Pride, Wolf and Rebellion

Disciple

The Winter Palace was set in Orlais in the city of Halamshiral and it was more lavish that Fen'Asha ever could have imagined. It was obscene in edifice and riches and the ball only served to highlight the depravity of greed seeping through the structure.

The place was a sea of masks, leering eyes and painted lips taking in every movement of the Inquisition. Fen'Asha swore she could hear everyone speaking at once in hushed whispers, tiny sneering comments like daggers steeped in thick oil. Whatever the Great Game was, it was unctuous and she loathed it.

Fen'Asha was left to mingle and maintain the Inquisition's presence at the ball along with her advisors, whereas the rest of the Inquisition was exploring the many secrets of the Winter Palace.

Fen'Asha danced and danced and danced. She exchanged pleasantries, listened to complaints, heeded advice. The nobles seemed to be able to prattle on without much regard for listeners, all too pleased with the sound of their own voices. The Inquisitor endured. The Inquisitor smiled.

Between whispered rumours and idiotic trivialities about how certain people looked and what certain people wore, Sera informed the Inquisitor that reports were surfacing about a massacre of servants in the depths of the Winter Palace. Nobody cared much beyond the sheer chill the butchery put in the air. They were just elves, just servants, after all.

For all the chattering, there was little by way of actual innocence in the Winter Palace. Everyone was conspiring against everyone. Iron Bull brought her evidence against Gaspard. Vivienne brought evidence against the elven spy head Briala. And Cassandra brought evidence against Celene herself.

The entire Palace was plotting something devilish as dresses dallied around well-tailored suits. The Game cost lives, but nobody cared as long as the liquor was good and the food trays were well-stocked.

Fen'Asha felt rising disgust like bile in her throat.

She looked at the banquet table, stuffed to the brim with food nobody had any interest in eating. Some sort of cake with impossible colours stood out and she bit into a piece, letting the inexplicable flavours linger on her tongue before discarding it in a nearby flower pot. She raised her eyebrows. Nobody saw her. She wouldn't be losing any of her precious brownie points with this silly throng of surreal superiority. Not yet, anyway.

Fen'Asha looked at the discarded cake, thought about what Fen'Harel would think of such a place.

Fen'Harel was a trickster.

Maybe he'd spit in the punch. Maybe he'd take his pants off and run around the fountain. Maybe he'd piss in that fountain, really give the nobles something to think about.

And the evidence against Briala, the Empress, Gaspard; he would handle that, shuffle the deck, make the nobility sweat it out. Fen'Harel would glower at her enemies, strike down her enemies, destroy her enemies. He would make sense of it all.

He would tell her that Briala seemed like a kindred spirit, one who wanted to help the people. She needed power. Fen'Harel would give it to her. Fen'Asha would have to settle for more earthly means.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. It was Solas.

She barely recognized him. His serene blue eyes watching her, head cocked to the side, he motioned her to follow. She did. He was cool. He set to walking, he set to strutting. If he set to dancing, all eyes would be on him. He brought her to a shadowy alcove in the garden, leaned against a pillar, holding his glass of wine. His eyes gleamed hot, mouth pursed into a controlled grin. He seemed as natural as the ground below.