My Warden (COMPLETED)

Arriving

Officially, the Hero of Ferelden never came to Orlais, her duties keeping her confined within the kingdom of her namesake. With Clarel watching on one side and an Empire more than happy to exploit her connection with the gentry on the other, she was happy to contain her movements. Officially. A few trips in and out of the country never had any reason to go noticed by those in power, especially when she kept to the deep roads. Now she had no choice but to break even that narrow rule.

Fireworks burst over the skies of the Winter Palace, the green and yellow tendrils dripping through the air as they reached for the countryside. A few of the nobles paused in their pecking order to glance up at the extravagance but the servants bustling around them pinning outfits in place and buffing up masks paid it no heed. The staging area before the grand entrance reeked of expensive oils and desperation. Lana moved towards the steps when her skirts snagged under her buckled shoes. Black as pitch, cracked gems glittered off the surface of her slippers like distant stars. A gift from Leliana. The heel was modest and unlikely to offer up too much resistance should the night go the way she was prepared for, not that she wasn't beyond throwing them out of the way at the first sign of trouble. It was the skirts that were giving her trouble.

She'd expected Josephine to haul out a more ruffled version of one of the five dresses worn throughout the streets of Orlais, but the ambassador continued to surprise her. Lana wore a corset with a straight neckline decorated in hand-stitched leathers of black and red cut to mimic scales. She had a pair of arm guards wrapped around her biceps, each baring a tiny red and black leather wing. To complete the illusion of the Hero of Ferelden dressed as an archdemon, it wasn't a black or red skirt wrapped around her legs but translucent silks of orange, reds, and yellows undulating in a haphazard fashion. Sheer on their own, the silks overlapped enough to hide away her skin. To the unsuspecting, the Hero of Ferelden appeared like a dragon that just breathed fire upon itself. Josephine had included an underskirt to fluff it out, but Lana managed to yank that away from the servants. She didn't need to be snagging her skirts across every tight corner. The corset unfortunately was a size too large, which Lana became increasingly aware of as another pin stabbed her in the side. That was survivable, it was the long skirts that concerned her more. At an inch too long and trying to drag through the mud she was likely to trip and fall if she wasn't careful, but due to the ethereal fabric there was no way to hem them. Her hands, emptied of any staff, were destined to spend the entire night holding her skirts away from her shoes.

Lana shivered thanks to her exposed shoulders and arms bumping heads with the night winds. Getting inside was preferable to freezing to death in the courtyard from the creeping cold. Starting a fire would only draw more attention to the mage hidden amongst them like a snake in the grass. Most people from a distance would chuckle at her ensemble. Ah, a dragon, how droll being worn upon such a small woman. Then they'd draw close and notice the scars bisecting her shoulders and arms. That's when the chuckles drifted off to impolite stares and gasps. For being proud of their game, the Orlesian gentry seemed immune to making complete jackasses of themselves when truly surprised.

What she needed was to get through the gates, hole up somewhere away from prying eyes, and wait for a signal from the Inquisitor. But he had to get his ass over to her first. Lana cracked her neck absentmindedly and the lady beside her started from the sound. She smiled at the terrified woman, which only startled her more. Maker, Lana tapped her well shod toe, where was he?

"Excuse me, pardon, begging your rather ample backside..." the voice flitted through the sea of finery until Josephine's noble escort popped out.

"Lord Whitley," Lana sighed. If one took a toad and crossed it with a nug you'd get an unholy abomination and also the closest approximation to Lord Whitley's appearance. He wasn't particularly ugly in the classic sense, but from the way his eyes flitted to the edges and his tongue lapped against his lips when he was approximating thought it was natural to fear Whitley was about to gobble up flies. The man was some distant cousin of the Empress so unloved by the family they somehow kept losing his invitation. But his blood was blue enough he could pass on the Hero of Ferelden's arm, or so Josephine assured her. At the moment, Lana placed the odds of him surviving to the steps at 3:1 and fading fast.