#amelia panicking then immediately walking away UHUIFSUIF ok gay ass.

[sanctamater]

How quickly does the time pass when the good lady finds her mind far from herself; bent over desk and papers — plans and schematics; mining reports, land deeds and surveys, lists of refugees in Low and Darktown alike in need of coin — the fragile beginnings of a network that she anticipated growing far from the influence of the past and all its chains. An act of freedom, of self; as much as it is one of survival. This, the way forward; and the Maker has lit the way for her through hell and high water. She would be a fool to squander it now, and the good lady is anything but ungrateful. And with His blessings, this venture would prove fruitful — no, more than that; this venture would prove lasting. It is difficult, however, to maintain a focus when her thoughts continue to drift towards the Knight-Commander — elation, nervousness unfurling and fluttering in the pit of her stomach at the thought of seeing her in person again; though she cannot quite place why she feels this way.

So absorbed in paperwork is she that the good lady hardly hears the quick steps of her shopkeep, head jerking up when the door to her office swings open. Evaine — or was it Eveline? She cannot remember; and manages a soft smile, straightening as her hands smooth out the fine velvets and silks of her dress. The girl offers her own back; small and nervous. “ She’s here — the Knight-Commander, I mean. ” “ Thank you, Evaine. ” Point for her, the guess was correct; and earns her a small smile. As quick as the girl has appeared, she is gone; pattering back to return to her post; and the good lady takes a breath, fingertips grazing the edge of her desk. How unorganized it must seem — a good deal like her own thoughts, and she takes a breath; eyes fluttering shut as she relaxes, for once. Her men are competent — so is she.  There is no need to be nervous; in fact, a small part of the good lady knows she has been looking forwards to seeing her again, to speaking with her — frank and honest. Another breath, and she too moves to leave the comforts of her office, casting one last glance into the room at the door. If the Knight-Commander were to gain entry to this room, she would be first greeted with a sprawling map of the Free Marches hung above her desk; Kirkwall noted first, followed by other city states — Starkhaven, Ostwick, Wycome, Markham, too — outlines of pros and cons and what information on Circles and their Knight-Commanders that she has been able to garner since her arrival in Kirkwall. A part of her wonders if Meredith might be pleased by such resourcefulness — another part wonders why the Templar’s approval matters at all; and the good lady shuts the door with a firm ‘click.’ Steps are quick, light — a flurry of fabric as she moves swiftly down the steps and through the heat of the forge, barely registering the sharp clang of metal against metal, the roar of the bellows, the crackling of the fire — singleminded in her pursuit until the bright light of day floods her senses as she steps into the main area of the shop; populated by small, fine weapons; daggers with jewelled and engraved hilts, pocket knives, rapiers — easily concealed as they are ornate; the glow of liquid silver distorted by a familiar shadow; one she offers a warm smile to where others may have shrunk away.

“ Knight-Commander, how good it is to see you. ” 

For a moment — and only a moment — she takes the Knight-Commander in. A formidable woman, even in the small space at the front of her shop; and the afternoon light that steams in from the warped panes of glass in the narrow windows bestows her with a votive glow, a memory of every story she has ever heard about noble knights — and where every knight she had heard of in her youth had been struck by beauty, the good lady finds herself fixated by Meredith’s; and a warm smile flickers across her features as brief as any flame. But a moment is a moment and it is gone too quickly when the good lady moves again; surprisingly quick on her feet for a woman of her stature and her grip is firm when she takes the Knight-Commander’s gloved hand in her own; a decisive shake. Her father had taught her what seemed like a lifetime ago when she had barely been able to peer over his desk. The mettle of any man be he highborn or low is in the shake of a hand; you will have your work cut out for you, dear girl. The good lady knows what she presents herself to be — open, fair, diligent — what does the woman before her wish to be seen as? 

The answer presents itself within her mind for a moment — tall and lean, she cuts an imposing, beautiful figure with the silvery gleam of a sword at her back. In control, as someone of her station ought to be. All traits she admired; and her smaller hand easily slips from Meredith’s, clasping in front of her abdomen as she listens. If she tries, she can only just imagine the Templar before her as a little girl, face pressed to the windows in an attempt to see what riches lay in store within the bakery of her youth. “ A bakery? My, their sweets must have been memorable, for you to think so fondly of them now. ” She cannot offer anything but ghosts of what once was; and the promise of what may be. “ They say sugar makes temperament sweeter. My grandmother would have disagreed with that. ” 

