Who| Josephine and YOU ♥
What| Staring at shit, feeling lost
Where| Level 12's common spaces, the central commons. If you're interested in doing something somewhere else, please just let me know where.
When| Any time in the first few days after the arena ends. She's gonna be a little lost for a while.
Warnings/Notes| Potential spoilers for DAI.

This place is...unsettling.

Leaving aside the scanty information she's been given--actually participating in a battle to the death seems distant and a little impossible to someone more used to the Grand Game's metaphorical duels--everything defies her expectations. The very scenery is alien: smooth where she expects scrollwork, white space where she expects dark wood, and at least one hideous table that looks more like silverite in the rough than any sort of furniture. Only the fashion seems reasonable (some of it, anyway, the puffed sleeves especially) and even then, some of the colour choices tread the line of good taste.

It is an Orlais stripped of the sumptuousness that makes it Orlais. The Capitol, at once austere and ostentatious, seat of a country she couldn't mark on any map of Thedas. (That is what convinces her that what she has been told is true: she would know this place if she was still in Thedas. Even if she had never visited before, she would be able to figure out where she was from her surroundings. And she can't.)

After she's taken to her new room, she lingers in the common areas near it. For District 12, she was told, though it means little enough to her. She enters the living space tentatively, frowning more of confusion than consternation, and examines the unfamiliar surfaces and devices with hesitant fingertips. (Is she touching a television screen, heedless of the possibility of smudging it? Maybe.)

Eventually, via the impossible little box whose movements makes her faintly nauseous, she finds her way to a far larger common area, one that boasts many more people. It's a great deal to take in over the course of an hour or two, but here, in public, she can't afford to look the part of the country bumpkin. She tries far more seriously to blend in, but her eyes dart about, taking in everything around her.

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Cullen thinks he might have this 'elevator' thing sorted out, finally. You push the arrow button - then eventually the doors open - choose the correct number - eventually get to that floor, though sometimes the doors open on other floors - and

Well, it's quite different from a flight of stairs and he's not sure how this is any better, but he's at least worked it out enough to be able to get around the building. He's been mostly sticking with Dorian and Cole the past couple of days, and trying not to draw too much attention to himself, but that's a bit more difficult than expected, given how unfamiliar everything is.

Still, he should get the lay of the land, try to understand what it is they're dealing with, so he steps off at what he thinks is the main entrance hall - what should lead to the strange city beyond, anyway.

And it's there that he spots yet another familiar face, and his heart drops into his stomach. Really? Of all the people to bring to these barbaric blood sports?

"Ambassador?" He calls, a little uncertain - perhaps he's mistaken. He hopes he's mistaken. "Lady Montilyet?"

Josephine glances over before it occurs to her just how out of place the commander's voice feels in this huge, oddly decorated hall. Her expression shifts quickly--from general pleasance to shock, and then to a grateful, almost hopeful, smile.

He's the first familiar face she's seen since she woke up on a cot nearly as uncomfortable as the broken beds they'd found upon their arrival at Skyhold. It's hard to believe it's really him; she'd thought once or twice since her arrival how glad she'd be to see Leliana, but she'd assumed she was alone here.

"Commander!" She crosses over to him, her steps brisker than usual. "I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to see you. I'd thought...well. It does not matter what I thought. How are you faring?"

His presence raises any number of questions: If Commander Cullen is here as well, is the rest of the Inquisition? What does that mean for their work at home? Does he know anything more about these games for which they have been selected? Will they have to face each other in combat?

(She doesn't like her odds, if they will.)

First things first, though. So far as she can tell, there are no obligations awaiting them for the time being; she can take a moment to greet him before weighing him down with inquiries.

Ah, yes, definitely her then. Maker's breath. She wasn't here during that terrible few days in the dank, dark metal prison. It probably shouldn't surprise him that these people can bring others in, but it just worries him more.

Josephine is no fighter. Do they expect it of her as well?

"I'm fine," he says immediately, waving away her concern. Well, except for the persistent headache he's had since waking up after that blast, but headaches are nothing new for him. "When did you arrive? Are you alright?"

"Just today," she replies, her brow knitting together in a frown. "And I am fine, thank you."

