#amelia: MY SISTERS IN ANDRASTE WE MUST STAY FOCUSED

[sanctamater]

Balled up parchment litters the desk around her, kissing the hems of her skirts, the edge of her dainty shoes - all filled with blotches; words crossed out and rewritten and crossed out again. Where words had once come to easily to the good lady - be it sermon or business, these were halting and uncertain; but then again, those had never truly been her words, had they? A part of her wonders if these are, too. Instead, his hand is still on her shoulder, his voice in her ear — our lady’s skin crawls, and she takes another drag upon her cigarette. Her fourth in the two hours since she’d sat down. There is a blotch on the parchment, bleeding through - she crumples it, pushes it aside — begins, again. And again, and again. 

Knight-Commander, I once again must thank you for agreeing to meet with me this afternoon; your support and generosity in what is to become our endeavour will not only enable me to give my countrymen their livelihoods back, but also aid you and yours in carrying out the Maker's will. As promised, I have spoken with my smiths regarding production - While my smithy is not as large as it was in Ferelden, it will not impact what we can and will produce. With that in mind, we will be able to expand production and accommodate any needs through the years, should our services prove satisfactory. At our current capacity, we will be able to make twenty four plain long or short swords for your recruits - with sparse decoration, if desired - over a period of three weeks. Or, if that does not please, forty eight daggers or silverite tipped arrows; though I admit, I cannot imagine needing daggers before true swords. If the quantity and type of blade is agreeable to you, let me know at your leisure. I will await word from you. Your obedient servant, Lady A. Comstock

Her wrist moves with flourish - precise, steady; not allowing a splatter or drop of ink to stain the page. Cleanliness was a mark of the Maker. 

Satisfied, she returns the quill to its well - and our lady's appraising eyes narrow as she takes in the page; the neatness of her writing - concise in the way her speech never is, stripped of finery, but not pleasantries - a breath in. Her nose twitches, wrinkles, mouth pulling into a displeased, harsh line -- it reeks of cigarette. Acrid and foul like the yellowing of her nails, the way it clings to her clothes like a burial shroud no matter how she has them scrubbed. I cannot send this - what does it say of me? No longer that pristine paragon of survival; no - something, someone else. Something left at the riverside. 

Her fingers twitch; picking at the threads in her silks, staring down at the parchment she'd written and rewritten. The Maker asks that we live in His image. It is for her own reputation, then, that the good lady reaches for the delicate glass bottle of perfume at her desk, kept on hand to mask the smell of her vice upon her - and sprays it upon the parchment. Once, twice -- three times; until all she can smell is cinnamon and cloves, fig  and pear - as warm and inviting as the good lady presents herself to be. 

The sweetness of her perfume does not entirely hide the smell of smoke, but it is a better alternative to offering the Knight-Commander a window to her personal life. She must, as always, press on, stay focused. It is easier to do when @idolbound is not present - a thought she leaves in the back of her mind for later ( always later ). 

Nimbly, she creases the paper - deliberate, neat when she folds it, when she slides it into the envelope, drizzling white wax against the opening, pressing her own seal down. This, her first act as her, as someone else - someone dead and buried. This, her first act of freedom. It is only after she has sent off the paper in the claws of one of her beloved ravens does the good lady realise what she has done - the letter smells of the boudoir; and Maker help her, as much as she prays the salt air will take away the scent of smoke and perfume, another part of her wonders if Meredith will notice. If the Knight-Commander would enjoy the scent of her. Another thing to chastise herself for later. For now, she will wait.

[sanctamater]

All that the Knight-Commander does is so enticing; the intake of breath, how soft skin shudders beneath the press of her nail, how it gives way — the shine of her teeth as they sink into the plush of her lower lip. Hardly serene; but starved. Famished. A pilgrim who has walked the ice and snow; cut their feet and legs upon rocks and brambles to ascent to Haven, only to find a feast awaiting them. Her own inhale is sharp; now suddenly keenly aware of the way blood rushes in her ears and the heat upon her cheeks — any might pass by, any might dare to enter, so early into the afternoon. Improper, hardly befitting of a lady; and her she shakes her head — straightening, shoulders back; head held imperiously high in a momentary bid to remember herself, her childhood teachings that she could never quite leave behind at the riverside. Some days, she wishes she had. 

“ I have little doubt of that, my dear. ” A pointed stare replaces her earlier expression at such a prolonged, formal address, though the warmth in her gaze lingers. The good lady is, perhaps, not as formidable as she wishes to be; and the hand upon Meredith's cheek moves, knuckles brushing against soft, soft skin. “ You are fortunate that I am not demanding. ” In matters of business, at least.  Another breath, and suddenly Meredith is there, the space between them closed; the warmth of her burning hot, the feeling of her breath against sensitive skin. Andraste, your servant knows what she is doing. And Maker, so does she; turning to brush her cheek with Meredith’s, a sharp inhale at the sensation of her paramour’s lips at her jaw, the sensitive skin of her neck. “ —Meredith! ”

The admonishment comes without heat, instead a low whisper; face flushing deeper as she demurely lowers her gaze, but does not turn away. To do that would be a worse punishment — a worse fate — than being made to wander the Fade until the Maker returned home; and her hand slips from Meredith’s to curl once again into the silk sash at her lover’s waist, pulling her closer when she turns to press a kiss to Meredith’s cheek; reproach in her expression just as much as the good lady is pleased. “ It does. You might find it within your heart to join me for dinner as well, and not linger too long. ”   

Maker preserve me, Meredith thinks for the moment as she feels the good lady's nail dig into delicate skin beneath her glove; there are several thoughts that come to mind, of their prior dalliances, and for just a moment, the Knight-Commander bites down on her lower lip, lest she decide to act upon them, then and there. Such temptations linger, and were it not for the midday hour, knowing the prying eyes and ears of the First Enchanter remain just across the hall, she might've indulged in them.

"Hm, I am thankful for your patience, Lady Comstock. As Knight-Commander, there are many, many administrative tasks and reports to attend to," In some ways, she misses being on patrol through Kirkwall's streets, weaving through Hightown and into Lowtown, seeing the people and protecting them from the mages. Yet, being here at least provides them with a momentary reprieve behind closed doors and for that, she is grateful. Thin lips curl back into a wolfish smile, with bared teeth and deepened wrinkles, leaning into the good lady's warm touch. With great amusement, she watches as her paramour flushes a shade of red envious to that of a beet.

"Mmm, perhaps I should," Meredith takes the suggestion with a raise of the brows, tongue swiping the front of her teeth in contemplation before closing the distance as safely as she can whilst in full plate, leaning her towering form downward with a hand placed upon the good lady's shoulder so as to press a kiss first to Amelia's jawline, then to the delicate column of her neck -- just below her ear. She tilts her head just enough to whisper into her ear. "The end of the week, after evening service, if it pleases you..."