Her smile is a crooked one; the ghost of a girl she’d left for dead on a riverbank in the name of the Maker ( no, not the Maker - but him. ); gone in an instant when she straightens herself, impassive and serene as any carving of Andraste. Immovable in her own way, and the silence that falls is punctuated by her own eyes meeting the sharp blue of the Templar’s; gaze tracing the firm line of her jaw, the slope of her lips —  “ Your blade compliments you, Knight-Commander. I do hope it proves itself useful in due time. ” A pause; and she clears her throat — feeling the cold weight of the Knight-Commander’s gaze upon her — or, at least, she thinks that she does; turning on her heel with a sharp breath to begin the short walk into the heart and heat of it all; looking over her shoulder to speak to the Knight-Commander, effortlessly beckoning for her to follow with a wave of her hand. “ Come, please. I have much to show you — and I do not wish to take up too much of your time. ” 

The following evening results in another prompt letter. In its own way, this promptness amuses the Knight-Commander, though she cannot find fault in the Good Lady for writing so quickly so as to assure that such needed information is sent in a timely manner. Content, however, with what she has received, Meredith sets the parchment aside at her desk to be read in another week's time, on the very last day of Harvestmere - but before the holiday.

Retreating to quarters, laying in bed awaiting sleep to take her (as is difficult to achieve most nights), the Knight-Commander thinks of the space where Lady Comstock has chosen to build her forge. Near the lively Hightown market - a place where some childhood memories still, somehow, linger; it remains familiar to Meredith, even from all those years ago, even before her dear sister's untimely death. Even now, having lived amongst those most dedicated to the Chantry and its Templar Order since childhood, wherein her own personal patrols are limited and oft escorted by templar knights, she knows the streets of Kirkwall just as well as the lines and hallows of the back of her own hand; she has half a thought to go on her own accord, but dismisses it in the same breath - it would not be proper. She decides then, too, against writing a return letter to the Good Lady; their business has been attended to, with a time and date set for their meeting. In the week between.

In the days between, the Gallows remain, for the most part - and perhaps, uncharacteristically so - quite quiet and reserved, saved for the never-ending concerns raised by the First Enchanter from across the hall, acting as a constant thorn in the Knight-Commander's side. One she must tolerate and learn to live with, lest she be accused of even worse by having the sole advocate for the mages under her change be removed from his position.

Still, the institution of the daily routine under her guard maintains relative normalcy; days pass without incident, and even the morning of seemingly goes by much faster than usual, with the Knight-Commander exclusively focused on the stack of her templars' written reports and administrative tasks until Elsa - her long-standing, long-serving tranquil assistant - reminds her of the time as it approaches noon-hour. Satisfied and content with just a small, brief meal, the Knight-Commander begins her journey to Hightown; across the habour, the sea remains just as calm, though the breeze somewhat quickens the waves of the Waking Sea just before docking.

Salt-laden air clings to her hair and to the Chantry robes that pad the hefty steel adorned on broad shoulders; polished but worn leather boots walk in tandem like a steady drum beat. Two Templar Knights loyally follow their Commander through the open cobblestone streets of Hightown. Nobles look on; young children run out of the way and cling to their parents' legs, while older youth look on, some in admiration, others in rebellion. Meredith keeps her chin held high, her posture firm. Every stride through this city - her city - commands respect.

Without needing to refer to Lady Comstock's letter, Meredith recounts the location of the new forge with ease; eyes confirming the blue and white signage that dictates it as such. Decades ago, it had once been a bakery, but over time, clearly refit and remodeled into a home of production of metal rather than bread. A quick gestured command leaves her accompanied guard stationed at the front entrance, and the Knight-Commander steps forth over the threshold. Eyes shift across the space, noting the source of heat and the workers already busying themselves. Already, she feels its warmth beneath thick robes and heavy plate. The young shopkeep at the front soon makes note of her arrival and leaves towards the rear in a hurried pace to inform Lady Comstock - or so Meredith assumes.

In the moments she waits, a smirk graces her lips, tugging at the corner of her mouth. While the swords will have yet to be tested by her templars themselves, this business proposal appears to already work in her favour; efficient, cooperative, and - with the gifted sword in her possession (and purposely strapped across her back for today) - effective.

Gloved hands rest atop the leather belts adorning her hips, thumbs hooking in against the edge of leather in wait. Upon seeing the Good Lady, a rare genuine smile soon graces her features, in lips and eyes both. "Good afternoon, Lady Comstock," Voice edged with its usual lower register rasp, her right hand extends from her waist to offer a polite, customary but still firm handshake; they are business partners now, as it were. "I will say, I have been... eagerly awaiting to see your forge. When I was a girl, this was once a bakery..." A soft chuckle soon follows as her eyes settle upon Amelia; unlike their meeting sat across the distant expanse of her desk, now standing tall and face to face, she realizes just how much she towers over the Good Lady. For a moment longer, she studies her features, notes just how porcelain-like she is, how her blue eyes are the colour of deep sapphires.

"I am just as eager to see your tour of it now."