As fine as she might be, given the circumstances. She could mention how confounding their surroundings are, let alone their apparent mission, but in a public gathering place, it seems unwise. Once they've found a suitably private room, they can discuss where it is they'll go from here. (Back to Thedas, she hopes. They've left too much behind them to remain in this Panem.)

"Did you arrive today as well?" The way he asked her, she suspects the answer is no.

He shakes his head, glancing around them as though to make sure no one is paying them much attention. He still feels an itch at the back of his neck, as though someone is watching.

"I've been here.. a few days, it's difficult to say. I was sent to one of these - arenas. Not for long, it ended rather... badly. Then I woke up here. Dorian is here, and Cole. No one else that I know of."

Not the Inquisitor, is what he doesn't say. She'll understand.

"Ah. That...answers several of my questions. Thank you." She sorts through the information swiftly.

Not the Inquisitor is what matters. Even if they've been pulled from Thedas, the Inquisitor will be able to carry on with her work--with plenty of her Inquisition surrounding her still. Even without an ambassador or a commander for the soldiers, she'll manage. For the sake of Thedas, she must.

They'll have to find somewhere they can all four meet, somewhere away from watchful eyes. If the Capitol bears any more than a superficial resemblance to the courts of Orlais, subtlety will be vital.

And that leaves Cullen's...experience. She wants to ask--knowing he's already spent time in one of their arenas makes the prospect seem less abstract--but if it ended badly...

Not here, she decides. Not now. But something related, perhaps. "Have they been here as long as you?"

Josephine was here.

Dorian liked Josephine - admired her even - but hearing word that she was here had given quite the opposite effect as a visit from her in Skyhold would have held.

He had hoped - vainly, perhaps, but he had hoped - that he, Cullen and Cole were it. That they'd been kidnapped in some freak success, that everyone else was safe. But it simply wasn't the case. Here they were, and another had joined them, from only a day previously. It made his heart sink.

He wasn't about to avoid her, though. And as much as he wished very sincerely that she had never come in the first place, he still wanted to see her.

Part of him wanted to know if... if her Inquisitor was his.

And part of him really didn't.

He found her in the common room, where Cullen had told him that she was, and he immediately plastered on a smug smile that he in no way felt.

"Well, some style joins us at last."

By this point, Josephine had taken a seat on one of the padded benches and was watching the flow of people through the space. Before she could begin to speak with strangers, particularly those who were born to this country, she needed a better idea of the social order. Later, she would ask questions, and perhaps there would be books to examine on the subject--but to start with, there was little better to situate her than observation. As one of her etiquette mistresses had put it so many years ago, "If you aren't sure of yourself, for Andraste's sake, be quiet."

At the sound of Dorian's voice, she glanced up, giving him a smile as genuine as his was counterfeit. Josephine didn't relish the thought that so many senior members of the Inquisition had been dragged into this mess, but so long as they were already here, she couldn't hide her gladness in seeing them.

"Ah! Lord Dorian. Please, sit down." Josephine patted the cushion next to her. "I was just thinking about style, actually--or lack thereof, if you prefer. How have you been?"

Lightly spoken, perhaps too lightly--but shifting straight into bleaker topics wasn't how Josephine tended to manage her conversation.

Edited (that thing where you don't realize you forgot a word until you're far away from your computer and have to make the edit hours later UGH) 2014-12-30 18:22 (UTC)

He gladly took the seat, sitting down with one graceful movement.

"Oh, you know me. I flourish in these sorts of conditions."

Which was to say, he was devastated and incredibly upset, but he'd at least had time enough to think about it and put a face on that wasn't just raging endlessly against the world.

When in doubt, humour over all.

"I thought you might have opinions, he said, waving vaguely as the people walked by."

He was all too happy to completely ignore all bleaker topics forever thank you very much.

Forever was longer than Josephine had for fripperies; eventually, they would have to talk of this place. She wanted to know as much as she might about the arenas to which they would be condemned. If Dorian knew anything worth sharing, she wanted to hear it.

But there wasn't such a rush that they couldn't trade commentary on their new surroundings. There was value in trading notes on this subject as well; aside from the vanishingly slight chance she might learn something from it, it was the sort of conversation that wasn't terribly difficult to make with Dorian.

"In some ways, they aren't so different." Josephine resisted the instinct to gesture to a woman mincing past in painfully narrow heels; while her jacket lacked the ruff that would have made it fashionable in Orlais, the neck was high in a remarkably familiar way, and the soft rose hue of the fabric wouldn't be outlandish in Val Royeaux. She dropped her voice to a murmur pitched for Dorian's ears alone. "But much of it is...garish. Cut much too high, at least one hat that looks more like filigree pulled off a wall, colours I didn't think were possible. And their cosmetics! I think I prefer masks."

She paused, glancing sidelong at him. "What do you think?"

"We seem to have arrived at approximately the same time, yes," Cullen says with a nod. "It's difficult to say for sure, but I encountered both of them in the arena."

He glances at her, tries to picture her in that dark, terrible place, and scowls at the mental image it produces. They can't possibly expect her to participate in their ridiculous games, can they? Even ignoring the kidnapping - which is angering enough - the Ambassador's talents would be wasted in such a place.

"Did they - tell you why you are here?" he asks after a moment. Perhaps she's not meant to fight? Perhaps they need a diplomat?

"Ah." How badly did it end for them? But that, too, is a question for another room--and possibly for Dorian and Cole themselves, though asking the latter seems rather cruel. (From what she can recall of him, anyway. Josephine knows the name belongs, but when she stops and tries to place the face, she can't quite recall it. It's a maddening sensation.)

At Cullen's question, she presses her lips together. There's more behind it than mere curiosity; she thinks it might be some species of worry. But he needn't be concerned--about that, at least. They haven't kept her in the dark.

"To fight," she replies, the words sinking heavy into her chest even as she says them. The longer she speaks with Cullen, the more believable a prospect it becomes. "Why they thought to select me is...it is beyond my guess."

Even as a bard, she had lacked skill.

To fight. Cullen can't imagine the ambassador doing any such thing. She wages her battles with words. With pen and ink and parchment - and she is excellent at it, too. Her politeness can move empires. He can't imagine her taking up a sword, or a bow, to actually fight others, however.

"It's barbaric," he says with a grimace. "We'll - figure something out." What, he doesn't know. Obviously, returning home would be the ideal outcome. Barring that, however, finding a way to get out of these death matches is something he'd settle for.

"I think I almost feel homesick," he said wryly. "Garish is exactly the word I would use, however. It feels more like doing everything the can for the sake of it than with any sensible thought behind it." He didn't just mean the clothing, and he huffed.

"When I first returned here, they asked if I wanted to put golden dye in my mustache. In my mustache! Thank god they gave up on that particular crusade."

"I wouldn't disagree." Perhaps she might have said more, but--did they really expect him to dye his facial hair? She couldn't help giggling.

Dorian was the first person to make her laugh since she arrived. Granted, she hadn't spoken with many people aside from him--but he still managed to cut through some of the tension in her shoulders, and she appreciated it dearly.

"That might be becoming," she replied, turning to face him (and his moustache) a little more, the better to pretend to consider the idea. "Perhaps little flecks of gold--you could start a trend."

He made a disgusted noise, doing a very good impression of Cassandra.

"No. No, I think I am perfectly happy with my mustache exactly the way it is. It took me years to find the perfect curl, and I am very happy to keep it this way."

He gave her a sideyeing look. "Be careful what you wish for. I saw a woman with streaks of sky blue in her hair, yesterday. You might give your stylists ideas."

Josephine nods, the expression tugging the corners of her mouth down both grim and resigned. Barbaric is a kind word for what this is, and it's hardly a term to be thrown around lightly itself.

"I was told..." she begins, then pauses. After a moment, she begins again. "This is a training center, is it not? It stands to reason that I could be trained."

She's not so naive as to think a few lessons in parrying a foil might see her excelling at fencing, but she has yet to hear an option that doesn't involve participation in one of these arenas.

"Absolutely not. Sky blue doesn't suit me." It's as much jest as anything else--though there's truth in the fact that she favours stronger colours, like sapphire and gold, for a reason.

And then she pauses, a pinscratch frown settling between her brows. "Stylists?"

The last things she needs are recommendations for her wardrobe. Josephine is more than capable of selecting her own clothing--but then, so is Dorian.

"Ah, so you've yet to meet those harrowing harpies," Dorian says scathingly. "Welcome to the Capitol, where apparently every tribute requires a group of inane assistants to tell them what to wear, how to bathe, how much glitter is required in skin products... I've managed to keep mine off my back only by promising to make my own selections out of what they provided me, but I think that may come back to bite me once my wardrobe is ready."

He wasn't looking forward to it.

"You'll meet the others eventually, I'm sure. The mentors - winners of previous arena's whose wonderful prize is to put up with the lot of us who are being marched to our death. Again."

"Yes, there is a place for training," Cullen accedes. "I will say, though, I was not given a weapon in this arena. Whether that is the usual practice or not, I can't say."

He rubs at the bridge of his nose absently, his mind rolling over all the possibilities he can think of. As far as he knows, there's no way out of it, except to win. By being the last person standing.

"But if you wish to train, I'm at your disposal, of course," he says.

Josephine didn't expect his answer, and it shows on her face. "You were not given a weapon? I thought these were fights to the death."

She has, mistakenly, been picturing one-on-one bouts in her conception of these games. It didn't occur to her that a bloodsport featuring arenas might also highlight skulking around and murdering from the shadows.

"I do appreciate your offer, of course," she adds belatedly. However the arenas work, she's going to need assistance preparing for the next one. "Thank you, Commander."

"I have yet to meet anyone but a--I believe he said he was a peacekeeper." The title meant little to her beyond the literal interpretation. That there were no disruptions on the way from the strange room in which she'd woken to her new quarters didn't help to clarify.

At the mention of death--and worse, the word again--her expression darkened. Since she spoke with Cullen, the new expectations upon their heads had started to feel much more real.

She said, tentative, "Perhaps we should find somewhere we can speak privately. I would like to hear more about the arena, if you are willing to speak of it."

He shakes his head a little, waving aside her thanks. It's only decent, after all, to offer to help her.

"They, ah. Seem to be a bit more like a melee," he offers. A bunch of people, all fighting it out, every man and woman for themselves. "But much larger. And they last days, maybe weeks."

If there is a downside to having helped Panem's newest 'mentor' win this last arena, this is it. Even though it's crowded, the vultures who seem never to leave this room are now just as likely to start trailing after him as they are some other, more popular tribute. Which is, unfortunately, what has happened today. The path from the doors to the elevator isn't short enough that he can pretend to ignore them, so he's stopped for a few empty pleasantries and non-answers when the elevator doors open.

Ah. Someone he doesn't recognize. Now it shouldn't be too difficult to shake them off. He lets his gaze drift from the face of the news-man in front of him, and tries to meet the eyes of the other tribute instead. "Oh," he murmurs, and watches the flock of news-people look toward her and then back to him, curious. "Cry pardon," he says to them. "I was only surprised. She almost never comes down from the tribute's rooms. If you'll excuse me..."

Roland's part in the arena's end wasn't quite visible enough that they try now to keep him. He uses this new freedom to move toward her - or more accurately, toward the elevators behind her. The flock thins, a couple drifting off elsewhere, but most of it moves toward her and starts the questions anew. Questions about the arena, about Panem, gossip and sponsors and all that other drivel. He reaches her the same time their questions do but doesn't make any move to help; she, like the rest of the tributes, surely has some experience with this sort of thing by now.

Josephine is used to no such thing. In the time she's spent in the Capitol so far, she's been shockingly idle by her standards; it's starting to make her a touch anxious for work, in truth, though it has yet to come out in furniture rearranging.

Yet.

She does, however, know what to do with a crowd, particularly when they're out for gossip. With a pleasant smile and a firm voice, she says, "I cannot possibly comment on arenas I have never seen. If you will excuse me, I must speak with my friend; I will be happy to talk with you later."

(The sad thing is, she means it. Speaking is what she does; if agreeing to sit down with the Capitol's message-carriers might help Thedosian chances here, she'll do it without a moment's thought.)

Josephine manages to slip into the moving box just before the doors shut. Once the space is closed off from the entrance hall, she glances over at the man. He'd used her as a distraction in an effort to run from that crowd, and while she's generally happy to put her skills to practice, she mislikes being someone's unwilling decoy. Her tone is rather cooler now when she asks, "Are you all right, messere?"

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the waves beside them danced; but they

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haha no worries :)

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